I try to put my arms around him, but he pulls away. He’s breathing hard, his bottom lip swollen and wet. “I’m going now before I say something I’ll regret.”

Part of me regrets ever meeting him. Because this hurts too much. I could go with him. I could lose myself in him. Even as I think it, my entire body freezes in fear so violent, I swallow convulsively. I can’t do it. I can’t leave this house.

He searches my face for some sign. Whatever he sees has his jaw clenching. His fingers bite into my upper arms. “We aren’t done. Do you hear me? Not even close to done.”

“I don’t want to be done,” I whisper.

His teeth meet with a loud click. “Then stop being a coward and get your ass to New York.”

When I don’t say anything, he curses and strides away. The door slams in his wake. And he’s gone.

Chapter Eleven

Killian

 

New York will always be my home. It has a strange effect on me: instantly relaxing and instantly energizing. Going to meet Jax, however, is another story. My fingers drum a beat against my thigh as I ride the private elevator up to his apartment. Scottie offered to arrange a meeting on neutral ground, but I rejected the idea. Jax isn’t my enemy. He never was and never will be.

Doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to this.

The elevator opens directly onto his foyer.

Two years ago, a magazine did a huge spread on Jax at home. Jax showing off his industrial loft, living the life of a young rock star. What they never knew is that it was all a lie. It wasn’t even Jax’s place; it was Scottie’s.

Jax’s real home looks like something an old New York society matron would live in: dark wood floors, crown molding, rich colors on the walls, classic artwork in ornate gold frames. It makes me laugh every time I visit because I half-expect Jax to greet me wearing a smoking jacket and clutching a pipe.

“Every time you walk in here, you’re smirking.”

Jax’s voice halts my progress. I hadn’t even noticed him.

He’s leaning against the arm of a green velvet settee in his parlor—yeah, he has a parlor, for fuck’s sake.

I stare at him for a second. He’s bulkier than I’ve seen him, his color healthy, his light brown hair longer than usual, almost reaching his collar. I set my guitar case down. “It’s because I’m expecting to be greeted by a butler. Or maybe find a little poodle yapping at my feet.”

“I’ve been thinking of getting a dog.” Jax stands. The corners of his eyes crease, his head cocking to the right. I know his face as well as my own. Better, because I’ve seen it since we were six years old. So I know he’s tense and hating it.

That makes two of us.

I drop all pretense and move across the room to pull him into a guy hug, giving his shoulder a slap. “Fucking idiot,” I say gruffly. “You look good.”

He hugs me back before we break apart. “You look like shit. What the fuck did you do to your hair?”

I know he’s bullshitting me, but my hand reflexively goes to my shorn hair. For an instant, I don’t see Jax but Libby standing before me, her small breasts trying their hardest to poke through the thin tank she’s wearing, her cheeks flushed, and her hands shaking as she cuts my hair. I can almost feel her fingers sliding along my scalp again, manipulating my head in the direction she wants it.

Christ, just thinking about her makes my chest hurt.

“Something I should have done a while ago,” I say lightly, like I’m not fucked up inside.

Jax nods, but doesn’t say anything else. We stand there, looking at each other, neither of us speaking. It’s been this way since he woke up in the hospital. Me, because I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t end up with me shouting at his dumb ass, and Jax?

I used to know what he was thinking just by looking at him. Or I thought I did. I’ve realized I didn’t know shit.

“Well,” Jax says, breaking the silence. “You want a drink or something?”

“No. I’m good.”

He nods again, then curses. “Fuck it, Kill, just get it out.”

Get it out? I don’t even know where to begin. Heat swamps my chest and pushes its way up my throat. My fist connects with his chin, and Jax hits the floor, knocking over a side table on his way down.

“Jesus.” Jax rubs his face and gives a weak laugh. “I forgot how hard you hit.”

I flex my fingers. “I didn’t know I was going to do that.”

“I did.” He grunts and slowly rises to his feet, waving off my offer of help. Jax touches his lip where a bead of blood wells. “You feel better?”

“No.” I head to the kitchen to get some ice. “My hand fucking hurts.”

“Yeah, sorry my face got in the way.” He catches the ice pack I toss him. “You gonna ice that hand?”

I want the pain. “I didn’t hit you that hard.”

Jax snorts and heads over to an old fashioned sidebar. His mini fridge is stocked with bottled waters and juices. A big change from the beer and vodka that used to fill it. “Want something?”

“A cranapple.”

We drink our juice like good little boys until I can’t take it any more. “It was the worst fucking moment of my life. Finding you.” I swallow hard and stare down at my reddened knuckles. “I get that it was worse for you. Doesn’t help. I…you scared the fuck out of me.”

“I know.” His expression is hollow, the ice pack lying limp in his hands. That day, his green eyes had been bloodshot and dull. They’re glossy now, and he blinks, looking off. “I wasn’t thinking about you. Or anyone.”

“I was your best friend. And you just… You could have come to me.”

He huffs, trying to smile but failing. “You would have tried to make it better.”

“Damn fucking right I would.” I push off the chair I’ve been leaning on and pace to a window half-obscured by red silk curtains.

“I didn’t want to be fixed,” he says. “Not then.”

I can’t even answer.

Jax sighs. “If I’d been in my right mind, I would have done things differently. But that’s the problem; I wasn’t.”

My fingers dig into the silk. “You gonna do it again?”