Chapter 10

JAX

"What girl?"

The male voice behind me is hoarse with sleep.

My mother's eyes flick up, and I look over my shoulder as my eighteen-year-old brother strolls into the kitchen, wearing only boxer shorts.

Squeezing one eye shut to fight off the light, hecracks a smileat me.

"Why is everybody so quiet? I want to hear more about this girl."

"You always do…" my mother says, grinning softly.

She shifts her eyes to me.

"His girls drive me crazy," she confesses. "They're everywhere. I'm surprised you didn't find them sleeping on the stairs. They call, text, and show up uninvited," she drones on while Noah, my little brother, laughs, scooping out a bottle of water from the fridge.

"Who says they were uninvited?" he murmurs before gulping down water, a naughty smile creasing his lips.

"He's worse than you," my mother says, and I refute her claim with a grin.

She has none of my bullshit.

"Don't even try it," she says with a faint gesture. "The only difference was that you had never invited them here. I'm not so surehedid it, either. These girls…" She sighs. "One in particular is batshit crazy. I almost ran her over yesterday morning when I backed out of the driveway to go to work."

Her eyes go to Noah as he crashes into his seat.

"Who is she?" my mother asks.

He shrugs.

His chest is broad, his arms and shoulders chiseled, yet he is lanky, notyeta man.

"I don't keep track of them," he says, a playful smile on his lips while he brings his drink to his mouth.

He evades our eyes.

A concerned look slides over my mother's face.

"Maybe you should. Although, inhercase, I see a restraining order inherfuture."

"Nah," my brother dismisses my mother's fears with a flickof his hand. "She's harmless. They all are," he says, putting his water down and sliding his elbows onto the table.

His focus comes to me.

"What about your girl?" he asks, a shred of curiosity glinting in his eyes. He winks at me. "Is someone cute?"

I meet his enthusiasm with a reserved expression.

My mother looks at me with interest.

My eyes move between the two of them before she speaks.

"I thought it was Angelina."

"Who's Angelina?" my brother and I ask at once.

Noah dips his hand inside the pastry box and picks up a cookie. He won't go back to sleep anytime soon.

"It's the florist's younger daughter," my mother says.

"I have no idea who that is. Have I met the woman?"

"I thought so.Shewas at our house a few years back with her father."

I shake my head, baffled.

"I still have no idea who she is. What made you drop her name just now?"

Bits of walnuts crunch between my brother's teeth as he munches on his cookie and reads my mother's eyes.

I'm not surprised his boyish looks bring the girls to our door. He may be slender and not yet a man, but his charm is addictive like a drug.

He must lead these girls into believing all kinds of crap only to validate himself, and I don't blame him.

I was the same at his age, which wasn't that far back.

It's just that spending some time in jail has changed things for me in many ways.

The most striking one is how I look.

I used to be lean like him. NowI'ma walking tower of muscles. If I drop a door too hard, the walls shudder.

If I fall into a chair without much care for the frame, I break it.

IfI put my fist through something, I destroy it.

Spending so much time working out to control my anger and avoid killing someone for real has etched resentment in every hard line of my body.

But it's not only my muscles.

It's how I deal with people and look at life in general.

I no longer take things for granted and fight with everything I've got for what I deem important.

Noah is in a different place. He's young and innocent and likes to play with things.

And sometimes, those things are women.

But who am I fooling?

Those girls like to play with himtoo.

"She wants it to be Angelina," Noah says to me, his dark eyes gleaming with a smile. "Like she wants me to stick with one girl. Settle down and all that shit."

"I never said that," our mother retorts.

"I don't believe you," he says.

She makes a swift gesture, her gaze tilted down.

"Who wants you to settle down, little devil?" she murmurs. "Not me, for sure. I'm not ready to become a grandmother. I still have a teen in my house. And you're not that far off."

An amused chuckle peels off my brother's lips.

Her eyes meet mine.

"Are you going to tell me about Angelina?" I ask.

"It doesn't matter."

I study her face before sagging back in my seat with my arms foldedon my chest.

"You made me curious."

"She's a girl."

"How old is she?"

"Twenty."

"And you say I know her."

"You saw her for sure. Maybe she didn't catch your eye. She looks different now."

"She cute?" my brother interferes.

"Shut up," she saysnolonger in the mood for his comments.

"She's marriage material," my brother goes on, unfazed. "And that's her ploy to make you interested in her," he adds.

He's probably right.

I don't remember a girl named Angelina. I last walked into a flower shop when I was fourteen.

After that, whenever I brought flowers to my mother or my sister, I had people pick them up, and I delivered them.

"Forget about it," she says, pushing out of her chair.

She collects her plate and utensils before moving to the sink and turning the water on.

"Any chance she's heard of me?" I toss at her, irony lacing my voice.

If it's a ploy, this Angelina woman might not even know she's the topic of our conversations.

Keeping my stare on my mother's back, I wait for her to speak.

She softly shrugs and finishes washing her plate before turning the water off, patting her hands dry with a towel, and swiveling to me.

"You think I made her up?"

"No. I'mjustcurious what made you bring it up in the conversation."

Her eyes drill into mine, and I hold her gaze, knowingfull wellshe's picked up on something in my behavior.

That's why she started talking about women and girls and whatnot.

She knows me well.

Too well, as we've always been close.

Amongst us––her three kids––I'm the closest to her.

Maybe it"s because I'm the oldest of the bunch. And it's also perhaps because I've witnessed most of my father's abuse.

Sure, he didn't lay a finger on her, but there are worse ways to crush a soul.

She folds the kitchen towel and places it on the counter beforemoving her attention backto me.

"Every time I walk into Frank's shop, she comes to the front and asks about you. She always wanted to know if you were okay in prison."

"Now that's a conversation starter," I joke.

She doesn't smile.

"She saw you when you picked up your car from the shop last week, so she asked me about you on Sunday. She was at the church with her brothers and father, so we couldn't talk much, but I told her she should talk to you directly. She wanted to know if youwere seeingsomeone, and I said no. Was I wrong?"

She looks straight at me, waiting for an answer.

"No," I said after a moment.

"Good. That's all. I thought she had talked to you, but obviously, she didn't," she mutters, displeased.

Her eyes move away from me while my brother listens to us intently.

"Yeah, she didn't," I say. "What does she look like in case someone named Angelina approaches me?" I say in a lighter tone, hoping to positively affect her mood.

"I doubt she'll do it. Approaching men is frowned upon in her family—as it should be. Hey, at least I tried."

"Totally," Noah comments, mockery tinging his voice. He gives me a wink. "Marriage material, as I said," he continues.

My mother throws her hands up in the air, huffing with frustration.

"You two are both impossible."

My brother and I chuckle.

Mumbling stuff under her breath, she makes a beeline for the exit.

"Clean up when you're done," she tosses at us on her way out.

"What made you think it was about a woman?" I bark, realizing I'm talking too loud and may wake my sister.

She turns around and closes the kitchen door before adjusting her voice.

"It is about a woman. I can see it on your face."

My brother's eyes dart betweenthe two ofus before stalling on my face.

He wants to see what my mother sees.

Lifting an eyebrow, I give her a smile.

"What do you see?"

She gestures to my face.

"I see that smile and your eyes burning as if you are about to go on a hunt. It must be a woman."

Noah shifts in his seat and closely looks at me.

"Where do you see all that?" he asks, grinning.

I shoot my arm up, wrap my fingers around his neck, and pull him down.

"You don't need to see shit. Eat another cookie," I say, and we both laugh.

"Okay," my mother says. "Don't keep him up all night," she adds, looking at me. "He needs to go to school tomorrow morning."

"No worries," I say before she leaves the kitchen.

JAX

As soon asmy mother exits the room, Noah puts the half-eaten cookie down and peers at me. This time, he doesn"t smile, only looks at mewith curiosity.

"Who is she?"

I grab my beer, tilt it against my mouth, and empty it.

He doesn't move.

"How do you know it's a woman? It can't be what our mother said."

I slide my elbows onto the table, shift my eyes to him, and run my fingers through my hair.

"You act differently," he murmurs, and I give him a questioning look.

"Tell me," he says, stubborn. "Who isshe?"

"Why do you need to know?"

"She must be someone special if you're playing with us."

"I'm not playing with anyone."

Grinning, he wags his finger at me.

"You're not fooling anyone. I know you're dying to tell me abouther."

"Sure. You're fucking with me, brother."

"Does it work?"

"No."

A few seconds pass while he studies me, full of hope.

"Even if I wanted to tell someone, it wouldn't be you."

"Why?"

"You're running your mouth too damn much."

"I swear I won't do it this time."

"Like I believe you."

"Come on, man. I need to hear or see something interesting."

"What makes you think she's interesting."

"Like Mother said. Your fucking eyes."

"Watch your language, kid," I say, reaching inside my jacket and pulling out my phone.

"You've already got nudes?"

I change my mind and put my phone back in my jacket.

He protests immediately.

"No, no. Don't do that. I'll behave. Keep my mouth shut. I promise."

That will never happen.

His grin fades.

"She's not the kind of woman who sends you nudes," he murmurs.

I nod.

"Something like that," I mutter.

"Oh, fuck. No fucking way," he mumbles, and I shoot him an abrasive look.

"I'll zip it. But talk to me, man. I'm dying here. Mystery woman check. Youbeingfull of secrets and acting strange. Check and check. Who is she?"

I get my phone out, put it down, tap the screen, and open the pictures gallery before I scroll down.

"I didn't take a picture of her," I say. "This is what I found on the Internet."

I check the pictures myself again before showing them to my brother.

The first one is a snapshot of Melody Hill as a speaker at a business event. In the second one, she's with a guy at a party at the same event in the evening. Only this time, she"s wearing a cocktail dress.

Her mane rolls down her back, stray strands of hair touching her cheeks.

That's how I imagine this woman, only with her cheeks flushed, no dress, and her lips wearing a smile after spreading her legs open and fucking her into exhaustion.

Even looking at these pictures, it's clear that we belong to different worlds and have nothing in common.

Men like me never look at women like her.

For one, we can't have them, and then there isn't much we can offer them. And men–most men, anyway—don't like women like that.

Let's not fool ourselves. We like our women fawning over us, doing everything for us, and, more importantly, needing us in perpetuity.

We usually go for the loud type. The big mouths. The sassy type. The women we can have fun with.

Or the ones who can't draw a breath in our presence and never, in their lives, think about crossing us in any way.

That Angelina girl must be this type of woman. That's why my mother likes her.

When the man eventually settles down, having a kind, loyal, nurturing woman like that isnice.

Hey,I'll be the first to admit I wouldn't say no to someone like that. But Angelina didn't catch my eye.

This woman did.

Perhaps because I never considered I'd have such an effect on someone like her.

But when her eyes lit up, and her lips started to tremble, I knew I couldn't walk away.

"You're crazy," Noah says as he finally pushes out a few words, his eyes still trained on her.

He shifts his gaze to me.

"Are you for real, man? Is she married or something? Who's that dude?"

His index finger points to the man in the picture.

"I have no idea. The pictures are from a couple of years back.Hecould be anyone.She'ssingle now."

"For real?"

I give him a smile.

"Yeah."

"You talked to her and shit?" he asks, incredulous.

"Uh-huh."

"Where did you meet her?' he asks suspiciously.

"You think I'm making this up," I say, collecting my phone and sliding it inside my jacket.

"It's crossed my mind. You've got pictures from a website and shit. Why not?"

"She's real," I say, evading his eyes. "I ran into her in the city."

His stare burns through me.

"You can't be serious."

"I fucking am," I say, pushing the chair back and rising to my feet.

He looks up at me.

"There's no way…" he gestures to the table as if my phone is still there, his breath catching. "There's no way you can get that woman. Does she like you?"

I flash a knowing grin.

"More than you'd expect. And yes, I'll gether," I say, scooping up my jacket and moving toward the exit. "Go to sleep. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"You're crazy. She won't… She's not even…"

The more he talks, the more agitated he becomes.

I stop at the door and look at him.

"Go," I say. "And don't tell our mother. I don't want her up in arms."

"Uh-huh," he mumbles, his mouth open. "So what do you plan to do with that woman?" he asks as I pivot away and grab my boots.

My answer comes after a moment.

"Marry her…?" I say.

With that, I open and close the front door before beelining to my car.