On Edge

by Kim Cong

  Jetta

  We were back at Pax’s and I was checking my bank account details on his laptop while he made dinner. He was shirtless, and looking gorgeous as he cut and diced.

  I sipped the white wine he’d laid out and sighed heavily.

  “What’s up, gorgeous girl? Need a top-up?” Pax held up the wine bottle and I shook my head.

  “I’m just trying to work out how to pay you back.” Pax turned the gas down to a low simmer and moved to lean against the breakfast bar.

  “Explain.”

  I twirled the laptop around and showed him my bank account amounts.

  “After jiggling around some funds I’ve got enough to pay you 250 grand toward the total for Esso.” I clicked another screen, bringing up Courtney’s accounts. “With Courtney’s earnings that puts us at a total of about $750,000.” I sighed and ran hands through my hair, shaking it out. “Either way we’re still short from the million.”

  Pax pursed his lips, looking at me.

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “No.” I reached over and flicked his arm playfully. “Tell me.”

  “I want permission to look into Paul.”

  I froze. “What?”

  He sighed and crossed his arms, shifting. “Look, I know he’s family and you have this bullshit idea that you owe him for the past-” I opened my mouth to protest but Pax cut me off with a shake of his head. “We’re not arguing about that. I’m just saying that I want permission to look into him. I have a feeling that something’s not adding up.”

  “I trust him. Paul’s helped us all along. When you were gone he—”

  “Look, I don’t want to argue, Jet. I want to do a job and work out if something’s not right. It may be nothing but something in me is saying I need to do this.” He uncrossed his arms, bracing palms on the bench as he leaned across to meet my gaze.

  “Please let me do this.”

  I paused, weighing my options. On one hand, I had Paul, who’d helped Courtney and me through some tough times. I trusted him. But on the other hand, there was Paxton Elliot. A gorgeous man who leapt back into my life and was rushing about trying to protect me. I was confident that he would find nothing on Paul, but he also had a background that said I should listen.

  “Okay.” His grin was swift. “But I have conditions.”

  Pax raised an eyebrow, staying silent.

  “If you find nothing, we don’t talk about it again.”

  “Done.”

  “If you do find something, I get to decide how we deal with it.”

  His lips drew into a tight line but he gave me a short sharp nod.

  “And I get to choose our couple name.”

  “Our what?”

  “Our couple name. You know, like Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s couple name is Brangelina.”

  Pax looked at me like I was crazy.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I am not.” I closed my laptop and leaned over the bench toward him, grinning. “I already know what our couple name is going to be.”

  “That’s not a thing.”

  “Jetpax. Like jetpacks.”

  “This is completely not a thing.”

  “Oh, it is. This is happening.” He rounded the bench, pulling me up.

  “No. It’s not.” He growled, as in actually growled.

  “We could have a secret handshake that ends with whoosh.” I held my left palm flat out and dipped my right down into it, slapping the middle of my palm with my fingertips before immediately diverting them in an arc, up into the air—like a hand rocket.

  “We are not having a couple name.” Pax shook his head, even as his hands slowly crept under my top.

  I let my lips turn down and gave him the baby eyes.

  “But, Pax… don’t you want to be a couple?” His eyes slowly worked up from my breasts to look at my face.

  “Mmm… I never said we couldn’t have a special handshake.” He slipped his hands under my bra.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Mmm...” Pax massaged my breasts, grinning at me smugly. “Should I show you?”

  Two hours later, panting, spent, satisfied and completely naked, I decided I preferred his secret handshake.

  Paxton

  Paxton Elliot was not a stupid man. A career in the army that stretched nearly ten years, including three tours of Afghanistan, taught you things. And if Pax had learnt one thing during his time serving, it was to trust when something didn’t feel right.

  John Sawyer, or Sawyer, as he was known, was one of Pax’s certified hackers. He looked up from the data on his screen, eyebrows raised.

  “So you want to tell me exactly what I’m looking for?” Sawyer was sandy haired and mountain-biking mad. He had also served as an intelligence analyst for Defence. Having relied on Sawyer’s Intel thorough his career, Pax trusted him and had recruited Sawyer following his discharge. One of the numerous men and women he had on his auto-hire list.

  “I don’t know. It’s just a hunch.” Pax ran a hand through his hair and briefly wondered if he’d go bald anytime soon. He hadn’t felt this frustrated and angry since his hospital stay.

  “You know I trust your hunches, bossman, but you’re going to need to give me more if you want me to look for something in particular.” Sawyer swivelled his chair around to face Pax and leaned back, legs stretched out in front and on the chair opposite him, arms folded behind his head. Pax shook his head.

  “I think Paul’s stealing from Jetta and her sister Courtney.”

  “O-kay?” Sawyer drew the word out, eyebrows still raised in question.

  “Right, context.” He breathed deeply. “Jetta Oliver and her sister Courtney Oliver—”

  “Holy shit.” Sawyer’s legs dropped and he eagerly leaned forward on his elbows. “The Courtney Oliver? As in ‘Just Blow’ Courtney Oliver?”

  “Just Blow?” Pax felt a vein start to throb in his temple.

  “Yeah, her pop song. ‘Just give me a chance to blow, blow, blow you up, up, up. I want to suck, suck, suck and fu—’”

  “Right.” Pax cut him off. “I get the idea, and yes. That Courtney Oliver.”

  “Holy fuck, dude! I will do this for free if you give me her number.”

  Pax shook his head. “Sawyer.”

  “Right.” Sawyer leaned back. “Proceed, bossman.”

  “Jetta—Jet—is a, well she’s….” Pax hesitated, searching for the right label. “She’s living with me.”

  “She’s your woman? Your girlfriend? Your—”

  “Yes.” Pax nodded. “All of the above.”

  “Right. So this is personal.”

  “Very. I think Paul, who was charged with their trust fund after their parents died, is stealing from them.”

  “Dude. That is so uncool.”

  “I also think he’s funnelling money from Courtney’s royalties and tours, and ripping Jet’s royalties from her numerous songs. I need you to look into this. But be discreet. This is off the books. It does not leave this room. Got me?”

  Sawyer nodded. “Totes, bro-seph. I got your back.”

  Pax shook his head. “I owe you, man.”

  “Nah.” Sawyer swung his chair back around and started typing, “But if you’re feeling generous, those digits wouldn’t go astray?”

  Pax returned home in the early evening. Ben met his car on the way out.

  “All good?”

  “Yeah.” Ben nodded. “All was quiet.”

  “Thanks for guarding her today.”

  “Mate.” Ben grinned. “You’ve sent me on some shit jobs before. Today? Your girl is hot, she makes a mean sandwich and she’s super talented. It was not hardship.”

  “Get out of here before I kick your arse.”

  Ben laughed and headed toward his car. Pax shoved the door to his house open and was greeted by the waft of garlic and ginger and the sound of a remix of Meghan Trainor singing about her future husband.

  Pax grinned, hea
ding toward the lounge room. He threw his keys on the coffee table and looked around. His clothes were cleaned and folded in a basket ready for sorting. His magazines were stacked neatly on the coffee table. The house looked like it had been cleaned recently.

  He noticed a few music sheets were scattered around, one even poking out of the back of his recliner.

  Pax grinned. His gaze snagged on the crazy hot woman dancing around his kitchen.

  Jetta was twerking her arse for all she was worth, using the wooden spoon as a microphone as she explained that it was time to treat her like a lady.

  She spun and halted, her face immediately flushing red.

  “Pax!”

  He grinned, leaning against the breakfast bar. “Princess.”

  “I—” She stopped, moving to the remote and clicking the volume down. “I didn’t see you.”

  “Really? Was it the twerking or the head banging that distracted you?”

  She flushed brighter red. “How was your day?”

  “Oh no.” He rounded the bar, pulling her in to him. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

  “Pax….” She smiled up at him. “Be nice.”

  “I am.” He pressed his groin against her, making her laugh. “See? The twerking was hot.”

  She shook her head. “Go away and let me finish your dinner.”

  He bent down, pressing a long hot kiss to her lips, tasting the heat of her. Finally, he released her, grinning as she reached out to the bench to steady herself.

  “Going to hit the shower.” He stepped away. “Good to see the playlists are back.” He walked away listening to Jetta laugh.

  Jetta

  The shrill piercing ring of Pax’s mobile woke me. It was some godawful hour and I was dressed solely in a blanket and Pax. He’d wrapped himself around me after we’d collapsed following another incredibly satisfying and mind-blowingly orgasmic sex session. I wasn’t afraid to admit that at this stage he was an addiction.

  It was Thursday. Or more precisely, Friday morning. I’d reconnected with Pax a week ago and somehow we’d fallen into a domestic routine. During the day, he sent one of his guys over to housesit while I pottered around writing music or doing whatever I normally did, plus a few domestic chores like washing and cooking.

  I’d lived with Courtney for years, and while she was generally good, there were moments when I had wanted to kick her butt. But once she left and moved to Sydney, it had been just me, and while I enjoyed rediscovering who I was as an individual, I missed having someone come home at the end of their day. Someone who wanted to share their day with you. Someone to cook for and pick up after. And Pax showed his appreciation in numerous creative and exceptionally pleasing ways.

  The bedside lamp switched on, blinding me as Pax untangled himself and reached for the phone.

  “Yo.” His voice was rough from sleep and I felt a tingle in my lady parts. Damn him for being so sexy.

  His eyes blinked a few times then sharply darted to me.

  “I’ll be there. Text me the details.” He hung up, tossing the phone on the bed, reaching for me.

  I went, willingly curling myself around him.

  “As much as I want to stay in bed and collect on the promise I see in your eyes, I’ve got to go.” He kissed my forehead and started to exit the bed. My hand snaked out, grabbing his arm—staying his escape.

  “I’m sorry. You’re leaving?” I blinked and used my free hand to push a clump of hair off my face. “Where are you going? It’s ridiculous o’clock in the morning.” Paxton’s gorgeous green eyes came to mine and he shook his head.

  “I don’t have time to talk to you about this now, Jetta. I have to go. Work calls.”

  “Work?” I let him go but followed him as he got out of the bed. I trailed behind, wrapping the sheet around myself as he entered his walk-in robe.

  “Yeah, work.” He tugged open some drawers, pulling out boxer briefs, a plain black tee, and some jeans. As he quickly dressed, I felt emotions well up in me. Primarily confusion.

  I opened my mouth, “But—”

  “Jetta!” He swung around to face me, looking frustrated. “I can’t talk to you now. I will tell you what I can when I get home. Got it?”

  My mouth snapped shut and I nodded. He opened a closet I had yet to explore. It was slim, but tall. Inside was a locked safe with a keypad, on which he entered a PIN. The safe beeped and I heard the locks click open. Paxton twisted the handle and swung the door wide.

  Guns.

  Lots of guns.

  There were about seven inside. I was horrified, terrified, and mystified.

  “Are those—”

  “Not now, Jetta. We can talk about this when I get back.” He removed some of the guns from the safe, clipping them into the shoulder straps he now wore. A belt came out and into it went a Taser, another gun, a knife, a torch, and ammunition. I started to hyperventilate.

  Once he was done, Pax grabbed a long tailored black blazer and threw that on, effectively hiding the weapons from view. He turned back to me, wrapping an arm around me, pulling me close. Pax pressed his lips to my forehead.

  “See you when I get home.”

  With that, he was out of the closet, across the room to the bedside table to pocket his phone, wallet and a small bag from the drawer, and then he was gone. I stood unmoving, naked but for the sheet I held around me, as I heard the garage door shut and a few moments later, his car start and leave.

  “We’ll talk when I get home,” I repeated his words in a murmur as I stared unseeing at our rumpled bed. Correction. It was his rumpled bed.

  And just like that I was angry. No, I was enraged.

  “We’ll talk when you fucking get home?” I strode back into the walk-in to the far rear wall where my overflowing duffel bag had taken up residence.

  “The fuck we will.” I started pulling on clothes, angrily stuffing limbs into holes. I stalked to the kitchen and started making coffee. I knew if I called him, Pax wouldn’t pick up. A glance at his oven told me it was just before three in the morning.

  “I am responsible. I am rational. I am reasonable. I am worthy of respect!”

  My mantra didn’t work. I was in a blind rage. Work called you at three o’clock and you didn’t take two seconds to let your girlfriend know that you’re going to be okay? Where was the respect?

  Well, fuck him!

  For the next hour, I angrily smashed and slammed my way through his kitchen, making coffee I didn’t need and toast I didn’t want to eat. But I did because I was angry and was definitely not getting back into that bed.

  “I am responsible. I am reasonable. I am rational. I am worthy of respect.”

  I ignored the little voice telling me the anger was more about fear than it was about being passed over. Instead as 4:00 a.m. rolled around, I started to clean.

  “I am responsible. I am reasonable. I am rational. I am worthy of respect. I am—”

  I was dusting out his wardrobe when the gun safe caught my eye. I froze, realising my mistake. I’d been living in Pax’s house for nearly a week. In all that time I’d given him privacy and space. I’d respected his boundaries and not pried.

  “I.” Enraged, anger guiding all my actions, I started throwing open cabinets and pulling out drawers.

  “Am.” I ripped his clothes from hangers, throwing them about the room.

  “Responsible.”

  “I.” I found a knife hidden amongst the clothes in his drawer.

  “Am.” I pulled it out, throwing it amongst the others I’d tipped on the bed.

  “Reasonable.”

  “I.” A safe was tucked into the back of a cabinet.

  “Am.” I pulled it out, and dumped that on his bed as well.

  “Rational.”

  The cabinets that held safes, I left their doors hanging open. By the time I made it to his study, there were eight knives, three small gun lock boxes, a bunch of ammunition and two weapons cases that I’d been able to remove from their hiding spot
s.

  I spotted his study door. The big metal thing with multiple locks. He had explicitly told me that only he was to enter that room. As suddenly as I saw it, that door—that plain metal door—became a symbol of everything that was wrong with my world.

  My dead parents, leaving me with millions of dollars of debt and limited ways to repay it. The debts I finally settled.

  My drug-addicted sister. The debt I now couldn’t pay.

  My faux uncle who couldn’t assist me but could afford to fund his lifestyle.

  Pax, as my high school boyfriend, who left when I needed him.

  Pax, as the man he was now, the man who had taken my virginity. The man who had left and not taken even thirty goddamned seconds to let me know people were okay. That I shouldn’t worry or be scared.

  “I. Am. Worthy. Of. Respect!”

  I slapped my hands against the metal of the door, causing my palms to sting. I twisted the handle and found the door to be as I suspected—locked.

  That door became a symbol. A symbol for all the secrets between Pax and me. For everything that had stopped me from being who I wanted to be and doing what I wanted to do. It was the shattered dreams, the grief, the anger, the frustration, and the suppressed emotions of the last ten years.

  I’d never had a right to be selfish. I’d always had to be altruistic. Be the one who just did what needed to be done.

  I was the responsible one. The reasonable one. The one who was rational. And people had shat all over me.

  I lost my ever-loving mind.

  Britney Spears had nothing on me. Lindsay Lohan? More like Lindsay who? Those bitches had better move over. There was a new crazy in town. In a blind rage, I went out to Pax’s garage and raided his tools.

  Once, a few years ago, Courtney had been angry at me. I’d not allowed her to go on a ski trip because 1. We didn’t have the money and 2. She wasn’t prepared to get a job to earn it. So she’d locked herself in her room and thrown the key out her bedroom window.

  We’d been living on the third story of a five-story apartment building. After she’d calmed down, it had taken me an hour of searching the grounds outside her window to realise that I needed a locksmith.