Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 12

It's 4 a.m Wednesday morning when my phone rings.

Only five people ever call me. Three of them are a long story.....old ghosts with familiar voices who still check in, like time didn't move on. One is Adam. Then there’s Sam.

I don’t need to check the screen to know it’s the latter, but I do anyway.

I sigh into my pillow, drag the phone closer, press it to my ear.

“Tell me.”

“Saturday night.” Sam's voice is sharp, like always. “It’s official. You and Silas Kane.”

I grunt, dry and unbothered. “Got it.”

I’m already going for the hang-up when his voice kicks back in.

“Wait...seriously, Jax. You should come in for drills.”

I roll onto my back, stare up at the ceiling with a bitter twist to my mouth. It’s still too early for this crap. “Practice?”

“Yes. Practice. You remember that thing fighters do to not get knocked the hell out in front of hundreds of bloodthirsty degenerates?”

“Heard of it.”

“Well, try it sometime. We've got a lot riding on this. You might scare the locals, but this guy's from a different hell. They don’t call him 'Blackout' for nothing.”

I snort. “ I’m guessing by ‘a lot riding on it,’ you mean the cash you’ll make from all the morons you convinced to bet on me.”

Sam laughs like it’s funny. “Don’t be such a dick. I believe in you.”

“Uh huh.” I swing my legs off the bed.

He’s still mid-sentence when I hang up.

The room is quiet again, but the sleep’s gone.

I reach toward my nightstand, flip open the flask that never stays full long. I down the last of the whiskey, a sharp burn that reminds me I’m alive. Barely.

Not even seven, and here I am chasing ghosts with liquor.

Again.

I sit still for a second, elbows on my knees, phone in my hand. Open the last text I sent to Xander.

" Keep playing hard to get. I like the hunt"

Still unread. Or ignored. Same difference.

I toss the phone back onto the bed with a quiet thunk, roll my knuckles in my palm.

My head’s pounding, a low, mean throb behind my eyes. I grab my pack of cigarettes, shove open the sliding door to my balcony, and step out.

Cold wind bites across my bare chest.

I like it.

It slices through the whiskey haze and lets the rest of me feel something. I light up, take the first drag, and exhale toward the clouds. From up here, the city’s ugly. Crooked buildings trying to be tall. Pothole-strewn roads pretending they’re not broken.

Same as people.

My eyes land on that tall building a few blocks down. The one I always stare at every morning.

They painted it.

Used to be a dirty brown, the kind that matched the ground on a rainy day. Now it’s some soft blue-gray shit that’s trying too hard to be modern.

It pisses me off.

The change. The nerve of it. Like it’s better now. Cleaner. Lying through its damn teeth.

“Fuck off,” I mutter under my breath, eyes narrowing at the thing. I take another drag. Deeper this time. My fingers tremble just slightly where they hold the cigarette. Not from the cold. Not from the alcohol. Just something under the surface.

I decide to cook. It’s either that or claw my own skin off.

Yesterday, I tried this hyped-up place tucked in a cobbled corner of the West End. Tiny joint with too much attitude and not enough sense. The kind of spot where they serve food on slabs of wood and call it rustic. Reviews online made it sound like God opened a kitchen on Earth, but no. Bland, confused seasoning. Heat in all the wrong places. I’d mentally rewritten half their menu before I left. Even their damn cutlery pissed me off. By the end of it, I’d memorized the things I’d fix. Hell, I could improve half of it with one pan and five brain cells.

I’m going to prove it.

I kill the stub of my cigarette in the dish on the window pane, the bitter tang of ash still coating my tongue. Grab my phone off my bed and step into the hallway. Every room in this house looks like it’s waiting to be lived in...walls bare, furniture like it’s staging a hostage situation. A couple of mismatched chairs, a sad coffee table, and a couch that groans like it’s been punched in the gut every time I sit. No art. No clutter.

Except for the kitchen.

It took me three months to get it right. Stainless steel everything. Matte black counters, sharp enough to slice your reflection. The backsplash is a cool gray subway tile, perfectly spaced, no grout out of place. Knives sit on a magnetic strip like weapons on display. My stove’s a six-burner gas beast...imported, expensive. Cabinets deep enough to get lost in. Spices labeled in my own scrawl. The fridge doesn’t hum, it purrs. Lights are soft, overhead, built into the hood, casting clean shadows across the counter like I’m about to perform surgery.

I toss the phone on the counter and wash my hands, jaw flexing as the water runs hot.

I pull the ingredients from the fridge....steak, chili, garlic, scallions, tamarind paste. Their chef tried to get clever with a sticky glaze and managed to land somewhere between bland and burnt. I’ll show them how it’s done.

The pan hits the flame with a satisfying hiss. Oil glides across it like silk. Knife in hand, I start chopping....quick, sharp, practiced. The rhythm centers me. Keeps the noise at bay.

As the aroma starts to rise, something loosens in my chest. Nothing like the bite of chili in the air to clear your head.

By the time I plate, the kitchen smells like I actually give a damn. I sit at the counter and dig in. Fork to mouth, chew, nod. That’s what food’s supposed to taste like.

Halfway through what I guess is technically breakfast, my phone buzzes.

I pause, fork mid-air.

Just like with calls, I hardly get texts. I glance at the screen. Not a text.

Just a notification.

The one I set up over a year ago like a damn addict.

"x.devereauxx just posted."

Of course he did.

Because stalking him physically wasn’t enough, now I’m the proud owner of digital alerts like some desperate jerk.

Even I think it’s pathetic.

Still…I click it.

And yeah. Mirror selfie.

Shirtless. Again.

Third one this month.

He’s not even trying to be subtle, standing there like temptation and sin. Hair messy, jaw locked, tattoos like art across almost every damn surface. He knows what he’s doing. His phone’s held in one hand, like he just got back from somewhere sweaty and decided now was the time to wreck the internet.

The comments are already a cesspool.

Half are from guys he’s definitely fucked. The other half are lining up to be next.

And then there’s the girls, crying in all caps about how it’s a tragedy he’s gay, as if that’s ever been up for negotiation.

I stare.

His apartment’s in the background.... industrial, stupidly clean. I remember the smell of it. Sandalwood and detergent. He left his damn door unlocked once and I’d had a few sips too many off my flask. Walked right in while he was still at work.

Didn’t touch a thing. Just stood there. Looked around like a freak.

His gym bag’s on the floor, same one he always uses. It’s Wednesday.

Leg day.

He’s going to the gym.

I smirk, leaning back, still chewing.

Guess I know what my morning looks like.