Page 22 of Jax

She sets the blankets on the end of the couch and then reaches down to grasp Finn’s hand. Without another word, the two of them—and the dog—climb the stairs. I sit on the nice couch and the fabric hugs me. It’s so damn comfortable that I have no doubt I’ll sleep like the dead. It even smells good. Not like the stale aftermath of sex and mildew.

Before I can get comfortable, Leenie comes back down with a shirt in her hand. “Here,” she says, throwing it on top of the blankets. “We have a whole bunch of these lying around. And there’s a bathroom up here if you need to use it.” She lets her stare linger on me a while longer before moving back up the stairs.

I reach over and grab the shirt and snicker when I see the Elite Boxing logo. The royal blue color sets off the almost tribal looking boxing glove in the center. Jax will lose his shit if I’m wearing this, but the temptation to get out of these bloody clothes is too much. I slip everything off me, keeping my eyes on the stairs to make sure no one else is going to make an appearance while I’m naked and slip the oversized shirt past my head. Wherever Finn found Leenie, she’s a fucking saint.

As I unfold the blankets and lie down on the couch, the events of tonight start to pull me under. My head’s throbbing again and my cheek begins to ache once more. The pain reliever the ER gave me is probably wearing off. They told me I could take over-the-counter medicine until I fully heal but that’s not likely since I don’t have the money for it. Already, I’m in much better shape than the last time Psycho decided he was going to teach me a lesson. I didn’t get any pain reliever afterward and spent a couple of weeks in one of the smaller storage rooms with no windows by myself. There wasn’t even a shitty mattress on the floor to sleep on. I had to lie on concrete. So this? This is complete luxury to me.

* * *

Next thing I know,I’m being bombarded by the smell of whiskey. My eyes pop open, readying myself for whatever Psycho has in store for me when it’s Jax’s eyes I bore into. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of me, staring. When he realizes I’m peering straight back at him, his own narrow slightly. The Jax I knew didn’t partake in alcohol all that much. The last time I saw him drunk, he got quiet and serious, like we were on the brink of an impending storm.

“Finn and Leenie said I could stay,” I croke. “I’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“Why?” Jax rasps back, and I have a feeling he’s not asking about why I’m here. He’s probably had this question in mind for years.

“Jax...” I hedge, unsure if he really wants to unpack this now, and if he does, what I’ll say to him.

“Why?” he growls. “I deserve to know.”

I swallow a huge lump in my throat. My heart constricts under the Elite Boxing shirt I’m wearing. This conversation has been a long time coming. I’ve wanted it. I’m not going to lie and say I didn’t. “I didn’t have a choice,” I say blankly. “I never have choices.”

“We could have left. The two of us. I could’ve gotten you out of there like we talked about.”

“And have him come after us both? Please,” I scoff.

“I hate you,” he grinds out.

I recoil but cover it up as best I can. His eyes say the same thing. They’re glassy but the truth sits underneath the surface like a weed.

He’s probably been waiting to say that to me for years, and they have the desired effect. My heart pounds painfully, ripping in half. “You can never hate me as much as I hate myself.”

He mulls over my response. His eyes swim for a moment before he replies, “You’re wrong. I think I might hate you more right now because still—fucking still—the moment I’m around you, my body wants you. I’m fucking hard for you. What the fuck is wrong with me?”

His torn words break open a piece of me. Tears stream down my cheek leaving hot, wet marks that sting the tiny cuts on my face. I’d rather he hate me than think there’s something wrong with himself. I pull myself up. “I’ll leave.”

He zeroes in on my chest where the Elite Boxing logo sits. He licks his lips. “You owe me, you know?”

“W-what?”

“Since you showed up, I’ve been thinking nothing but about how I’ve not been able to fuck anyone in the last few years because of you. You owe me.”

I blink at him, his callous words already pooling heat into my lower belly. He used to love when I’d wear his shirts to bed. I’m sure that’s expounded tenfold with me wearing his gym shirt.

“Just one last fuck,” he says slowly.

I shiver. The old Jax wouldn’t have called it that, and I’m not sure what it says about me that his rude word for sharing myself with him turns me on. When Psycho says it, I want to cut out his tongue but that word in Jax’s mouth makes goosebumps sprout over my skin.

“You don’t want to do that,” I say.

“Why not? You give it up to the guy who hurts you, who beats you in the middle of an alley. I never treated you like anything but the queen I thought you were. You. Owe. Me.”

“This is drunk Jax talking,” I say, moving to the back of the couch.

He reaches out to gradually pull the blanket down my body. His fingers run over my bare legs, leaving a trail of excitement in their wake. When he moves them back up, he takes the hem of the shirt with it, bringing it over my hip. He takes in a deep breath as he stares at my bare ass. “You’re not wearing underwear.”

I place my hand on his. “Jax.”

“I could take it, you know?” His dark blue eyes shine with a sinister gleam. “I already went to jail for raping you, maybe I could at least do the deed to deserve it.”

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