Chapter 18 Guard Dogs
Guard Dogs
Jax
Therapy felt fundamentally different without Scarlett.
I struggled to keep my eyes open during each session, yet somehow managed to drag myself through the full hour each time, fabricating the kind of superficial bullshit the therapist wanted to hear.
Anything to fucking escape that suffocating office where I felt the walls closing in around me.
After therapy, my routine typically involved a walk back to the halfway house, followed by taking Reaper out.
However, on this particular day, as soon as I stepped outside, I noticed a sleek black car with tinted windows parked at the curb, awaiting my arrival.
I couldn’t see who was inside, but the back passenger window slid down just enough for me to catch a glimpse of penetrating eyes but because of the darkness of the tint I couldn't see anything else.
"Get in the damn car, Jax," a voice commanded, those eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my heart race.
Anxiety washed over me, and despite my efforts to mask it, I knew my apprehension was etched across my face.
I circled around to the back and held my breath as I opened the door, sliding into the back seat without a moment’s hesitation.
As the car pulled away from the curb, I turned my head to the left and exhaled in relief, spotting Hunter sitting beside me.
Up front, I saw Michael behind the wheel and Kellin reclining in the passenger seat, his dark clothing matching the car's ominous tint.
"What’s going on?" I asked, feeling the tension that permeated the air.
"We need you and Reaper," Hunter replied, and a wide smile involuntarily spread across my face, though the gnawing feeling in my stomach remained, uncertainty gnawing at me.
"For what?" I questioned, lighting a Newport and rolling down the window just enough to let the smoke escape without fogging the interior.
"Doc was attacked the other night while we were on a job.
Her memory is shot, but I've figured out who did it.
" Hunter cracked his knuckles, his anger simmering as he recalled the incident that had left Scarlett with no memory. "I want her to have her way with him, but we need to catch him or draw him to the church. That’s where you and Reaper come in. If Reaper needs to rough him up a bit to get him there, so be it. Just make sure he doesn’t fucking kill the bastard. "
"Is she okay?" I asked, a wave of concern washing over me for her safety after everything she had endured in such a short span.
"What kind of stupid fucking question is that?" Kellin scoffed without turning around from the front seat.
"No, man," Michael interjected, locking eyes with me in the rearview mirror, shaking his head. "She isn’t okay."
I could feel the weight of their pain enveloping me, nearly suffocating.
When we finally pulled up to the halfway house, I surged from the car and stumbled over to the gazebo, collapsing onto the cold, hard bench.
The guys followed, their black hoodies blending into the dusk, their cigarettes glowing like tiny beacons in the growing gloom.
We formed a silent circle, watching the sunset together, a moment of intimacy that just felt wrong without Scarlett.
No one spoke. No one moved. We sat in silence, chain-smoking, awaiting the impending darkness to envelop us.
I could hear Reaper barking from inside, which spurred me to get up and go fetch him.
Despite my eagerness to see Reaper in action, my thoughts lingered on Scarlett, wondering how much more trauma she could withstand.
Things weren't going to get easier—not according to what she had planned, and I was truly worried how much more her fragile mind could take before she spiraled into a dangerous depression or even a psychotic break.
When I finally reached the door, Reaper bounded out, his tail wagging furiously as my hands grabbed the collar.
The moment he saw me, his energy seemed to recharge; he tugged at his leash, eager to head out and do whatever it was dogs were meant to do at a time like this—run, bark, and live freely, while I fought against the heavy shadows creeping over my own mind.
But Reaper wasn't like other dogs. I trained him to hurt, to kill, and he does such a good job at it. .
“Let’s go, buddy,” I murmured, willing my voice to sound upbeat, despite the knot forming in my gut.
As we began our walk around the parking lot while the guys watched curiously, I tried to clear my mind.
Focus on the moment, I told myself. One foot in front of the other.
Just like Hunter had taught me. But it was hard to concentrate with the looming dread of uncertainty nudging at me, whispering fears about Scarlett and the confrontation we were planning.
The soft thud of Reaper’s paws against the pavement steadied me. I glanced down, watching him sniff and explore, an uncomplicated creature of instinct and joy.
“What do you think, boy?” I asked him, the question more a reflection of my own desperation than anything else.
“Do you think she’ll be okay? Are you ready to find the bad man who hurt her and show me where he is?
” He looked up at me, his dark eyes serious yet innocent, tail still wagging.
If only I could take some of that joy and stuff it inside myself.
I walked him over to the gazebo, impatiently waiting for Hunter to tell us what the fuck was going on. He looked lost. He looked ashamed, guilty. I'd never seen him look anything other than confident and evil, so I grew worried, and it all stemmed down to Scarlett.
"What's the plan, Hunter?" Kellin asked, rubbing his cut-off gloved hands together, his left leg bouncing up and down as if he was having a hard time sitting there—sitting still—for that long and it was time for him to get up and get on with it.
"It's only a seven minute walk from the church to the bar where this motherfucker works," Hunter finally spoke, capturing our attention as he quietly and precisely laid out his plan.
"I say you and Reaper follow him home, but force him somewhere where we can load him in the truck and bring him to the church. "
I nodded, just wanting to get on with things already.
I wanted to see Scarlett, so all I wanted to do was get the job done as fast as I could.
The four of us walked to the back lot of the halfway house where Kellin's matte black truck was parked, completely tinted and blacked out in every way possible.
He slid into the driver seat and Hunter slid into the front passenger, leaving Michael and me in the back with Reaper.
We pulled up to the bar in less than five minutes, and we sat in the truck, listened to music, and smoked blunt after blunt, each one laced with a different drug.
All I knew was that I felt good, I felt like no one or nothing could touch me.
And I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
"You're going to get out soon and walk Reaper around until he comes out, then follow him. We'll be right behind you," Hunter said as flat as he could, his voice having no emotion.
"I need some air anyway," I said, feeling like I needed to get that part off my chest, even though Hunter looked at me as if I was holding something back.
I stepped out of the truck, the cool breeze hitting my flushed face like a slap, grounding me in the present.
Reaper jumped out behind me, his energy seemingly amplified by the anticipation of what was to come.
I scanned the dimly lit bar entrance, trying to get a sense of the crowd spilling out onto the sidewalk.
Shadowy figures moved in and out, laughter and loud voices mixing into a symphony of inconsequential chatter.
“Stay close,” I murmured to Reaper, who perked up at the mention of our usual engagement, now charged with an electrifying purpose.
The tension in my chest tightened as I moved towards the bar, my instincts running the show.
Even without the drugs clouding my judgment, the rush of adrenaline was almost way too easy to fall into, allying with the anger swirling in me about what had happened to Scarlett.
This was my chance to channel that anger; a way to let Reaper do what he was bred for.
As I walked around the bar outside, I kept my focus steady, searching for the man through the few windows that you could actually see out of.
Hunter had given me a crude description—muscular, tattoos, a sneer that could suck the fun out of anything.
There he was, standing behind the bar, loud and obnoxious, drowning in the easy conversation with his muscle-head friends and cheap beer.
“Stay here,” I whispered to Reaper, tension echoing in the way I held his collar a bit tighter than necessary. I motioned for him to sit, his big brown eyes snapping to mine, full of understanding, but I didn’t have time to linger in that moment. I couldn’t lose sight of my target.
I blended into the throng, leaning against a nearby wall, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The atmosphere was electric as laughter and slurred shouts reached me, but I only had one focus.
My heart dropped when I saw him glance my way.
Panic shot through me. Was he sensing anything?
I knew he wouldn’t recognize me, but recognition was never about faces; it was about instincts, about threats.
I held my breath, watching as he turned back to his friends.
Time dragged on, and I felt the weight of the waiting amplify in my chest, threatening to crush me with frustration.
I needed to make my move. Suddenly, he rose, signaling to a couple of friends.
They prepared to leave, swaggering towards the exit.
My heartbeat quickened, the wave of decisive action surging through me.
This was it. I got outside seconds later, and nodded to the guys in the truck as I walked right over to my dog.