“It’s all just so fucked up…” I try to explain.
“But in, like, a hot way,” he finishes, a cocky grin returning to his lips. “I bet he’s into some kinky?—”
“Lou.”
“I’m just saying! He’s got that repressed, broody, violent-protector energy. The kind of guy who says ‘I shouldn’t want this’ while unbuckling his belt.”
I groan into my hands, the warmth of embarrassment flooding my cheeks.
“He probably has ropes under the bed,” Lou adds with a wink.
“Hey! I sleep in that bed.”
“You lucky bitch.”
I laugh.
Scotch thuds softly behind us and we both glance toward the hallway. He’s padding over like he’s finally ready to socialize. He noses my leg, then curls at my feet, big eyes lifting to look between us.
Lou softens immediately, his hand reaching out to stroke the dog’s head. “Well, at least his dog is domesticated.”
* * *
It’s almost eleven by the time Jax comes back up to take Lou home. He’d returned an hour ago with burgers and fries from the place down the street. He’d brought another round of the fancy drink for Lou, and pointedly, nothing for me. I was about to protest when I saw the white pastry box from the bakery that makes those lemon tarts I love, which he placed directly in front of my plate without a word. He can be an absolute ass and a prince all at once, and it’s a maddening combination.
By the end of our chat, I’m smiling from ear to ear. Lou has that effect on me—he lights up the room without even trying, and hell, did I need it. We made plans to see each other again soon. I promised to make Jax behave like a civilized person. Or at least try. Lou promised to show up with baked goods, gossip, and pepper spray.
Once the door shuts behind them, once the noise fades and I’m alone again, I exhale. I glance around the wrecked apartment and decide—it’s time. I need to feel human again, I need to take a shower.
I’m not sure how I’m going to manage it yet. But I will manage it. That’s the thing about being injured—you start treating everything like a small war. And this? This is just another fight.
There, half-buried behind books and dog food, a stool. It’s metal, dented, covered in dried paint—probably used for fixingthe bar or punching drywall. Hard to say. But it has legs, and it’ll have to do.
I drag it into the bathroom, awkwardly, one crutch at a time. The stool bangs against the doorframe. Then again against the counter. I knock over a half-empty bottle of mouthwash that splashes on the floor. Scotch watches silently from the hall like he’s seen this all before.
“Thanks for the support,” I shoot back.
I wedge the stool into the bathtub like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. It wobbles. I scowl and try again. I’m sweaty and frustrated now.
I rest my weight against the sink and start to pull off my shirt. My crutch slips and in a humiliating motion, my elbow knocks into the mirror cabinet—which swings open and dumps three random pill bottles and a broken razor straight into the sink.
“Shit.”
My arm’s trapped in the sleeve, the fabric twisted around my elbow like a tourniquet, cutting off circulation. I can’t reach the stool. I can’t reach the crutches. My leg’s screaming with each shallow breath I take, and I’m swallowing against the burn in my throat, fighting back tears with everything I have left.
The door swings open and Mr. Perfect Timing freezes in the doorway, taking in the scene: me, half-undressed and tangled in my own shirt like an idiot; pills scattered across the floor like confetti from some twisted party; and the stool wedged in the bathtub as if I’d been planning to do some plumbing instead of just trying to get a shower without breaking something else.
I open my mouth to snap at him—tell him to get out, that I’ve got it handled, that I’m fine. But I don’t say anything, because I’m not.And I know he’s not either.
Jax moves with this terrifying calm—like he’s trained for this moment his whole life. Two long strides, and he’s in front of me, then his hands are on me.
He says nothing, and everything I want to say to him, every sharp-edged defense I’ve prepared, slowly fades away. I’m completely and utterly in awe of how he handles me.
He peels my shirt from where it’s tangled—one hand braced solidly against my back, the other working the fabric free. He doesn’t hide the way he looks at me.Not even a little.
And fuck, maybe it’s the martini, or maybe it’s just the rough shock of this moment, but right now, looking at the hunger in his eyes, I think he wants this as badly as I do. It’s a big contrast to the cold distance he’s wrapped himself in all day, to the cruel, careless words he threw at me just a night ago.
His eyes lock on my breasts, then they drop to my ribs, to the curve of my stomach. He looks like he wants to bite something, and I have to swallow to stop myself from begging him to.
