Chapter 74
Seventy-Four
THEN | SISK
“Hey, friend,” Jax says with a grin.
I pretend to change my mind and try to turn around and walk away.
Jax grabs my wrist before I make it three steps. “Where are you going?”
“This isn’t gonna work.” I tell him, trying to tug my arm free.
“What isn’t?”
“Us. As friends.”
He huffs a laugh like the whole thing is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “Why not?”
“Well for starters,” I say, pointing at his face, “wipe that smirk off. It’s the opposite of friendly.”
He instantly forces his mouth into a painfully serious line, but his eyes are still laughing. “Better?”
“Why are you so fucking happy?” I narrow my eyes. “Oh, right. You got laid. Congrats. Hope it was good for you.”
“Can’t I just be in a good mood? Full moon’s over.”
I reach his bike and swing my leg over the side of the seat. “So where are we going, friend? Your good moods usually mean I’m about to regret my life choices.”
“You’ll see.”
He digs into his back pocket and pulls out a strip of black fabric. “Actually… you won’t. Not yet. Put this on.”
I stare at it. “A blindfold? That’s your idea of friendship?”
“Come on,” he says, stepping closer. “Trust me.”
Unfortunately for my heart’s sake, there’s nobody I trust more than him. And that’s the problem.
He lifts the fabric and his hands move slowly toward my face. I pretend to bite his fingers when they pass near my mouth.
He stops, his face suddenly inches from mine. His eyes move to my lips. “Careful,” he whispers. “I bite back.” His breath brushes my cheek as he ties the fabric behind my head, his knuckles brushing the nape of my neck and a shiver runs down my spine.
“There, perfect.”
I clear my throat.
He swings on ahead, and for a beat, my hands pause, then they find his waist, my palms flattening against the rigid plane of his stomach.
Seriously, what kind of workout routine builds abs like this?
Oh, right. The ‘not entirely human’ kind.
I can’t stop myself from letting my hands drift, a feigned shift for balance that’s really just an excuse to trace the impossible definition of him.
“No helmet?” I ask suddenly.
“I can’t crash,” he says simply.
“You mean you think you won’t.”
“No, I mean I tried. Can’t crash.”
He starts the engine, the roar shutting the conversation down fast. The motorcycle shoots forward and the city wind hits my face, whipping my hair back.
I hate how fast my heart starts pounding, how my entire body lights up the second I’m pressed against him.
I hate the way his scent—leather and smoke—floods my senses, making every other smell in the city disappear.
I hate how my hands know exactly where to go, how my thighs grip the bike, how my body molds to his like it’s the only place it’s ever wanted to be.
I’m supposed to be forgetting him, filing him away under ‘mistake.’ Instead, every vibration of the engine is just a reminder that I’m completely, totally, and utterly in love with him.
After what seems like an eternity, the bike slows.
“Alright,” he says. “First stop.”
The blindfold loosens and I blink. “The pawn shop?” I turn to him. “Seriously?”
He leans against the bike, all casual arrogance.
“Don’t tell me you’re here to get me a secondhand engagement ring because that would be so—”
His face suddenly goes still, the playful energy vanishing in an instant, replaced by a look of profound disappointment.
My eyes widen. “Oh my-,” I gasp.
He bursts out laughing so hard he has to bend forward, the sound echoing in the street. “Got you.”
“Ass.”
“Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the door. “I want you to meet O.”
“O?” I frown.
“Feel free to ask him about it yourself.”
The bell over the door jingles when we step inside. The pawnshop hasn’t changed much since that first time I came here. Every wall is stacked with things: radios, watches, guitar parts, tools, even old cameras. Things that probably shouldn’t work anymore but perhaps still do.
From the back room, a voice growls. “If you’re here to sell me another stolen car part, I swear to—”
The same older man I met all those years ago steps out. I notice his beard looks grayer, but the rest is the same. Same wild hair, same crazy long beard, same grumpiness too.
He freezes when he sees Jax. “Well I’ll be damned.”
Jax grins. “Miss me?”
“Unfortunately.”
O looks him up and down.
Then his eyes land on me. “And who’s this?”
“You remember Sisk?” Jax says, his arm slinging casually over my shoulders. “Try to behave.”
O snorts. “No promises.”
He waves us toward a couple of mismatched chairs behind the counter.
“You want coffee?”
“Yes please,” I say quickly.
Jax ignores the question entirely and walks to a small fridge behind the counter.
He pulls out a beer.
O swats the back of his head as he passes.
“Hey!”
“That’s my last one,” O says.
“You say that every time.”
“And you drink it every time.”
Jax shrugs and pops it open. “Consistency is important.”
O sets a chipped mug of coffee in front of me. I take it gratefully.
O looks between the two of us. “So,” he says slowly, “you two together?”
Jax coughs on his beer. “No.”
“Definitely not,” I say at the same time.
O squints at him, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. “That’s not what the energy in this room is telling me.”
“We are friends,” Jax responds.
“Funny,” O says, his eyes crinkling. “I remember the way you looked at her the night you two stumbled in here years ago. Like a starving man who’d just been handed a steak.”
My eyebrows lift.
Jax stares hard at the floor.
“We’re… toxic for each other,” I say, trying to salvage the conversation.
O nods thoughtfully. “Hm.” He takes a slow sip of his own coffee. “That usually leads to the best kind of fucking.”
Jax chokes on his beer.
“What?” the old man says calmly, completely unfazed. “I’m old, not dead. I’m not blind either.”
I laugh, taking a sip of my mug. “He’s wise, Jax. You should listen to him.”
O leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “She’s a keeper. You listening, boy?”
Jax glares at both of us. “Great. Glad you two are bonding.”
O dismisses Jax’s glare and turns his full attention to me. “Don’t mind him. He’s stubborn like a rusted-out lock. So what brings you here, sweetheart? We’ve already established he’s an idiot, and since he’s not here to introduce you as his better half, what’s the real reason for the visit?”
Jax cuts in before I can answer. “I’m showing her around.”
O raises a skeptical eyebrow, his gaze flicking between Jax’s tense posture and my amused expression. “That so.” O studies him a moment longer, his playful tone evaporating. “How are things? Your mom still gone?”
“Yeah.”
“And your father?”
“Still thinks I’m the city’s biggest fucking disappointment. Some things don’t change.”
O grunts. “Figures.”
He glances at me. “Full moon’s over.”
Jax rolls his eyes.
O ignores him.
I frown. “What does the moon have to do with anything? What’s the big deal? Jax is always bringing it up and never tells me why.”
O looks at Jax. “You haven’t told her?”
“Told me what?” I ask, setting my cup down.
Jax sighs, running a hand through his hair. “She knows about some of it.”
“Some of it?” I press, my voice sharp.
O sighs. “The tar gets restless when the moon’s full.” He shrugs. “Same thing the moon does to the ocean. Pulls the tides.” He taps his mug. “Only here… it pulls the tar.”
Before I can ask more, Jax suddenly straightens, cutting the conversation off at the knees. “Actually,” he says, looking at O, “I wanted to ask you something.”
O narrows his eyes. “That never ends well.”
Jax gestures toward me. “She needs a job.”
O studies me for a long moment. Then Jax. Then back to me.
“Temporary,” Jax adds quickly. “Until she gets on her feet.”
O scratches his beard. “Well that’s a terrible idea.”
“Come on.”
“Why here?” O asks, his gaze sharp.
“Because she’s smart,” Jax says. “She needs the money, and you need someone who can actually organize this mess.”
O leans back in his chair, the old wood groaning in protest. “You realize I barely make enough to keep the lights on, right?”
“I know,” Jax tells him.
O sighs again. He points a grubby finger at me. “Can you tell a real watch from a fake one?”
“Probably not,” I answer.
“Good. Honesty.” He squints at me, thinking. “Alright.”
My eyes widen. “Really?”
“Come back tomorrow,” he says. “Seven sharp. Don’t be late, I don’t like waiting.” He gestures around the cluttered shop. “I’ll show you how things work. Where the good stuff is hidden, where the junk goes to die.” He looks almost apologetic. “Can’t pay much.”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly, a wave of relief washing over me.
“You won’t go hungry though,” he adds, gruff. “I’ll make sure of that.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
Jax raises his beer toward O. “Great then.”
O snorts. “Don’t push it, boy.”
I glance between them, the easy familiarity, the unspoken history. “Can I ask something?”
O shrugs. “Sure.”
“You said something about an old debt, back then, years ago.”
O smiles faintly, a distant look in his eyes.
“Ah.” He looks at Jax for a long, heavy moment before answering, like he’s weighing a lifetime of secrets.
“Long time ago, when I first opened this place, nobody in this city trusted I could pay the rent. I was just another fool with a dream and a pile of junk.” He gestures around the shop. “I had too much junk. Too many ideas.”
Jax stays quiet, his knuckles tight around his beer bottle.
“Jaxwell St. Clair signed the contract for this shop,” O says, his voice drags lower. “He owned the building. Still does.”
I blink.
“He even offered to put me somewhere fancy, away from the Cut,” O continues, shaking his head. “But I knew I couldn’t afford those rents. This place… this is where I belong. It wasn’t kindness. He just believed in the business.”
“So you helped us then because he helped you?” I ask.
He taps the counter. “The Pit wants people turning on each other. That’s how it gets fed.
” His eyes drift toward the window. “Bodies and blood are primitive. What really destroyed this city was betrayal.” He looks back at me.
“People selling each other out, so I made a point to do the opposite.” He shrugs, a simple gesture that carries the weight of a lifetime. “And here we are.”
I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. “Jax mentioned your son.”
O’s face tightens slightly, the lines around his eyes deepening.
“Leonard.” He nods once, a jerky, painful motion.
“Got in with the wrong crowd.” His voice softens, losing its gruff edge.
“Hard not to in a place like this.” He rubs the back of his neck, a gesture of weary helplessness.
“The drugs turned a good heart into a hungry one.”
He doesn’t say anything else.
I stare into my coffee, the dark surface reflecting the turmoil churning inside me.
“My mom’s sick,” I blurt out.
Both of them look at me.
“Chronic bone pain,” I continue. “She can barely move some days.”
“Sorry to hear,” O says gently.
“She used to work in a clothing factory near the industrial docks.”
Jax stiffens.
“The doctor says it had nothing to do with it,” I say, my eyes fixed on Jax’s reaction. “But I swear she hasn’t been healthy since working there. And by doctor, I mean Dr. St. Clair.”
“She’s not the only one. A lot of folks get sick from working in those places.
” O shakes his head slowly. “Nobody can ever prove it, of course. Well, the city looks the other way when it’s convenient.
” He meets my gaze, his own full of a weary understanding.
“You want to blame his family, I get it. But in this city, the real villain is the tar. It seeps into everything, the air, the water, the ground. It poisons the whole damn system, and people like your mom are just the ones who pay the price.”
Jax suddenly stands. “Pitfire,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “This was supposed to be a happy visit.” He points at both of us. “You two are fucking terrible.”
O grins. “Bad wingman?”
“The absolute worst.”
“Good thing you two are just friends then,” O says, taking another sip of his coffee.
Jax grabs my wrist again. “Come on, Sisk.” He nods at O. “Next stop will be better. Hopefully.”
As we head for the door, O calls after me. “Tomorrow. Seven sharp.” He leans against the frame. “Pack a blade for the commute. And pepper spray. Don’t take the scenic route.”
I nod. “I’ll be here.”
I turn back before stepping outside. “What does O stand for?”
O scratches his beard. “Oracle.”
I blink. “You’re kidding.”
“People come here looking for answers.”
Jax mutters behind me, “Mostly about how much their stolen junk is worth.”
I glance at him.
“He picked the letter ‘O’ because he never forgets who owes him.”
O points a grease-stained finger at him. “Damn right.”
I look between them.
Jax pushes the door open.
“So it really stands for Oracle?” I ask.
“Who the fuck knows.” Jax jerks his head toward the street. “He’ll give you a different answer every time.”