Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 98

Next, I flip the page and after thinking for a couple of minutes and going through countless ideas, I start drawing an EKG line. Clean, sharp peaks of a heartbeat pulse that smooth out into the loops of her name in a lovely font. At the very end, I let the letters trail into a small blooming rose. A little poetic, if you squint.

I sit back, tilt my head, then turn the sketchpad so Adam can see. “Alright, you can pick one, add something, or throw them both out and ask for something else, it's completely fine.”

Adam leans forward, his eyes tracing the lines like he’s actually seeing more than graphite on paper. His mouth pulls into the smallest smile before he glances up at me. Then he reaches out and presses a fingertip against the second one.

“That one,” he says simply.

I glance from the sketch to him. “You’re sure? You can definitely ask for something else, or if you want me to add on, give suggestions, anything you want.”

But he just shakes his head, certain. “No. That’s perfect.”

I nod slowly, flipping the book closed. “Okay then. Let’s do it.”

I gesture toward the chair. “You can take your shirt off and sit here, lean back a little, keep your arm loose. We’ll place the stencil and see how it sits.”

He starts unbuttoning his jacket, then the shirt beneath, precise and neat, as if even undressing has to be done in order. I start already started prepping. My hands move on autopilot, years of habit carrying me through the motions.

Adam turns slightly, shrugging out of his shirt the rest of the way, and for a second I forget what I was doing. He’s ripped, all defined lines and disciplined muscle, the kind of body that makes it clear he definitely works for it.

But that’s not what catches me.

It’s the scars.

A few across his chest, pale and sharp against the smooth expanse of skin. Some old, some jagged, and all of them impossible to miss. My eyes stick there before I realize, tracing the patterns, wondering what the hell kind of life leaves marks like that on a man who looks like he could crush steel with his bare hands.

When I finally drag my gaze up, Adam’s watching me. His expression unreadable, like he’s letting me look, letting me notice, and daring me to say a single word.

I don’t, I clear my throat instead, pulling my stool closer and focusing on what I know, what I can control. The stencil goes down right over his heart, smoothed into place with steady hands. It fits him, I think, more than he even realizes.

But my head? My head goes somewhere else.

Jax.

Because Adam and Jax, at least I think, are friends. Or something like it. I don’t know much beyond the edges of what I see, and Jax isn’t exactly a man who hands over pieces of himself easily. He guards them like gold, doling them out in fragments that leave me both aching and grateful. And now here’s Adam, this man who’s showing a side of himself I didn’t expect, thoughtful and very clearly in love with Layla. And it hits me that maybe this, him walking in tonight, might actually be a chance.

A chance to see Jax from another angle. To understand the things he won’t tell me, through the eyes of someone who’s been in his orbit longer.

Maybe this late client was meant to be.

I shake the thought off for now, focusing as I press the stencil gently against Adam’s skin, smoothing it out, marking the placement. But inside, the curiosity is there, humming low and restless beneath my ribs.

Questions press against my tongue, but instinct also says they’ll get me nowhere. Adam has that same thing Jax does, shields layered thick enough you could break your knuckles trying to punch through.

So I don’t ask. I just pick up my machine, check the needle, and look at him. “About to start. Brace for it.”

He doesn’t even blink. “It’s okay. I’m ready.”

I nod, switch on the gun, let the buzz fill the space. It’s a simple tattoo, clean lines, nothing too elaborate. Won’t take long. Still, the silence hangs heavy, and the thought of Jax pushes at me again, restless and insistent. I want to ask, but I don’t know how, don’t know where to even start.

Then Adam breaks it for me. “Layla told me you and Jax are dating.”

I pause, the machine steady in my hand. Then, slowly, I allow a small smile to curve at my mouth. “We are.”

“That’s nice,” he says, and for the first time tonight there’s a flicker of something...amusement, maybe, in his tone. “I wish you two the best.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, eyes on the lines I’m laying down, grateful the noise of the machine covers the way my voice dips softer than I mean. I work a few minutes in silence before I hear myself asking, “So…how long have you two known each other?”

When I glance up, Adam’s already watching me. Those grey eyes of his are too sharp, too damn reflective, like they’ve seen more than I could guess. “Eight years,” he says finally. “Give or take.”

My grip almost falters. Eight years? That’s a long fucking time. Way longer than I expected.

“Really?” I manage.

He nods once, calm and assured. I keep going, ink sinking into skin, my curiosity gnawing at me. Finally I ask, “How’d you meet?”

This time, there’s no answer. I pause, look up again. Adam meets my eyes evenly. “That’s not exactly mine to tell. You’ll have to ask Jax.”

Cryptic and frustrating as hell. And the look he gives me says it all...I could push, but I won’t get a damn thing out of him.

So I don’t, I just go back to working, my machine steady, but my mind anything but.