7. Jax
seven
Jax
T he red dress was designed to kill. No other explanation for how it hugs every curve while revealing just enough skin to short-circuit higher brain function.
I slide into the booth at Cut, trying to focus on anything except the way candlelight plays across her collarbones. My keys immediately start their nervous rotation around my finger—three spins, pause, three spins.
"You're late," Mira observes, not looking up from her wine.
"Traffic was murder. Some jackass in a Porsche thought he owned Sunset Boulevard." The words tumble out while I settle across from her. "I mean, we all think we own various stretches of road, but this guy really committed to the fantasy."
She finally looks up, and those hazel-green eyes hit like a punch to the solar plexus. Assessing. Calculating. Finding every weakness to exploit later.
She's hunting. And I'm already caught.
"Lagavulin 16, neat," I tell the waitress without breaking eye contact. "Something smoky enough to match the bad choices I'm about to make."
"Triple?" the server asks with the tone of someone who's seen this movie before.
"Yeah. Maybe keep the bottle close."
Mira's mouth curves into something that might be a smile on someone less lethal. She leans forward slightly, and the neckline of that dress becomes a precision weapon aimed at my higher reasoning.
"Nervous?"
About ten different ways this could go catastrophically wrong? Yeah. About the way you're looking at me like I'm dessert? Absolutely.
"Just thirsty." My keys spin faster. "And maybe reassessing some life choices, but that's standard for a Tuesday."
I'm deflecting and we both know it, but her soft laugh makes something warm unfurl in my chest. My brain's trying to remember the mission while my body's noticing everything about her.
The way she sits with perfect posture that somehow still looks relaxed.
How her fingers rest move on the table in slow circles that make me wonder what those hands would feel like on my skin.
"I've been thinking about our conversation."
She reaches for her wine, and her fingers brush mine on the table. She takes the stem of her wineglass between two fingers and runs them up and down in slow strokes. Up. Down. Up. Down.
Her eyes never leave mine, and her lips part slightly.
Jesus Christ.
From the satisfaction in her eyes, she knows exactly what that does to me.
She's weaponizing everything. The dress, the touches, that voice that could make angels fall.
"Which part?" I manage, forcing my hands to stay still. "The part where you mentioned needing someone with particular skills, or the part where we almost got shot at by unfriendly people with terrible timing?"
"The part where you said we work well together."
Her voice drops to that register that bypasses my brain entirely. My cock twitches against my jeans, and I shift in the booth, trying to find a position that doesn't broadcast how affected I am.
Everything. I'd burn everything for you, and that should terrify me.
"I meant it."
"Even if it means getting your hands dirty?"
Another lean forward. This time I catch black lace beneath red silk, and every coherent thought evacuates. My fingers drum the Fibonacci sequence against my thigh—anything to keep from reaching across the table.
"Depends how dirty we're talking."
The words come out low and rough, and I watch her pupils dilate slightly.
Good. I'm not the only one affected.
She slides closer in the booth, her thigh pressing against mine under the table. The contact burns through my jeans, and I have to grip my scotch glass to keep from grabbing her.
"Tell me what you know about Alexei Petrov."
The name means nothing to me, but the way she says it—like tasting poison—makes me want to hunt the bastard down and introduce him to creative interpretations of suffering.
"Who is he?"
"The man who destroyed everything I loved when I was sixteen."
Her accent thickens with emotion, Russian bleeding through. Rage explodes in my chest at the thought of anyone hurting her. My hand moves without permission, covering hers on the table.
"Tell me."
"He was Uncle Alexei until he wasn't." Her fingers turn under mine, interlacing. The contact makes my pulse spike. "Trusted family friend who taught me that trust is a luxury children believe in."
Jesus, the things I want to do to whoever taught her that.
"What did he do?"
"What men like him always do. Took what he wanted and destroyed what he couldn't have." Her thumb traces my knuckles, the gentle touch at odds with the violence in her words. "My parents thought he was a friend. They were wrong."
She doesn't say the words, but I hear them anyway. He killed them. This bastard killed her parents.
"And now you're hunting him."
"Now I'm going to destroy him." Her eyes meet mine, and the cold fury there makes my breath catch. "Piece by piece. Connection by connection. Until he has nothing left but the knowledge that I took it all."
The promise of violence shouldn't make me this hard. My cock strains against my zipper, and I shift again, trying to adjust without being obvious.
I think you're the most beautiful predator I've ever seen, and I want to be caught.
"I can help with that."
"Can you?" She shifts closer, her breast brushing my arm. "What do you know about moving things through racing circuits?"
Racing. The word hits something deep, something I keep buried.
"I know people who know things." The vague answer tastes like ash. "Import racing scene isn't exactly transparent about cargo."
"Lynch runs races." Not a question.
"Among other things."
"And these other things might include moving cargo Petrov needs moved?"
The conversation's veering into dangerous territory. The team's investigation, Lynch's connections, things I can't tell her without compromising operations.
But with her hand in mine, the heat of her thigh against mine, the way she's looking at me like I might be useful—it's scrambling my priorities.
"Lynch doesn't ask questions about cargo weight discrepancies." My thumb traces her knuckles without conscious thought. "Or about who's paying for the extra security."
"Petrov pays for extra security?"
"Someone with Russian connections does. Draw your own conclusions."
She studies me for a long moment, and I can see her filling in every word I didn't say. Banking it for later.
"These people of yours. They could get information about specific shipments?"
"Depends what you're looking for."
"Routes. Schedules. Security protocols." She leans closer, and her perfume—dark and expensive—clouds my judgment. "Everything needed to intercept cargo."
Intercept. Not observe. Not document. Intercept.
"That's dangerous territory."
"I specialize in dangerous." Her free hand slides onto my thigh under the table, and my brain shorts out completely. "Question is whether you do too."
Her fingers trace patterns through my jeans, moving higher with each pass. My leg bounces under the table, nervous energy demanding release.
You. Right now, you drive everything.
Without breaking eye contact, she reaches across with her free hand and plucks my phone from beside my scotch glass. Her thumb finds the home button.
"Passcode?"
"Eight two seven four." The numbers tumble out before I can think about whether giving a trained killer access to my phone is smart.
She types one-handed, still tracing patterns on my thigh with the other. "There. Now you can reach me."
She slides the phone back, and I see she's saved herself as just "M" with a black heart emoji.
When did my hands start shaking?
"I need another drink."
"You haven't finished that one."
"That one's not strong enough for this conversation."
"You're not what I expected, Jax Ryder."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone smoother. More calculated." Her hand moves higher on my thigh, and I nearly jump out of my skin. "Less... genuine."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"I didn't say I was disappointed."
Her stare burns into me, making my clothes stick to sweat that wasn't there seconds ago. Those eyes dissect every word, every gesture, like she's choosing between torture and execution.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it.
It buzzes again. Then again. The emergency pattern.
"You should answer that," she says, but her hand's still on my thigh, fingers tracing circles that make thinking impossible.
Cole's name flashes on screen. Then Remy. Then Asher.
Then Kade.
Shit.
"Yeah?" I answer, not breaking eye contact with her.
"Safe house. Now." Kade's voice could freeze hell.
"I'm in the middle of—"
"Drop everything. Emergency briefing. This can't wait."
The line goes dead.
My keys stop spinning. "I have to go."
"Family emergency?" There's something knowing in her eyes.
"Something like that." I pull out my wallet, throw down enough cash to cover dinner twice over. "Can I—will you—"
"I'll be fine." She squeezes my thigh, then withdraws her hand. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Go handle your emergency."
I stand, but can't make myself leave. Not yet.
"I'll call you."
"I know you will." She picks up her wine, takes a sip. "I'll be waiting."
The promise in those words follows me all the way to the parking lot.
The Rancho Palos Verdes safe house blazes with light despite the late hour. Every vehicle in our fleet crowds the circular drive. Whatever pulled everyone here, it's significant.
Cole opens the door before I knock. "About fucking time."
"I was in Beverly Hills. You know how that is—might as well have been on Mars."
He doesn't respond, just leads me through to the conference room. The massive screens show three feeds from San Francisco —Miguel in the medical lab, Vanessa at her computer, and Kade in Roman's old office with Alina perched on his lap like she's guarding him from the world.
Remy paces by the windows. Asher sits perfectly still, absorbed in data on his tablet.
"Good, we're all here." Kade's voice fills the room. "Remy, tell them."