16. You Always Did Get Emotionally Attached To Broken Things
sixteen
You Always Did Get Emotionally Attached To Broken Things
Nora
Jax looks ready to kill someone or smash something, and I know if he has a choice of picking his victim. It will most definitely be Stanley.
I stand near the edge of the metal desk, the smell of old motor oil and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone from the approaching storm filling my nose.
The yellow halogen work lights overhead buzz a steady, low note, casting long, harsh shadows across the concrete floor of the workshop. Between us, the silence is heavy and suffocating, stretching out in the seconds after Jax read the text on his phone and stormed inside.
I had followed him back to the yard, but he has yet to acknowledge my presence. He keeps his thumb pressed against the side of his phone with enough force to turn the skin white.
I watch the slow rise and fall of his chest. The thick tendons in his neck are strained like steel cables under his skin, and his jaw locked so tight I can hear the faint click of his teeth grinding.
He looks as if he's disappearing entirely into a dark place, a place where rational thoughts and reasoning don't reach.
I don't know exactly what the message he got said, but I know it probably holds Stanley's location, and for the first time since I arrived in Moonrise, my own fear of Stanley disappears, swallowed whole by the sharp terror of what Jax will do if he leaves this room.
He shifts his weight, his large hand moving away from the phone to reach for the heavy ring of truck keys resting on the edge of the desk.
"Jax," I say, my voice sounding small and fragile against the hum of the lights. "What will you do?"
He doesn't give any indication that he heard me. His fingers simply wrap around the brass ring.
I take half a step forward, my chest tightening as I brace my body to move between him and the open bay doors.
My mind scrambles, searching for a phrase, a single word that can pull a six-foot-four dangerous man back from the edge of an execution. I raise my hand to put it on his chest, to use whatever small leverage I have to keep him from stepping out into the gravel yard.
But before I can draw the breath to speak, two bright beams of white light cut through the open bay doors, painting the corrugated iron walls in sharp, stark relief.
The low, smooth rumble of an engine settles into the yard outside. I hear tires slow down, the rubber crushing the loose gravel before the engine hum cuts out entirely, leaving only the ticking of hot metal.
Jax hears it too and stops. His fingers stay looped through the key ring, but his arm goes perfectly still. His head turns toward the entrance of the shop, his eyes narrowing into slits.
A car door clicks open and shuts with a quiet, solid thud, and rhythmic footsteps follow, and in the next minute, Stanley steps into the yellow glow of the workshop lights.
He looks exactly as he always does: pressed, immaculate, and entirely unbothered by the grease and iron surrounding him. He buttons his charcoal suit jacket with a quick flick of his thumbs, looking around the room as if he's stepping into a boutique hotel instead of a salvage yard.
Stanley came here? I can't believe that he brought his suit and polished shoes onto Jax's dirt; the sheer stupidity of the move leaves me stunned.
"Jackson Rowe," Stanley says, his voice carrying an easy, practiced civility that almost makes me gag. "I heard from my people that you were looking for me. I thought I'd save you the drive out to the motel."
My knees go weak. I take three quiet steps backward, my boots sliding over the dusty concrete until the back of my thighs hit the heavy timber of the workbench behind me. I slide my palms flat against the cold, scarred steel plate of the tabletop, needing the physical anchor to keep from shaking.
Stanley doesn't seem to notice me yet. His eyes are trained on Jax, his mouth curved into a polite, thin line that mimics a smile. He gestures vaguely toward the rows of salvaged cars stretching out into the dark outside the doors.
"An impressive operation you have here," Stanley says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Though I imagine it's hard to build a future fabricating tinctures and pulling apart old alternators."
Jax doesn't move an inch. He stays rooted by the desk, his arms hanging loose at his sides, his face a completely blank mask.
"You're a long way from your turf, Hargrove," Jax says, the deep rumble of his voice making me look at him twice.
"You don't have any business here," I say, finally finding my voice.
Stanley's gaze shifts smoothly to me, the faux-politeness in his eyes vanishing, replaced by a cold, familiar condescension. "I go where my business requires me, Nora. And right now, my business is dealing with people who don't seem to understand how the world works."
"You think you understand how the world works then?" I shoot back, surprised that I sound steadier than I feel.
"Don't I?" Stanley takes a step further into the shop, his leather shoes kicking up a small puff of gray dust. "I spent my afternoon reading through some old records from your medical records. They were very detailed and illuminating."
My heart stops when I realize what he's saying. If he went through my files, then he knows about Clara. The cold metal of the workbench presses into my palms, but I can't feel it anymore.
"You have no right to touch those files," I whisper shakily.
"That has never stopped me before, Nora," Stanley says, his voice casual, almost conversational. "I get what I want."
He looks back at Jax, then returns his stare to me. "Which is why I'm disappointed that you're unwilling to give me what I want already."
"You have to learn to take no for an answer, Stanley."
"That's not going to happen." Stanley returns easily. "I have to admit, I was disappointed. I thought this place would be more impressive. I don't get why you're throwing away a fortune to protect a piece of worthless swamp."
"It's not worthless," I say, my throat burning.
"It is," Stanley counters smoothly. "And you're ruining your chance to cash out big on it. But then, I shouldn't be surprised. You always did get emotionally attached to broken things and never take the easy way out."
Broken things?
The phrase forces the air in my lungs out in a whoosh. Behind my eyes, the yellow workshop disappears, replaced by the white, sterile walls of the labor room, the terrible silence of a heart monitor that isn't beeping anymore, and the small, heavy weight of a blanket that stays empty.
We both know he isn't just talking about the land anymore. He is talking about Clara. He is using my dead daughter as a rhetorical point to prove I'm a fool.
I freeze, my fingers locking against the steel plate, my teeth biting into the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. I can't breathe. I can't find a single word to fling back at him.
I see Jax's eyes dart to my face, tracking the sudden paleness of my skin, the way my shoulders have drawn inward.
"You're done talking to her," Jax says, obviously noticing how affected I am.
Stanley turns his attention back to Jax, his smile returning, though it looks tighter now. "Jackson, let's be reasonable adults here.. I know you have some... sentimental attachment to that clearing by the river. But sentiment doesn't pay taxes."
"Get out of my shop," Jax says, taking one slow step forward.
"We can make a deal that works for everybody," Stanley says, his hands coming up in a placating gesture as he takes an instinctive step backward toward the gravel. "You don't need to live like this. The Hargrove Group can clear this entire lot out for you. We can set you up somewhere else."
"You think you can buy your way out of this?" I choke out, my voice returning through the pain. "You crossed a line, Stanley. You came onto his land and took his mother's marker."
Stanley scoffs, his eyes rolling back to me. "A rock in the mud, Nora. It's an impediment to a commercial development. We're talking about millions of dollars in infrastructure. I'm not going to let a local fabrication shop stall a project of this scale."
"It's his legacy," I say, stepping away from the workbench, the anger finally burning through the grief. "It belongs to his mother."
"It's dirt," Stanley snaps, his corporate armor showing its first real crack as his voice rises a fraction. "And frankly, I'm tired of the drama. You've been playing the martyr ever since you left Houston, Nora, but this isn't a game. You're standing in the way of progress."
"I believe I told you to leave," Jax says.
He has closed half the distance between them now. His steps are perfectly regular, his heavy boots making a dull, rhythmic sound against the concrete. He doesn't raise his hands or threaten Stanley. He just keeps walking, his massive shoulders blocking out the light from the yard behind him.
"Jackson, think about whatever you intend to do," Stanley says, his voice losing its smooth rhythm.
He takes two quick steps back, his heel catching on the edge of the concrete lip where the garage floor meets the dirt yard.
"Think about your life here. I have the county commissioners in my pocket.
I have the legal team to tie you up in lawsuits until you're bankrupt. "
Jax keeps walking.
"I'm offering you a way out," Stanley says, his steps growing faster, more frantic as he backs out into the dark of the yard, his leather soles sliding on the loose stones. "You don't want to do this. There are cameras on the main road. People know I'm here."
Jax doesn't say a single word. He just moves forward like an incoming tide, his face completely shadowed by the glare of the halogen lights behind him.
"Listen to me!" Stanley shouts, his back suddenly hitting the unyielding iron of a stacked row of junked pickup frames. The metal groans behind him, a dull clatter of rust falling into the gravel.