Chapter 69
Sixty-Nine
NOW | JAX
“It really is not a good day to poke the man,” Matt tells him.
I don’t bother looking up yet.
“I’m not poking anyone,” Rourke answers. “I’m here for a drink. You won’t deny peace to an old friend, will you, St. Clair?”
Fucking figures, of all the goddamn days for him to show up. Rourke lowers himself onto a stool and Matt looks at me.
Matt knows about most of the bullshit. Even when I tried to keep the curse shit to myself, he always knew about the past, about all the town whispers and why they look at me like I’m a walking bad omen.
“You gonna stand there judging me,” Rourke says, “or pour?”
I grab the bottle without answering and slide a glass toward him.
It’s a hard, angry shove, and the glass tilts, spinning on its edge, about to shatter all over my bar.
Right before it’s about to spill, it wobbles, then rights itself, settling perfectly still an inch from his hand. Rourke doesn’t even notice.
“Rosen came by my place last night,” he says, like he’s doing me a favor.
I don’t react. “Did he.”
“You should’ve seen him.” Rourke swirls the whiskey slowly, watching it catch the light like it holds the secrets of the universe. “Got himself a new theory.”
I set the bottle down with a thud. “You don’t say,” I add dryly.
He knows I hate this dance. This pathetic little tango he does, poking at a scar that’s never going to heal.
Which is exactly why he keeps doing it. Ever since high school, he's made a sport out of it.
Every time somebody disappears, every time a body turns up somewhere it shouldn't, every time Rosen gets a new idea in his head, Rourke comes sniffing around to see if I'll react.
“What’s the theory this time?” I ask, the words dragged out of me.
Rourke shrugs. “That the disappearances aren’t disappearances.”
“That narrows it down,” Matt responds for me.
“According to him,” Rourke continues, ignoring him, “they’re sacrifices. For a god.”
I just stare at him. Rourke studies my face for a long moment, his eyes searching for a crack in the facade. Finding none, he takes another sip. “Gotta feel bad for the man,” he mutters, shaking his head. “He’s losing it. Can’t blame him though. After everything that happened to his son.”
“You got a fucking point somewhere in there?” I ask.
Matt runs a hand down his face. “Rourke…”
“What?” Rourke snaps. “Pitfire, just making small talk. I know this shit was a long time ago, okay? Didn’t come here to push anyone.”
“Been ten years, Rourke,” Matt says, his voice pleading now. “Time to drop this, alright?”
Rourke lifts his glass in a shrug, a gesture that says everything and nothing at all.
I grab another shot glass and pour one for myself. Matt notices immediately. His eyes flick to the bottle, then to me. I knock the drink back.
“You know,” Rourke says, leaning on the bar, voice lowering a notch, “he still blames you.”
Matt stiffens.
“Some things never change,” I say, hoping it’s enough to shut him down.
“Got it in his head he’ll get revenge one way or another.”
I refill his glass without looking at him, the whiskey splashing against the sides.
Rourke studies me again. “I talked him out of it though,” he adds, a little too proudly. “Man’s seeing ghosts now too. I’m telling you, losing it. This place will get you one way or another—that’s the truth.”
I try to distract myself by grabbing a knife and hacking at a lemon.
“I’m just getting old,” he grumbles suddenly, rubbing the side of his neck. “Back’s shot, knee’s worse. Everything hurts.”
Rourke ignores the silence and keeps talking, like the whiskey loosened a thought he can’t stop now—a bout of verbal diarrhea he has to expel.
“Can you imagine that though,” he says, staring into his glass, “seeing a ghost of your own son?”
I swallow.
“You aren’t so young yourself, St. Clair.”
I don’t answer and keep slicing the fruit.
“No children yet?” he asks casually.
Matt drops a glass.
“Don’t wait too long,” he continues unbothered. “Kids need young bones to run around after them.”
In one sharp, angry motion, I flick the knife into the air. It spins end over end and hangs for a second above my head.
Matt slams his hand on the bar. “Shut the fuck up, Rourke.”
Rourke blinks at him, confused. “What? I’m just—”
I grab the cigarette pack from under the counter and shove a cigarette between my teeth as I walk, not looking back.
I hear it a second later—the sharp, definitive thump of the knife burying itself in the cutting board right in front of Rourke.
I know it’s standing there, quivering, its tip pressed hard into the wood.
“Bar’s yours,” I tell Matt, turning for the door.
Rourke’s words keep circling back whether I want them to or not. Kids need young bones to run around after them. I flick ash into the gutter. Yeah. Good fucking joke.
* * *
“We need to talk,” I tell her the second she walks in the door.
It’s well past midnight. I grit my teeth, trying to keep the accusation about the hour from poisoning the well before we even start.
She kicks her shoes off frustrated. “About what?” she asks, avoiding my eyes.
“Can you just sit down for a second?”
She drops her bag on the floor. “Jax, I’ve had the longest day. I just want to go to bed.”
“Look, I didn’t know what the fuck was happening at first,” I start, the words scraping out of my throat. “Then I did, and I let it happen.”
“I got that already,” she snaps. “You said so ten times.”
“No, you don’t fucking get it,” I step closer, getting in her space, forcing her to look at me.
“When you tried to say something… I shut you up. When you tried to move… I held you there. I watched it all happen to you. And I didn’t do a goddamn thing to stop it because some sick part of me thought you were getting off on it. ”
“Jax, I…” she starts, then stops, shaking her head like she’s trying to physically dislodge the memory. “You’re not wrong. It was so fucked up, but… shit, how do I say this… I… it’s fine, okay?”
“So why are you still pissed?” I ask, because I’m a fucking idiot.
“Why am I pissed?” She drags both hands through her hair. “Oh, let me see…”
She starts pacing. “Is it the fact that your little snip-snip was a complete waste of time?” she shoots back, her voice getting louder. “Or the fact that your grandfather thinks the fucking tar is going to make you knock someone up anyway?”
I stay quiet. I’ve got this coming.
“I guess whether that heir comes from me or not isn’t really an important factor anymore, right?” Her voice cracks on the last word, and it hits me unexpectedly.
“Sisk—”
“Or maybe,” she keeps going, her voice climbing, “it’s the fact that the only way we’re fucking anymore is if the tar decides to crawl into me instead of you?”
Her hands fly up in frustration.
“Or maybe—maybe—it’s the fact that any hope I had of dealing with the drugs in this city is completely out the window.”
She laughs again. “Stupid me, right? Thinking I could actually fix something.”
Her pacing gets faster, more frantic. “Oh! And then there’s Millie.”
My head lifts. “What about Millie?”
“I found her passed out on the steps tonight.”
“What?”
“Steps,” she repeats, pointing a finger at the door. “Outside her building.”
“Is she okay?”
“Well, I got her up and that shitbag Yutrey opened the door like it’s no big deal. He told her to get inside and then shut the door in my face.”
I get up then sit back down.
“And yes,” she adds, turning back to me, her eyes burning, “even with all this shit…”
She points a finger at my chest, nail digging in like a pin. “What pushed me over the edge is the fact that your precious ex is downstairs, drinking like she’s just waiting to see if she gets to play with your new piercings.”
I blink.
“Yeah,” she says darkly. “I’m this close to ordering poison and slipping it in her drink. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not kidding. Time that viper had a taste of her own venom.”
“She’s here for Matt.”
Sisk freezes. “…what?”
“Fucking walked in on them,” I mutter, not bothering to hide my disgust.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re serious.”
“Told you,” I shrug. “Viper’s more history than anything.”
That takes the wind out of her anger just enough for her shoulders to relax. She exhales and finally sinks onto the couch. “Well… that explains why Matt’s been acting weird all day.”
I reach out, my hand finding the back of her neck, my thumb rubbing circles on her skin without thinking.
“How was your day?” she says, her voice muffled as she lowers her head to my shoulder.
“Rourke showed up.”
Her head lifts instantly, her body tensing again. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I lean back against the cushions. “Said Rosen’s seeing Ivan’s ghost now.”
Sisk goes still. “This shit will never get easier,” she says quietly, the words hanging in the air between us.
“No. It won’t.”
“We need to do something about this.”
“You sound like O,” I shake my head. “Told you both. Nothing gets better with me still running around.”
“Do not say that again,” she snaps, her head lifting off my shoulder. Her eyes are blazing again. “I told you.”
“It’s times like this I don’t know…” I say, looking at my hands. “Feels like it’s all my fucking fault. I’ve got no idea how to make any of it better.”
Sisk looks at me immediately, her expression softening. “It’s not your fault, Jax.”
“Ivan pulled you in,” I say. “But I pulled Dean and Bear.”
She blinks.
“And so many others since.” My voice lowers, the words barely audible. “City’s been bleeding ever since that night.”
Sisk watches me for a long moment, her eyes searching my face. “This shit’s been happening long before you, Jax.”
“I’m not making it any better,” I shoot back.
“You never told me exactly how it all happened,” she says softly. “After you went looking for Dean.”
I shrug, staring at the floor. “Didn’t seem useful to tell you.”
“Maybe it is,” she says. “Like therapy.”
I snort. “Therapy.”
“Talk to me.”