Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
NOW | SISK
Iopen my eyes and stare at the ceiling like I haven’t spent the last few hours twisting and turning.
Scotch is passed out beside me, one leg twitching like he’s having the best chase dream of his life. His whole body’s warm against mine—loyal, calm, comforting. Everything Jax could be if he didn’t have his head so far up his own ass.
He’s gone. Of course he is. Slipped out sometime in the early hours like a man running from his own shadow.
I stare at the water stain on the ceiling and try to feel something other than completely, cosmically done with the way he handles things.
But nope. All I feel is clarity. And rage. A blissful combo, really.
I replayed everything. Every word. Every look. Every moment he touched me and then tore himself away like I was something dangerous. The conclusion I’ve come to—after hours of overthinking, under-sleeping, and one particularly humiliating dream involving him—is this: Jax St. Clair is full of shit.
He thinks he’s protecting me by keeping his distance?
He thinks pushing me away is some noble act of self-sacrifice?
Please. He thinks I don’t know what’s really going on?
If he thinks he can scare me off with cold distance and martyr routines, he really doesn’t know me at all.
Or worse—he doesn’t know how well I know him.
He does want me, that much is obvious. It’s in everything he doesn’t say, everything he does when he thinks I’m not looking.
It’s in how he watches doorways before I move.
How he notices every change in my breathing.
How he carries the weight of my safety like it’s a debt he owes the universe.
But wanting isn’t the problem, letting himself have anything good is.
And I’m done waiting for him to figure that out on his own.
It’s been years of this. Years of almosts and interruptions and misunderstandings.
Years of circling each other. This whole push-and-pull thing we’ve been doing?
It’s a cycle. One of us leans in, the other flinches.
One of us cracks open, the other slams the door.
Or life intervenes with impeccable timing, and I’ve had enough.
I shift slightly, careful of my leg. Jax thinks distance protects me, then I’ll change the rules.
I remind myself, I have twenty-eight days.
Twenty-eight days until the moon resets whatever clock is ticking inside him.
Twenty-eight days to get answers. To push.
To challenge. To stop letting him decide everything unilaterally because he’s convinced himself he’s the villain of the story.
Let’s see how long it takes for him to break.
If ballet might be out of my life for good, I’ll pour all that focus into him. I’ll make breaking through his walls my new project. It’s a hell of a lot easier than facing the real challenge, the one I can’t even let myself think about yet—my leg.
I’m not tiptoeing around his moods or waiting patiently for him to be ready.
If he thinks he can keep nursing me back to health, playing the brooding martyr, and refusing to fuck me—he’s got another thing coming.
Because I’m done playing patient. I’m done being grateful for scraps.
Done hoping he will let me shake some sense into that beautifully tortured skull.
I’m not afraid of him, I never have been. The scariest thing in my life is how good it feels to be near him. How safe I feel when I’m under those arms, tucked into his chest, with his rough voice in my ear and that heartbeat thundering like I’m the only thing keeping it going.
I don’t care how broken he thinks he is. I’m not scared of his darkness, and I’m so fucking done letting him hide behind it.
So I get up and with a very ungraceful, borderline humiliating hobble, I make it to the bathroom.
Then the kitchen. Then—finally—to the counter by the coffee machine.
A pair of crutches are leaning there, perfectly placed. Like he knew exactly how far I’d make it before getting pissed. There’s a note tucked underneath one handle. I unfold it.
Coffee’s in the pot. Fridge is stocked. Take the pill with food, not like last time. Got a delivery coming in I have to handle.
If you need anything, send Scotch downstairs. I’ll get the message.
I let out a short annoyed laugh. Busy with the bar? Midday? Yeah. Right. And somehow he already found time to get me crutches. It’s a calculated move—give me the tools to fend for myself, and he can keep his precious distance while pretending he gives a damn.
I pour the coffee. The smell alone is enough to make my eyes water.
One sip confirms my suspicions. “Right,” I mutter, pouring the entire mug down the sink.
Okay, so I don’t know everything about Jax.
He can’t make coffee. Noted. I’ll add it to the file.
Weaknesses: coffee, sentimentality, and the fact he thinks I’m a fool who can’t see right through him.
I find a bagel, slather it with butter, and eat it leaning against the counter. I take the damn pill, swallowing it dry before limping back to the bedroom.
Scotch pads after me, his nails clicking on the floor like he’s been assigned to surveillance.
The dog’s a disaster zone. Kibble is sprayed around his bowl like he detonated a small, brown food bomb.
I actually consider cleaning it up for a second, then I remember who his owner is.
Let Jax deal with it. He can snap his fingers or twitch his nose or whatever the hell he does to make things vanish.
I bypass the bed entirely, sinking onto the floor instead.
The pill is a lump in my throat, the caffeine is a distant promise, my ankle is a dull, persistent ache, and my hair is probably a disaster.
But everything can wait. He wants to play bartender and hide?
Fine. Let him. I’ve got my own work to do.
I open the first journal, feeling the thrill of an exciting, guilty pleasure. I’m pretty sure this counts as crossing a line—a big one—but my boundaries are a little blurry right now, and it’s time I got my hands dirty.
I pick a used notebook from the top of the stack and flip a few pages in, scanning random lines. Observations. Fragmented thoughts. Sketches of memory. A list of things that don’t make sense about the tar.
And then, about a third of the way through, there’s something different. The handwriting changes, the jagged scrawl smoothing out into something almost graceful. It’s a poem.
When her lips crashed mine,
it wasn’t sugar.
Just a sweetness
that tasted like poison
to my bitterness.
When her lips crashed mine,
I stopped running.
The ache paused.
The noise quieted.
And for one second—
one fragile damn second
in this fucked-up world—
I might’ve actually mattered.
When her lips crashed mine
it wasn’t just about hiding.
It was about being seen.
And in saving her—
I saved me.
I blink and I blink. I press the notebook to my heart, a useless gesture, like I can somehow absorb the words and the pain behind them.
“Oh, Jax…” I whisper. Scotch presses his head against my side. I bury my fingers in his fur, the soft warmth a small comfort against the sudden, overwhelming tenderness swelling in my chest.
A photo slips from between the pages and lands at my feet—our graduation picture.
There’s Jax, all light and easy smiles, and beside him, me, looking like a ghost. He was so handsome then, so full of life, so unbroken.
I used to think I was the darkness to his light, but now I can’t tell if the roles have reversed, or if I just dragged him into the dark with me.
I take a breath, steadying myself, and turn the page.
Another poem.
his blood, my curse
his blood, my fate
his name, erased.
matters none
my crime remains
his blood, my blood
his name, my crime
his fate, my fate
matters none
And another.
she doesn’t even know
that when she moves
so does the ground
so does the pain
she doesn’t even know
that when she moves,
it’s not the dance I’m watching—
it’s what she’s saying
Or the song I’m listening to
it’s the story her body tells
a hidden language
that speaks
oh, it speaks
to me
and me only
she doesn’t even know
that when she moves
the ground moves
and I shift with it
This time I close the journal with a little too much force. “Damn you, Jaxwell St. Clair, and your beautiful poetic-ass words that are apparently wasted on a dead tree,” I mutter to the empty room. “Hope you and your little notebook are very happy together.”
And like the house itself is ratting me out, the front door creaks open in the living room. Shit. I shove the notebook under the bed like I’m hiding contraband and scramble to stand up—half-balanced and off-center.
I’m fully expecting Jax to walk in and give me some speech about how I should be “resting properly” or “letting my leg heal without complications” or whatever new condescending recovery mantra he’s come up with—
But it’s not him.
“Lou?”
Lou’s already halfway into the room, spinning his arms wide like a hurricane in jeans and sunglasses—inside, of course.
“Pitfire! What are you doing here?” I hobble forward into the living room.
Lou doesn’t wait; he wraps me in a hug that smells like lemon cologne, then pulls back, takes one look around, and deadpans: “Girl. What. The. Fuck.”
He walks in with one arm raised like he needs to clear the air.
“Okay, first of all—wow. I mean, he’s a St. Clair.
I was expecting, you know… brooding-man-who-owns-a-typewriter energy.
Maybe a broken lamp. Maybe a collection of half-empty whiskey bottles arranged for aesthetic.
But this? This is abandoned-motel-meets-deadbeat-haunted-house.
And this is Tar City we’re talking about.
Most people are happy if the plumbing works. ”
“It’s not that bad—”
He turns dramatically, arms spread. “There is literally a knife on the couch.”
I glance down. There is, in fact, a knife on the couch. A pocket knife, half-unfolded, like it’s been used recently and never put away.
“I guess it suits him,” Lou says, patting one of the pillows. A puff of dust erupts and he fake-coughs. “Oh good. The air is seasoned.”
I try not to laugh. “Lou—seriously—how did you even get in here?”
“Your kidnapper kidnapped me.”
“What?”
“I’m still trying to figure out how I’m getting both of us out of here,” he continues, pacing. “He made me put on shoes. Then he pointed at the bike like it was non-negotiable. Didn’t tell me where we were going. Didn’t speak. Just… stared at me like a criminal until I got in.”
I open my mouth to respond but the door opens behind us.
Lou freezes mid-rant.
“Brought cheese. You’re welcome,” Jax says, perfectly casual, holding up a brown paper bag like this is a normal day.
“You got cheese?” I repeat, firm.
He shrugs. “You like cheese.”
Lou raises an eyebrow. “What is this, a hostage negotiation with a fucking charcuterie board?”
“The fuck you want to drink, Lou?” Jax asks, already walking to the kitchen like we’re all in on the same script.
I stare at him. “Jax, did you kidnap Lou?”
“Yep. Sit the fuck down, Lou.”
“Told you,” Lou mutters, flopping onto the least horrifying chair.
“And why did you do that?”
“You’re lonely,” Jax says, opening the fridge. “You could use a friend.”
The nerve.
“Jax,” I snap, “will you please tell Lou he can breathe again? And also, that he’s free to go if he chooses to?”
“He’s not,” Jax replies, pulling out a box of crackers.
“Jax! Tell him!” I shift on the couch, my leg throbbing in protest.
“He’s here to make you company. He’s gotta stay until dinner. Or after. He stays untill I say otherwise.”
“Jax?!”
“Look,” he says, hands up like he’s doing us a favor. “You two are friends. I’ll make you guys a nice drink—”
“I thought you said I can’t drink,” I cut in.
Jax shrugs, rinsing his hands in the sink. “One is fine.”
“Oh, is it?”
Lou raises both hands. “Wait, are we pretending this isn’t a felony? Should I blink twice if I want to be rescued?”
“You’re fine,” Jax says, drying his hands on a rag. “You’re safe. You’re here. She needs company.”
He sets a box of crackers down on the table like it’s some kind of peace offering.
Lou looks at the box then at me, then sighs. “I guess if there are snacks.”
“Drinks?” Jax says, already heading for the door again.
“Yes,” Lou says, perking up. “I’ll have a Sidecar. Extra citrus. Garnish optional but emotionally necessary.”
I shoot him a look.
He shrugs. “What? I need a drink if I’m gonna relax.”
Jax leaves without another word.
Lou waits until the door clicks shut behind him, then turns to me slowly.
“If I die in this apartment, please make sure someone burns that couch. It needs to go.”
I snort and finally ease down beside him, crutches squeaking as I settle. “You good?”
He nods. “Good enough to play therapist-slash-human shield for a few hours.”
I lean back, staring at the door Jax just vanished through. “You really gonna stay?”
He shrugs. “Do you want me to?”
I look at him. The dust in the air. My leg. “I really really do.”