Chapter 67
Sixty-Seven
NOW | JAX
The bar is dark when I shove the back door open. I think the place is empty, until I hear it. A wet, rhythmic slap from behind the bar, followed by Viper’s breathy whine. “—don’t stop.”
There’s a grunt from a man that sounds like it was dragged out of his ballsack. I’m walking toward the bar, ready to ask what the fuck happened, why they all left when a bottle rattles against the counter.
I round the corner and my brain fucking shorts out.
Viper’s on the edge of the counter, her legs locked around some guy’s waist, her skirt shoved up to her ribs.
And the guy… the fucking guy is wearing a black balaclava, the kind of cheap cloth mask every two-bit hood in Tar City wears to hide his face.
My mind tries to piece it together. Is this a hit?
Did some Cutter decide to get his rocks off before he wasted her?
But she’s not scared. She’s flushed, her head thrown back, her mouth open.
And then it clicks. It’s a kink. A goddamn, middle-of-my-fucking-bar kink.
I move my hand without thinking, catching a bottle of top-shelf whiskey before it smashes against the floor.
For half a second, none of us move. Viper glances over his shoulder, her face flushed. “Oh,” she says calmly, like she’s just noticed the time. “Hey, Jax.”
The masked man twists around, his movements jerky with panic. He rips the mask off in one quick motion, revealing Matt’s flushed, sweaty face. “Fucking hell—”
“Un-fucking-believable,” I curse, dragging a hand down my face. The image is burned into my retinas like a goddamn brand. I back away slowly, holding up the bottle I just saved. “I’m not paying for whatever you break.”
“Close the door!” Viper calls out, a laugh in her voice.
I turn and head for the stairs without another word, the sound of their rutting starting up again behind me. I hear Matt’s muffled voice. “Thought you locked it.”
I stop outside my door for half a second. She better be in here. I find Sisk in my bed, curled against the headboard with one of my journals open in her lap. A bowl of noodles steams on the nightstand and Scotch is sprawled across her legs.
She glances up when she hears me. “Oh,” she says, and a small smile touches her lips. “There you are.”
Scotch lifts his head, gives a happy bark, and thumps his tail harder, his whole body wiggling with joy.
The tight knot in my chest finally loosens. Again. It’s a goddamn miracle. One minute I’m ready to burn this whole town to the ground, the next I’m just… home.
Sisk scratches behind Scotch’s ear without looking away from me.
“Where have you been?” she asks softly. “I was starting to think you’d found trouble.
” She pauses, a smirk playing on her lips.
“Or that you’d finally picked a fight with someone bigger than you and gotten your ass kicked for a change. ”
I push the door closed behind me, the final snap of my temper fraying.
“Looking for you,” I answer.
She blinks, all innocent. “For me?”
“For all of you,” I grit out, dragging a hand through my hair. “You fucking vanished from the docks.”
“We didn’t vanish,” she says, calm as a fucking pond. “We said if you took too long at Gyx Point, we’d meet you back here.”
“Nobody said that. And ‘too long’ was less than a goddamn hour.” I step farther into the room.
She shrugs one shoulder. “Things moved fast.”
“Things moved fast my ass.”
Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. “Are you hungry?” she asks, like she’s offering a simple solution to a simple problem.
“I don’t think you get this. At all.”
She waits, her eyes on mine.
“I could’ve torn this city apart looking for you,” I admit.
She just studies me, then she takes another bite of the noodles, chewing slowly. “What happened with your grandfather?” she asks, changing the subject like that’s going to fix things.
I sink onto the edge of the chair across from the bed. “Nothing good.”
Scotch shifts and lays his head back down on her leg.
“He knew about the mark,” I say.
Her posture straightens. “He did?”
“Yeah.”
“And?” she presses, leaning forward.
I stare at the floor, at a scuff mark I’ve never noticed before. “And apparently my family has been making deals with the thing for over a hundred years.”
Sisk slowly sets the bowl aside on the nightstand. “Jax.”
“My grandfather said it started with the first St. Clair to arrive here,” I continue. “Some kind of bargain when the mine collapsed.”
“With the tar?” she whispers.
I nod, unable to look at her. “He says it wanted blood. A bloodline. Something to keep the deal going.”
Her eyes flick to my hand, then back to my face.
“The baby,” she says softly, the words hanging in the air between us.
“Yep.”
She leans back against the pillows, the color draining from her face. For a moment neither of us speaks, the weight of a hundred years of St. Clair bullshit settling in the room.
Then she turns her head slightly. The lamplight catches something on her cheek. A thin, red line.
My chair scrapes against the floor. “What the hell is that?”
Her brow furrows in confusion. “What?”
I step closer, grabbing her chin before she can pull away. The cut sits just below her cheekbone. Fresh. “Who did this.”
Her eyes widen at the tone in my voice. “Jax—”
“Who.” My voice comes out low enough to make Scotch lift his head, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
She gently pushes my hand away. “I’m fine.”
“Tell me.”
“I scraped it getting off Matt’s bike,” she says, her voice steady.
I don’t move. “You expect me to believe that.”
She shifts on the bed.
“I’m gonna kill Matt.”
“Shouldn’t joke around with that anymore, Jax. And he had nothing to do with it. Let it go.”
She slides off the bed and steps closer, her bare feet silent on the floor. She reaches up and presses a quick, soft kiss to my mouth. “I’m fine,” she says softly, her lips brushing mine. “See? Still breathing and everything.”
“Sisk, tell me what happened,” I say, my voice still tight.
She walks back to the bed and pulls the blanket over her legs again, a deliberate dismissal. “All went as planned,” she adds, a little too brightly. “Thanks for asking.”
“The fucking plan doesn’t matter anymore,” I mutter, kicking off my shoes.
She looks back at me. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“My grandfather is running the drugs.”
She freezes, her hand stilling on the blanket. “What?”
“Yeah. It’s him. He’s the one supplying the Cutters.” I rub my face. “It’s not as simple as we thought.”
“I wasn’t thinking it was simple but… shit.”
“Yeah. Shit doesn’t cover it.”
“And I was worried about him recognizing me,” she starts, her voice quieter now.
“Who?”
“Lowlife shit bag Whistle.”
I look up. “Whistle?”
She nods, a grimace twisting her lips. “Yep. He was the one giving out the orders. Looks the same, like exactly the same. Same creep.”
She starts to lay down. “That’s not even all,” she adds, her words starting to slur together as she stretches out across the bed like a cat in a sunbeam.
“The drugs were there, like we thought. But there were other containers being brought in. Foreign ones. They were arriving to get dumped.” She settles deeper into the mattress, the fight draining out of her.
Scotch circles before collapsing beside her.
“I’m really tired though,” she murmurs, her voice already thick with sleep. “Can we talk about this tomorrow? Danner was happy to see me though, I think. Anyway, tomorrow okay?”
Before I can answer, her eyes close. Her breathing evens out. And just like that—she’s asleep. Leaving me standing here with a family curse, a drug-running grandfather, and a goddamn government conspiracy. Fucking perfect.
* * *
Sleep’s a fucking joke. My eyes are open, staring at the cracks in the ceiling I could map from memory.
Every thought circles back to her. She’s right here, breathing slow and steady, one arm tucked under the pillow like she’s posing for a goddamn painting.
Completely fucking naked, of course. She claims I run too hot, that she needs to sleep bare to not boil alive in my bed.
The lack of underwear proves it’s about teasing me and nothing to do with temperature.
Tonight, Scotch got banished to the living room so I could have my goddamn bed back for one night.
I’m pissed. Wired. My heavily pierced dick’s a steel rod, an idiot that hasn’t gotten the memo about tonight being a level-ten shitshow.
My brain knows we’re doomed. My body knows she’s naked inches away, and all it wants to do is sink into her and forget the world.
I glare at the ceiling, trying to think about dead things, taxes, my grandfather’s face. Nothing works. I turn my head. The slow, steady rise and fall of her tits is goddamn hypnotic. I can see the darker peaks of her nipples, and my mouth waters.
Part of me wants to touch her, just a light finger on her shoulder, see if she’d roll over and open for me.
But I’m not a fucking idiot. She’s wiped.
I’ve seen the dark circles under her eyes she thinks she hides.
The way she jolts awake at 3 a.m. She heard me say I’d burn the city down for her and her reaction was to ask if I was hungry.
She’s running on fumes. Wake her up now and she’d probably claw my eyes out before she even realized why.
Not to mention, intercourse is no longer an option, not until… I don’t even know what. A miracle solves it all, probably. Which is exactly why I’m craving it so badly—always wanting what I can’t have.
I palm my dick, the rough drag a poor substitute for what’s right next to me.
I should get up, take this to the shower like a civilized person, but fuck that.
Looking at her helps—I think about her mouth, the way she looks up at me when she’s on her knees, the way her nails dig into my back when I’m balls-deep inside her.
And especially the way she looks at me sometimes, like I’m not a complete piece of shit.
I grab the base of my cock, stroke myself, a steady, punishing rhythm and—fuck me—this isn’t enough.