Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 54

It’s 12:30 when I grab my keys. I don’t even make it to the door before Addy’s voice slices through the room like she’s caught me stealing from her cookie jar.

“Where are you going?”

I keep it simple. “Picking up a package.”

Layla lifts her head from her phone like a cat sniffing bullshit. “Package from where?”

“Shop.” I don’t slow down.

“What shop?” Addy chimes in, eyes narrowing.

“The fucking package shop, what do you care?” I fire back, flicking my wrist like that’s all the explanation they’re getting. I don't think I sound defensive at all.

Addy folds her arms. “ I'm getting a strong whiff of something suspicious. ”

I glance at Layla...mistake. She’s already smirking, tag-teaming this like they’ve been training for it.

“Yeah,” she adds, all sweet menace. “What’s in the package?”

“Stuff.”

“What stuff?” Addy pushes.

“Personal stuff.”

They look at each other, eyes wide, mock-serious, like they just cracked a case. Addy gasps theatrically. “He’s being shady.”

Layla nods solemnly. “Definitely shady. Maybe it's drugs. Or sex toys.”

I tell them to quit it, but instead Addy leans forward. “I'm giving you a chance to come clean. Otherwise I'll be heartbroken...you're hiding shit from us. ”

I snap my head between the two of them like I’m watching tennis. My pulse’s ticking, not from nerves but from sheer suffocation. “You know what? I don’t care what the hell you believe. Think it’s drugs, think it’s a twelve-inch dildo, think I’m running a secret meth lab out the back....whatever makes you happy. I’m leaving.”

I shove the keys in my pocket and push past them toward the door. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

Addy whistles low behind me. “A whole hour? Must be one large package.”

Layla laughs. “Maybe he's the package.”

I don’t look back. If I do, I’ll probably end up strangling them both and hiding their bodies in the backroom. I hear Layla shouting behind me...

“Don’t think you’re slick. We know who you’re sneaking off to meet, and trust me.... I'll die judging! My judgment’s already rotting in its grave!”

I ignore her.

It’s only a twenty-minute walk, but it feels like I’m dragging my nerves behind me the whole way. By the time I get to the antique store, my stomach’s tight and my palms won’t quit sweating. I stop at the door, debating whether to go in or just wait outside. Feels pathetic, but the idea of strolling inside like some desperate kid waiting to get picked up? No thanks.

So I wait. Five minutes. Seven. Ten. I keep checking my phone like that’ll make time move faster, like maybe if I glare at the screen hard enough, the universe will cut me a break. But all I can think about is the possibility of getting stood up. I know myself, I’ll pretend I don’t care. But inside... That’ll fucking gut me.

Eventually, I sigh, shove my phone back in my pocket, and push through the door.

The smell hits me immediately, same familiar mix of dust, old wood, and varnish. Usually it’s comforting, grounding. Today it just makes my chest ache.

“Xander,” the saleslady beams at me from behind the counter. She’s this sweet, silver-haired woman who once tried setting me up with her granddaughter before I told her she’d be wasting both our time. She took it well. Still likes me.

“Hey,” I manage, giving her a smile that probably looks better than it feels.

“Just browsing?” she asks.

“Yeah. I’ll have a look around.”

“You know where to find me,” she says warmly, before turning back to her book.

The store’s one of my favorites, rooms within rooms, shelves packed with things that all feel like they’ve got a story. Normally I’d be in heaven. Today, I can’t focus on a damn thing. My eyes skim past rows of trinkets, carved furniture, stacks of old records, but none of it sticks. I’m just walking in circles, trying not to look like I’m waiting for something.

And then…

The sound.

The low, unmistakable rumble of a bike engine. My heart kicks against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. I freeze, every nerve in my body lit up, my mouth going dry.

It gets louder, closer, then cuts off. Silence.

The door creaks open.

From where I’m standing, I’ve got the perfect vantage point.

And just like that, every drop of dread is replaced with raw, unfiltered adrenaline.

The bell above the door jingles.

I don’t even have to look. My body knows before my eyes do. The shift in air, the kind of tension you can’t fake.

But I look anyway.

And there he is. White t-shirt, clinging just enough to show muscle and line. Dark blue jeans. He looks… casual. Which is infuriating, because casual on him is lethal. Maddening, really.

His eyes narrow as he takes the room in. The saleslady pipes up with some chipper line, but he barely acknowledges her. He’s already locked on me.

Those eyes don’t let go as he crosses the shop. Each step is unhurried, like he owns the place....or me.

He stops in front of me, gaze flicking once around the shop, then sliding back. His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Cozy.” Dry as sandpaper, but somehow it still hits low in my gut.

I hate how relieved I sound when I say, “You came.”

Jax doesn’t miss it. His head tilts, eyes narrowing further. “ You asked me to.” Like it was never a question.

He picks up a clock from the shelf...small, brass, fussy little details, turns it over in his hands like he’s actually inspecting it. Except he’s not. He’s playing with me, giving himself something to do while he winds the tension tighter.

Then he glances up, smirk settling in like it belongs there. “Miss me?” The way he says it...smug, smooth, every word dipped in heat, like he already knows the answer.

My throat works against me. I try for wit, for a sharp dodge, something smart. Nothing sticks. The plain truth slips out instead, raw and uncloaked. “Yeah. I did.”

That makes him pause. Just a fraction, but I see it. The surprise flicker, quick as a shadow. He scoffs a second later, brushing it off, setting the clock back with unnecessary precision. Like I didn’t just rattle him.

He straightens, eyes back on me, voice smooth again. “You looking for something specific or....?”

Yeah. Trouble. Always trouble.

“I’m just looking around. It's therapeutic,” I say, though it sounds like a weak cover even to me. My eyes skim the shelves, land on a chipped vase, then back to him. “But your place is in serious need of some decorating.”

Jax doesn’t even glance up from the music box he’s pretending to admire. “My place is fine.”

“Fine?” I huff a laugh. “More like bleak. Serial killer chic.”

He smiles faintly but doesn’t bite. My gaze snags on a shelf lined with old books, leather spines cracked with time. I drift over, running my finger across the dust-coated titles.