Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 32

JAX'S POV

It’s barely six. The sky outside’s still a gray bruise, bleeding slowly into daylight. I’ve been awake for hours, just sitting here....propped up against too many pillows, blanket tangled somewhere around my waist, staring at the half-empty bottle of whiskey and the crumpled pack of smokes on my nightstand like they’re taunting me.

My foot won’t stop tapping. Like I can jitter my way out of whatever the hell this is crawling under my skin. I drag a hand down my face, let out a low grunt, and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I rise, stiff and irritated, and pad barefoot across the cool floor to the balcony. The door creaks when I push it open, letting in that early morning chill. Feels like it cuts right through my skin. I welcome it.

I lean against the railing and look out over the city. Quiet, still. Honest, in a way it never is when it's awake.

And there it is again.

That fucking building.

My eyes catch on it like they always do. It's just sitting there, windows dark, plain as hell. I'm sure nothing about it stands out to anyone but me. My jaw tightens, and I can’t look away.

It’s just concrete and glass, but something about it drags me under every damn time. My chest tightens, my head gets loud. There’s a part of me that never really left that place. A part that rotted in its hallways and still whispers at me when I let my guard down.

And I just did.

I don’t even realize I’m clenching the balcony rail until my knuckles burn. Thoughts I’ve buried deep start clawing their way up again. I hear laughter that isn’t real. Taste darkness that isn’t there.

“Fuck,” I mutter and push off the railing hard.

I storm back inside, ignoring the cold sting of the floor on my feet. My phone’s on the bed, screen blank. No messages.

I'm guessing Xander blocked me.

Good. He should’ve.

My first instinct when I woke up was to go to his place. Bang on the damn door if I had to. I just needed to see him...be near him, even for a second. Maybe remind him who I am. Remind him that there's no running from me. Not really.

Hell, maybe I wanted to punish him. For walking away yesterday. For daring to look at someone else like that last night. For dancing with that guy like it meant something.

I actually fucking restrained myself.

This isn't me. I don’t do this spiraling shit. I don’t let anyone get under my skin, especially not some sharp-tongued, pretty-eyed guy with a voice that won’t leave my head.

But here I am. Obsessing. Watching. Wanting.

And last night? I almost decked that guy he was dancing with. My hands were curled into fists the whole damn time. One more second and I would've ruined the entire club scene.

All because he looked too happy. Too free.

I pace the room once, twice, then drop back onto the edge of the bed with a sigh.

I’ve gotta get it together. Adam asked me to take Layla shopping today, and I said I would.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to push the fog out of my skull. I can’t keep doing this. Letting Xander take up all the real estate in my mind. That was never the plan. He wasn’t supposed to matter.

He’s not supposed to matter.

I eye the bottle again.

It’s still there. Still half full. Still tempting the hell out of me from the table like it knows something I don’t. My fingers twitch, jaw locked so tight it aches. The longer I stare, the louder it calls.

One sip. Just enough to take the edge off. You’ve earned it.

I huff a bitter laugh and push off the doorframe. I don't want it. Not this early. Not when I know exactly where it takes me. My hands move on autopilot, grabbing the silver flask from the drawer like I’ve done a hundred times before. The weight of it is familiar, grounding. I flip it open, sniff, nothing but old copper, alcohol and ghosts....and carry it to the sink.

I fill it with cold water, then I lift it and take a swig. Closing my eyes and trying to convince myself it's something it's not. It’s cold. Too clean. Tastes like nothing and everything I’m trying to run from. I swallow hard, jaw ticking. Then I refill it, down another.

A breath shudders out of me.

I stare at the flask for a long second, turning it in my hand, watching the way the light hits it like it’s supposed to mean something. Maybe this is my way of tricking my brain into thinking I’m in control.

Third refill...down the hatch.

My stomach is sloshing and unsatisfied. My pulse still a drumbeat in my throat. But the bottle stays on the table. That’s gotta count for something. I run my tongue along the inside of my cheek, still craving the burn, but maybe today I can fake it. Maybe I can lie to myself just long enough to make it through the morning.

********

Layla doesn’t say much when she gets out. She doesn’t need to. She’s trying to pretend she’s not seconds from unraveling. I saw her white-knuckling the seatbelt after Miss Caviar-and-Couture floated over, all perfume and polished teeth. Saw how Layla flinched when the woman said Crest’s name like it belonged to her.

Didn’t even have to look her way to feel the shift. I didn’t wait for the spiral. I just drove...but I did call Adam to tell him I dropped her off...I'm considerate like that.

And now she’s probably safe inside with her boyfriend, and I’m parked in front of Revival Motors.

The place is glass and chrome, tucked between a cigar lounge and some overpriced art gallery. Real masculine energy. Clean and curated, like the people who buy from here actually ride. Not likely.

I step inside and am immediately hit with the scent of waxed leather and steel. They’ve got some jazzy lo-fi playing low from invisible speakers, the kind of soundtrack that says 'Welcome, you’re rich now.'

The floor gleams. The bikes shine harder.

And there she is.

Goddamn.

A 1972 Moto Guzzi V7 Sport. Black with chrome trim. Seat stitched in vintage saddle brown, like it’s spent years waiting for someone with taste.

I take a slow lap around it, fingers ghosting the handlebars. I saw her online a couple of months ago, listed under rare vintage acquisitions. My heart’s been whispering sweet nothings ever since.

“She's a beauty, huh?” comes a voice behind me...smooth, practiced, the tone of someone who smells desperation before it speaks. “We just brought her out from storage this week.”

I turn.

The guy’s tall, wearing a navy vest with the dealership’s gold crest stitched over his heart. Clean-cut, manicured, Rolex peeking out of his sleeve. Let’s call him Trent... he looks like a Trent.