“Yes.” Raze poured himself another shot and drank it down, the glass looking small in his hand. A series of scars scored up his arm in what appeared to be burns.
Agony flared between Jax’s fingers when Tace hit a nerve. “I haven’t asked for your story,” he said.
“I know.” Raze nudged the bottle toward Wyatt, who refilled all four glasses.
“Would you like to share?” Jax asked, trying to focus on anything but his hand.
“No.” Raze tipped back his glass, his eyes glowing in the dim light.
Wyatt snorted. “You’re such a fucking prince.”
Raze didn’t blink. “We’re up.” He stood from the table, drawing a nine mil from his waist.
Wyatt groaned and stood. “Great. I get patrol, in the fucking night, with Mr. Personality here.”
Jax forced a smile. “Watch each other’s backs.”
Raze and Wyatt left.
Tace continued to stitch. “What do you think his story is?”
One of loss and pain. “I don’t know or really care so long as he doesn’t try to kill us.” Because if he tried, he’d probably succeed. Jax shut his eyes and tried to relax his body. He’d lost the luxury of curiosity months ago. “Do you think I’m doing a good job here?”
“I think”—Tace slid the needle back in—“we’d all be dead if you weren’t doing a good job.”
Jax winced. “Haylee is dead.” As was Shawn, probably.
“Not your fault.” Tace tied the string tight. “We’re out of antibacterial stuff.” Without warning, he poured his shot of whiskey on the wound.
Agony ripped into Jax. “Fuck it, Tace.” He breathed out, his eyes watering. “God.”
“Sorry.” Tace replaced the kit in the drawer and stood. “You really ready to go after Cruz?”
“I’ve wanted him dead for a long time, and he deserves to be gone.” Jax’s lips tightened. “I owe that bastard.”
Tace’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t push the subject. “We don’t have full check-in from all the lieutenants until tomorrow night, but I can confirm everyone seems to be willing to stay here under your leadership, even if you are a carrier.”
Jax scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “They don’t have much of a choice, now do they?”
“Sure, they do. They trust you, and Lynne’s stock went up a lot when she protected April and Haylee. They don’t trust her, but they’re willing to let her be.”
Good, because he could only provide her so much cover, and he was stretched thin. “What else is going on?”
“Well, we lost all three of the Scorpius victims inner territory.”
Ah, hell. “I’m sorry. What else?”
Tace sighed. “We’ve got two fevers at the main hospital, and an ear infection.”
Jax stilled. “Fevers?”
“Not Scorpius. My guess? Strep or just the flu.” Tace rubbed a hand over his hair. “Which is bad enough.”
Jax tried to flex his pounding hand. “Yeah, it is. Do you think we’ll have to separate into survivors and non-infected people?”
“Maybe, but the problem is we don’t know who a survivor is, you know? Right now, that’s not an immediate concern.”
True. Thank goodness. Jax nodded. “How are you feeling?”
“Not sure yet, but I’ll let you know. So far, I’m not right.” Tace took one of the two lanterns. “For now, if I don’t get some sleep, my head is gonna explode.” He strode away.
Alone, Jax slumped in his chair and lifted his feet to the wobbly table. Tace wasn’t right? What the fuck did that mean? Jax sighed and shut his eyes as his hand pulsed in heartbeats of pain.
Things had calmed down enough that he could finally go after Cruz and slice his jugular.
The whiskey and rawness of the day dug into Jax, and he finally relaxed, slipping into the slim world between wakefulness and sleep. He couldn’t afford sleep, but he could drift.
Suddenly, he was ten years old, taking a beating against jagged concrete from Bast Ace, a kid from his school. He’d told his younger brother to run home, and for once, Marcus had listened. Thank God. But Jax had remained to protect his brother, and he was definitely losing the fight. The fists pummeling into his face didn’t hurt as much as the old beer bottle glass cutting into his back. Suddenly, Bast stopped.
Jax blinked blood from his face and looked into the sun. Wincing, he turned just as Bast knelt down. “Your mama’s a whore,” Bast spit out.
Yeah, she was. “So is yours,” Jax mumbled through split lips.
The punch didn’t hurt this time, which was probably a bad thing. “You’re a half-breed piece of shit.”
Jax swallowed blood. “So are you.” He shouldn’t mess with the fourteen-year-old bully, but sometimes he just couldn’t stop talking.
“Maybe. But you’re half-white.” Bast punched him in the gut.
Jax cried out and lifted his knees toward his chest.
Then suddenly, Bast lay face down on the concrete, with a boy pounding his face into the ground. Blood sprayed in every direction.
Jax spat blood and rolled over, struggling to stand on unsteady legs. Boys surrounded him, all older, all bigger. All wearing specific colors—all shades of purple. Twenty colors. The gang ruled the neighborhoods to the east. Ruthlessly. Finally, when Bast was out cold, but probably not dead, the boy beating him stood.
Definitely Hispanic, tall, and a few years older than Jax, the kid had several kill tats already down his neck. “You Mercury?” he asked.
Jax spat more blood. He couldn’t outrun all of them, and if they wanted him dead, they’d get him dead. So he held his ground. “Yeah.”
“Did you help an old lady at Maker’s Grocery yesterday?” the kid asked.
Jax wiped blood from his eyes. Death didn’t much scare him, but he couldn’t leave Marcus alone. The kid was only six years old, and Jax had vowed he’d protect his little brother until death. “Sí.”
“English, puto,” the kid spat out. “Speak English.”
“Why?” Jax asked. Damn it.
The kid shrugged. “It’s what we speak. Usually.”
Whatever. “Yeah, I helped a lady. Two guys tried to steal her purse. She was an old lady.” Mierda. Maybe those guys were brothers to this guy. Shit. He was dead now.
“She’s my granny,” the kid said, sticking out his hand. “Cruz Martinez.”
Jax took the hand and tried not to wince when they shook. Maybe his fingers were broken. “Jax Mercury. I’m glad she’s okay.”
Cruz looked down at the fallen kid. “You need better friends, Jax.”
Yeah. Yeah, he did.
“In fact, you need brothers.” Cruz smiled. “Come with me.”
“Jax?” a soft voice asked, yanking him from his memories and right back into the hell of the present.
His eyelids slowly opened, and he focused on Lynne Harmony in the soft light. Her eyes were wide and her movements hesitant. How badly had he scared her? “I’m under control, Lynne.”
“I know.” She moved closer to the table.
He reached over for a chair and pulled it out like a guy at a fancy dinner. “Sit down. I’m sorry about earlier.”
“So am I.” She slid onto the chair, a small woman with such a big brain. “I wasn’t fair to you and had no right to judge.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re wrong.” He truly didn’t know if he was leading or not, but so long as there was somebody to fight, he’d keep stabbing. “I thought I locked you in for the night. You should get some sleep.”
“Sami finished training with the kids and dropped by to check on me. Then she escorted me down here before going out on patrol. My brain is working on a problem, and I’m not ready to sleep. It’s not even midnight yet, anyway.” Lynne eyed the whiskey bottle. “I’m not a prisoner.”
That was exactly what she was. He nudged his still-full whiskey glass toward her. “Cheers.”
She accepted the glass and lifted it to her nose, sniffing. Her eyes closed, her pretty eyelashes fluttering against her blushing skin. “Yum.”
Hell, she looked like that just before she came. His cock sprang up, and he shifted his weight to hide the evidence. “Drink.”
She sipped and then downed the entire shot. Sputtering, she wiped her eyes. “Wow, that’s good.”
Actually, it was shit whiskey. Bottom of the barrel. But a luxury nonetheless. “Want another?”
“No.” She set down the glass and studied him. “Is Jax short for Jackson?”