16. You Always Did Get Emotionally Attached To Broken Things #2
His face is pale now, the polished composure completely gone, his expensive suit jacket bunching up against the scrap iron. "This land is wasted on men like you! Take the money and walk, you son of a bitch. I can give you a better offer than this place will ever earn you!"
Jax moves faster than I can follow.
One second he is two paces away, and the next, his massive arm shoots forward.
His thick fingers wrap entirely around Stanley's throat, his forearm locking like a steel bar.
With a single, brutal lift of his shoulder, Jax hoists Stanley six inches off the ground and slams him backward into the stacked steel.
The sound that follows is horrific, a loud, hollow boom that echoes through the entire yard as the metal frames absorb the impact.
Stanley's legs kick out blindly, his leather shoes scraping uselessly against the air. His hands fly up to Jax's wrist, his fingers clawing frantically at the thick skin, his manicured nails tearing into Jax's arm, trying to find a way to break the hold.
Jax doesn't even flinch or react. He stands there, holding the full weight of the billionaire with one arm, his face inches from Stanley's swelling, purple features.
"You threatened her on my land," Jax whispers.
His voice is so low that it barely carries past the bumper of the truck next to them, but it has the cold, dead edge of a razor blade. He tightens his fingers one distinct increment.
Stanley lets out a choked, wet gurgle, his eyes bulging as his chest heaves against the restriction.
"You touched my mother's stone," Jax says, his voice dropping even lower, vibrating with rage. He tightens his grip again, pressing Stanley's skull back against the iron until the metal creaks. "You brought your fucking boots into her clearing."
Stanley's mouth opens, but only a small, pathetic wheeze comes out. His face is turning a dangerous shade of dark red, his fingers losing their strength against Jax's forearm, his arms beginning to drop.
"You say her name again," Jax says, his lips barely moving as he speaks, "you look at her, you even think about her files, and they won't find enough of your goddamn body to bury in the swamp. Do you understand me, you piece of shit?"
Jax holds him there for one more long, silent second, letting the reality of his own mortality sink into Stanley's head.
Then, Jax opens his hand, and Stanley drops like a sack of wet sand, hitting the gravel hard on his knees.
He collapses forward, his hands catching his weight as he hacks violently, coughing up a string of saliva into the dirt. He clutches his throat with both hands, his whole body shaking as he draws in huge, ragged gasps of air.
His expensive silk tie is torn, his collar popped open, his silver hair hanging over his face in wet, sweaty strands.
Jax takes two steps back. He looks down at the man on the ground with an expression of pure disgust, his chest rising and falling in heavy, controlled movements.
"Get off my property," Jax says, his voice flat. "Before I change my mind."
Stanley doesn't try to answer. He scrambles backward on his hands and knees, his shoes slipping in the dirt, before he manages to find his footing.
He stumbles toward the driver's side of his Mercedes, his hands shaking so violently he drops his keys into the gravel twice before managing to unlock the door. He throws himself inside, the engine roaring to life a second later.
The car backs out of the yard at a reckless speed, the tires throwing up a cloud of dust and small stones that rattles against the metal siding of the workshop before the car swings onto the main road and disappears into the dark.
As the noise of the engine fades, I notice a figure standing near the wide entrance of the perimeter fence.
He is a massive man, nearly as large as Jax, with the broad, solid build of an athlete. He is wearing a clean, dark t-shirt and athletic pants, his posture perfectly still as he watches the road where Stanley's car just fled.
He has a quiet, intense presence that matches Jax's weight, a silent sentinel who has been standing in the shadows the entire time. He doesn't speak. He just watches the empty road for a moment before turning his head toward the shop.
Jax looks out toward the gate, his shoulders finally dropping an inch.
"Knox," Jax calls out, his voice rough. "Come on in."
The man, Knox, nods once and walks forward into the light of the yard. His face is calm, but his dark eyes are sharp as they move from Jax to me, assessing the situation without a single word of curiosity.
"Rafe asked me to check on you," Knox says, approval lighting up his eyes. "But I guess he won't be back tonight."
"No," Jax says. "He won't."
"I'll keep an eye on the lower road until the morning," Knox says, touching his shoulder in a brief, silent show of support before turning back toward the secondary shed near the gate. "Call if you need me."
Jax nods and watches him go until Knox disappears into the shadows of the outer lot. The yard falls completely silent again, the only sound the distant, low roll of thunder from the western sky.
Jax stands in the center of the gravel, his back to me. His hands are still balled into heavy fists at his sides, his breath coming in long, ragged exhales that ghost in the damp night air.
I push my palms off the workbench. My legs feel like jelly, but I force them to carry me across the concrete floor and out into the cool, dark air of the yard. The gravel is sharp beneath my bare feet, but I don't care. I walk up behind him until I'm standing less than an inch away from his spine.
I can't bring myself to say anything, ask if he's alright, or even try to soften what just happened. I lift my right hand, my fingers steadying as I press my palm flat against the warm cotton of his shirt, right between his shoulder blades.
The muscles under my hand are hard as rock, vibrating with the residual adrenaline.
For a second, he stays rigid, holding his breath against my touch.
Then, with a long, slow whistle of air through his teeth, the tension begins to drain out of him, his shoulders dropping as he leans slightly back into my palm.
He turns his head slowly, looking down at me over his shoulder, his eyes dark and tired in the dim light.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice gravelly.
"You chased him away," I whisper, my hand remaining flat against his back.
"Yeah."
"It's the first time I've ever seen Stanley scared out of his wits," I say, a small, shaky breath escaping my lips.
"It won't be the last if he doesn't give up," Jax says, his jaw tightening again for a brief second before it clears.
I look up into his face, anger still heavy in his eyes, but beneath it, a look I can't place is there.
"You stood by me," I say, the words catching in my throat as the tears finally threaten to spill over my lashes. "Like you promised."
Jax turns fully around, his boots shifting in the gravel until he is facing me completely, his massive frame blocking out the wind from the river. He looks down at me, his face very close, his hand rising halfway as if he wants to touch my cheek before he lets it drop back to his side.
"Yeah, Nora," he says softly. "I will always stand by you."
"Jax…" My voice trails off.
Inside my chest, the cold, heavy walls I've spent years building to keep the world out, to keep the pain of my past from touching anything else, simply disintegrate. They turn to ash and blow away into the dark trees of the eastern parcel.
He doesn't know the full story yet; he doesn't know the details of the files Stanley read or the weight of the name I'm still carrying in the dark. But he stood between the man who hurt me anyway and me. He claimed my safety as his own debt to settle.
"The question now is, will you allow me?"