Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 83

The sound drags me out of sleep...sharp, metallic. My phone.

I blink blearily at the ceiling, then fumble for it somewhere beside me. Past nine. I’d only meant to close my eyes for a second, but the covers still cling to me like I’ve been out for hours. Xander’s name glows on the screen.

I swipe, bring the phone to my ear. My voice comes out rough. “Hey.”

“Were you asleep? You sound groggy.” His voice is lower than usual, and I have to close my eyes for a beat because it does something to me.

“Yeah. Took a nap.” I rub a hand over my face, trying to push the heaviness out of my bones.

“Oh.” There’s a pause, then...“Should I call later?”

“No.” It’s too fast, too eager. I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed to ground myself. I smooth it over before he can catch it. “I mean, I was about to get up anyway.”

“Good.” His voice warms, and I can hear the smile through it. “You free? Want to hang out?”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “We were together yesterday morning.”

“I know, but still…” His words trail for a second, then land soft, simple, undoing me, “I want to see you.”

It shouldn’t hit the way it does, but my chest aches with it. My mouth pulls into something that almost feels like a smile before I even realize.

“You got work or anything?” he asks.

I shake my head before answering, though he can’t see me. “No.”

Truth is, just hearing his voice is smoothing out edges I didn’t even realize were still cutting into me when I fell asleep. The tension in me eases like his tone is a balm. I almost forget myself in it.

“Then I’ll come over,” he offers.

And just like that, the sound crashes through, glass breaking, a muttered curse. My head jerks toward the closed door. Nate. For a second I’d forgotten the bastard was even here, but reality slams back in hard.

“You okay?” Xander asks, like he heard something in the silence I leave behind.

I hesitate, my throat tightening. I could tell him. Could say I’ve got a friend crashing here. Except Xander wouldn't leave it alone. He’d start pulling at it, and I’d have no answers to give him. And Nate...he won’t be here long. No sense in sparking a fire I’ll just have to smother.

So I clear my throat, push the thought down. “I’ll come to yours instead.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then.” There’s that smile again, warm, easy, like he has no idea what kind of mess is trailing me. “I’ll be waiting.”

The line clicks quiet after that, and I push up from the bed, ready to see what the hell broke in my kitchen, but I don’t even make it three steps before Nate strolls in. He’s chewing, plate in hand, and my eyes catch on the fact that he’s probably gone through half my fridge.

“Hope you’re not too attached to your coffee mugs,” he says around a mouthful, casual as anything. He keeps walking until he’s at the window, back to me, head tilted like the view’s some private performance meant only for him.

I glare. “You ever heard of knocking?”

He freezes mid-bite, turns his head toward the door, then back to me. He pulls a sheepish grin, the kind that says he’s not sorry at all. “Oh. My bad.” He tosses in this awkward little half-bow of apology before stuffing more food in his mouth.

Then he starts wandering the room, eyes scanning the bare walls and sparse furniture. “I like this whole minimalist thing you got going on. Real monk-in-a-city vibe. Suits you.”

I don’t bother replying. He doesn’t need encouragement.

“The food’s really good, too,” he continues, tapping his plate like he’s making a point. “If there’s one thing I missed, one thing, it was you guys’ cooking. Nobody did it like you three.”

The words scrape. I swallow hard, throat suddenly dry. He has no idea what that does to me, what ghosts it digs up, so I move to shut him up, except he cuts himself off first. His gaze goes right back out the window, jaw tight, plate forgotten in his hand.

I know exactly what he’s looking at.

“How’d you find out where I live?” I ask. My voice is flat. He doesn’t look at me, just mutters, “Called Sam.”

I make a mental note to have words with Sam, sharp ones.

The silence hangs. Nate’s still staring at that view like it’s got answers etched into it, before he finally turns around. “Any reason you chose to live here specifically?”

I give him an even look, make sure my voice comes out smooth. “I like the view.”

“Huh.” He nods, lips pressing together, like he's fighting with himself not to say what he really wants to. Then, quiet but serious, he says, “I happen to detest the view. Find it depressing.”

I arch a brow. “Was there something you needed? You said I wouldn’t even know you were here, but trust me, I do.”

He blinks at me, then lets out a breath that sounds like he’s stalling. “I was thinking of hitting a bar later. You wanna come?”

I cross my arms. “What happened to lying low?”

“I’ll be careful.” His grin is back, sharp and reckless. “Besides, I’m only wanted in, like, five states. This isn't one of them. Free to let loose here.” He lifts his brows like he’s promising me a good time. “Come on. It’ll be fun. You in?”

“No.” My answer’s curt, flat. “I’ve got plans. And you're not going anywhere.”

He leans forward, pushing. “Don’t be a buzzkill, Jax—”

I cut him off. “You’ll end up pulling some crazy shit, then you’ll call me, and I’m not playing babysitter.”

That stings him, I can see it in the way his smirk falters.

“Leave,” I tell him, already moving past him toward my dresser. “I need to get ready.”

“Where you going?” he asks, voice suddenly lighter again, if there's one thing I know about Nate, it's his inability to stay mad for more than five seconds. Lucky him. “Maybe I can tag—”

“No.” I don’t let him finish. “You can’t.”

For a second he just stands there, looking at me like he wants to argue, but all he does is exhale, heavy, and shuffle toward the door. “You’re no fun,” he mutters, like that’s the last word he can cling to.

I watch him go, all restless edges stuffed into the frame of a man he hasn’t quite grown into yet. Twenty-one, but in my eyes he’s still that kid, waiting to be told who he is. Only now he’s apparently also a fucking thief.

It hurts to look at him, because I can’t see this version without seeing the other, and with that other version comes memories of '*him'*. It’s why I let their calls rot in my phone, why I don’t answer the texts that keep blinking like reminders I don’t want. Because every time I see or speak to either Nate or his brothers, I see the ghost I’ve been running from.