20. Jax
twenty
Jax
Two days since Mira touched me. Forty-eight hours of her perfect professional distance while we prep for tomorrow's Grand Prix operation. Two days of my skin feeling too tight and my brain calculating odds on everything from traffic patterns to whether she'll ever look at me again.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder. Another betting app notification. Another bookie offering special odds. I've been clean for six hours—a fucking record considering the team's busy with prep and can't babysit me.
The exit for Griffith Observatory comes up fast. My hands turn the wheel before my brain fully commits to the decision.
Just need to think. Clear my head. Definitely not about to do something monumentally stupid.
Even I don't believe that lie.
The drive takes forty-three minutes in afternoon traffic, but I make it in thirty-two, taking risks that would make Cole lecture me about operational safety.
The observatory parking lot provides perfect cover—tourist crowds, multiple sight lines, elevated positions.
My brain automatically assesses it like a mission site, but that's not why I'm here.
I pace near the brass telescopes, phone pressed to my ear like I'm making calls.
But my lips aren't moving. I'm listening to voicemails—Roman's voice from 6 months ago, telling me I'm worth saving, that the gambling doesn't define me, that the team needs me functional.
Each word sits heavy in my chest, making it hard to swallow.
My free hand taps complex rhythms against the railing. Not engine timing anymore. Probability sequences. Mathematical patterns that predict human behavior better than any psychology textbook ever could.
A family with small children approaches the telescope area. I shift immediately, stepping back to give them better access. The father asks about the city view, and I point out landmarks with genuine enthusiasm, maintaining the appearance of normalcy while my brain screams for the next bet.
"See that building there? That's downtown. And over there—" I gesture toward the hills, keeping my voice steady for the kids, "—that's where all the fancy houses are."
They thank me and move on. The second they're gone, my phone's back in my hand.
She's watching.
The knowledge hits without warning. I can't see her, can't hear her, but my body knows with absolute certainty.
That hyperawareness that started three days ago when I was inside her—every nerve ending suddenly tuned to her frequency.
The hair on my neck stands up. My cock stirs despite everything else wrong with this moment.
Two days of professional distance and she still followed me.
Heat floods my stomach, mixing with shame and want in a combination that makes my hands shake harder. But I don't acknowledge her presence. I pull up the betting apps, letting her see exactly how fucked up I am.
Multiple platforms flash across my screen—sports betting, cryptocurrency exchanges, stock trading platforms. My thumbs move with practiced speed. Fifty here, two hundred there, a thousand on basketball futures I researched at 3 AM when I couldn't stop thinking about how she tasted.
"Security guard checks his watch in less than fifteen seconds," I murmur to nobody.
Twelve seconds. I win. Feed it into three more bets.
A young couple walks past arguing about dinner plans. "They'll break up before reaching the parking lot."
The girl stops halfway down the path, yanks off her promise ring, and throws it at her boyfriend's feet. The metal pings against concrete.
I don't even look up anymore. Just take the psychological win and feed it back into the machine, switching to crypto now. Bitcoin futures, Ethereum options, altcoins I researched during another sleepless night.
Then my thumb hovers over a folder labeled "Work."
Mission intel. Tomorrow's Grand Prix transport schedules. Security rotations I memorized during planning. Bet-worthy information that could triple my money if I just—
Just one bet using the edge intel. Nobody would know.
My thumb moves away, but barely. The wanting is a physical ache, worse than withdrawal.
Even unraveling into my worst self, I won't betray the team. But the fact that I'm tempted, that my mind keeps calculating odds on mission data I refuse to use...
"Jax. Stop."
Her command voice cuts through everything. Not the refined lady. Not the professional operative. Something darker, more possessive than I've ever heard from her.
I freeze mid-tap, thumb hovering over the phone screen, and whip around to face her. Something fragile breaks inside my chest when I see her standing three feet away, close enough that her amber and spice scent floods my senses after two days of nothing.
"I'm fine, totally fine. Just killing time and taking in the sights while we wait for tomorrow." The words come out flat and unconvincing. I take a step back, hitting the railing. Trapped between metal and her.
"Seventeen different active bets in the last twenty minutes." She steps closer, and I see it now. She's barely controlling herself. Her pupils are blown wide, hands clenched to keep from reaching for me. "You're thinking about using team intel."
The words hit hard. Blood drains from my face. The phone nearly slips from my grip.
"I haven't. I swear to god, I haven't crossed that line." Desperation cracks my voice.
"But you want to." She moves closer, backing me against the railing. "I can see it. The way you look at that folder like it's salvation."
"I want to. The temptation is there every fucking time I open my phone, and I hate myself for it. But I won't betray the team."
"No, you won't." Her voice drops to something lethal. "Because I'll break your fucking hands before I let you."
The threat shouldn't make me harder. But it does.
My laugh comes out broken, and I slide down the railing until I'm sitting on the observation platform's edge. "You don't understand. When it's quiet, when there's nothing to do, I start thinking. And I can't... I can't stop."
She lowers herself to sit beside me, close enough that her thigh brushes mine. The contact burns through our clothes.
"Stop what?"
"Tommy's accident was one in forty-seven thousand. Roman's chances of surviving that blood loss were twelve percent. The likelihood that I'll destroy everything good in my life before thirty-one is ninety-three point seven percent and climbing."
My breathing quickens, vision sharpening with something beyond fear. This isn't just gambling addiction—it's my brain eating itself alive with mathematical terror.
"Tommy's ghost is trying to kill you," she says, and it's not a question. "Roman's maybe-death is accelerating it. And you're letting it happen."
"The math—"
"Fuck your math." Her hand moves toward mine, stops an inch away. That almost-touch makes my whole body ache. "The team monitors your accounts."
"Cole checks my finances weekly, not because I've betrayed anything, but because..." My voice cracks. "Because they're scared I'll destroy myself if they don't watch."
"Started after Tommy died." My voice gets smaller with each word. "Parents cut me off completely when I refused to quit racing. Needed money to keep competing, and I was good at reading odds, understanding probability."
"Tommy and I used to bet on everything. Stupid stuff. Which seagull would fly away first, how many red cars would pass in five minutes. After the accident, it was the only way to hear his voice in my head."
She shifts closer, our bodies touching now. The contact makes me shudder.
"Both of our parents blamed me for Tommy's death. His said I was reckless, that I got him killed. Mine cut off my racing fund, kicked me out." The shame burns hotter. "But I couldn't stop racing. Racing was the only thing that made sense after Tommy died."
"So, you gambled to fund it."
"Started small. Track bets, driver histories, mechanical failure rates. I was good at it because I understood the sport, could read patterns others missed." My hands shake as I speak. "But it wasn't enough. I needed bigger money, faster returns."
"I got in deep with some really bad people.
Vincent 'The Hammer' Castellano runs numbers out of Long Beach.
His enforcer, Marcus Webb, paid me three visits before I got the message.
" My voice drops to barely audible. "Broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, cigarette burns on my forearms. They wanted fifty grand plus interest."
The muscle in her jaw ticks, controlled fury that makes her look like she's planning murder.
"Where are they now?"
"Gone. Roman found me three years deep in debt, ready to eat a bullet because I couldn't see a way out.
But he didn't just pay them off, he made sure they understood I was under his protection permanently.
" The words tumble out faster. "Never saw Castellano or Webb again.
Word was Roman's people convinced them to relocate their operations somewhere far from California. "
"Roman eliminated them." Not a question.
"Roman saved my life when I was drowning in Tommy's guilt, but it wasn't just him.
The whole team... they gave me purpose when I was ready to end it.
" My voice breaks. "Roman set up monitoring systems, but Cole handles my finances, Kade redirects me when I get twitchy, Asher makes sure I eat when I'm spiraling.
They built this whole safety net to keep me functional. "
"Roman created protocols to redirect my compulsions into mission planning.
Mathematical analysis, probability calculations for operations.
Gave my brain productive channels, made me understand that people were counting on me to keep my shit together.
" Tears leak from my eyes now. "The team became my family when my real one gave up on me. "
"And now he might be dead."