Jax follows behind me. "You have to rest your body."
I snort. "That's rich coming from you when you almost killed me the last few days."
"Which is why you need to rest now. Go home. We'll restart training after the weekend," he says.
"I'm good. Go back inside your warm house and do whatever it is you do, Jax." I yank open the barn door, grinding my molars as pain shoots through my shoulder.
"Wyatt, it's not a suggestion. Get your ass back in your truck and get out of here before you hurt yourself so badly you never ride again," Jax orders.
I turn to face him, spouting, "I'm fine. I'll still earn you money, so go mind your own business, old man."
He reaches beneath his tightly-woven, tan canvas jacket, pulls out a pistol, and points it at me. "I said you're not working out today."
My adrenaline kicks up several notches. "What in the seven hells are you doing, Jax? Do you have a death wish?"
"You might if you don't get out of my barn and back into your truck," he warns, his gaze deadly serious.
"So you're going to kill your bread and butter?" I ask, but my heart races faster. Jax has never pulled a gun on me before. Maybe he's going senile.
His smoke-laced voice takes on a lethal edge when he states, "I suggest you don't stay to find out."
I don't move.
He clicks the safety off.
"What the fuck, Jax!" I boom, worried he's going to shoot me.
He nudges the gun toward the door. "Out. Now."
I study him for a few more seconds, then realize he's crazy enough to shoot me. So I mutter under my breath, "I need to have you seen by a mental health professional."
He grunts. "Make my day. Don't come back until Wednesday like we discussed."
"With this type of treatment, I may never return," I threaten.
He scoffs. "Keep on running your mouth. I'll shoot you in the ass on your way out."
"Crazy lunatic," I mumble, trudging across the yard and opening my driver's door. I get inside, take one last look at Jax, then speed past him and onto the road.
What now?
The only other place to work off some steam is at the Cartwrights' gym. And I can't go back there right now.
I drive around, unsure where I'm going, until the racetrack comes into view. Goose bumps pop out on my skin, and I'm hitwith the shot of endorphins I get before I think I'm going to win big.
"Not a good idea," I tell myself while pulling in and parking the truck.
I sit, staring at the building, with my chest tightening.
Don't go in.
I just need to kill some time.
I've got the feeling.
I'll just place a small bet. I'll give the winnings to Willow to pay her back faster.
Bad idea.
