18. Victor Arrives
eighteen
Victor Arrives
Nora
"We have to do this rationally," I say quietly as I turn my head to look at the man behind the wheels.
"I am rational," Jax says, but he looks far from rational or relaxed.
He is staring straight out the windshield at the long, cracked stretch of asphalt leading toward the edge of town. His thick hands grip the steering wheel so hard that the knuckles are completely white against his tanned skin.
The muscle in his square jaw jumps, a rapid, rhythmic ticking that tells me exactly how close he is to snapping.
"You look like you're going to tear the steering column out of the dashboard."
"Just driving the truck, Nora."
I reach across the wide center console to place my hand flat against his thick forearm.
His skin is burning hot, and the heavy, corded muscles beneath my palm are entirely locked.
He doesn't take his eyes off the road, but his grip on the wheel shifts just a fraction of an inch, acknowledging the touch.
It’s totally not the time or place, but as I shift my weight on the cracked leather passenger seat, a sudden, sharp ache pulls deep in my lower belly.
The space between my thighs throbs, reminding me of the lingering soreness that brings an immediate, uncontrollable rush of heat directly to my skin.
It immediately takes me back to the undeniable pleasure from last night. I close my eyes and force myself to draw a slow, measured breath through my nose. I try to rein it all in, gripping the edge of the seat with my fingertips.
This is not the time.
"Jax." I press my fingers a little harder into his arm, forcing him to listen. "We sit down. We listen to what the man has to say. And we decline.”
He grunts, obviously not in agreement.
He won’t be here if it wasn’t for my insistence. Stanley had sent a formal, perfectly punctuated invitation requesting our presence at a place of our choice to meet his father earlier this morning.
I had been caught off-guard, but Jax had admitted that he knows Victor Hargrove would be in town because Rafe texted him last night. He doesn’t think it’s necessary to agree to the meeting but succumbs at my insistence, and now it’s obvious he would rather be anywhere else but here.
“We handle this rationally until we have absolutely no other choice." I press.
Jax finally turns his head, and his blue eyes lock onto mine. The raw, unprotected heat in his stare makes my heart stutter in my chest. It is the same look he gave me last night right before he pulled the shirt off my shoulders.
"I will be completely calm," he says, his voice dropping low. "As long as they take 'no' for an answer."
I let out a slow, heavy sigh.
“But I'm telling you right now, Nora. This is the last time I indulge them."
I drop my hand from his arm and lean back against the headrest.
"Just remember," I tell him, watching the road ahead. "You cannot lay a finger on Stanley again. Not for any reason."
Jax exhales through his nose, but it sounds like a bull preparing to charge. He shifts his massive shoulders against the driver’s seat.
"Let's just get this done and over with," he grates out.
He hits the heavy brakes, and the tires crunch loudly against the thick, white gravel of the parking lot.
I look out the window to see the location Jax has picked. The building sitting at the edge of the lot is a sprawling, single-story structure constructed of dark, weathered timber and corrugated iron. The windows are tiny and set high near the roofline, keeping the inside deliberately dark.
A massive line of heavy, customized motorcycles is parked in perfect, rigid formation near the front entrance. The neon sign hanging above the heavy oak double doors simply reads: PRIEST’S.
Jax cuts the engine. The silence in the cab rings in my ears for a split second before the heavy thump of his door opening breaks it.
I push my door open and drop down onto the gravel. The heavy and wet coastal heat hits me instantly.
Jax walks around the front grille of the massive truck. He doesn't wait for me to catch up. He meets me halfway, his large hand immediately coming down to rest flat against the center of my lower back.
The touch is heavy and completely territorial. It is a physical claim broadcast to anyone watching from the dark windows of the bar.
I draw a breath to calm myself. I try to find a reason to step away from the pressure of his palm, but the truth is that I wonder why I love how the heat of his hand bleeds right through the fabric of my shirt, sending a fresh wave of pleasure and a deep, satisfying ache down the back of my thighs.
We walk toward the massive oak doors together, and before Jax can even reach for the heavy iron handle, the door swings inward. The smell of stale draft beer, sawdust, expensive bourbon, and the deep, rich scent of worn boot leather hits me immediately.
I stop short as a man steps directly into our path.
He isn't as massive as Jax, but there is a lean, coiled, dangerous energy to him that makes my breath catch. He wears a dark T-shirt and faded denim. His hair is cut short. His eyes are a pale, striking gray that seem to take in the entire room, the parking lot, and me in a single, sweeping glance.
Jax steps forward and extends his hand.
The gray-eyed man grips it as they step into each other, executing a hard, firm, one-armed embrace, their large hands clapping heavily against each other's broad backs. The sound is sharp in the dark entryway.
"Priest," Jax says, his voice completely losing its edge.
"Been a minute," the man replies. His voice is incredibly quiet, completely devoid of the booming bravado usually found in bars like this.
Jax steps back. He keeps his hand firmly planted on the small of my back, drawing me forward into the dim light.
"Priest," Jax says. "This is Nora."
The man turns his pale eyes entirely on me.
Priest looks down at me, and the appraising glance lasts for exactly three seconds. Then, the corner of his mouth twitches upward.
"I've heard a lot about you," Priest says quietly, extending a hand to me.
His grip is firm, dry, and surprisingly gentle when I grip it. "Glad to finally put a face to the chaos."
I blink, thrown off by the complete lack of intimidation in his tone. "Chaos?"
Priest lets go of my hand. He looks at Jax, then back to me. "Well, given the way Rowe here has been pacing a hole in my floorboards every time your name comes up, I figured you were at least six-foot-two and carried a battle axe."
A sudden, unexpected laugh breaks out of my chest. The heavy, suffocating tension that had been gripping my lungs since Stanley’s text finally loosens.
"Just a shovel, mostly," I say.
Priest smiles fully this time. It completely transforms his face, making him look less like an executioner and more like a man you would trust with your life.
"I like her," Priest says to Jax.
"Don't start," Jax grumbles, though the muscle in his jaw has finally stopped ticking.
"The table in the back is cleared out," Priest says, his voice dropping back down to that quiet, serious baseline. "Corner booth. Gives you eyes on the door. No one sits within twenty feet of you unless I say they do."
"Appreciate it," Jax says.
I would have loved to engage Priest further. I wanted to understand exactly what kind of men Jax surrounded himself with, to decode the quiet language of loyalty passing between them. But the heavy crunch of gravel outside the open doors violently interrupts the moment.
All three of us turn in sync, just in time to see a massive, sleek, entirely black sedan glide into the parking lot. The expensive hum of its engine is a stark, jarring contrast to the rusted trucks and heavy motorcycles lining the gravel. It coasts to a stop near the edge of the lot.
The back passenger door swings wide, and I brace myself as an older man steps out onto the crushed white shells.
Victor Hargrove.
From a distance, Victor Hargrove is nothing like I expected. I expected a mirror image of Stanley; the same weak chin, the same loud, desperate arrogance draped in an older, sagging body.
But Victor is none of those things.
He is harder and carries the heavy, terrifying energy of a man who actually built something real with his bare hands, rather than just inheriting the title. His silver hair is thick and swept sharply back from a broad forehead.
His nose is aquiline, cutting a sharp profile against the sun. His pale blue eyes are cold, set deeply above high, aristocratic cheekbones. He is wearing a charcoal suit that doesn't scream for attention, but the flawless cut of the fabric dictates its extreme cost.
His presence demands the room. He looks formidable. He looks respected.
And heaven help me, despite the deep, burning hatred I carry for his son, I respect formidable.
The opposite rear door opens, and Stanley steps out.
Stanley trails entirely in his father's shadow. He is wearing a suit that is almost identical in color, but on him, it looks like a costume. He buttons the jacket nervously as he walks around the trunk of the car.
Victor doesn't look back to see if his son is following. He just walks straight toward the heavy oak doors of the bar.
Jax shifts his weight. The hand on my lower back tightens, his heavy fingers gripping the curve of my hip securely.
"Here we go," Jax murmurs.
Priest simply folds his arms across his chest and steps silently out of the immediate pathway, fading perfectly into the shadows of the doorway as Victor steps up.
He stops exactly three feet away from us. He doesn't glance at the rough, worn wood of the bar. He doesn't look at the massive motorcycles. He looks directly into Jax’s eyes, and then his gaze slides smoothly over to mine.
"Mr. Rowe," Victor says. His voice is deep, resonant, and incredibly smooth. "Miss Nora."
"Mr. Hargrove," Jax says flatly.
"I appreciate you both taking the time out of your day to meet with me," Victor says warmly, extending a perfectly manicured hand to Jax.
Jax stares at the hand for a long, heavy second. He doesn't move to take the hand.