Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 40

JAX'S POV

Fifth fight in three days.

My knuckles are split, ribs sore, neck stiff. I don’t even know how I’m still upright, but the ache is good...it keeps me from thinking. Keeps me moving.

The Pit’s backroom smells like sweat, iron, and old blood. I strip my shirt off, pace the cramped space, feeling the muscles in my back pull tight. I can’t remember who I’m fighting tonight, but it doesn’t matter...it’s just another body to hit until I’m empty enough to sleep.

I drop down onto the bench, elbows on my knees, drag a hand through my hair. Every bone in me is complaining. I like it that way.

That’s when my phone starts buzzing on the table.

Probably Dorian. Or one of his brothers. Or Adam. None of them I’m in the mood for, so I let it ring out.

It rings again. And again.

I sigh, lean over to check the screen, and freeze.

Xander.

For a second, I can’t even move. Just stare at his name like it’s a hallucination. Then my brain kicks in, and all I can think is what if he hangs up? My hand shoots out and I answer before I’ve even decided what to say.

I’m halfway to some cocky “Miss me already?” when the noise hits me...loud, pounding bass and the high-pitched blur of voices. Club noise. I pull the phone away, glance at the screen like that’s gonna explain it, then bring it back.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

“Xander?” I say louder.

There’s a pause, then his voice...thick, slurred, biting in that way that means it’s aimed at me but he’s not filtering a damn thing.

“God...what the hell did you do to me? Why...why can’t I get you out of my head for one damn second?! It’s like... you’re in my fucking lungs, in my blood...why?!”

The hair on my arms stands on end. He’s obviously drunk. Wasted.

“Where are you?” I demand.

He laughs, short and humorless, like he didn’t even hear me. “You should've stayed away from me....” His voice cracks, and it hits me low in my gut. “I can’t stop thinking about you, and I fucking hate it.”

I grit my teeth, the fight already forgotten, pacing now because the sound of him like this is worse than any hit I’ve taken all week. “Xander, focus. Where the hell are you?”

But he’s too far gone, spilling whatever’s been rotting in his chest straight into my ear, and every word sinks its claws in deeper.

“Xander!” I bark it now, sharp enough to cut through the bass on his end. Still nothing, just the muffled thump of music and the occasional burst of laughter that isn’t his.

“Fuck.”

I pull the phone back, check the screen. Still connected. “Hey, talk to me—”

The line goes dead.

“Shit.” I jab his name again, and again, pacing so hard the bench rattles against the wall. It rings out. I try once more, listening to each hollow buzz until it drops to voicemail.

My pulse is hammering. He was supposed to be at that damn fundraiser. Instead he’s out there somewhere, drunk enough to unblock and call me just to spill his guts and then disappear.

I swipe out of the call screen and head straight for his socials. There’s a new story...blurry neon, Addy’s arm hooked around his shoulders, both of them throwing back shots like it’s a race. No location.

“Come on, come on…” I mutter, jumping over to Addy’s page. My thumb scrolls like it’s on fire. Then..there. Another clip, her laughing into the camera, and the little text at the top makes my stomach unclench just enough to breathe. @Obsidian.

I’m already yanking my shirt back on. One hand reaches for my jacket, the other for my bike keys, my brain mapping the fastest route even as I open a new tab to check the address. Fucking Midtown. I lock it in my head.

The hallway outside the backroom smells like beer and sweat and anticipation, the crowd noise swelling from the ring. I’m halfway to the exit when Sam rounds the corner.

“Yo—where the hell are you going? Your fight’s in like two minutes.”

“Something came up,” I say, not slowing.

“The hell you mean something came up?!”

I’m already gone, boots pounding against concrete, ignoring the rest of whatever he’s shouting. The only thing that matters is the image of Xander in some stupid club, drowning himself in everything I should’ve been there to stop.

The second I roll into the street outside Obsidian, I’m already running hot.

The bass is rattling the pavement, neon spilling out of the doors in quick, dirty flashes, and there’s a snake of bodies waiting to get in. I don’t even slow. I gun the bike right up to the curb, kill the engine, and cut through the line like it’s not even there.

“Hey—” The bouncer’s a wall in a black shirt, hand already coming out to stop me. My knee slams up into his gut, and as he folds, I crack him once across the jaw and once in the ribs for good measure. He hits the ground gasping, and I’m already through the door before his brain catches up.

Inside is worse. Lights strobe like they’re trying to blind me, and the music’s a constant, bone-deep thump. I pull out my phone, thumb hitting Xander’s name again. No answer. My jaw tightens.

Screw this. I start pushing through the crowd, shoving bodies aside. There’s a set of stairs off to the left, a rope, and some guy in a suit standing guard. He steps in front of me with that "VIP-only" smirk.

I don’t even slow. A right hook to the temple, and he’s out of my way. I take the stairs two at a time.

Upstairs, I pause just long enough to scan the floor. Booths, clusters of laughing idiots with bottles, and....

My chest seizes.

Far corner. One booth. Xander, hunched over the table like he’s trying to fold himself in half. Not moving.

I’m already moving before I realize it, shoving past a girl carrying a tray of drinks. Two big guys in black security polos are sweeping the floor. I know exactly who they’re looking for.

I rush and drop down into the booth, grab his shoulders. His head lolls. “Xander.” My voice is sharp, too loud in the pounding music, but he doesn’t stir. Addy’s slumped beside him, out cold. Perfect.

“Fucking idiots,” I mutter, sliding an arm behind his back to make him sit upright. His head falls toward me, heavy, warm. My hands cup his face, fingers against his jaw, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. His skin’s flushed from the alcohol, damp from the heat of the place. His lashes rest against his skin like he’s just asleep.

My chest is tight in a way I hate.

I keep my hands there, holding him steady, looking at him like maybe I can figure out why the hell seeing him like this feels worse than any fight I’ve taken in years.