Ride me like you stole me

2

Get what, Jax?"

"Rae, put the phone down."

"Answer me."

"It's not what you think."

"Then tell me what I should think." I clutch the blanket to my chest, my voice shaking. "Because right now I think you came here for something, and I was just the easiest way to get it."

Jax drags a hand down his face. "That's not true."

"Isn't it?"

"I didn't plan tonight."

"But you came here for Dec."

Silence.

It's the loudest answer he could give.

I stand, my legs unsteady, and snatch my jeans off the floor. My hands shake as I pull them on. "Get out."

"Rae..."

"Get. Out."

"Not until you hear me."

"I heard enough!" My voice cracks off the garage walls. "My father is dead. Three weeks. And you walked in here, kissed me, touched me, and let me think..."

I can't finish.

Jax rises slowly, buttoning his shirt, his grey eyes steady on me. There's no excuse in them. No lie. Just a tired, aching honesty that makes it so much worse.

"Dec sent me," he says quietly. "Two days ago. He told me to find out what Silas left behind."

"The ledger."

His head snaps up. "You know about the ledger?"

I stare at him.

I didn't. Not until this second. But the way he said it, the way his whole body tensed, tells me everything.

"What ledger, Jax?"

He swears under his breath. "You didn't know."

"Apparently not. Tell me."

"It's a book. Your father kept records of everything the Saints did. Money, deals, names. Dec wants it."

"Why?"

"Because it proves things Dec can't afford anyone seeing."

A chill crawls over my skin. "My father was killed over a book."

"I think so."

"You think so?"

"I've been trying to prove it for three weeks."

I narrow my eyes. "Three weeks. Since the funeral."

"Since the night he died."

"You were there."

"I found him."

The air leaves the room.

"What did you say?"

Jax doesn't look away. "Silas called me that night. Said he was in trouble, said to meet him at the old mill road. By the time I got there..." His jaw works. "The car was already in the ditch. I was too late."

Tears sting my eyes before I can stop them. "They told me it was an accident."

"I know."

"You let them tell me that."

"I couldn't prove otherwise. Not yet."

I wipe my face with the back of my hand, angry at myself for crying, angry at him for being the one man who actually saw my father at the end. "Why didn't you tell me tonight?"

"I tried."

"When?"

"On the floor. Before the phone went off."

I remember. "About your father..."

I press my lips together.

"I wasn't going to use you," Jax says, low and rough. "Whatever Dec ordered, I never planned to. Tonight wasn't part of it. Tonight was... the only honest thing I've done in weeks."

I want to call him a liar. I really do.

But something in his voice, a crack under all that control, stops me.

"Prove it," I whisper.

"How?"

"Tell Dec you found nothing."

"That won't work."

"Why not?"

"Because he's already watching this place."

My stomach drops. "What?"

Jax crosses the garage in three strides and peers through the grimy window at the street. Rain streaks the glass. For a moment I see nothing.

Then a pair of headlights flicks on across the road.

A black truck. Engine idling. Two shadows inside.

"How long have they been there?" I breathe.

"Since before I arrived."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I was trying not to scare you."

"Jax, someone is watching my house."

"Garage," he says, almost a smile. "Your house is the one behind it."

"Not funny."

"Not trying to be."

I back away from the window, my heart thudding. "What do they want?"

"The ledger."

"I don't have it!"

"Maybe you do." Jax turns to face me, his expression suddenly sharp. "Rae, did your father ever give you anything? A key, a box, a note? Anything at all?"

I open my mouth to say no.

Then stop.

Because I remember.

The week before he died, my father showed up unannounced at the garage. He'd been strange, jumpy, glancing over his shoulder the whole time. Before he left, he pressed an old, rusted motorcycle frame into my hands.

"Keep this safe, Raven. Don't sell it. Don't scrap it. Promise me."

I'd laughed. "Dad, it's junk."

"Promise."

I'd promised.

Slowly, I turn my head toward the back corner of the garage. Under a gray tarp, half buried beneath boxes of old parts, sits the frame.

Jax follows my gaze. His eyes narrow.

"What is that?"

"Nothing," I say too fast.

"Rae."

"It's just an old frame."

"Then why did your face just change?"

My pulse hammers. I take a step toward it, then stop.

If I show him, I'm trusting him.

If I don't, I'm alone.

"Rae," he says gently. "Whatever it is, I swear I'm not here to take it from you."

"You swore you weren't here to use me either."

That lands. I watch it hit him.

"Fair," he says quietly. "I deserve that."

For a long moment, neither of us speaks.

The truck outside idles. The rain drums. Somewhere far off, thunder rumbles.

At last, I cross the garage and rip the tarp away.

The frame sits there, dull and rusted, a ghost of the bike it used to be. Jax kneels beside it, running his fingers along the welds with the focus of a man who knows machines.

"This isn't a normal frame," he mutters.

"What do you mean?"

"The seat tube's been modified. Look." He taps it. A hollow sound echoes back. "There's a compartment."

My breath catches. "You're sure?"

"Rae, your father welded a hiding place into this frame."

I kneel beside him, my shoulder brushing his. Close enough to feel his warmth, close enough to forget, for one dangerous second, that I'm supposed to be furious.

"Can you open it?"

"Give me a screwdriver."

I hand him one. His hands are steady, careful, nothing like the desperate hands that gripped me an hour ago. He finds a hidden seam, works the tip into it, and twists.

A small panel slides open.

Inside is a thick, leather-bound book wrapped in oilcloth.

Neither of us moves.

"That's it," Jax whispers.

I stare at it. My father's handwriting is stamped across the cover: S.M. Property of no one.

My throat closes. "He died for this."

"Yes."

"And Dec will kill me for it."

"No," Jax says. His hand finds mine on the cold concrete, firm and warm. "Not while I'm breathing."

I look at him. Really look. The scar through his eyebrow. The rain still drying in his hair. The man who found my father in a ditch and carried that guilt alone for three weeks.

"Jax."

Glass shatters.

The garage window explodes inward, and a dark object skids across the floor, hissing.

Jax's eyes go wide.

"Rae, get down!"