3. Jax #2
Asher pulls up financial projections, the numbers cascading across his screen in green. "Betting pools in the millions."
My cock pulses at the word. I turn toward the wall, pretending to study a different monitor. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cool air. My shirt clings uncomfortably to my back.
"Betting on everything from lap times to wrecks." My voice cracks slightly on 'wrecks.' I cover it with another cough that sounds too forced. "Maximum chaos, minimum oversight."
I can sense Cole studying me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. "You solid with this? The races, the betting environment?"
I force a grin, turning back to face them. Fall back on humor like armor. "What, worried I'll put money on myself? Come on, I'm not that guy anymore."
"You literally bid on a horse painting four hours ago," Asher points out, not even looking up from his tablet.
"That was different—"
"And a sculpture."
"Abstract expression of movement!"
"And joked about buying the entire dessert table."
"I was hungry!"
Remy laughs, but I catch the worried edge. He tilts his head slightly, studying me the way he does when assessing injuries. "Just saying, maybe someone else should hold your wallet tomorrow."
"I'll be fine." I wave them off, but my hand shakes visibly. I shove it in my pocket. "Besides, I'll be too busy working Gideon to think about betting."
Or too busy thinking about mystery woman to think about anything else.
"The financial patterns suggest million-dollar exchanges," Asher continues, mercifully moving on. His tablet chirps with incoming data. "Perfect cover for trafficking payments."
"Exactly." I lean over the display table, forcing my brain into tactical mode. The holographic light makes my hands look blue and ghostly. Even desperately aroused and half-insane, I see patterns others miss. "Look at the timing. Exchanges happening during crashes."
I pull up the data streams, fingers flying across the interface despite trying to suppress the trembling. "Maximum chaos, minimum surveillance. Security focuses on medical response while money changes hands in the confusion."
"We need to track both the money and the cargo simultaneously." My strategic mind kicks in despite everything. I'm moving constantly now. "I can get close to Gideon, make him talk about old times. Nostalgia makes people careless, right?"
"Solid approach," Cole nods, settling back in his chair with a leather creak. "What about the other players?"
"That's where you come in." I point to positions on the map, walking around the table to show different angles. My shirt is soaked with sweat now. "Cole blends with the racing crews, monitors ground level. Remy runs surveillance from the mobile unit. Asher—"
"Pattern recognition and overwatch," Asher finishes, finally looking up. "I know my role."
"Beautiful." The word comes out breathier than intended. I clear my throat again, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "Like a perfectly tuned engine, you know?"
Kade's voice cuts through the hologram static with slight distortion. "This connects to larger trafficking networks. Lynch is a key node. We need everything he has."
The screens flicker, displaying new intel. Photos of shipping containers, manifests, international connections. The data scrolls past too fast to read fully.
"Maintain covers, gather intel, don't spook the targets." Kade's eyes lock on me through the screen. A pointed look that means business. "And Jax?"
"Yeah?"
"Keep your head in the game. No side bets."
The implication hangs heavy in the air. Everyone knows what he means. The spiral after Tommy. The underground fights. The debts.
"Copy that."
"We go in clean, we get out cleaner," Kade continues. "No heroics. No deviations. Understood?"
"Understood," we chorus, voices overlapping.
The video flickers off with an electronic chirp. The room brightens automatically, regular lighting resuming. Everyone starts moving—chairs pushing back, tablets closing, coffee cups being drained.
"Hey Jax." Remy pauses at the door, silhouetted against the hallway light. "You need a date for tomorrow? Someone for a high-end racing event, all that social bullshit?"
I laugh, but it comes out strained and too loud. "Nah, I'll play the returning prodigal solo, you know?"
But fuck, imagine walking in with her. Mystery woman on your arm, that elegance cutting through the crowd.
"Your loss." Remy shrugs, his footsteps fading down the hall. "Nothing says cover like arm candy."
The kitchen goes quiet except for the hum of electronics and my harsh breathing. I'm alone with the monitors and my pounding heartbeat. The screens cast weird glowing shadows on the walls.
My hands shake as I review the plan one more time. The holographic display flickers, probably needs maintenance. Gideon Lynch—former mentor, current target. The races—former addiction, current mission. Everything converging tomorrow night like a perfect storm designed to destroy me.
My shoulder throbs with phantom pain. I rub it harder, feeling the old scar tissue. The betting, the speed, the danger—it all calls to me like a siren song.
Roman's voice echoes in memory. "Channel it. Don't let it control you."
But Roman's gone. And the betting windows will be singing tomorrow. Every crash, every victory, every possibility to gamble with fate itself.
And she won't be there. No reason for her to be there. Stop wishing for impossible things.
Footsteps in the doorway, soft but deliberate. Cole appears, backlit by the hallway. "You're lying to us about something."
I go completely motionless for the first time all evening. "I'm not—"
"Save it for tomorrow." His measured tone carries weight like a physical thing. "Just don't get yourself killed. Or compromised. The order matters less than you think."
He leaves without waiting for a response. His footsteps fade and I'm completely alone now.
The kitchen feels too big, too empty. I grab my keys from the table where I set them. Spin them hard enough that when they hit my palm, the metal cuts into skin. I can feel the indentation of teeth marks from earlier, though I don't remember biting them. The pain helps for exactly two seconds.
Tomorrow.
Without thinking, I put the keys in my mouth. The copper taste explodes across my tongue, mixing with arousal and something that might be madness. Cold metal against hot tongue. My teeth scrape against the ridged edges.
Why the fuck did I just do that?