Jax
I’ve had better mornings.
I wake up to the usual: eggs benedict and well-crisped bacon, brought by Betty, my maid, and a text from Bella, my I-don’t-know-what.
Let’s cool it for a bit was all her text said, but we both know that’s just the start of it.
I respond the only way a reasonable man would: Okay, how about tomorrow?
She doesn’t respond, but expecting her to in ten minutes probably isn’t very realistic, especially for someone who… Oh right, I don’t even know what she does.
As soon as I’m on my last bite, Whitey calls me.
“Just had it confirmed that Sarah was seen round the Russo house and that Papa Russo is in the process of croaking.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in the hospital?” I ask.
When I visited him in the hospital yesterday, the cast gave him a Michelin Man upper leg. There’s no way he’s ready to be out.
“Still here, man. I’m teleworking,” Whitey says in a superior voice. “Alexa’s here too, wearing the shorts, feeding me ice cream. Damn, I gotta get myself shot more often.” The muffled giggle of a female voice, then Whitey adds, “Uh, so, boss, we’re sticking to the funeral plan, right?”
“Right,” I reply. “Get all the guys down to the club basement tomorrow. Get Trip to do his computer wizardry; I’ve sent him a file with what we’re gonna do.”
“Oh, and boss?”
“No.”
“You didn’t even give me time to—”
“Nope.”
“C’mon, boss, you don’t even know what—”
“No way.”
Whitey sighs. “But why can’t I help? The leg is inconvenient I’ll admit, but workable.”
The sounds of a scuffle, then Alexa’s haughty soprano, “Hell to the no, Jax. All the doctor people said he could leave in a week, but he can’t do any physical activity or anything for a month. Not even yoga. I asked.”
“Great Alexa,” I say, “Glad we’re on the same page. Whitey stays out of this one.”
Whitey sighs. “C’mon, boss, please?”
“No.”
“Come on… just have a look at me and—”
“Goodbye, Whitey.”
I hang up. This fight has already cost me enough. I can’t lose Whitey too.
I get out of bed, stretching and viewing my muscles in the mirror with satisfaction. The falcon on my left pec looks as frustrated as I feel. How can Bella say no to this? I’ve never had a woman been this difficult before. Then again, I’ve never had a woman like her.
I bike to the Renegade Devils, checking my phone at every light. Still, Bella hasn’t responded.
Inside the club, Candy is here early, practicing her splits on center stage. I stay back, out of sight.
Usually, I like that the club is open to the girls in the daytime, for them to stretch, practice, whatever. It’s practical for them, not to mention a nice distraction for the boys and me. But right now, I’m not in the mood. I just want to get to my office.
I pass by her without a word.
“Jax?” she says.
I stop. I don’t turn around. “Yeah?”
“Can you rub some of this glitter on me? I can never get it on my back.”
I turn around. Candy is waiting. Her legs are fully spread, her black-lidded gaze is locked on me. God, it would be so easy… The glitter, her bare back, her silver-thonged ass, her….
I turn back around. “Later. We still have another hour to get that glitter on you.”
I head to my office and sit down in my recliner. My heart falls when my eyes take in the still-blank-faced phone. Things with Bella can’t end like this. Maybe I’m only buying time as it is, but it can’t end like this. Not now.
I text her: How long do you want?
A second later, she texts back: Were you asking about me at the bar?
I stare at the text, trying to decide how to respond. The truth is usually the easier to go for, gets you in the least trouble, but this time it may just cost me the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever been with.
Still, I can’t bear lying to her.
Yes. I want to know more about you.
You can’t. This isn’t working. You keep trying to break the rules.
You’re right; I’m sorry. Give me another chance. Let’s meet and talk about it.
After waiting a minute, I go over to my mini-fridge and get out a water bottle. I take a long swig. Then check my phone.
I take another, longer swig before crunching the empty water bottle in my fist. This can’t be it. I just need one more time to see her. Just one more time and then whatever happens can happen. This can’t be it.
It seems agonizing years before she responds: Okay.
I text: In an hour. The same bar.
This time the Okay comes faster, and I lean back in my recliner, finally able to breathe.