18. Victor Arrives #3
Victor’s eyes narrow slightly. "Excuse me?"
Jax looks down at the older man. The disgust in Jax’s eyes is palpable, heavy and dark.
"You want to build a commercial empire," Jax says, his voice dropping into a deadly, quiet register. "Do it on your own dirt. And while you're at it, you need to desist from threatening a sick man out of his home just to connect your grid."
The air at the table instantly becomes frigid.
Victor’s face goes completely blank. The mask slips for a fraction of a second and genuine surprise flashes across his pale eyes.
He stops breathing for a second. Then, very slowly, Victor turns his head to look at Stanley sitting at the end of the table.
It is just one look, a cold, flat, entirely dead-eyed stare that strips the skin right off the bone.
Stanley's mouth, which had been slightly open, snaps completely shut, and he swallows audibly. His face drains of all color, leaving his skin a sickly, pale gray in the dim light of the bar. He shrinks back into the wooden chair, his hands gripping his knees so hard his knuckles turn white.
I watch the exchange, my heart pounding loudly.
It’s obvious Victor suspects something is wrong. The absolute stillness in his posture broadcasts his sudden realization that he does not have the entire story.
His son has been operating outside the approved parameters. He knows it now, but it’s obvious he hasn't confirmed exactly what Stanley did to my father yet.
Victor slowly turns his face back to Jax. The warmth is entirely gone.
"I appreciate your time," Victor says. His voice is perfectly level and devoid of emotion.
He stands up and buttons his charcoal jacket with one hand. He doesn't offer to shake Jax's hand again or a polite farewell to me.
He just turns on his heel and walks away, heading straight for the heavy oak doors without waiting for Stanley.
Stanley lingers, refusing to stand up immediately. He remains seated in the wooden chair at the end of our booth, his hands still gripping his knees.
The silence stretches for a while before Stanley slowly lifts his head and looks directly at me.
His eyes are entirely different from his father's. They are small, desperate, and filled with a quiet, pathetic sort of malice.
"My father doesn't know everything, Nora," Stanley says. His voice is quiet and almost gentle, which makes it infinitely more terrifying.
I don't break eye contact. The anger completely overrides my fear.
"He will," I tell him, my voice completely cold. "He will if you don't give up."
Stanley’s jaw tightens, and a small, ugly smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. He keeps his eyes locked strictly on me, deliberately ignoring the Jax sitting inches away from my shoulder.
"I don't intend to give up," Stanley whispers.
The words barely leave his mouth before the heavy wooden table violently shoves forward.
Jax stands up, and the heavy oak table screeches violently against the floorboards as Jax’s thighs hit the edge.
He steps entirely out of the booth, towering over the end of the table, his broad shoulders blocking out the dim light from the overhead fixtures.
Jax doesn't say a single word. He just stands there, staring down at Stanley with the promise of extreme violence written into every single line of his face.
Stanley reacts purely on instinct.
He scrambles backward, the legs of his wooden chair catch on the floorboards, and he nearly tips over as he violently pushes himself away from the table. He stumbles to his feet, his chest heaving, his face completely pale with terror.
He doesn't say another word. He turns and practically runs toward the front doors, pushing through the heavy wood and disappearing into the glaring coastal sunlight outside.
I continue sitting in the booth and realize that my hands are shaking. The adrenaline dump hits my system all at once, making my fingers numb and my breathing completely shallow as I stare at the empty space where Stanley had just been sitting.
Before I can reach out to touch Jax’s arm to ground him, a shadow shifts silently at my right shoulder.
I flinch, turning my head quickly to see Priest standing directly at my elbow. I didn't hear his boots on the floorboards or see him move from the shadows near the bar. He is simply there.
He doesn't look at Jax, who is still standing rigid, staring at the front door.
Priest looks down at me blankly, the pale gray eyes giving absolutely nothing away.
Then slowly Priest reaches out and sets a heavy, cut-crystal glass directly onto the scarred wood of the table right in front of me. Two large cubes of ice clink softly against the glass, and the dark amber liquid inside catches the dim light of the bar.
He doesn't ask what I drink or offer a menu.
He pours it, sets it in front of me, and without a single word, he turns and walks silently back into the shadows behind the bar.
I stare at the glass and understand exactly what just happened. In a room full of outlaws, in a world where loyalties are written in blood and silence, the man who controls the board just handed me a drink.