17. Jax
Jax
“Scott? Scott!”
He doesn’t move, and for a terrifying second, I think he’s dead. Then he groans.
“Fuck. Shit! Scott, are you okay?”
“Stop yelling,” he mutters, but I can barely understand him; his lip is split in two places, and he’s mumbling, a horrible gurgling at the back of his throat.
“What happened?” I ask, helping as he tries to sit up.
I can’t see the extent of his injuries, and my heart is hammering so hard I can barely draw in a full breath. Somehow, I manage to get the key in the door one-handed and drag him inside.
After several missteps, a lot of cursing, and Scott calling me an asshole for stepping on his foot, I get him to the kitchen.
The stark overhead lighting makes the injuries look so much worse, and I’m close to tears as I rummage in the kitchen cabinets for the first aid kit.
Scott is huddled over on himself, barely making a sound when I come back, opening up the little box and pulling out some strips of linen cloth. I soak them under the faucet as he groans again, and walk back over to him, gently pulling his head toward me.
“Where are you bleeding? There’s blood everywhere.”
“I think they got my eye.”
As I examine the area above his eye socket, the blood is flowing more thickly, and I find a deep gash above his left brow. I touch it with the cloth, ignoring his hiss of protest, and begin to clean it as best I can.
“I think this needs stitches,” I say firmly.
“No. No doctors. I’m not going to the ER. I’m fine.”
“Who the fuck did this to you, Scott?” I demand.
“Who do you think? Monroe’s thugs.”
I pull my hand away, leaning back in disbelief. “I thought you said he gave you until the end of the week.”
“Yeah, well, I guess he got tired of waiting. Fucking assholes jumped me and kicked me in the ribs.”
“Is anything broken?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“Keep talking to me like that, and I’ll break the rest of them.”
Scott’s swollen lips part, and he winces as I continue rubbing at the dried blood on his cheek. My hands are trembling violently, and after another thirty seconds of charged silence, his hand comes up to grip mine, steadying it.
“I’m okay, Jax. I’m alright.”
“Why would he do this? He knows we’re going to pay him this week.”
“Yeah, but how much? I’m not sure he’ll settle for a gesture. It’s gonna need to be a lot.”
He lets go of my hand as I calculate the money I already have in my head. If I can get paid in cash by Mr. Asshole like I planned, I might be able to get over ten grand together by Sunday.
Will that be enough?
“I can help,” I say calmly. “I just need a few more days. How did you get the money back in the safe at the club?” I ask, returning to dealing with the wound above his eye.
“Got lucky on the horses.”
“Fuck, Scott, stop gambling. You know this is how it starts.”
“I just have to deal with this problem, and then no more bets, I swear.”
I don’t believe him. He probably doesn’t even believe himself. We’ve been here many times before.
I continue to clean his face as he sits up a little straighter.
“Do you think your ribs are broken?” I ask again, as he sucks in a breath.
“Just bruised.”
“You really won’t go to the hospital?”
“No. You know I hate doctors, and I’m alright.”
Between us, we manage to shuck off his coat and open his shirt. The bruising doesn’t look too bad right now, but I know it’ll get worse before it gets better.
Once his face is cleaned up, it’s mainly his lip that’s the problem, and there’s a deep purple bruise next to his eyelid that is going to be an impressive black eye in the morning.
“How the hell are you going to work like this?” I mutter. “You’ll have to stay in the office and keep out of sight, or they’re going to think the club managers are getting into brawls.”
“You beat up guys three times your size every week,” he murmurs.
“Yeah, with padding and boxing gloves,” I say, dabbing at his eye as the blood continues to flow. “How many of them were there?”
“Three.”
“Did you run?”
“Like hell. Didn’t do any good.”
“Fuckers.”
I go to the freezer and grab some frozen peas, wrapping them in a towel as I place them gently against his swollen face.
“What did you mean?” he asks, leaning back from me and frowning.
“About what?” I ask.
“You said you ‘just need a few more days’? What money do you have that I don’t know about? This isn’t your problem, Jax. I’ll deal with it.”
“By placing bets? Like hell you will. I’ll have ten grand by Sunday, maybe more if I can manage it.”
“Where from?” he asks, grimacing as he tries to raise his eyebrows.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“What the fuck?”
We both turn to find Seb and Ben at the back door. Their eyes are wide, a bag dangling from Ben’s hands as he stares at Scott, looking like he wants to kill someone.
Seb and Ben are my younger brothers, and I always think of them as such. But right now, they look like dangerous men ready for revenge.
“Calm down,” I say immediately, putting out a hand. “Getting angry isn’t going to fix anything.”
“Who the fuck did this to you?” Seb demands, following Ben into the room as they drop their bags to the floor and come to loom over Scott. He looks small and pathetic, and I hate it.
“We’ll go and fuck up whoever it was,” Seb says darkly, and there’s a spark in his eyes that’s so like our father it makes me feel sick.
“Stop it,” I say, my voice echoing around the kitchen. “You want to end up like dad, or worse? We’ll deal with this the right way. We’re not thugs, and you’re not going to fuck anyone up.”
“I’ll be okay,” Scott says, his voice cracking. “I just need to get patched up.”
“What’s happened?” Seb demands again, looking at me. Ben slowly turns to me, too, and I glance at Scott, who sighs resignedly and nods.
“Scott owes someone some money. A lot of money. And they got tired of waiting for him to pay up.”
“Shit. Who?” Seb asks.
“A guy named Nick Monroe,” Scott mutters, and my heart sinks a little further as Ben and Seb exchange a worried glance, their bodies tensing.
“How the fuck did you manage that, Scott? Are you stupid? You don’t gamble with Nick Monroe. He’s a fucking psychopath.”
“Not helping,” I murmur, and Seb and Ben square their shoulders.
“How much?” Ben asks.
Scott’s pitiful look at me makes my stomach turn, but I know my brother.
He doesn’t want them to know how much debt he’s in.
I’m desperate to tell them, to share the burden of the ridiculous number, but it wouldn’t make any difference for them to know.
It’s not like they could ever get close to two hundred grand together anyway.
“A lot. We need to get him a down payment by Sunday,” I say. “I’m working on it.”
Without another word, Ben turns to Seb and nods at him meaningfully.
Seb turns, walking over to a closet in the back of the kitchen.
It’s a run-down little space, the door falling off, with a load of old equipment and brooms piled inside it.
I never go in there because it’s always full of junk, but Seb doesn’t hesitate, getting onto his knees and pulling something from under a shelf.
In minutes, he’s hauled an old duffel out and brings it over, dropping it at my feet.
I bend down, opening it to find it filled with stacks of cash.
“That’s five grand. We got it doing a job a few weeks back,” Seb says.
“What job?” I ask suspiciously as I stand back up.
“A kitchen,” Ben says defensively. “We outfitted it for someone, and he was rich. That’s what’s left. Take it.”
My heart swells at the determination in their eyes. My brothers might be total idiots most of the time, but they’re more loyal than anyone could ask for.
Scott sighs, looking dejected and miserable as he shakes his head.
“That’s yours,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to clean up my messes. Any of you.”
“We’ll deal with the consequences another time,” I say. “The best way you can repay us is to stop putting bets on anything. Right now, we need cash; you can talk about paying them back later.”
I look to my younger brothers again. “Flynn doesn’t know about this mess, and we’d like to keep it that way.”
They both nod, but Ben’s eyes are glued to the bag on the floor.
“How much have you got?” he asks, attempting to work out the math, but it’s never been his best skill. “Whatever you owe, you’ll need at least 10% to get him off your back. More if you can. He’s a ruthless son of a bitch.”
Scott blinks up at him, his lip beginning to quiver.
“I’ll get the rest,” I say with more certainty than I feel.
I have five grand for the interview, three for the phone sex, and if I’m any kind of escort, I’ll get even more when I fuck Jones’s brains out in the morning.
“Where are you getting that kind of cash from?” Scott asks again, and they all turn to look at me.
“Don’t worry about it. Just stay out of trouble until Sunday.”