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Spinning, Jax slapped a hand over their mouth to stifle their horrified gasp. Juan was walking up the short hall from the kitchen, Feb held to his front in a chokehold, similar to how Ariel was holding Fletcher, only Juan was taller than Feb and his gun was pressed to Feb’s temple.
Jax wanted to dart out from their hiding spot, wanted to tear Feb from Juan’s arms or at least catch her gaze and offer some comfort. Feb was shaking like a leaf, tears streaming down her cheeks, flowing freely out of wide, terrified eyes. But Jax had watched enough of these scenarios go down to know that they were in prime tactical position. Hidden in shadow, ready to intercept when the time was right, which would be any second at the rate Juan was closing in, his gaze locked on Ariel.
“Cousin,” he practically spat, the hard, nasty edge in his voice far removed from the genial saucier Jax had gotten to know the past three months. Nothing in his background checks had indicated he was Camino cartel, but glancing between him and Ariel, there was no denying the resemblance between the two men. The same build, the same dark curly hair, eyes the same shape and, Jax guessed, the same light brown if Ariel were to pop out the contacts that made his black. “How’d you know?”
“Wherever he is”—Juan cut his gaze to Fletcher—“you’re never far behind. And you’re addicted to this shit.” He gestured at a plate of food on a nearby table, the very dish Juan was supposed to help prepare tonight.
“I’m not going back,” Ariel said.
In his arms, Fletcher shifted his gaze directly to Juan’s side, to the spot where Jax was hidden, as if he were looking right at them and, with his hand trapped at his side, tapped a spot on Ariel’s thigh.
Message received.
“That’s fine with us,” Juan said, removing the gun from Feb’s temple and aiming it at Ariel.
“Now, Jax!” Helena shouted, and Jax darted out from their hiding place. With their left hand, they planted the awl directly into Juan’s thigh, right where Fletcher had indicated. Juan howled, gunfire blasting, shiplap splintering—and his hold on Feb loosening enough for Jax to grab her and spin her free, the two of them sliding under the nearest table.
Chaos erupted around them—gunfire, hand-to-hand combat, furniture cracking, shouts for backup and handoffs—but Jax’s sole focus was the shaking woman in their arms. Feb was on the verge of hyperventilating, her breaths short, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Jax held her close with one arm and framed her cheek with their other hand, helping her focus. “Feb, look at me. I need you to breathe. I’m gonna get you out of here, but I can’t do that if you pass out.” She nodded, frantically, no closer to drawing a full breath. Jax took one of her hands and laid it over their chest. “With me, Feb.” And regulated their own breathing enough to bring Feb’s down a measure. “That’s right, babe, just breathe.”
Hard to do, Jax was sure, with what sounded like an action movie tearing up the place around them, Feb’s carefully crafted dining room, her dream, the scene of destruction. “Whatever is going on out there,” Jax told her, “it doesn’t involve you, and it doesn’t involve UTT. By the time you walk back in here, it’ll be set to rights.”
“How?” she squeaked out.
“Because that’s what my family does.” They leaned forward and pressed their lips to Feb’s, a swift and firm kiss, before resting their foreheads together. “I promise.”
A giant gasping breath later, Feb nodded. Finally.
“That’s good, Feb. Now, give me a couple more of those,” Jax coaxed, and while Feb took two more deep breaths, they peeked out from under the table, assessing their exit route. The action had moved more squarely into the room, leaving the path to the hallway and kitchen clear. “All right,” they said as they turned back to Feb. “Path’s clear to the breezeway. Keep low and tucked to my side. On the count of three.”
Feb’s eyes were still saucer-wide, but they weren’t leaking tears anymore, and Feb was no longer jumping at every shattering piece of wood outside their bubble. “You ready?” Jax asked, and she nodded. Jax gathered her against their right side, away from the action, and on the count of three, they darted out from under the table and around the corner. The chaos faded behind them as Jax straightened, Feb’s hand in theirs, and sprinted down the breezeway into the kitchen.
Only to be drawn up short by Chloe stepping out of the pantry, arm raised, gun pointed straight at them. Feb’s “What the fuck?” would’ve made Jax laugh if not for the deadly serious expression on Chloe’s face.
“I’ll be taking you now,” the line cook said.
Jax slid in front of Feb. “You can’t have?—”
“I’m not here for her. I’m here for you.”
Wet.
Rough.
Insistent.
Furry?
The last sensation, among the others against Jax’s cheek, nudged them out of their Feb-induced fantasies and toward reality, pushing them through the fog they’d been wading in the past hour.
Ariel Camino’s voice at their side, urging “Muévete, Sugar,” propelled them through it faster.
They planted an elbow in the soft surface beneath them and struggled to lever upright. A gentle, steadying hand landed on their shoulder. “Take your time,” Ariel said. “I was talking to the cat, not you.”
Jax fought against their seemingly weighted eyelids, wresting them open just in time to see a snow-white ball of fluff jump off the end of the couch with an offended meow. “There a Spice around here too somewhere?” they asked as they continued to work their way to vertical.
“There is,” Ariel said, helping them. “The orange one that shares his one brain cell with all the other orange cats in the world.” His easy, charming smile was so at odds with the man who’d held Fletcher hostage at UTT that Jax gave their head a hard shake, thinking maybe the fog was still clouding their mind.
Pain sliced through their head, disabusing them of that notion.
