3. Jax
three
Jax
N ineteen hours, forty-three minutes. That's how long I've been hard.
My fourth espresso tastes like ash and metal. The same sick taste that's been coating my tongue since she walked away. The coffee machine hisses behind me, steam curling up like smoke signals of my desperation.
I stare at the monitor displaying Lynch Racing Academy schematics, but the blueprints blur into nothing. The blue light from the screens burns my retinas.
Focus, you fucking wreck.
My leg bounces under the kitchen island that's doubling as a display table—granite cold against my forearms where I'm leaning. Constant motion.
I've been vibrating like a tuning fork since the Onyx Room. Roman would take one look at me and know exactly what's happening. The spiral. The obsession kicking in like a drug withdrawal.
She froze. Actually fucking froze when we collided.
I shift on the leather stool, trying to find a position that doesn't make it worse. Every movement sends blood rushing south again. I've been adjusting myself so much my cock's raw against my jeans.
The news feeds scroll past with soft electronic chirps. Import executive found dead. Heart attack. Antoine Marchand. The Fairmont Hotel catches my eye—not because I care about dead businessmen, but the hotel makes me think of her walking away. That dress, and those eyes.
Eighteen-year-old Macallan exploding across her chest.
The memory slams into me. Amber liquid streaming down black silk. The fabric clinging to every curve. Her nipples hardening instantly against the wet material. I could see the exact moment, the way they peaked.
That devastating moment when she looked at me as if I'd just knocked the breath out of her lungs.
Because you fucking did. Just like she destroyed you.
My fingers drum against cold granite—complex engine timing patterns that usually calm me down. Four-stroke, eight-cylinder, 7000 RPM redline. The counter vibrates slightly with each tap.
Except nothing's working. Haven't slept. Can't eat. Every nerve ending feels exposed, like she peeled my skin off with that look. The air conditioning blows directly on my neck, making me shiver despite burning up inside.
I pull up the race route maps—tomorrow's street circuit through Long Beach. Force myself to memorize the turns, the straightaways, the escape routes. Professional work while my brain runs sick fantasies about a woman whose name I don't even know.
I can still feel where our hands almost touched when I offered her the napkin—the ghost of heat from her fingers. The way she said my name. Rolled it around in her mouth like expensive wine.
Jax.
My cock pulses so hard I see stars. The kitchen lights blur and refocus. I reach down to adjust, gripping myself through the denim for just a second of relief. The wall clock ticks too loud. Ten minutes until briefing about tomorrow's races. I need to get my shit together.
Get your head in the game. Lynch Academy. The job. Not her.
A door opening and closing. Footsteps in the building. Multiple sets. Cole's measured tread, Asher's near-silent steps, Remy's casual rhythm.
Evening briefing after the Winchester job. Getting closer now.
I minimize the news feeds with shaking fingers and maximize the tactical displays. Professional mask sliding into place like armor. The energy doesn't disappear—just gets compressed. Coiled. Ready to explode.
It's not about the way she looked at you, like she wanted to consume you. Not how much you want to let her.
I spin my keys around my finger. The metal is warm from my pocket, familiar weight and motion that helps marginally. The keys clink softly with each rotation.
She's not here. She's not going to be here. Concentrate on the mission.
The coffee machine finishes brewing with a satisfied gurgle. I have four cups waiting on the marble counter before Cole reaches the kitchen, the ceramic warm against my palms as I arrange them.
Black for Asher, cream and sugar for Cole, just sugar for Remy, catastrophic levels of caffeine for me. My hands shake slightly as I slide them into perfect position. The spoons clink against ceramic.
Stop thinking about her nipples. Professional. Be fucking professional.
Cole enters first, rolling his left shoulder—his Mexico injury acting up again. The movement is slight, but I spot it instantly despite my brain splitting between reality and fantasy.
"Need Remy to take a look at that shoulder? You've been favoring it since the Winchester job this afternoon."
"I'm managing." Cole picks up his coffee, inhaling the steam before taking a measured sip. His eyes track over me with a strategic assessment. "Though you seem particularly... energized this evening."
Energized. That's one word for twenty hours of painful arousal.
"Just ready to get back out there, you know?" My keys spin faster with a rhythmic jingle. "Art auction security was boring as fuck. Standing around while rich people argued about brushstrokes? Not exactly high-octane."
Asher enters while I'm speaking, his footsteps barely audible on the hardwood. He looks up from his tablet, and I see his eyes track my bouncing leg, the spinning keys, the way I keep shifting position. He picks up his black coffee without looking, takes a precise sip.
"Boring." His deadpan could freeze hell. "Yet you gave three separate clients detailed lectures on aerodynamic design principles."
"They asked about the cars in the paintings—"
"No one asked." Asher's words cut straight through bullshit like a scalpel through flesh. "You cornered them."
Remy laughs as he enters, loosening his tie. "You sure you're good for tomorrow? Races, betting, all your old triggers?"
If only that was my biggest problem right now.
"Solid as a rock." I gesture at the monitors, trying not to think about what else is rock-solid right now. "Already mapped out entry points, sight lines, escape routes. Gideon won't know what hit him."
Cole moves to adjust one of the displays. The light plays across his face as he leans in, fingers dancing across the interface with practiced ease. "Speaking of Gideon, when exactly did you reach out to him?"
The main screen illuminates before I can answer. The room dims automatically, bathing us in blue light. Kade's face appears from San Francisco headquarters, looking tired but focused.
Behind him, I can see the command center—multiple operations running simultaneously, screens flickering with data streams.
"Gentlemen. Let's talk about tomorrow night."
Everyone shifts—Cole straightening his back, Asher's fingers stilling on his tablet, Remy setting down his coffee with a soft clink. Mission mode. I force myself to stand still, but my keys keep spinning. Constant motion. The metal is getting slippery with sweat from my palm.
"Lynch Racing Academy," Kade begins. Surveillance photos populate the screens. "Our intel suggests it's become a hub for trafficking operations."
Gideon's face appears in several shots—older now, lines around his eyes deeper than I remember. My left shoulder throbs suddenly. Phantom pain from where the bike threw me during that final crash. I rub it unconsciously, feeling the raised scar tissue through my shirt.
I wonder what her hands would feel like on my shoulder while she rides me. Dammit! Focus!
"We believe tomorrow's races are a cover for major criminal exchanges," Kade continues, his voice carrying that command tone even through the speakers. "High-stakes betting, international players, perfect chaos for illegal transfers."
The word 'betting' slams into me. My skin prickles, goosebumps racing up my arms. Mouth goes dry despite the coffee.
The familiar itch starts crawling through my nerves like insects under my skin.
I grip the table edge hard enough to hurt, subtly pressing my cock against it.
The pressure makes me bite my tongue to hold back a groan.
"I've been in touch with Gideon," I announce, voice breaking on the last syllable. I clear my throat with a harsh cough. "Called him last week before the Winchester job. Told him I was back in LA, interested in the racing scene. He invited me to tomorrow's VIP section."
The team turns toward me in unison. Cole's eyebrow raises a fraction—his version of shock. Asher's fingers pause on his tablet. Remy leans forward, elbows on the counter.
"Seemed genuinely happy to hear from me," I continue, keys spinning faster. "Still feels guilty about Tommy, I think."
Brief pause. Through the video feed, the soft chatter of the command center fills the silence.
Tommy's name always creates this moment—the ghost of my best friend filling the space between us.
His death changed everything. Roman found me two years later, bleeding from underground fights and owing money to people who collected with crowbars.
Roman would see right through this spiral. Would ask why your hands won't stop moving.
But Roman's been gone for months.
I shake off the memory, force myself into strategic mode. Walk to the holographic display, needing to move. Professional analysis kicks in even while half my brain imagines fucking her against Gideon's office windows during the races.
"Entry points here, here, and here." I mark positions on the display, my fingers trembling slightly against the light projections. The haptic feedback buzzes against my fingertips. "Security will be focused on the betting floors during peak chaos."
Cole stands, moves closer to study the layout. His shoulder brushes mine, and I nearly jump out of my skin. "VIP access gets us past most checkpoints. Clean infiltration."
"Exactly. Gideon trusts me—that's our angle, right?" I spin my keys harder, the metal starting to bite into my finger. "He'll show me around, introduce me to players, never suspect I'm there for intel."
"It's not just standard racing," I continue, pacing now because standing still is impossible. My footsteps echo on the hardwood. "Street races, bike runs, exotic cars. Like Fast and Furious had a baby with Monaco, you know?"