Jax

by Cristin Harber

  "Give me your hand." She snatched it before he could move and held up both their ring fingers for his inspection. "A big, big problem."

  Jax inched back and propped himself up, forehead creased with deep lines as he blinked awake. "What is that?"

  Seven snatched her hand back. "What do you think that is?"

  "Um." He scrubbed his eyes. "Can you freak out in a lower volume?"

  "I think I'm going to puke. I'm not this irresponsible."

  "Aim for the trash can." He fluffed his pillow and lay back down.

  Maybe he was the type to panic in silence. She wasn't the type to ever have unforeseen circumstances happen so experience with panic was a new problem instead of her plan A, B, C, D, E…

  "Jax, do something!" Because her heart was about to explode out of her chest.

  "Will it get you to please calm down?"

  "Yes," Seven tried in a quieter octave.

  "Right." He nodded then reached for the nightstand, picked up the phone, and pressed a button on the dial pad. What did he think? Vegas had divorce attorneys at the concierge desk? It was Vegas. Maybe they did. She had no idea. But either way, he was Titan, and he could fix this.

  "Yeah, hello." He paused. "Can I get room service for two? Pancakes, waffles, coffee…" He looked up at her as Seven's jaw fell open. "Do you like eggs? I'm good with scrambled."

  "What?"

  Jax flinched as though she'd made his headache kick his temples, then turned back to the phone call. "Scrambled. Actually, make that scrambled with cheese. And if you have any sports drinks, something with electrolytes, we need a couple of those. Some ibuprofen and multivitamins too. And Bloody Marys. That should help." He paused again. "Right, yeah. Oh, I forgot whose room I'm in. Look up Jax Michaelson, and it'll have whatever Vegas package you offer that brings hangover medicine with my breakfast." Another pause. "Titan Group. That's me. Thanks."

  He hung up the phone and lay back down as she gaped. "Let me know when they get here. Night, princess."

  ###

  The covers grated against Jax's skin. He could normally sleep through anything, but the revelation was like an earthquake. Every time Seven huffed and puffed, it served as a simple reminder that they'd had far too much to drink last night. But he wasn't upset, nothing like she was. Maybe it was a hangover. Maybe he was hungry. Cake wasn't much of a dinner. Marriage was life altering, but the non-reaction he was having wasn't what either one of them would have expected.

  Or was it?

  He grumbled as she groaned, more at doubting his uncertainty than because of the pounding in his head reminding him that he wasn't ten years younger. He couldn't remember a time when he'd had so much to drink that there were parts of the night missing.

  "That's not what I meant," Seven snapped.

  Why, at this moment, her exasperation made him smile, he had no idea. But it made a small grin crawl onto his face, and he snaked an arm around her bare waist, hooking her to him and eliciting another round of annoyed grumbles. He repositioned on the pillow to face her and was met with a bright-eyed and wild-haired beauty, who looked seconds away from figuring out how to conjure fire at the tip of her tongue.

  "Jax! This. Is. A. Huge. Problem."

  With his arm still around her waist, he chuckled, entertained that he could feel her abdomen muscles punctuate each word.

  "I'm not going to do anything with you screeching in my ear," he said quietly.

  He got married? He got married. Truth was, he had always been of the mindset that everything happened for a reason. It was the only way he had survived the death of his wife. His first wife.

  Carrie's life had had meaning. They'd been young, but they had known enough to sign up for a career in which they'd been willing to die. They had each expected their own death, but maybe not the other's. He certainly hadn't expected Carrie's—not by their government, and sure as fuck not before they'd gotten out of the church. It had never occurred to him he wouldn't make it to the honeymoon.

  Was there irony that he couldn't remember getting married and consummating his marriage with Seven? Or was that a new way to torture himself?

  How had he allowed this to happen?

  Maybe because it was supposed to happen… Maybe he was still drunk.

  "You aren't taking this seriously." The scowl on Seven's face proved she believed he wasn't and that she had no idea what was going through his head.

  He'd barely acknowledged to himself how this woman had crawled under his skin and sunk her claws in without even trying. Maybe his subconscious was tired of waiting for him to live again, but this was like going from zero to lightning speed. "Believe me, princess, I am."

  "Maybe this is fake. Maybe this doesn't count."

  His stomach rolled as a small wave of disappointment surprised him. "Maybe," he said gruffly.

  Her eyes shot to him like blue daggers. "Because then we could just leave the rings on the nightstand and pretend none of that happened. Do you see what I'm saying?"

  Either way, this was the end of the fucking. Anything moving forward would be tainted and awkward. No dude wanted to get a blow job from someone dying to get his ring off her finger. Yet she hadn't clawed the thing off yet. "Is that what you want, Seven?"

  "Of course it is! Obviously, you do, Mr. Ladies Love a SEAL."

  That said nothing about her and everything about who she thought he was—which he didn't buy for a second. That slutty SEAL bullshit had been debunked weeks ago, and she was well aware. He gave her a placating smile and pulled his arm back, plumping his pillow. "Tell me when the food is here."

  He picked the pillow up, covered his head so he couldn't hear any more grumblings, and wondered for the second time if he was still drunk.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  If Seven could have kicked six feet of solid muscle out of bed, Jax would have been naked on the floor. She was learning from this experience that no matter how hard she stared or tried to tap into any mental telepathy she might've ever had, he ignored her screams to get up, and the two-hundred-pound sexy slab of meat hadn't levitated out of bed. His nonchalance was almost too much. Trying his attitude on for size was an exercise in masochism. When she swore to God that she heard him snore, Seven tapped into every yoga and meditation class she'd ever gone to and lied about going to and tried to zen out. If he could be so calm, cool, and collected, she could sure as hell fake it as well as he could. Because there was no way in the entire world that Jax Michaelson was cool with getting married.

  Right?

  The knock at the door came at the perfect moment before she exploded like a volcano and pounced on him, wanting to shake him until he had some kind of suitable reaction. At least he was a pro at ordering room service. That had never been a quality she knew she wanted in a husband, but she had never sat down and made a list before.

  The knock came again, this time harder.

  "Coming," she said then bopped the pillow that covered Jax's head. "Food's here. Hope that didn't hurt, honey."

  His back shook as though he was laughing, but he didn't get up.

  "No worries. I've got this." After she looked around and didn't see any clothing, only that cursed headband with the veil, she pushed the covers onto him and stripped the sheet. She wrapped the white sheet around her like a dress and tucked the train under her arm. "Wedded freaking bliss," she mumbled then stomped toward the door.

  Vegas room service had to have seen it all, but still, she tried to smooth down her hair so that her bedhead didn't look like she'd just screwed. She pushed it behind her ears then ran her fingers under her eyes to push away any wayward mascara. There was no telling how she looked other than the presumed hungover and well-bedded. With one last scowling stare at the lump that was Jax, she turned to the door and threw it open, thankful at least for the Bloody Mary. Hopefully, a little hair of the dog would ease her hangover. Afterward, never again would she ever touch a drop of alcohol. Bad, bad, bad decisions happened with that stuff. "Oh!"

  "Jesus
fucking Christ, Seven, you look like shit," Johnny said.

  He didn't look so good himself. One glance said he hadn't been to bed yet. Dark circles under his eyes scored a lack of sleep that was concerning. The whites of his eyes were red, and his gaze jittered. His fingers tapped on his sides, not nervously, but as though he'd been hitting eight balls. This was not the Johnny Miller she needed to see right now. No telling what he'd mixed with the coke. No telling where his head was at. But she knew him better than anybody else in the world, and when he went on benders, it could be a bad, spiraling thing. But she wasn't just concerned about Mayhem business and what would happen later on today; she had problems of her own. Johnny, her friend who didn't have the slightest interest in her as a wife or a lover, was not the same person as Johnny the dope fiend who didn't see anything in a rational light and became possessive, angry, and irrational of everything. He could see a bird on a tree limb and claim it as his. Then another bird could land next to it, and under the right circumstances, he would see red.

  Quickly, she switched the hand that was holding up her sheet so the right fist was between her breasts. "Is everything okay?"

  She had no idea where her phone was. If Mayhem was trying to get ahold of her and couldn't reach her by cell, they likely would've tried her hotel room. They had arranged for the suite and paid for it. They knew where she was.

  Johnny lifted his chin, his skittering eyes unable to fix on her hair. "What'd you get into last night?"

  "None of your business. Why don't I call you when I get dressed if you need something?"

  "Looks like someone rammed you across the floor. Hair's all tangled and shit."

  "Johnny Gabriel Miller, shut your mouth. I watched you get a blow job last night, and you have no right to talk."

  "He here? That Jax motherfucker?"

  "I want you to leave. Now. Call me later when you've come down so I can give you hell for being such a prick." She turned and grabbed the door she was propping open, ready to slam it shut, when he grabbed part of the sheet.

  Seven reeled around, using both hands to pull it up. "What the hell?" she hissed at him quietly, not needing Jax to hear and come over and cause any more of a problem. "Have you lost your damn mind?"

  Johnny's nostrils flared. "Or have you?"

  "What?"

  His eyes narrowed to judging slits, and they dropped to the white-knuckled fists holding up her sheet.

  Son of a bitch.

  Johnny's smirk was as sarcastic as it was furious. "Never expected this from Miss Responsibility." He snorted. "Or make that Mrs. Responsibility."

  The wave of nausea rolling through her stomach had nothing to do with having too much to drink last night or the stupid misfortune of having Jell-O shots as a decent portion of what she could remember of her dinner. If there was anybody in the world worthy of marrying, it was Jax. But explaining that to Johnny, particularly in his current state of mind, was a lost cause. For the first time maybe in her entire life, she didn't want to understand, defend, or put up with Johnny. He wasn't the ex-husband that she was friends with. He wasn't the family friend whose indiscretions she had to overlook because they were so close, they might as well have been siblings—or lovers, however creepy that was.

  Jax was worthy of a defense, but Johnny wasn't worth her breath right now. "I'm so tired of you. But more importantly, he means so much to me that—" She shook her head. "I'll see you later. And only because I have to."

  But Johnny was looking over her shoulder, and at that moment, she felt Jax's hands slide around her hips. Without turning from her standoff with Johnny, she looked at him in her peripheral, realizing he'd likely heard what she had to say, but she didn't care.

  "Are we all good here, princess?" Jax pulled her closer to his side, dropping a sweet but possessive kiss on top of her bedhead.

  "Good luck with her, buddy. I was stuck with her OCD ass and dropped that load like—"

  Seven snapped, slapping Johnny across the face. Before her hand pulled back, he coldcocked her. Seven saw stars then collided into Jax.

  The next seconds were a blur. Everything moved quickly, but she was certain that Jax picked her up and put her out of the way, shutting the door as he stepped into the hall with Johnny.

  Ow! Dang, her mouth hurt, but working her jaw and tasting blood wasn't her concern. She shouldn't have slapped Johnny. He shouldn't have provoked her, either! They were two people who knew the other's most vulnerable buttons to push. Why had he chosen that moment to push something she couldn't control? In front of Jax! Embarrassment had made her reaction that much worse, and Jax, who she was now married to, had no idea. There was so much wrong with this problem!

  Seven wanted to see what was going on in the hallway. But there were all types of rules when it came to Mayhem, and she was well versed in them as well as their consequences.

  But Johnny had hit her, and ex old lady or not, princess or not, there would be fallout. If Jax wanted to whoop Johnny's ass, good for him. But she had words for her ex-husband. At the very least, he was going to see her quickly swelling fat lip.

  She pushed off her butt, wrapped the sheet around her all over again, and reached for the door—

  Knock, knock. "Open up, princess." Jax's firm voice was an unexpected relief, and Seven threw open the door.

  Both men stood there, Johnny much worse for wear. Jax only wore his jeans that hung low on his hips without the benefit of a belt. But it was his anger that had her attention, and it was clear by his scowl and the veins protruding on his neck that he was holding back.

  Seven eyed him, and he gave her an approving nod. She stepped closer to the threshold of the door again, narrowing her gaze at Johnny. "Get off the drugs. Hawke could have your patch and cut, you asshole."

  Johnny snarled. "Hawke doesn't give two shits who knocks around old ladies."

  "You know that's a lie, and don't you dare forget I'm not your old lady."

  "Cunt."

  Jax let his fist drive an uppercut into Johnny's chin, and her ex's head snapped back. "Johnny, man, say what you have to before my breakfast gets here, or I'll finish this now."

  Johnny's nostrils flared, and he worked his jaw. If he weren't high as a kite, Seven knew he would've rebounded. "I didn't mean to say what I said. Or lay a hand on you." His face crossed between stupid and stoned, then he turned and twitched his way toward the elevator. "Bitch."

  Jax scoffed but walked into the hotel room.

  "He's a winner," she said softly.

  Seven wanted to apologize to Jax for bringing the barrier of sucky, shitty ex-husbands that low. But before she got the words out, he eased her into his arms and farther into the hotel room.

  "Damn, Seven, he's a mess."

  "You're telling me."

  Carefully, he tipped her head back, inspecting her chin and lips. "Sorry I didn't hear it sooner."

  Which was a reminder of what Jax did hear: how much she cared for him. But Jax was more interested in possible injuries.

  "It's not split," she said.

  "Not my standard of acceptable."

  "I'm a bloody mess. Exactly how you want to spend the first day of wedded bliss."

  His face paled, but then he ran his fingertips along her chin. "I've never had a honeymoon before."

  Seven grinned though it hurt. "Bonus. Me, neither."

  "I'm going to get some ice. Stay here a sec." Jax brushed her hair off her face, helped refashion her sheet around her chest, and walked with her into the kitchenette. With a quick grab of the bucket and a bag, and still only wearing his sexy jeans, he left the hotel room and made it back in what had to be record time. "Are you still doing okay?"

  "Other than a little hungry, a little hungover, I'm okay."

  "Room service said they would take about an hour. It's almost been an hour." He moved the ice next to her on the counter then easily lifted her up.

  Jax the caretaker was surprisingly quiet and gentle, which she hadn't expected. There was still a lot to learn abo
ut him.

  "Hang on one more minute." He left for the bedroom area, returning with a pillowcase that he wrapped around the ice bag before gently holding it to her chin. He slowly eased it to her lip. "Think you can handle that?"

  "Yeah."

  He went to the bathroom and returned with a washcloth. "It's damp. I just want to"—he dabbed at her chin and neck, even her wrist where she'd wiped her lip—"clean away some of this."

  "My blood?"

  He nodded then tossed the rag toward the bathroom floor as though he didn't want to see her blood.

  Seven leaned against Jax's bare chest, still holding her ice pack. "Thank you."

  He carefully removed the ice and held her. Seven took deep breaths that mimicked his and let his heartbeat play her a comforting song while he stroked her hair.

  "Hey, Jax."

  "Hmm?" He rubbed strands of her hair between his fingers.

  "You have a heart."

  "Turns out I do, princess."

  The quiet rumbles of laughter in his chest and the quickened pace of his methodical heartbeat calmed her, and for a panicked second, she realized she had a fat lip and a punch-throwing, drugged-out ex-husband, yet her OCD tendencies were compelling her to act. She didn't want to move from this warm spot against Jax's chest and leave his embrace. She wasn't obligated to fold her concerns into neatly folded issues that were more manageable.

  "Let's see." Jax leaned back to inspect her lip again. "I think you're going to live."

  Seven had no idea why the funny line seemed to hold so much gravitas as he said it, but her soul squeezed. "You helped me in more ways than you know."

  Jax gave her a simple, sweet kiss on the top of her head, resting his chin afterward. "Same."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Civility wasn't a high point of Las Vegas, and that was one of many reasons it wasn't Hernán's favorite place to go.

  Esmeralda had her hair tied in a bun and tucked under her large-brimmed hat as they played tourist, walking down the streets with two of their covertly armed bodyguards following close. The four of them blended in as vacationers among common people.