Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 96

It’s been a few days, and things are good, shockingly good, with Jax. He hasn’t opened up about anything else, but we’ve been glued together more than I’d like to admit. After work, during lunch break, eating out, him dragging me to try food at his little hidden gems. It’s easy. And I’m shocked at how right this feels, considering all I’ve ever known are empty hookups that never meant a damn thing.

So when he said he’d make something tonight, then pick me up and we could hang out at my place, I was really looking forward to it. I’d told him I’d be done early, by six. That was the plan.

Then noon hits and Zig drops the bomb.

“Got a late one tonight,” he says casually.

“Great, good for you,” I shoot back, distractedly digging through my inks.

“No, I mean you’ve got a late one tonight.”

I stop and look up. “Excuse me?”

He’s leaning on the counter with his arms crossed, smug as hell. “Client asked for you. He's already paid. It’s a favor, so just, hang around a bit. ”

“Zig, I had plans. Can't you reschedule him?”

“I can’t. Sorry bud.”

I grit my teeth. It’s not like I can exactly argue when he’s already pocketed the guy’s money. Still, I try. “So what, I’m just supposed to sit around twiddling my thumbs while you martyr me for the cause?”

He grins. “Pretty much.”

I mutter something about slave labor. Everyone else leaves by five, and I’m sitting here sharpening needles like it’s my punishment for being too agreeable. By six, I cave and text Jax...

"Might have to cancel. Late last-minute client. Sorry."

It takes him all of thirty seconds to reply.

"I’ll pick you up after. No big deal."

I read it three times, like there’s a hidden message I’m supposed to decode. Then I sigh and type, despite how much it sucks...

"It’s fine, we can just reschedule for tomorrow."

My thumb hovers over send, because the truth is, I’d actually like it if he came by. The idea of him waiting for me, walking me out, that weight of his hand at the small of my back when I’m exhausted, it hits harder than I want to admit. But I send it anyway.

A second later, his reply lights up the screen.

"Tomorrow then. You’ll owe me."

I huff out a laugh, because somehow he's worming his way into my daily routine without asking. Zig passes by on his way out, coat slung over his shoulder. “Don’t burn the place down.”

“Don’t worry,” I call after him. “If I do, I’ll make sure your name’s in the ashes.”

He waves, unfazed. And then it’s just me and the clock ticking too loud. I should be pissed. I should be stewing. But instead, my thoughts keep circling back to Jax. The way he’d looked at me yesterday when I said something dumb and he laughed like it was the first time in a long time something actually got to him. The way he’d brushed his hand over mine like it was an accident but didn’t pull away.

Twenty minutes later, I’m halfway through drafting a text to Zig, something polite like when the hell is this mystery client showing up, when the shop door swings open. I glance up expecting… I don’t know, some tired guy with a duffel bag. Instead, in strolls Adam Crest.

In a tailored suit, dark hair slicked, not a strand out of place. The kind of guy who looks like he gets his shirts steamed while he’s still wearing them.

I frown. “Layla already left.”

His eyes flick to me, unreadable as always. “I know. I’m not here for her.”

I blink at him, my brain stuttering a second before the pieces click. Wait.

“You’re kidding .” I place my phone on the counter. “Don’t tell me…”

His mouth curves into a slow smile. “I believe I have an appointment.”

“You’re the client?” The disbelief in my voice is almost comical. I can’t help it. He doesn’t look like a guy who even knows what a tattoo gun sounds like, let alone one who’d willingly sit for it. He looks like he took a wrong turn on his way to a board meeting.

He just steps further inside, calm as ever. “Sorry for keeping you here late. I didn’t want anyone else around.”

Something in his tone makes it clear he means it, so I nod, leaning back against my station. “That’s fine.”

It’s weird, seeing him like this. The first time we met, it was… heated, to put it politely. I tagged him for an asshole right out of the gate, and while we’ve settled into something resembling civility since then, I wouldn’t say we’re drinking-buddies material. Still, Layla’s with him, so I keep it steady.

I motion to the chair. “Alright then. Take a seat. Though, you know your girlfriend’s a tattoo artist, right? I’m pretty sure she’d have loved to ink you for free.”

He shrugs out of his jacket, folds it over the armrest like it’s made of spun gold. “I was thinking of getting something for her. And I’d rather it be a surprise. Addy’s great, but they're awfully close and subtlety isn’t her strong suit. And I’m still not sure Zig’s entirely sold on me yet…” He looks at me. “Which leaves you.”

I arch a brow, arms crossed, but there’s a twist in my chest at the way he says it. Because… yeah, that’s actually kind of sweet. And I love Layla, her and Addy are my best friends. The fact that she’s got someone who’ll sit in a chair in a pressed suit to permanently mark himself for her? That hits.

“Okay,” I say, softer than I mean to. “That’s really thoughtful. So—” I grab a sketchpad, flipping to a clean page, my pencil already in hand. “What were you thinking of getting?”