24. Jax
twenty-four
Jax
N umbers blur together as my keys spin between restless fingers. Shipping routes, financial data, facial recognition—information that should click into patterns just fragments into noise.
"Intelligence suggests Gideon's racing events are covering major trafficking operations." Kade points to satellite imagery of Long Beach port. "This weekend's event could be our only shot at Roman intel. Criminal networks scatter when operations get blown."
Cole leans forward. "Financial analysis shows unusual money flows during racing schedules. Mira's intelligence confirmed Rotterdam connections match Roman's last contacts."
Mira's controlled voice from yesterday. Professional. Perfect. Walking away after I'd promised to tear down her walls.
"Nitro." Asher's voice cuts through my spiral. "You're coordinating logistics for infiltration. Racing event provides perfect cover, but timing windows are narrow."
Right. Mission focus. Roman might be alive, and this could be our only lead.
"Infiltration through racing crowds, maintain cover while documenting trafficking coordination." My voice sounds steady. Practiced. "Map organizational structure, confirm network connections."
Kade's blue eyes assess me. "Gambling triggers under control?"
Roman used to handle the trigger management. The man who saved me from myself.
"Multiple variables converging while maintaining operational security and ensuring infiltration timing doesn't create vulnerability windows where Gideon's security could identify surveillance patterns and if weather delays racing then—"
"Breathe." Asher cuts through my rambling. "You're spiraling."
Shit. They can see it.
I force my keys into my pocket. Hands keep drumming—4-4-2, 4-4-2.
Kade pulls up racing surveillance feeds. "Split-second timing required. Security rotations, crowd patterns, Gideon's schedule. Roman's trail depends on this intelligence."
The data streams make my chest tight. Guard positions, schedules, traffic patterns—factors shifting based on weather, personnel, delays.
Odds Gideon increases security? Event delays? Weather cancellations?
The familiar itch crawls through my brain. Calculate probabilities on Roman's rescue. Control the uncontrollable through betting odds.
My phone sits in my pocket like a weapon. Racing event attendance. Weather patterns. Turn this mission into calculated risks.
The conference room shrinks. Everyone's watching me process tactical data, but all I hear is Roman's voice from our last call. Casual, confident. "Back in a week."
Six months ago.
My hands start trembling. I shove them under the table before reaching for my phone becomes automatic.
Cole's voice sharpens. "Talk through the infiltration sequence."
"Primary entry through main gates, maintain racing enthusiast cover." The logistics click into place despite the chaos in my head. "Secondary extraction uses emergency exits if Gideon's security identifies surveillance."
Concrete numbers. Better than betting odds.
"Communications protocol?"
"Encrypted channels, frequency rotation every twenty minutes. Overwatch feeds real-time security assessments."
Mira's voice in my earpiece. Controlled like yesterday. Not thinking about walls or how she walked away.
But she'd deleted my betting apps. Canceled transactions. Saved me from financial self-destruction when Roman's disappearance sent me into freefall.
Professional interest or something more?
"Your gambling triggers are active." Cole's observation lands like a diagnosis. "This level of operational complexity is feeding your compulsions."
They're right. Without Roman's grounding techniques, I'm one crisis away from betting on mission outcomes.
My phone buzzes. Racing odds for weekend events. Simple bets to redirect anxious energy.
One small wager. Prove I still control something.
"San Francisco location triggering family proximity stress and gambling urges."
Mira's voice cuts through from the entrance, and my entire body responds before my brain catches up. Heat races down my back, pooling low as my cock stirs despite the chaos in my head.
I freeze, hands hovering near my phone.
How long has she been watching?
The team turns, but she's watching me. Reading me like intelligence, cataloging every tell while my blood redirects south.
"Breathing pattern changed entering city limits. Key spinning accelerated during parameters discussion. You've checked your phone seventeen times since planning started, hand moving toward it again."
Of course she counted. She moves closer, and I catch her scent—clean, dangerous, making my heartbeat spike in ways that have nothing to do with anxiety.
"Mission complications are feeding your compulsions." Another step. Close enough that I can see the flutter in her throat. She's affected too. "Unpredictable outcomes, failure points, Roman's survival depending on coordination you're not sure you can provide."
Her voice drops to that measured tone that cuts through chaos, but there's something else underneath. Concern that makes my chest tight in different ways.
My laugh comes out hollow, bitter. "Thanks for the psychological profile. Really helpful when I'm trying not to fall apart in front of my team."
Sharper than intended, but she doesn't flinch. Her expression softens—not imagination this time.
Don't snap. She deleted your betting apps yesterday. Kept you from self-destructing.
"I'm not analyzing your triggers to mock them." Her hazel eyes hold mine, and the intensity makes my skin feel too tight. "I'm identifying tactical vulnerabilities that could compromise Roman's rescue."
The words ground me. She's right. This isn't about my fucked-up coping mechanisms. Roman's out there, depending on us.
Mission first. Always mission first.
But my fingers keep drumming, and the phone keeps buzzing with opportunities to turn crisis into controllable variables.
Bet on mission success rates. Calculate infiltration timing odds.
The thought should disgust me, but there's sick logic to it. If Roman's gone anyway, at least I could profit from predicting failure modes.
What kind of person thinks like that?
"Jax."
She says my name and the spiral stops cold. Not commanding like orders, but something almost... intimate. The way she says it makes heat crawl up my neck.
I look up. She's closer—close enough that her body heat reaches me, close enough that her presence feels like anchor in choppy water.
"You're running probability calculations on Roman's rescue operation."
Not a question. She reads me that clearly.
"The drumming changed. You're not thinking engine timing anymore. You're calculating betting odds on operational outcomes." Her voice drops to whisper, meant only for me. "And wondering if you'd actually place those bets."
I stare, hands completely still. The accuracy hits like punch to the gut.
"That's..." I swallow, throat dry. "That's really messed up, isn't it? The idea I might bet on whether we save the man who gave me purpose."
The admission tastes like poison, but it's true. Some twisted part wants to turn Roman's uncertain status into calculated risks.
Her fingers wrap around my wrist before my hand drifts toward the phone. Contact burns—skin on skin making my heartbeat hammer, warmth spreading up my arm and straight to my cock.
"Proximity to family triggers often destabilize carefully constructed coping mechanisms." Her thumb brushes my wrist, and she has to feel how fast my blood pounds. "Your brain craves complex problem-solving when gambling urges surface."
The phone buzzes again. Racing event attendance odds.
Just one bet. Something small.
My hand moves toward the phone without conscious decision.
Her grip tightens, fingers sliding down to interlace with mine. The shift from clinical to personal makes my breath catch.
"Not today." Her voice carries authority that makes my cock twitch. "Roman needs your coordination skills sharp, not scattered by compulsive betting."
Heat shoots through me. I'm suddenly aware how close she is. How her clinical assessment has shifted into something protective, possessive even.
"Look, I appreciate the intervention, but Roman's life is on the line and I can handle—"
"You don't have to carry this alone." Her free hand comes up to rest on my chest, right over my racing heart. "I understand psychological triggers and operational pressure."
The statement hits harder than lectures about gambling addiction. She's not trying to fix me. She gets it.
I sink back into the chair, exhausted by maintaining composure. Her hand stays on my chest, grounding me.
"Roman used to redirect this stuff. Give me complex logistics problems when betting urges got bad.
Keep my brain busy with mission planning instead of probability calculations.
" Voice rougher than intended. "He'd make me calculate escape routes, analyze enemy movement patterns until compulsion passed. "
The man who saved me when I was drowning in Tommy's ghost.
"Now his rescue depends on perfect coordination and I'm falling apart because the person who kept me functional is the one we're trying to save."
Mira moves to the chair beside me. Not crowding but close enough that our knees touch. The contact sends heat through me despite everything else.
"What specific triggers are most intense right now?" Clinical question, but her eyes show genuine concern that makes my chest tight.
"The unpredictability. Racing variables, crowd patterns, Gideon's security responses." My hands start drumming again, slower. "My brain wants to bet on outcomes so I feel like I have control over whether we find Roman."
"But betting creates illusion of control while actually removing it."
Exactly. She understands without making me feel broken.