22. Arianne

Sleep is fitful.

I toss and turn and stare at the ceiling in the dark.

Halo didn't explain where he was going, and I didn't ask. But I'm assuming anything that requires the weapons and clothing choices he made has to be trouble.

For the twentieth time tonight, I reach for my phone. It's three thirty already. I type out a quick message.

Just tell me you are safe and unhurt so I can sleep.

I hold my phone, waiting for a sign that he's replying, but none comes. The phone bounces along the bedding after I toss it.

I'm in Halo's bed. His neatly made bed with folded corners. The sheets smell like him. I wondered if feeling closer to him would make tonight easier. In some ways, it did. But it made me worry more.

I gave up on my own bed when even my romance book couldn't hold my attention. Which is saying something because the Mafia hero just kidnapped a rival family's daughter who is fifteen years younger than him and told her to be a good girl.

Closing my eyes, I try to quiet my mind and breathe deeply, but my attempts are ruined when I hear the roar of a motorbike pull up to the house.

There's the rumble of the garage door as Halo lowers it. Then I hear the front door click shut, the thud of heavy boots being dropped, and the creak on the sixth step up the stairs.

My heart trips when I hear him open Lola's door and whisper her good night. It trips again when I hear him pause outside the room he thinks I'm sleeping in. "Good night, kitten," he says.

There's a weariness in his voice and in his gait as he finally enters the room. In the dark, he doesn't immediately notice me, and I'm holding my breath, staying as still as I can possibly be.

With his back to me, he slides his shirt over his head. "Breathe, Ari," he says without turning around.

The air comes out on a whoosh. "I missed you."

"Is that why you're in my bed?"

"That and other reasons," I admit.

Without turning a light on, he comes and perches on the edge of the bed next to me. "Yeah?"

"I was worried about you. You were on my mind."

He squeezes my hip. I can see the outline of his features as he looks at me. "I guess here in the dark I can admit I was thinking about you too."

I place my hand over his, and we interlock our fingers.

"The wildest thing happened tonight," he says. "Caused me to think about some shit."

I tuck my bent arm beneath my head. "Tell me."

He shakes his head, but the smile he offers is fake. "I'm fine, Ari."

"Please don't pretend you're okay. Not tonight. I want to know when something bothers you, Jackson."

I use his real name, drawing him away from the biker and back to the man he is.

"Like the way my name sounds on your lips." He brushes his thumb over them. "There were these brothers. Two of them. Too fucking young to be caught up in what they were. But they didn't have any other options. Said they were there for a roof over their heads. And the older brother, he said he was there just to make sure his younger brother was looked out for."

"Feeling like you have no options is the worst."

"The kid's name was Jax, Ari. Just like me. Both of us without parents. My dad is dead because he was careless. My mom left because she couldn't deal with Dad's behavior, but she left me behind with him like I was dirt. Like I'd ruin her new life or some shit."

"Oh, Jackson," I say as I lift myself up and throw my arms around his neck. "You aren't dirt. Far from it. You're like…" I grasp for any kind of comparison. "You're carbon. Isn't that what becomes a diamond under pressure?"

Jax buries his head against my neck. My poor lost child.

"I miss my parents, Ari."

Grief isn't a continuum. It doesn't just get better and better until you're fixed. Does it shift from being all-consuming? Certainly. But one day you're fine again, living your life, and the next the scent of a familiar perfume sends you spiraling to a level of despair you can barely comprehend.

Even capable men like Jackson.

I stroke his back and slide my hand into his hair. "It's okay, sweetheart."

He doesn't cry. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't shake.

He just holds me close.

Intimately.

And lets me soothe him.

The mood shifts between us. There's a dance between comfort and need. The thin cotton of my pajamas and his T-shirt separates us, but I can feel the heat of his chest.

His breath tickles the side of my neck, his hands slide beneath the hem of my T-shirt to tug me closer.

Finally, he lifts his head, and I move to kiss him, but he stops me. "Fucking futile to think I'd be able to keep my hands off you tonight, but not while I've got the stench of death on me. At least let me shower first."

I wiggle out of the sheets. "I have an idea," I say as I climb out of bed and offer him my hand.

He takes it and lets me lead him to his half-finished new bathroom. "The shower in this one doesn't work."

"I know." I turn the light on. "We need the bath. Stay there." I leave him with his back to the boxes that I guess are going to become the vanity.

The bathtub is a gorgeous contemporary white tub. Sleek lines and silver fittings. I set the tap to pour at the right temperature, then hurry to the other bathroom and grab the bubble bath we use for Lola. It's a sleep-inducing one with lavender that I hope will work as well on Jax as it does on her. I grab clean towels and some other supplies I need on my way out the door.

Jax. Jackson. I think I prefer his real name in intimate moments like this. When it's just the two of us.

He hasn't moved. His arms are folded, and he's looking down at the floor. I tip some of the bubble bath into the tub and place the bottle on the side.

I put the towels and the other things I grabbed next to the tub.

"Let me," I say, uncrossing his arms. I reach for his cut to slip it off.

"I don't usually let anyone else touch my cut."

"Then tonight will be a first." Gently, I slide it off his shoulders. He's usually gruff and in charge, but tonight I think he needs softness.

I place it carefully on the chair outside the bathroom door. The weapons are gone, but his holster remains, and I remove it. He's wearing a black T-shirt. There are sweat marks all over it. I slip it from his black military-style trousers and pull it over his head.

Jax raises his head, his eyes searing me with emotions he seemingly can't put words to. I run my hands over his shoulders, over his chest, down his abdomen until I reach the now empty weapons belt he was wearing earlier.

I don't ask where they've gone, simply remove it.

When I drop to my knees, Jax tries to stop me. "You don't need to do this."

With a smile I say, "I know."

I remove his socks and notice that his heels are a little dry and cracked. I'll fix that later, but I love that he has a singular imperfection. His jeans are easy to remove. His boxer briefs, a little harder.

His cock is soft, which, considering I'm on my knees, says a lot about his frame of mind.

Jax offers me his hand, and I stand, glancing at the bathtub. "Get in," I say.

"Will you get in with me?" He releases his hair from the braid but immediately puts it up in a messy bun I'd be proud of.

"Not yet."

Jax lumbers into the tub, eases back against it, closes his eyes, and sighs. "I'm fucking tired," he says quietly.

"You've had a lot to deal with. Your dad and his estate. Taking responsibility for Lola. Whatever is happening at the club. Me."

He smiles at that. "You aren't any bother. And you help with the other stuff. Lola. The house. Me."

It's my turn to smile as he repeats my phrasing. I dip the jug I rinse Lola with into the water and pour it over his shoulders and chest. Then I grab the washcloth, dip it in the water, and begin to wash him.

The house is quiet around us as I make my way over his body. He chuckles as I lift his arms and clean his armpits, but otherwise, he keeps his eyes closed. His chest rises and falls in a steady pattern as I wash over the hair and the ink that covers his pecs.

His abs ripple as I clean them too. It's intimate, but not sexual, even as I see his cock harden. There'll be no sex tonight.

I want him to rest.

I move to the bottom of the tub and start on his feet, cleaning between his toes, which also makes him laugh.

"I need to remember you're ticklish, Jackson Flynn."

He opens his eyes. "Why?"

"I don't know. It seems like information it might be useful to have."

"Because you might need it in the future?"

I pause at that. "I hope to be here in the future, so yes."

He sits up at that, water splashing everywhere, wetting my pajamas. "Good," he says before pressing his lips softly to mine. "Because that was the other thing I was thinking about today, when I saw those two kids living in that shithole. Life is too fucking short to walk away from the best thing that ever happened to you because you don't think the timing is right. Or because she's too young to know better."

I splash water in his face at that. This time his laughter echoes off the tiles as I rest my chin on my arms on the rim of the tub.

"You really mean that?" I ask.

His eyes focus on me so intently, I swear he can see into my soul. "With all that I am."

My heart skips a beat as warmth seeps through me. "Can you tell me where you were tonight?"

Jax reaches for my face with a wrinkled finger and strokes my cheek. "I was looking for information about my brother."

"Did you find any?"

"I did. I now know his real name. It's not Bradley Collins. It's Daryll West. It'll make him easier to find."

"Are you going to kill him?"

"I'm going to do what I have to do. There are some things you shouldn't know. Club business is just that. Club. Business. I won't be able to tell you everything you might want to know."

"I'm strangely okay with that."

"Good."

"Is it going to be dangerous?"

Jax sighs before splashing a handful of water over his face. "No more dangerous than sitting here waiting for him to come for us."

I swallow as I nod. "Then I trust you to do whatever it takes to keep us safe. Let's get you dry."

I hand him a towel to wrap around himself, but I take a second one and dry off the exposed skin. As I do, Jax braids his hair, pulls an elastic off his wrist, and ties it off.

"Come to bed," I say finally and take his hand, but he tugs me to him.

"A man could get used to this," he says, pressing a soft kiss to my lips.

And as I melt into him, I think a woman could too.