Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 29

His grin sharpens. “Let’s just say… I get paid to make people sweat.” He leans in a little, voice dropping. “You play nice, I might let you watch me in action.”

“ I wasn't interested last time you offered, and that's yet to change,” I say, even though the curiosity is actually clawing at me.

I take a bite....warm, a little spicy, ridiculously good. It hits hard enough to shut me up for a second. The kind of flavor that makes your eyes close for a while before you remember you're being watched.

When I glance up, Jax is keenly watching me, chin tipped just slightly like he’s waiting to read my mind.

“It’s good,” I say, meeting his eyes. “Didn’t think you had taste.”

His mouth curves. “I’ve got excellent taste.”

His gaze dips...just briefly—before flicking back to mine.

“Present company included.”

My pulse trips. My fingers tighten on the taco as I take another bite, just to give my mouth something to do. I expect him to look away, but of course he doesn't. He thrives on making me uncomfortable.

" Careful, " I finally say, " Keep watching me like that and I'll start charging. "

He doesn't even blink when he says, " Bet you're worth every damn cent. "

There’s a beat of silence, one that stretches just long enough to register that he hadn’t planned to say that out loud. His smirk falters. He looks down, pulls another taco from the box like the food suddenly demands his full attention.

But the air between us is suddenly more charged. Crackling. Like the words are still hanging there, pressed up against my skin.

I don’t say anything. I just take another bite, heart hammering, pretending like I didn’t feel that slip straight down my spine.

And I hate that part of me is enjoying this. Stupid enjoying it. Like maybe this is what it would be like to actually get to know Jax, minus the questionable morals and occasional threats of homicide. Just a chill day in a park, a really nice food truck meal, and that electric tension humming under everything.

His tattoos catch my eye again—dark ink twisting down his forearms like smoke with secrets tangled in it. I’ve half-glimpsed them a few times. But now, intrigue wins over and I feel like I finally have the nerve.

Sort of.

I clear my throat and pretend like I’m not planning how to ask. Like I’m not being weird about it. I'm a tattoo artist. This should be normal.

I nod toward his arms, trying to sound casual. “Can I see them?.....Your tats?”

He tilts his head, studying me with those eyes that always look like they’ve seen through people and didn’t like what they found. We lock eyes. His stare holds too long, and I feel my own pulse kick up.

Then, wordlessly, he stretches his arm towards me.

I reach out before I think too hard about it, wrapping my fingers gently around his wrist. His skin is warm, the heat of him sinking straight into my bones. I trace a fingertip along the edge of the tattoo nearest his wrist....a tangle of fine lines that might be smoke, or waves, or barbed wire, depending on the angle. Symbols float in and out of it....an eye, maybe, or a dagger, or some animal skull—but they all blur just enough to be unreadable. It’s like the ink was made to mean something only if you already knew the story.

“This…” I murmur, half to myself, “what is it?”

“Nothing,” he says. His voice almost distant.

I glance up, and there’s something razor-sharp behind that stare, and yet it doesn’t cut...it pulls. Like gravity. My fingers are still on his skin, and now I’m hyperaware of it. The way his pulse beats under my thumb. The way the veins beneath his tattoos shift when he curls his fingers slightly.

The tension coils fast, almost dangerous. I let go and lean back, grabbing my taco like I’m starving. He doesn’t comment. Just watches me chew like I’ve got all the answers in my mouth.

Then he asks, “Why a tattoo artist?”

I shrug, swallowing. “Was in school. Art major, then like… a few weeks in, I took a friend to get their first tattoo. They were freaking out, but I couldn’t stop staring at how the artist worked. It hit me—this is still art. Just… alive. On someone. You don’t hang it on a wall and forget about it. It breathes and walks around. I don’t know. That stuck with me I guess.”

There’s silence after that. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just heavy.

“Layla and Addy keep grilling me about you.”

His eyebrow twitches. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And?” he asks, like he already knows where this is going.

“And I lie. Badly. They definitely know I’m lying.”

He hums, low in his throat, then he leans just slightly closer, his voice a notch deeper. “What exactly are you lying about?”

My stomach does that stupid fluttery thing it does when he looks at me like that.

I blink at him. “What?”

He scoots closer on the bench, slow and deliberate, sets his taco down next to him. We’re shoulder to shoulder now, his knee grazing mine. My skin fucking notices.

“What exactly do they ask you?” he says, quiet but clear. He’s watching me too closely.

I drag in a breath. “They ask what’s going on between us.”

He grins, “And why lie?”

I narrow my eyes, sensing where he's leading this. “Don’t.”

His chuckle is soft but it digs under my skin. “Come on,” he says. “ Tell me, Xander. ‘Cause I’ve been wondering too… What exactly is going on between us?”

It throws me a little. That flicker of real curiosity under the teasing. But I get my footing quick, meet his gaze and shoot back, “Shouldn’t you be the one answering that? You’re the one popping up everywhere I go. You’re the one messing with me constantly.”

He nods, almost like he’s conceding. Then he shrugs. “ You know what I want from you. I've made that pretty clear.”

I sit up straighter, jaw tight. “We had a rule. And if you’re still holding out some fantasy that this is gonna end with you in my bed—or me in yours—scrub it. It’s not happening. Why won't you just get that?”

I brace for his usual smart-ass reply, that smirk, a filthy line about eating me alive anyway. But it doesn’t come.

He just watches me. And somehow… that’s worse. I shift, clear my throat, and look away. “Where’d you grow up?” I ask. “Seattle, or…?”

He looks out at the park like he didn’t hear me. Then, just as I’m about to repeat it, he says, “Doesn’t matter.”