Chapter 6
Six
Jagger
I should be enjoying the silence, but between the ride here, the rushed dinner, picking up the flowers, and Adena going through all of it like she was holding a lit match between her teeth, there’s nothing to appreciate.
Ignoring the lead weight that’s settled in my gut, I lead us through the maze of above-ground tombs until we reach Tommy Guidry's grave.
Moonlight filters through the live oaks, casting shadows across the cracked pathways between crypts.
Adena stops beside me and places the lilies she chose on the stone, staring down at it for a long moment. The white petals seem to glow against the gray marble.
"Now would be a good time to tell me what that kiss was about."
"I told you. I thought someone was watching."
"There was no one watching." She doesn't look at me. Her fingers trace the edge of the stone. "So try again."
"Fine. I needed to know if you'd freeze."
She turns slowly. When her eyes meet mine, they're flashing fire. "You really expect me to buy that?"
"Doesn't matter whether you buy it or not. When things get real, when Marquez or one of his guys decides to test us, I need to know you won't hesitate."
Her hands tighten into fists. "Better when the pressure's off than when our lives depend on it," I quickly add.
"That's a really convenient excuse."
I shrug. "You signed up for this, lady."
"Don't 'lady' me." Her jaw works. Each word comes out clipped, precise.
"I passed the test last night in the bar, and again today in the warehouse.
I didn't freeze then, and I won't freeze when it matters.
And don't treat me like I'm an idiot. The DEA vetted me.
Scrutinized me. They wouldn't have agreed to this if they didn't think I could handle it. "
"That doesn't mean jack—"
She steps closer, so close I can smell the coconut body oil she uses. "You want to test me? Go for it. Set parameters. But don't kiss me on the street and then lie about why you did it."
My hands are still in my pockets, but my fingers are digging into the fabric hard enough to tear it.
"Okay, fine. You want the truth?" The word comes out rough. "I kissed you because you ride like an outlaw and you're a knockout. I lied about being watched because I lie so often I forget not to."
Her lips press together. Her breath catches audibly. "Lie to me again while we’re working together, and you will regret it."
She looks so adorably irritated and lethal, I cover a smile. "You kissed me back."
Her glare increases to full voltage. "It doesn't mean anything." Her voice wavers just slightly—not much, but enough to let me know she’s thinking about the kiss, too.
I angle my body toward her. She doesn't move a muscle. "Sure it did, Tiger. You're just too stubborn to admit it."
"I have multiple ways to prove it didn’t mean anything."
I'll bet.
"Show me."
In the moonlight, her eyebrow hitches. "No."
"Why not?"
She sighs. "You’ll get hurt, and you still need to ride."
I scratch my nose. "Come on, Tiger. Show me some of those Krav Maga moves Nolan told me about."
With a half-suppressed eye roll, she spins on her heel and starts walking toward the road.
I reach out and grab her arm.
Mistake.
She pivots, breaks my grip with a sharp downward strike, and before I can recover she twists my wrist and blows my balance. I try to counter, hook her leg, but she shifts and we both hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of my lungs.
We’re grappling before the air’s back in my chest. She’s fast. Efficient. No wasted motion. Every counter is clean, every shift precise. I could muscle her—I outweigh her by at least fifty pounds—but I’m holding back, testing her technique instead of steamrolling it.
I angle my hips, use my weight, roll her. Pin her shoulders to the grass.
For a heartbeat, everything goes still.
Her chest rises against mine, breath sharp and uneven. My hands bracket her wrists to the ground. Her eyes lock on mine—sharp, unwavering, cutting straight through every thought I shouldn’t be thinking.
I can feel her assessing the angles. She’s got a hip escape, an elbow strike, a knee to my ribs—all loaded, all viable.
But she doesn’t move. And neither do I.
The air between us shifts—tightens—sparks.
Then the corner of her mouth lifts. “You done proving your point?”
“Just appreciating good technique.”
“Another lie.”
She bucks her hips, plants a foot, and flips us in one seamless motion. In seconds, I’m on my back with her forearm across my throat with just enough pressure to remind me she’s got the advantage.
“Nice moves,” I say.
She smiles, satisfied. “You let me get the upper hand. You shouldn’t.”
To make sure I get the message, she drives her knee into my thigh—hard, right above the quad. Pain lights up my leg like a live wire.
“Ow—” I grunt.
She releases me and stands, brushing dirt off her jeans. “Next time I won’t be so gentle.”
I roll onto my side, testing my leg. It's going to bruise. Badly.
“Next time I won’t lie to you,” I mutter, wincing as I stand. My leg protests immediately.
She’s already walking back toward the exit, all business again when my cell buzzes in my pocket.
The tension that had started to ease slams back into place as I pull it out. I read the message twice, then shove the phone back in my pocket.
I jog to catch up to Adena.
“Marquez has a situation with a dealer. He wants us at Tino’s Bar.”
She goes still. Not long—just a heartbeat—but long enough for me to see the anxiety flicker behind her eyes. “Both of us?”
“Another test.”
She nods once, completely oblivious to how bad this is going to get.
I should warn her. I would if I thought it would help.
But nothing I can say or do will prepare her.
In a few minutes, my new partner is going to meet the version of Jagger Rourke that Marquez carved out of me.
Merciless.
Adena
The ride to Tino’s Bar takes twelve minutes, and every one of them I spend praying for the man in front of me, watching the way he leans into each turn with effortless control, the Ducati responding like an extension of him, even as his posture tells me he’s fighting for control he doesn’t actually have.
When we pull up to a run-down building with a flickering neon sign and bars on the windows, I park closer to him than I did back at the apartment, close enough that when I swing off my bike, I'm within arm's reach.
He's already off his bike, pulling his helmet free. When he looks at me, his expression is serious.
"Stay close, don't talk business, and if things go south, you follow my lead without question."
“Got it.”
His jaw works like he wants to say more, but he just nods and guides me toward the door.
The bar isn’t much of an upgrade from the Rusty Chain. It's filled with the stench of stale beer, cheap perfume, body odor, and decades of cigarette smoke that no amount of scrubbing will ever remove.
The lighting is dim, casting everything in shades of anemic light. A jukebox plays metal in the corner. A handful of regulars hunched over the bar don't look up when we enter.
Paco's waiting in a back booth, the tattooed enforcer beside him. Two other guys flank them—one with a scorpion crawling up his neck, the other wearing a Saints jersey that's seen better days.
Jagger slides into the booth and pulls me in beside him. His thigh presses against mine in the cramped space.
Paco signals an older bartender with a Metallica T-shirt and thinning hair without looking away from us. A moment later, drinks appear—whiskey for Jagger, beer for me that I don’t want.
"So what's the situation?" Jagger picks up his glass like we're here for a social call.
Paco's smile fades. He jerks his chin toward a booth. "Luis. Three weeks running, the drop from this location is light."
I follow his gaze. The guy is young—mid-twenties maybe—thin, with nervous hands that keep wiping his jeans. Even from here, I can see the tremor in his fingers.
He knows this isn’t a casual visit.
"How much?" Jagger asks.
"Two, three hundred each time."
"Business slow?"
"Business is fine." Paco leans forward, elbows on the scarred table. "Luis is skimming."
The bartender glances our way, just once. His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second before he jerks his gaze back to the glass in his hands.
My stomach tightens. I’ve seen enough to know I need to start praying.
Jagger takes a slow sip of whiskey, unhurried. "You're sure?"
"Sure enough." Paco stands, and the casual atmosphere evaporates. "Marquez wants it handled."
Jagger sets down his glass with careful precision and looks at the enforcer. "Bring him."
The enforcer rises without a word and crosses to the bar. The regulars keep their eyes on their drinks. No witnesses.
"Jagger wants to talk," the enforcer says, quiet but firm.
Luis shakes his head. “I didn't—I don't—"
The enforcer grabs his arm and drags him toward us. Luis stumbles, trying to pull away, but it's useless. The enforcer shoves him into a chair across from Jagger.
Luis is shaking so hard the chair creaks beneath him. His eyes dart around the bar like a trapped animal looking for an exit that doesn't exist.
No one’s coming to help him. Everyone here knows the rules. This is a show of force.
Jagger leans forward, and I watch the transformation happen. The man who let me best him in the cemetery disappears. In his place is someone cold. Empty. Dangerous.
"You've been skimming," Jagger says. His voice is flat, devoid of anything human.
"No—I swear—I wouldn't—"
"Three weeks. Every single drop.”
"Maybe someone else—maybe there's a mistake—"
Jagger's hand slams down on the table.
The crack echoes through the bar like a gunshot.
I don't flinch, but my heart rate spikes. Luis jerks back so hard his chair scrapes across the floor.
"Don't lie to me." Jagger's voice drops lower, more lethal. "It’ll go worse if you lie.”
Luis starts to sob, tears streaming down his face, snot running from his nose. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I was going to pay it back, I swear—"
Paco snorts. "Pay it back with what, pendejo?"
Jagger sits back slowly. His gaze shifts to the enforcer, then to Paco. His expression doesn't change. Doesn't soften.
"Take him outside," Jagger says. "Teach him what happens when you steal from Marquez."
My blood turns to ice. It starts low in my stomach, then spreads outward, numbing my fingers, hollowing out my ribs. This isn’t a warning or a test run. This is real. This is what Marquez expects of him. Of me.
Luis starts begging, his words tumbling over each other. "Please—please."
The enforcer hauls him out of the chair. Luis fights, but he's no match. His shoes squeal against the floor as he's dragged toward the back door. The guy in the Saints jersey follows.
The door to the alley swings open.
The first hit lands with a sickening thud.
I keep my face carefully neutral, my posture relaxed. Just another night. Nothing to see here.
Another hit. Another scream, weaker this time.
My stomach twists.
Paco's watching me. I can feel his searching for weakness.
"You good?" he asks.
I meet his gaze without blinking. "Why wouldn't I be?"
He grins, satisfied. "Just checking. Some girls can't handle the business side of things."
"I'm not some girls."
His grin widens. "I'm starting to see that."
The beating continues. Sounds that make my skin crawl. Grunting. Sobbing. The dull impact of fists meeting flesh over and over.
I count without meaning to. Six. Seven. Eight. Each sound lands like a hammer in my chest. I keep counting, because if I stop, I'll have to face the fact that I'm complicit in this. That my silence makes me part of it.
Lord, let it stop. Please let it stop.
I glance at Jagger; he’s talking to Paco. Something about a shipment. But I can’t make out the words. My ears are ringing, hot liquid rising to my throat.
Everything inside me is screaming “This isn’t right.” I look at Jagger again, searching his face for any sign that this is getting to him.
Nothing. Not a single thing lets me know he’s sickened by what’s happening outside.
Finally, it stops.
But somehow the quiet is worse than the noise.
The enforcer walks back in, blood smeared across his knuckles. The Saints jersey guy follows, shaking out his hand.
"He'll live," the enforcer says to Jagger.
Jagger stands and pulls me up with him. His hand settles on my back again like nothing just happened—like we didn’t just sit there and listen to a man get beaten half to death.
My legs feel disconnected from my body, my breath shallow and fast despite my best efforts to control it. I let Jagger steer me outside, let him hand me my helmet, and woodenly get on my bike, heart pounding so hard it hurts. My hands tremble on the grips.
The images of the room don’t leave me, but neither does the way he navigated it—so calm, so controlled, as if nothing could touch him.
I thought I’d accepted it. I thought I’d understood the rules of this game.
But seeing it up close, feeling it brush against me, another truth becomes undeniable: if this is what he does to keep his cover intact, how far will I have to go?