Jax

by Cristin Harber

  His spine straightened, and his jaw tightened. Always defensive at that question for as long as he could remember, Jax consciously reminded himself that it was a perfectly harmless inquiry. "Always."

  Jared's eyes narrowed in an assessing way that made Jax possibly want to reconsider his internal mantra that it was a harmless question when people checked on him.

  "You know, you get away with being a cocky asshole." Jared ran his fingers into his beard then stroked it back down. "A real dick, if you ask me. But lying to me won't fly, even in dumbass small talk, because I don't ever make small talk without a purpose. Do you read me?"

  Jared's outward casual appearance hadn't changed, but the grave seriousness of his tone had, and Jax heard the message. He couldn't bullshit Boss Man. "Yeah. Got it."

  Jared stood up, not interested in Jax re-answering the question—and thank fuck because he didn't know how to—then left him to his own thoughts, which might've been worse than having to explain to Boss Man what he thought was wrong.

  ###

  There was nothing like watching Mayhem board an airplane. No matter where they were coming from or heading to, Seven got a kick out of watching the jeans- and boots-clad men—who wore MC gear because it was their life, not for the fun of a trend—take their seats. Their leather cuts with pins and skulls stitched on got more than a few worried looks. But in Seven's mind, it was better that TSA worry about Mayhem than jump all over some innocent person who looked like a terrorist. None of her friends would have their feelings hurt with a few condescending looks.

  Their group was called, and en masse, they boarded. When Seven arrived at her seat, Johnny glared back. Lucky me.

  "Are you always so happy?" She put her backpack in the bin overhead then took a seat. "Or is it just me?"

  Johnny shifted toward the man next to him, who was already half asleep against the window. "I'm happy."

  "You're five kinds of grump-a-saraus."

  "Don't talk to me like I'm Nolan."

  She rolled her eyes as she buckled in. "I won't. He's three, and light years ahead of you in maturity."

  "That's mature."

  So what if it wasn't? "Get some coffee, and whatever ails you will leave you."

  "Wish it were that easy," Johnny grumbled, glancing over her shoulder. Then he reached for a magazine and aimlessly flipped through it.

  Seven eased back and casually looked around. Ah, Johnny was having a hard time with Hawke. She could've guessed that. Tension between them had been thick since before they'd boarded to come down to Colombia. After everything she had heard went down at the restaurant, it was no wonder.

  "Why are you sunshine and smiles when you look like shit?" Johnny asked.

  She twisted in her seat belt. "Like shit, huh? Thanks, asswipe."

  "Call it like I see it."

  "I don't look like sh—"

  "You do." Johnny flipped the pages of his magazine, still not reading.

  "Yet another reason I'm glad I didn't stay married to you. Such a sweetheart."

  "You stayed for the honesty. Tell me you didn't." He chuckled. "And my c—"

  "Don't even." Seven groaned. But Johnny was half-right. She appreciated the truth, but nothing else that he might've almost mentioned. "Either way, sometimes you're supposed to lie. Or not bring it up."

  "What'd you get into last night?" He closed the magazine and slipped it into the holder on the chair in front of them. "Look at you. Bags under your eyes. You were asleep on your feet earlier."

  "Nice of you to notice."

  "I keep a note of what's going on."

  "I bet," she mumbled. He was right, and she had every intention of going to sleep like the guy against the window as soon as they took off.

  "But," Johnny said and left her hanging until she couldn't help but ask.

  "But what?"

  "Still fucking glowing." He tilted his head. "Haven't seen that look on you in a long time."

  Nope. No way was Johnny going to call her out for a post-orgasm glow in the middle of Mayhem while they were stuck on a plane. "You're out of your mind."

  "If I didn't know any better…" He leaned close, studying her, and Seven's nerves got the best of her.

  She wanted to inch back but didn't want to show her hand. "Back off, buckaroo."

  "I'd think you were thrilled we're leaving here with the deal intact."

  Seven recoiled, laughing. "Wrong. You do know me, and wanting the coke business is impossible. I'd never want that in a million years."

  "What problems are you causing now?" Hawke snapped at Johnny from across the aisle.

  Instinctively, she wanted to keep the men apart, and her hands went up, but the airplane was taxiing down the runway already.

  "Talking to Seven," Johnny said past her. "Not you."

  "You two need to chill." She pointed fingers at both. Not many old ladies could get away with that, though she didn't belong to either of them. Then she gave Hawke a long look and turned to Johnny. "Save your drama for when we touch down. I'm going to sleep."

  "It's not drama. It was a decision." He grabbed the magazine and flipped pages furiously.

  She was going to get no sleep if he was over there on a manic paper-cut endeavor. The flight attendant was two rows ahead of them, pushing a cart. It didn't look like food. Maybe she had more magazines for the international flight. Either way, she was gorgeous and a great distraction that made Johnny and Hawke behave.

  As the woman approached, her presence worked like a charm as Seven settled back into her semi-uncomfortable chair. Then listening to Johnny flirt with the woman drove her nuts.

  "Ma'am?"

  Seven opened her eyes, questioning if she was the ma'am. "Yeah?"

  "Would you like a blanket or pillow to sleep with?"

  Damn it. The last thing she wanted was a stupid blanket that she couldn't stop fussing with.

  "She's fine," Johnny said for her, thankfully.

  There had been too much craziness in the last two days, and sometimes the folding couldn't be helped. It was a control thing, and nothing had been controllable lately. Seven clung to the armrests. "What he said," she mumbled.

  "Are you sure?" The flight attendant pulled out a plastic-wrapped blanket, misreading the dynamic between her and Johnny, her misery, and why she held on to her seat. "If you want it, it's not a problem."

  The blanket, folded unevenly and sadly sitting in its plastic wrap of doom, was thrust into her face, and she couldn't look away, couldn't believe how fast she had to take it. Embarrassed by the lack of control, she knew hot tears would fall but still didn't stop. "Thanks."

  Seven reached down, found her sunglasses in her purse, and slid them into place. Then she tore the plastic off the blanket, needing far more room than she had, and went about folding the blanket correctly.

  And failing.

  Then trying again.

  And failing.

  And again, trying more.

  Then, again and again, failing.

  Until her last fold. As she studied and smoothed the corner, Johnny took his hands and wrapped them around hers, awkwardly holding her own still in her lap. Together, they sat there, holding hands, holding her in place, as tears slipped free and she concentrated on breathing.

  Hawke stood up without saying a word and took the blanket from under their hands. And she was free. It was so stupid. She was trapped and stressed but, thank God, surrounded by people who got her as much as she got them. He walked away and returned empty-handed without mentioning a thing.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Hernán Suarez closed the handwritten accounting books as his personal financier hovered close by. Classical music played in the background, and the decadent smell of dinner wafted from the kitchen behind the private dining enclosure while he reviewed the day's numbers and had dinner with Esmeralda.

  This was their time to connect and his time to inspect the daily tallies from the cartel's various moneymakers, most of which were diversified internationall
y, with the bulk funneled through the United States.

  "All remains good?" Esmeralda asked in English. That was the language of business. When they were in bed, at home, or at the market for a stroll, they always spoke Spanish. But they'd learned to differentiate that part of their life with one single barrier—language.

  Hernán wasn't sure what made him more excited. That his wife wanted their fortune to grow because it meant power—not more money, though that was an obvious benefit—or if he liked to see the dark side of her, the devious one. It made his blood run hot and his heart grow. They were partners made to work and to love.

  Having perused what he needed to see, Hernán gave a nod and closed the leather-bound portfolio. He ran his hands over his fortune, basking in the decisions they had made over the past few days. "It does, my dear."

  Her sweet, sadistic smile could give a heartless man a cold chill as easily as she could spin a siren's song silently around an unnoticing victim. "Excellent."

  They didn't want any changes with Mayhem, and she had assured it by planting a seed of doubt and greed. Men could be so simple.

  Hernán's perspective and strategy had a businessman's slant. But Esmeralda's… she was much like his father, capable of psychological ruthlessness, and her cold hands reminded him of this even by touch as she put her hand on top of his. "Are we ready for the next course?"

  She didn't care about the books as she held his palm down to the pencil-coded bankbooks. Hernán tilted his head over his shoulder as they both lifted their hands, and the financier walked over and removed the leather-bound records.

  Hernán stroked Esmeralda's wrist as the next course of their meal was ushered in. "Is there anything you want?"

  The question was posed religiously, and whenever she had an answer, which wasn't often, he made it happen. Most times, she made it happen herself. But there was a delicious aspect of providing for her when she didn't need to be cared for. His grip on her forearm tightened, hanging onto her as hard as he could, knowing that no matter how painful the grip might be, it wouldn't break her.

  Her bottom lip parted from the top as she clung to the squeeze of pain he offered as a quick gift. When he released, she rubbed the blotchy red mark on her beautiful almond skin, and her lips curled in relaxed pleasure.

  "One thing," she whispered, eyes barely focused on him.

  "Yes?"

  "La hija." Children.

  Not business at all. They hadn't had that discussion in some time, and it was the one thing he couldn't give her. Children. But he'd promised if it was something she wanted, it was something she could have. He would find her a way when she was ready.

  Esmeralda pushed her long, dark hair over her shoulder and eyed one of the servants, who came over and topped off their wineglasses then scuttled away. She wrapped her fingers around the base of the glass, letting her manicured nails trace up and down the crystal stem as she swirled the expensive vino, lost in thought.

  Hernán knew where her mind was but not the dark twists and turns it always took. "You're still worrying about the meeting with Mayhem?"

  She tilted her head, not answering with words as much as she did a silent look.

  If Mayhem changed the distribution, there was no question that they would lose money, and that was his concern. Hers was more control. She didn't like plays to be initiated outside of their direction, even when they brought better circumstances to their family. It had taken many, many conversations with her before they came to an agreement. It was an agreement, because for as much as he was the head of this organization, she was his wife, his partner, his world. Hernán would give anything to her.

  "If Hawke shores up the rift we made with Johnny, then we find a new hole to tear open. That's business, right, mi vida?"

  Esmeralda picked up her glass and took a long sip. Then they both watched as their plates were traded out for the next course.

  "What if they subbed out their distribution?" She picked up her fork and held it over her plate, clearly thinking of various options that Hawke could take while still honoring the agreement between Suarez and Mayhem.

  Hernán shook his head, digging in to the feast in front of him. "Never. To be so bold without my explicit permission? Unacceptable."

  She speared a piece of meat on her plate, raised it to her mouth, and chewed deliberately. "You trust them too much."

  Her words sank in as they feasted on dinner. Interesting that she was positing ideas without solutions. She couldn't see the whole picture, either, and maybe that was the problem.

  "Hawke would," she finally assessed. "He's in the MC for the club, not for himself. He'd choose the organization's greater good over one of self-satisfaction."

  Hernán cut into the Kobe beef, and the bloody meat melted like butter as he thought about what she'd said. For as long as he'd known Hawke, that was true. The man's life was dedicated to his motorcycle club, and that was one of the reasons why he was an excellent distribution partner. The club wanted to make money; so did Hernán. The club wanted to stay protected. So did he. But if the club wanted to get out and there was a vote, then Esmeralda was right. It was Johnny, who even if they had turned, was the weakest link for both of them. "We'll have to find more pressure points than just the one that sat at our table."

  Esmeralda nodded. "Something painful to keep our friends in line."

  That sounded like his wife, the business partner he knew so well. She loved to work in pain, and that worked with his business acumen. "What do we know…"

  "Not enough right now." She stabbed a piece of meat, and as she picked it up and held it before her lips, the rare meat dripped blood onto the plate. "Send Jorge Torres."

  Hernán faltered for a moment, not expecting his name to be worked into the conversation. "Why would you suggest him?"

  "I have found that he is exceptional at seeing who is expendable and seeing who creates action." She took a long moment to enjoy her beef. "There's a fine line between squeezing the life out of someone that no one will remember and doing so to one person that will ruin the life of many. He knows how to figure out the difference."

  They finished their dinner in silence, then the server came over and exchanged their main course plates for cheese and fruit. Esmeralda was likely lost in imaginary thoughts of how to do the killing, and he wondered if she was right, if Torres was the right person for the job or if that was too strong of a play.

  Hernán plucked a grape from his plate and reached across the table, feeding it to her. Her lips wrapped around his fingers as she took it from him, and everything made sense. The Ying to his Yang, the diabolical to his fanatical. "I'll call him in the morning and send him to the United States."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "Open up!" Seven banged on Johnny's door again after trying the handle. "Damn it, Johnny."

  She wasn't sure when was the last time he'd used his lock. Hell, she didn't even know if he had a set of keys to his own place. This time, she hauled off and kicked the door. "Open. Up. Now."

  The door across the hallway opened. "Everything okay, Seven?"

  She smiled at Mrs. Reed, the woman who turned a blind eye to everything Johnny did and who had made her coffee cake on Sundays when she lived there. "Just want to make sure my ex-hubby isn't dead."

  "He was stomping around earlier."

  "Good. Thanks, Mrs. Reed."

  "Tell your parents that I say hello."

  "Will do." Seven smiled as best she could, waited until Mrs. Reed's door shut, then turned around to beat Johnny's door down. His bike was downstairs, and he'd been avoiding her for days. He could've left in a car with someone else, but that didn't feel right. "Johnny, I'm not leaving. I even brought snacks if I had to stay here all day."

  The door clicked, and the handle turned, then it cracked open a few inches.

  "Hello in there." She tried to push in but got nowhere.

  "You're a persistent pain in my ass." Dark circles and red eyes met her stare. "Go home. I'm alive."

 
"We need to talk."

  "Nothing to talk about, sweet lips."

  Seven gave him a big, fake grin. "Good. Then I have to pee. Let me in."

  "Jesus, you don't give up."

  With both hands, she slapped the door. "Nope. Scoot over." After she pushed through, she waved her hand at the stale air. "Crack a window. It smells like cigarettes and dope in here. Gah."

  "Shove it."

  "It's almost foggy." Instead of going to the bathroom, she dropped onto the couch. "I didn't have to go."

  He rolled his eyes and eased into a recliner. "Of course."

  "So, how ya been?"

  "Fine."

  "Johnny…" She assessed him. Bloodshot eyes. Dark circles. Pale skin. Wrinkled clothes. The place needed fresh air, and there were stacks of pizza boxes within arm's length. "Where have you been?"

  "Working."

  "Where? Doing what?"

  "Ease up, Seven. All right?"

  She shook her head. "No, sir. If you're going to fall head first into a pile of blow and smoke dope until you can't see straight, I'd at least like you to answer the phone when I call."

  "Don't know where it is." He shrugged. "And I didn't hear it ring."

  God, she hated when he went on benders. "You shouldn't get like this. You didn't used to, and when you're in business with—"

  He perched forward on the edge of the chair. "Club business isn't your business."

  "Well, talk about taking your drugs away, and you certainly wake up."

  Johnny looked away, shaking his head.

  "And you seem to find your phone when you need to order pizza." Seven stood up, trying not to fume. She hated when he acted as though she didn't have any investment in Mayhem. Her world was Mayhem. What, since she was a woman, she couldn't talk to him about the empire her father had built? "Call me when you're sober. I like that Johnny. This Johnny is a dick."

  "Fat chance."

  Seven stormed out as Mrs. Reed opened the door. "Would you like a piece of carrot cake for the little ones?"