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“Always a favorite with the cartel.” He scooped Spice into his lap, his fingers carding through the cat’s short orange fur, seemingly lost in a memory Jax didn’t want to imagine. He came back to the present a moment later. “You found the money already. What about the leverage?”
They finished their last spoonful of soup, then gestured with their utensil at the laptop. “Still running searches.” His gaze followed where they pointed, fixating on the picture of Fitzpatrick again. Jax raised another possibility that couldn’t be ignored. “That officer was not the one at UTT Wednesday night. Even though I funneled your review his way, we don’t know if he’ll be the one to show tonight either. Or?—”
“It could be someone from my family. Like Juan.”
“Do they want you back?”
Ariel shifted, lifting one hip and jostling Spice off his lap in the process, the orange cat screeching a meow of protest. Jax chuckled, but their amusement died when Ariel pulled a plain gold wedding band from his wallet and slipped it on his left ring finger. “They haven’t wanted me since I put this on my finger.”
The same gut punch they’d felt for Fletcher the other night resurrected itself again, hitting harder this time with the force of shared sympathy behind it, Jax understanding all too well being disowned for who they were and who they loved. Jax wondered about the latter between Ariel and Fletcher. “Do you want him back?”
“I never wanted to give him up.” He stood before Jax could recover from another hit, even if they had suspected as much. “Your people got the message?” Ariel asked, giving them a professional hand up.
Recovering, they leaned forward and, with a couple of quick keystrokes, loaded the surveillance feed from inside UTT. After the review had been posted, they’d knocked at the secure network transmitting the surveillance feed, and Holt had opened a connection for them. They’d peeked in countless times the past two days whenever they’d needed a shot of purpose to keep them going with the endless hack. Even at this late hour, the construction crew Jax recognized from Hawes and Chris’s home reno was busy finishing repairs, while other members of their family and Redemption were moving in furniture and putting the final touches on UTT. “They got the message.”
Ariel wandered back into the kitchen, but Jax’s gaze remained locked on the woman behind the bar orchestrating the madness. Hair in a topknot, dressed in jeans and a sweater, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows, her glasses sliding down her nose, Feb looked good, like everything Jax had ever wanted. They just hoped Feb still felt the same way about them when this was all over.
Approaching UTT’s back entrance, Jax spared a glance and a two-finger wave for the camera they’d installed over the door last week.
We’re a go, they mouthed to Holt, who was no doubt watching from behind a monitor in the surveillance van close by, monitoring every coming and going at UTT and in the surrounding area. Catching sight of the high-tech smart lock on the back door, they mouthed a Thank you to Holt too. The original single deadbolt had been the bare minimum; not nearly secure enough for Jax’s liking. The new digital lock was a far better security solution and, at least for tonight, made it easier for Holt to let Jax in, the glowing keys turning from red to green.
They opened the door and stepped inside, the familiar aromas wafting from the kitchen at once comforting. The herby, minty richness of roast lamb, the deep, earthiness of morels and beets, the spicy brightness from the sumac chili chickpeas Feb had glommed onto, and the yeastiness of fresh baked bread. While Jax had been fed well the past few days, their stomach grumbled for more. And by the smell of it, Hawes was doing Feb proud, cooking in her stead with Chloe, whom Ariel had called back down from Napa.
They hung their overcoat, gloves, and beanie in their locker, then carefully unpacked their bag, using equal care to arm themselves with blades and brass knuckles tucked into leather pockets. Suited up, including the in-ear comm unit that had been waiting for them in their locker, they paused in front of the sink, checking their reflection in the mirror and finger-combing their freshly dyed pink mohawk back to spiked life. Time and best intentions had gotten away from them Tuesday. Today, they’d made sure to take the time to do Feb this honor for her bravery and cooperation this past week, for the place in her UTT family they’d made for Jax. It had also been worth it for how fast Ariel’s eyebrows had raced to his hairline. Jax imagined Feb’s reaction would be the same at first, then, once she recalled the promise Jax had made her, she’d snort a laugh at seeing that promise finally fulfilled. If Feb was sitting next to Holt in the van, maybe Jax would even hear her over the comms.
They were waiting for that snorting laughter through the comm as they stepped into the kitchen.
Only to hear it in person.
Across the kitchen, Feb stood in the aisle between the wall of ranges and ovens and one of the prep islands, hair up and chef’s coat on, a baking sheet of fresh-from-the-oven chickpeas on the island in front of her. Her gaze, though, was locked on Jax, flicking back and forth between their face and hair, her smile growing impossibly wide. “You did it.”
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Well, hello to you too.” Her smile didn’t dim, and neither did the determination Jax also recognized in her eyes. The last time they’d seen it there was Sunday night, when Feb had ordered them home to take care of their family so they could have their date Tuesday night after service. Late, like the hair, but right then, Jax wanted to make that date happen more than anything, even while the larger part of their brain was still screaming objections at Feb’s presence tonight.
Hawes appeared at Feb’s side, similarly coated. “She insisted on being here.” He raised a hand midair, sprinkling salt on the chickpeas. “It’s her restaurant.”
His attempt to sprinkle reason on Jax’s objections didn’t work. Especially not with Chloe an aisle over, working the sauces. “But things could go sideways a million different?—”
Hawes’s “Maybe you two should talk” collided with Feb’s “We should talk,” and if Jax didn’t know Hawes was gay and one hundred percent devoted to his husband, they might have been worried about how quickly Feb and the assassin-wannabe-chef had bonded.
Feb gave the pan of chickpeas a shake and, apparently satisfied, headed for her chef’s nook, giving Jax no choice but to follow. As they passed, Hawes flipped up the tails of his black chef’s coat, showing them the knives attached to his belt and the barrel shape of his garrote in his pocket.
Feb was likewise packing protection, a corkscrew and folding knife that she removed from her back pockets and placed on the counter before climbing onto her stool. Once settled, she rotated toward Jax, propped her heels on the stool’s rung, knees spread, and beckoned Jax closer with a crooked finger.
“I’m sorry,” Jax said, stepping the rest of the way into the nook but leaving some distance between them, giving Feb space to take or leave their apology. “I didn’t mean to say you can’t take care?—”
Feb apparently didn’t need space, obliterating it instead. Grabbing them by the jacket lapels, she hauled them in for a kiss that was as determined as her gaze had been in the kitchen. Mouth angling over theirs, she demanded entrance, parting Jax’s lips and diving inside with her tongue. Fingers traveling up Jax’s neck, lifting goose bumps across their skin and sending heat and wetness arrowing south. Carding her fingers through their mohawk and skimming them over their freshly shaved sides.
Jax melted, giving Feb some of their weight and kissing her back with all the desire that had built the past few months, accelerated the past week by separation and admiration. Feb had challenged the critics with her V-day menu, living up to every bit of hype about her out there, and she’d met every challenge thrown her way, from the Render review news to a restaurant full of bounty hunters and assassins who’d carved up her pride and joy. But she’d bounced back, persevered each time, and after all of that, including Jax’s part in the madness, she still seemed to want them.
They slid their hands up Feb’s thighs, over the curve of her hips, then under her ass, hauling her to the edge of the stool, both of them gasping as they rocked their hips together. Fuck, they wanted to take her apart right here, and Jax thought maybe Feb would let them, judging by her moans, her hand roaming over Jax’s sides and back, her hips continuing to rock.
But fuck, there was no door on this fucking nook, and if there was one thing Jax had learned from their years with the Madigans, it was that locked doors were a necessity. The number of stories they’d heard about unfortunate interruptions gave them serious pause. As did Ariel’s ETA, the vibrating phone in their pocket no doubt the thirty minutes out text they were expecting. Reluctantly, they pulled back and rested their forehead against Feb’s, the both of them gasping for breath, Feb catching hers first. “I love the pink on you. I hate it in all other circumstances, but on you...” Her lips curved against Jax’s. “You pulled it off.”
“I owed you,” Jax said as they drew back enough to catch Feb’s gaze. “I figured you’d get a laugh seeing it from whatever monitor you were watching on with Holt. Not that you’d actually be here.”
Feb smartly dodged their question and threw one back at them instead. “When’s the last time you slept?” She framed Jax’s cheeks, thumbs coasting under their eyes. “You look more tired than Brax, and I didn’t think that was possible.”
