Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
NOW | SISK
The apartment door clicks open, and Jax steps inside, the muted sounds of the bar downstairs following him for a moment before the door seals them away again.
He places the drinks on the coffee table with the detached precision of a waiter—single hand, eyes fixed somewhere beyond my shoulder.
He is gone before the liquid settles in the glass, the apartment door clicking shut behind him.
I stare at the martini he’s placed in front of me. He didn’t bother to ask what I wanted. And sure, it’s exactly how I take it—three olives, extra dry. But it’s the presumption that rankles. The assumption that he knows me that well. I take a long sip anyway, the gin strong on my tongue.
“Well?” I say, setting the glass down with a soft click. “Go on. Ask.”
Lou leans forward, elbows on his knees, no hesitation whatsoever. “Okay, but I need specifics. Are the god-like bedroom skills holding up after all these years? Is he still doing that thing with his tongue that made you rethink all your life choices? Or has he retired that particular party trick?”
“Looooou,” I groan, dragging out the syllable.
“What? You said ask. That was my number one question.”
I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. “Not what I meant.”
He grins, all teeth and mischief. “Fine. What’s the damage?”
I lift my foot slightly and try to wiggle my toes in the brace. “PT and cross my fingers.”
The sparkle drains from Lou’s face. He lets out a long breath. “I’m really sorry, Sisk. But if there’s hope, there’s a way.”
I swallow against the sudden thickness in my throat. I look away, toward the streetlights bleeding through the window blinds.
“Did Jax somehow ask you to take care of the studio?” I ask, my tone turning serious. “He mentioned something, but I’ve barely been able to get him to answer anything.”
“He did—paid me, too.” Lou shifts on the chair. “I hesitated to take it, but you know how it is…”
I nod. “Thank you, but cancel as much as you can. Make up an excuse… I don’t want people to know about it yet. Okay?”
He studies me, his brow furrowed.
“In case…” I breathe out slowly. “If I somehow do manage to come back… I don’t want to lose the clients we worked so hard to get. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Lou’s expression softens. “You’re gonna come back,” he says, his voice firm. “And when you do, I’m making you teach all the hard combos so I can yell at the teenagers and pretend I’m nice.”
I smile. “How’s Andy?”
Lou takes a sip of his drink. “Still refusing to buy real soap. Swears by this three-in-one bottle that says ‘body, hair, and grill cleaner.’”
I choke on a laugh. “No.”
“Oh yes. Andy and his cheap-ass ways. But he pays most of the bills, so I let him keep his illusions.”
“Someone’s gotta keep you in check. How much did those pants cost?” I lift my glass toward him.
He gasps, hand flying to his chest. “Excuse you. They’re vintage.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I keep him on his toes.”
I smile again. “Is he still being haunted?”
“Oh yeah. Yesterday he said he thinks the ghost has been stealing his socks, and honestly? I didn’t even argue. I was like, good. Let her.”
We both dissolve into laughter. For a moment, with the martini cold in my hand and my friend’s grin across the coffee table, everything almost feels okay again.
Then his voice quiets, the playful energy draining from the space between us. “Sisk…” he pauses, and looks at me again. “Are you going to tell me how it happened?”
My smile fades.
He raises his hands gently. “I don’t want to pry. I just… I’m not actually sure. Do we like Jax or do we hate him right now?”
I take a sip of my drink, trying not to think about it.
“I mean…” he swallows, his gaze drifting toward the hallway Jax disappeared down.
“I know somehow he was involved. He told me it was his fault. And he’s you know…
so angry.” He shakes his head, his eyes distant, clearly still wrestling with the memory.
“There was this moment,” he adds, his voice dipping to a near-whisper.
“His eyes looked—” He stops himself, cutting the thought short.
He shrugs, a forced casualness. “Never mind. I was probably just freaked out. I sound like Andy now.”
“Lou—”
“I don’t know, Sisk. It wasn’t human. Not exactly.”
I don’t know what to say.
“But then I thought about it,” he continues, his focus returning to me. “I mean… it’s Jax, right? He’s always been there when you needed him. Building the studio at night, remember? Driving your parents to appointments. Helping Millie. I don’t know. But…”
He looks at me, his expression so honest, so torn.
“It was an accident,” I say carefully, placing my glass on the napkin. “He would never hurt me. Not on purpose.”
Lou doesn’t say anything right away. He just studies me, his eyes searching my face like he’s checking for cracks I might be trying to paint over.
“Sisk…” he says softly, the words barely audible. “He does frighten me.”
I swallow hard. “He scares me too, sometimes,” I admit, the confession feeling fragile.
“But not in the way you think. Not like he’s going to snap or lose control or—I don’t know.
Not like he’s a danger. More like…” I trail off, trying to find the right way to express all the mess.
“More like I’m scared of how much he holds in.
How much he won’t say. There’s a whole world in there and I’m just walking the edges of it, trying not to fall in. ”
Lou gives me a look of understanding.
“It’s all just so fucked up…” I try to explain.
“But in, like, a hot way,” he finishes, a cocky grin returning to his lips. “I bet he’s into some kinky—”
“Lou.”
“I’m just saying! He’s got that repressed, broody, violent-protector energy. The kind of guy who says ‘I shouldn’t want this’ while unbuckling his belt.”
I groan into my hands, the warmth of embarrassment flooding my cheeks.
“He probably has ropes under the bed,” Lou adds with a wink.
“Hey! I sleep in that bed.”
“You lucky bitch.”
I laugh.
Scotch thuds softly behind us and we both glance toward the hallway. He’s padding over like he’s finally ready to socialize. He noses my leg, then curls at my feet, big eyes lifting to look between us.
Lou softens immediately, his hand reaching out to stroke the dog’s head. “Well, at least his dog is domesticated.”
* * *
It’s almost eleven by the time Jax comes back up to take Lou home.
He’d returned an hour ago with burgers and fries from the place down the street.
He’d brought another round of the fancy drink for Lou, and pointedly, nothing for me.
I was about to protest when I saw the white pastry box from the bakery that makes those lemon tarts I love, which he placed directly in front of my plate without a word.
He can be an absolute ass and a prince all at once, and it’s a maddening combination.
By the end of our chat, I’m smiling from ear to ear.
Lou has that effect on me—he lights up the room without even trying, and hell, did I need it.
We made plans to see each other again soon.
I promised to make Jax behave like a civilized person.
Or at least try. Lou promised to show up with baked goods, gossip, and pepper spray.
Once the door shuts behind them, once the noise fades and I’m alone again, I exhale. I glance around the wrecked apartment and decide—it’s time. I need to feel human again, I need to take a shower.
I’m not sure how I’m going to manage it yet. But I will manage it. That’s the thing about being injured—you start treating everything like a small war. And this? This is just another fight.
There, half-buried behind books and dog food, a stool. It’s metal, dented, covered in dried paint—probably used for fixing the bar or punching drywall. Hard to say. But it has legs, and it’ll have to do.
I drag it into the bathroom, awkwardly, one crutch at a time. The stool bangs against the doorframe. Then again against the counter. I knock over a half-empty bottle of mouthwash that splashes on the floor. Scotch watches silently from the hall like he’s seen this all before.
“Thanks for the support,” I shoot back.
I wedge the stool into the bathtub like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. It wobbles. I scowl and try again. I’m sweaty and frustrated now.
I rest my weight against the sink and start to pull off my shirt. My crutch slips and in a humiliating motion, my elbow knocks into the mirror cabinet—which swings open and dumps three random pill bottles and a broken razor straight into the sink.
“Shit.”
My arm’s trapped in the sleeve, the fabric twisted around my elbow like a tourniquet, cutting off circulation.
I can’t reach the stool. I can’t reach the crutches.
My leg’s screaming with each shallow breath I take, and I’m swallowing against the burn in my throat, fighting back tears with everything I have left.
The door swings open and Mr. Perfect Timing freezes in the doorway, taking in the scene: me, half-undressed and tangled in my own shirt like an idiot; pills scattered across the floor like confetti from some twisted party; and the stool wedged in the bathtub as if I’d been planning to do some plumbing instead of just trying to get a shower without breaking something else.
I open my mouth to snap at him—tell him to get out, that I’ve got it handled, that I’m fine. But I don’t say anything, because I’m not. And I know he’s not either.
Jax moves with this terrifying calm—like he’s trained for this moment his whole life. Two long strides, and he’s in front of me, then his hands are on me.
He says nothing, and everything I want to say to him, every sharp-edged defense I’ve prepared, slowly fades away. I’m completely and utterly in awe of how he handles me.
He peels my shirt from where it’s tangled—one hand braced solidly against my back, the other working the fabric free. He doesn’t hide the way he looks at me. Not even a little.