Her jaw tightens at that, a flash of guilt cutting through her attitude for half a second.
I rip a towel off the rack and turn. “Now, if you could get out, I’d like to take a shower.”
“This is dumb,” she hisses with the venom only a teenager could have at not getting her way.
Gritting my teeth, I pivot toward the shower and turn the water on, giving her my back. “Yeah, well, so is not telling me you put Marshal in the truck.”
Kira was dealing with her heart failing, she gets a free pass, but neither Caleb nor Nix bothered to mention anything about transferring the body. I know they’re just kids, but fuck if I expect a little bit more for something so critical.
There’s silence behind me for a moment, and it’s a breath of fresh air. I can only hope she’s realizing just how stupid it was to not tell me about the truck when, suddenly, she screeches.
“Ugh!” She stomps her foot, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of turning around.
A second later, she finally storms out and slams the door.
“Jesus,” I mutter and run my hand under the water. If I somehow manage to keep Kira out of prison, I have a feeling Nix Noland is going to be a thorn in my ass for the next fifty-something years.
Sighing, I pull off my shirt and strip down. The water is hot, and it cascades against my chest in searing rivulets. I thought for sure that it would be Kira that I’d have to convince about going to James, not Nix. But Kira didn’t even try to put up a fight. She just nodded in resignation. Which means she’s more scared than she’s letting on.
As the steam builds, all I can hear are handcuffs being tightened around her wrists. All I can think about is her being put into the back of a police car, her tears on the other side of the window glass where I can’t wipe them away, about how for the rest of her life, she’ll be on the other side of some type of glass, some scuffed plexiglass where I’ll be unable to make out the subtle details that make her so beautiful, unable to touch her, unable to smell her. She’ll be locked away from me. For life.
The fact that preventing that from happening lies with James has me cranking the water hotter until it’s scalding. When my skin is finally raw, I step out and get dressed, shoving my wallet in my pocket and wondering how I’m going to tell James that Kira’s the reason Marshal Wayne isn’t on the payroll anymore.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Kira
Leaning over the sink, I hold a cold cloth to my eyes to try to take down some of the puffiness before Jax retrieves me for the dinner that will either save me or condemn me. Imayhave broken down in the shower after he left, crying until my eyes branched a shade of red that made me jump when I looked in the mirror after getting out.
I remove the cloth and find that it’s hardly done anything. Great. I guess this is what my face is going to look like while I kiss James’ ass. Obviously, as a bartender, I know how to turn on the charm when I’m looking for a good tip, but I don’t normally look so rough.
I loathe myself to admit that I’m willing to be under James’ thumb if it means keeping me out of prison. I may not have grown up with a silver spoon, but I’m not a complete pauper. How could I take a shower in prison with other women and with the disgusting tiles under my bare feet? What about the food? I’m not picky—could never afford to be—but I refuse to eat slop. And the toilet? I’m the one who uses all the seat liners in public places. I’m pretty sure they don’t have those.
I’m just not cut out for prison.
I’d like to think that I’m pretty tough, good at adapting and accepting the shitty cards I’ve been dealt. But that’s the thing…I’ve beendoingit my whole life. I don’t want to have to thicken my skin any more than it already is just to survive prison. Who would I be then? Nothing but a hardened shell. A hollow, broken thing.
Nodding to myself in the mirror, I take a deep breath and try to find the grit I used to have before all this shit whittled me down. I can do this,haveto do this. It’s no different than any of the other bullshit I had to man up and do. I mean, I took care of a fucking baby when I was only eight years old, and she lived! And she’s smart, and beautiful, and kind—well, no, she’s kind of a bitch. But that’s beside the point. The point is that I can do this. I’ll do whatever it takes to stay out of prison.
So tell me why my knees feel like jelly the second Jax leads me down the stairs.
He’s clean shaven, wearing a long sleeve to cover his tattoos, and seems to have forgone his gun for the night. Maybe it’s a peace offering toward his father, a show of good faith that he doesn’t need to be armed.
I hate that he has to do this for me.
I hate that even if James helps, it won’t be free. It will come with strings, and I’m not the only one those strings will tighten around. Jax will take the brunt of it. The thought of what else James could demand from him, what else he could take, stops me cold halfway down.
“What’s wrong?” Jax turns to look up at me from two steps lower.
He’s almost winsome without his stubble, his eyes filled with such ardor as he takes in the brimming on my lashes. But, beneath the surface, his broad shoulders are rigid from carrying God knows what, sculpted under the weight of burdens that would break a weaker man. And his eyes, however ardent, swirl with a darkness I couldn’t begin to understand.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, tears threatening to bring forth more puffiness.
Confusion crosses his features. “For what?”
“This has to be hell for you.” I wring my hands. “Asking him for help… I just… I’m so, so—”
He’s up the steps in a heartbeat, shaking his head and cupping my cheek. “Don’t say it. Don’t ever apologize again.”
