37. Jax
thirty-seven
Jax
Inside, the tarp-covered shape waits exactly where I left it, untouched by time. I step forward, my hands steady now—strange how they're not shaking anymore when everything else in my world feels unstable.
Just pull it off. Quick.
One motion and the tarp slides away.
The Honda CRF450R gleams like it's been waiting for me. Red and white plastic still pristine, chrome still reflecting light. Tommy's joke sticker catches my eye immediately: "Gravity's Optional" in faded blue letters across the tank.
Physics is for quitters, bro.
I can almost hear his voice. Tommy slapping that sticker on at the track, laughing so hard he nearly fell off his own bike. We were sixteen and thought we owned the world, thought death was something that happened to other people, older people, careful people.
We were never careful.
My fingers brush the handlebars and my knees just... give out. I'm kneeling beside the bike like it's a grave, which maybe it is. The concrete floor is cold through my jeans but I can't move, can't think past the image of blood on white plastic, Tommy's helmet split down the middle.
"I'm sorry." The words come out broken. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Should have been me.
The apology doesn't help. Nothing helps. This isn't grief anymore—grief would be easier. This is the emptiness that comes after you've survived something you shouldn't have, after you've lived while someone better died.
Behind me, Mira's footsteps stop. The silence stretches, broken only by my ragged breathing.
Say something. Tell me to get up. Tell me to stop being pathetic.
But she doesn't push me or pull me up or tell me to get over it. She just stands there. The weight of her presence fills the space, patient and solid.
The Honda stares back at me with its empty headlight, waiting for answers I don't have.
Tommy loved this bike more than breathing. And I've kept it locked away like evidence of a crime.
"I can't ride it. I've paid storage on this thing for thirteen years and I can't even touch it."
My hands hover inches from the seat, trembling now. Finally.
Mira moves closer, her boots scraping concrete. The sound echoes in the cramped space like a gunshot.
"He wouldn't want this." Her hand lands on my shoulder, warm and solid. "You kneeling here like it's penance."
I can't look at her. Can't look at the bike. Can't look at anything except the oil stain on the floor that looks like a question mark.
"I should have gone first. I always went first."
"Stop." She grabs my chin, forces me to meet her eyes. Dark and fierce and completely unforgiving. "Stop dying with him."
Before I can respond, she pulls me to standing, backing me against the cold metal wall of the unit. The corrugated ridges bite through my shirt.
She's smaller than me but stronger right now. Everything about her is sharp edges and controlled violence.
"You want to honor him? Then live. Stop hiding his memory in storage units and monthly bills."
She's right and I hate her for it.
Then she kisses me.
Nothing gentle about it. All teeth and demand, she fists my shirt, pulling me down to meet her mouth. I freeze for half a second, shocked by the sudden shift from grief to this raw hunger.
This isn't comfort. This is her claiming me.
Hands move without permission, tangling in her dark hair, pulling hard enough to make her gasp against my mouth. Something shifts inside me, the careful control I've maintained around her cracking open.
She tastes like coffee and determination.
Footsteps crunch on gravel outside. Someone walking past, their keys jingling. We freeze instantly, her finger pressed to my lips.
The door is still up. Anyone walking by could see us. Could see me pressed against the wall with her body molded to mine, could see the bike watching like a silent witness.
Security camera at the corridor end might catch the angle if they look hard enough.
She whispers against my ear. "They could see everything."
Pulse hammering. Not from fear of being caught, but from the way her breath hitches when I wrap my hand around her throat. Gentle pressure, just enough to feel her swallow.
The eager, bouncing energy that usually has me talking too much is gone. Something else is taking over.
"Is that what you want? Someone to catch us?"
Her pupils blow wide, fear and arousal mixing in her eyes. She can feel the change in me, the shift from broken to something darker.
She lit this fire. Now she gets to burn in it.
My thumb traces the tactical knife clipped inside my waistband. Always there, always ready. Three years of private security means never going anywhere unarmed.
Mira's eyes catch the movement when my shirt rides up slightly. Her fingers follow mine, tracing the textured grip.
"Were you armed at your parents'?"
"Always armed. Old habits."
Something shifts in her expression. Recognition. Approval. The kind of look that makes my chest tight.
I pull the knife out slowly. The blade catches afternoon light streaming through the storage unit door. Her breath catches, pupils dilating as she tracks the weapon.
Her gaze moves between the blade and my face, something hungry in her expression.
The blade traces along her collarbone, sharp edge barely kissing skin. Not enough to cut, just enough to raise goosebumps. A promise without words.
"You're not scared of me."
It's not a question. I can read her body language now, the way her pulse jumps at her throat, how she leans into the touch instead of pulling away.
"I'm scared of how much I want you to use it."
There it is. The truth she's been hiding.
Footsteps crunch on gravel again. Closer this time. Someone checking units, maybe looking for their own storage space. My body moves before my brain catches up, spinning her to face outward, her back pressed against my chest.
The knife comes up to her throat. Sharp edge this time, dangerous to anyone looking.
"Don't move. Don't make a sound."
A man in work clothes walks by, clipboard in hand. His eyes sweep across the open units, pause at ours. Mira's body goes rigid against mine, every muscle coiled. His eyes widen at the knife, at our position. He makes a note, keeps walking faster.
Can't tell if he saw everything. Don't care anymore.
The blade moves lower, catching the fabric of her shirt. Expensive silk that probably cost more than most people make in a week. The knife slides through it like butter, threads separating with barely a whisper.
Pieces fall away, leaving her black lace bra exposed to the dusty air and anyone who walks by.
Her hands move to cover herself. I catch her wrists, pin them to her sides. She could break free if she wanted—she's an assassin, trained to kill. But she doesn't. She lets me hold her exposed while footsteps pass outside.
A truck starts loading two units down. Voices, laughter, the clang of metal on metal. More witnesses, more chances to be seen. I press her forward until she's against Tommy's bike, the red plastic warm from sunlight.
"He'd laugh if he knew. 'Gravity's Optional' right?"
She turns her head slightly, meeting my eyes. Something wild there, something I've never seen before.
The loading continues outside, voices getting closer. Any second now, someone could walk by. Could see her pressed against the bike, my hands on her skin, the knife still in my grip.
Let them see. Let them know she's mine.
Her whole body changes against mine, like a switch flipping. The wild desperation fades, replaced by something calculated and dangerous. Before I can react, she spins in my arms and shoves me hard against the metal wall.
The corrugated ridges bite through my shirt as she pins me there, her hands flat against my chest. That predatory smile spreads across her lips.
"My turn."
Oh, fuck.
She drops to her knees on the concrete without breaking eye contact. The rough surface has to be tearing through her jeans, but she doesn't even flinch. Just reaches for my belt like she's dismantling a weapon.
"Mira, someone will—"
"Then you better stay quiet."
Her fingers work my belt buckle with practiced efficiency, the leather sliding free with a whisper. Button pops. Zipper tears down. She yanks my jeans and boxers down just enough to free my cock, already hard and straining.
This is insane. The door is wide open. People are twenty feet away.
The truck engine rumbles closer. Headlights sweep past the storage unit opening, throwing our shadows against the back wall.
She wraps her hand around the base of my cock and licks from balls to tip in one long stroke, tongue flat and wet against the sensitive underside. My head slams back against metal, a groan escaping before I can stop it.
"I said stay quiet."
She takes me in her mouth without warning, all the way to the base in one motion. Her throat contracts around my cock as she swallows, nose pressed against my pelvis. The wet heat is overwhelming, her tongue working the underside while she holds me deep.
My hands tangle in her dark hair, fighting between pulling her away from danger and holding her exactly where she is.
She pulls back to breathe, saliva connecting her lips to my cock in obscene strings, then takes me deep again.
Her teeth scrape just enough to make me hiss, one hand cupping my balls while the other grips my thigh for leverage.
"Fuck, Mira—"
The truck idles at the unit next to ours. Voices, definitely two people. Male, discussing what boxes go where. They're maybe fifteen feet away.
She pulls off with a wet pop, looking up at me with swollen lips and wild eyes. "Someone's watching."
I look. Two men standing by the truck, frozen, one with his phone out definitely recording.
"Let them watch."
She takes me deep again, bobbing her head in a brutal rhythm that has my knees threatening to buckle. The wet sounds of her mouth on my cock echo in the metal space, unmistakable to anyone listening.
I yank her up by her hair. Not gentle. Firm, controlled. She gasps, lipstick smeared, chin wet with saliva, eyes glazed with arousal.
I spin her around, bend her over Tommy's bike seat.
My hands yank at her jeans roughly. The expensive denim catches on her hips and I pull harder, dragging them down to her thighs along with her black lace panties.
She's dripping wet, arousal coating her inner thighs, pussy glistening in the afternoon light.
The blade traces down her spine, sharp edge leaving a thin red line that doesn't break the skin but makes her whole body shudder.
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Fuck me. Make me forget everything except your cock inside me."
I line myself up and thrust in hard, burying myself completely in one stroke. She's so wet I slide in despite how tight she is, her cry echoing off the metal walls loud enough that anyone within fifty feet knows exactly what's happening.
The bike rocks under our weight, metal creaking, Tommy's handlebars groaning as she grips them white-knuckled. I grab her hips hard enough to bruise and fuck her with abandon, the wet sound of our bodies meeting obscene and unmistakable.
"Harder. I want to feel you tomorrow."
My hand wraps in her hair, pulling her head back as I slam into her. Each thrust rocks the bike, Tommy's "Gravity's Optional" sticker bouncing in and out of view. The work boots are back at our door, definitely watching, definitely recording.
"They're watching us. Recording me fucking you on a dead boy's bike."
That does it. Her pussy clenches impossibly tight as she comes, her whole body convulsing, a keening sound torn from her throat that echoes through the facility.
The rhythmic squeezing around my cock triggers my own orgasm.
I bury myself deep and come hard, filling her with rope after rope of cum while Tommy's bike rocks beneath us.
We stay connected for a moment, both panting, sweat dripping onto the bike seat. When I pull out, my cum immediately starts dripping down her thighs, white against her flushed skin.
I help her stand on shaking legs, pulling her jeans back up even though they're soaked through with our combined arousal. My own pants are a mess, cock still half-hard and slick. We both look thoroughly fucked—hair wild, clothes destroyed, that specific glazed expression that screams sex.
My shirt is torn at the shoulder where she grabbed me during her orgasm, and her expensive silk blouse is completely destroyed, hanging in ribbons.
"Tommy would've loved this." I run my thumb over the faded sticker. "The scandal of it. Getting caught in a storage unit."
She tries to hold the remnants of her shirt closed. "He would've loved that you're finally living."
I grab the tarp and start to cover the bike, then stop. My hands hover over the handlebars where she gripped them minutes ago, now slick with her sweat.
Not ready to take it home. But not a grave anymore either.
I pull the tarp over it gently. Like protecting something precious instead of hiding something painful.
Rolling the metal door down feels different now. The screech of metal doesn't sound like finality anymore. Just... pause.
I lock the padlock and we walk toward the car.
The security guard at the main office absolutely knows when we walk past—my torn shirt, her destroyed blouse barely covered, both of us walking with that specific looseness that comes after rough fucking.
He gives us a knowing smirk and obviously adjusts himself in his chair.
Let him look. Don't care anymore.
In the car, the leather seats stick to our sweaty skin. Mira shows me her phone—a video file from twenty minutes ago, her on her knees with my cock in her mouth, the storage unit number clearly visible in frame.
"You filmed it?"
"Your exhibitionist side. My evidence collection habits." She pockets the phone. "For us."
"We'll need Vanessa to scrub any security footage from the facility." I adjust myself in my still-damp jeans. "Can't have that floating around."
Her entire body goes rigid. "Vanessa's going to see—"
"Just the exterior security cam footage. Not our video." I catch her hand before she can pull the phone away. "Besides, she's completely obsessed with Asher. Trust me, she doesn't even notice other men exist anymore."
The possessive fury in her eyes makes my cock twitch again. "She better not."
"Are you jealous?"
"I don't share." Her voice drops to that dangerous register. "Ever."
Noted. And hot as fuck. My cock twitches with renewed interest.
Her phone buzzes with a text. She reads it and her whole body changes, tension replacing satisfaction.
"Tomorrow. Mastro's."