“It worked,” Jagger mutters. His brow is still furrowed, and his shoulders are still tight, like he’s honestly considering tracking Ethan down and making him pay all over again.
As I take him in, I murmur, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it did.”
“I’m going to fix this,” he promises.
“There’s nothing to fix.”
And it’s true. What’s done is done. Now, all I can do is move forward, but not without a solid scoop of peanut butter and maybe a Disney movie or two. I could also really use some snuggles in Jagger’s bed, if it’s on the menu.
Instead of agreeing with me that there’s nothing to fix, Jagger strides toward the counter, picks up the key, and shows it to me. “Is this to your house?”
“You mean his house?” I whisper dryly with a weak smile. It's pathetic at best. “Yeah.” My voice cracks. “Yeah, the key’s for the front door.”
A knot at the back of his jaw appears as he stares at the key in his palm as if it’s personally offended him.
“Take it,” I tell him. “If you’re worried I’ll use it or whatever…”
“Not worried you’ll use it,” he mutters. His hand closes into another tight fist. “Only trying to find the cleanest solution.”
Cleanest solution? What’s he talking about? Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate his promise from last night. His determination to fix everything. To get me back the house. But the thing is, this has nothing to do with him. Hell, it barely has anything to do with me. It’s between my dad and Ethan. I was simply a victim caught in the crosshairs. Just like before. And if Jagger wouldn’t give me back my five grand, why in the world would Ethan give me back my house? I mean, I know titletransfers take more than twelve hours or whatever, but the piece of paper I signed was nothing but a technicality, especially in The Drift. The place is his. If I even think about fighting for it, I’ll wind up in a ditch somewhere. I know it. Ethan knows it. My dad knows it, too. And Jagger? If he’s hurt trying to intervene, I’ll never forgive myself. Never.
Standing, I move toward Jagger at the counter as the morning sun gleams in through the coffee shop windows. “There isn’t a solution, Jag. I was up all night and…it’s okay.” A burn hits the back of my eyes, but I blink it away. “It’ll be fine, all right? I just…I need some time to wrap my head around it, and…and yeah. It’ll be fine, I just…I don’t want to talk about it anymore, okay?”
I know he wants to argue. Wants to say I’m being pessimistic or that he’s a Harden. He controls everything. But the truth is, his expertise isn't capable of delivering a solution in this situation. Not when I’ve already signed over the house. Hell, even if I hadn’t signed it over, there still wouldn’t be a solution. The Drift is built on handshakes and shady deals. The moment my dad offered my house up as collateral was the moment I had no choice but to kiss it goodbye. The only reason Ethan came by this morning was to watch me grovel, and if there’s any silver lining about all of this, I’m really happy I didn’t give in.
“Speaking of cleaning,” Jagger finally says. “Where are your cleaning supplies?”
“Huh?”
He motions to the crimson dripping down the glass barrier. “We should probably clean this up so you don’t get in trouble.”
He’s right. If another customer walks in and sees blood splattered across the coffee shop, I’m pretty sure I can kiss my job goodbye. Moving past Jagger, I head to the back, grab some cleaning supplies, then we get to work erasing the evidence ofthe fight. Within a few minutes, it’s as if the showdown between Jagger and Ethan never happened at all.
If only it was true.
48
JAGGER
Ihadn’t planned on beating the shit out of Morgan this morning. If I was smart, I would’ve kept myself in check. But seeing him leer at her? The way he was trying to intimidate her in the middle of an otherwise empty building? My blood boils at the thought as I take the long road into The Drift. Roman begged me to let him come. Seeing my busted up knuckles only fueled his adamance. I’m still not sure if I made the right choice when I told him to wait at the house, but the decision’s made. There’s no turning back now.
Sometimes The Drift feels like the wild west. Like you’re walking in the middle of a small town lined with bars and brothels and a sheriff’s station. One who has no issue turning a blind eye to the corruption beneath its town. Other times it feels open and free in a way Harden Heights is unable to replicate. And it’s the freedom, the one we’ve yet to find anywhere else, that keeps bringing us back and pushing us to shake hands with some of the lowest of the low. Like tonight. This could play out in a million different ways, and only a few of them hold the outcome I want. The others? All right, I really should’ve invited Roman.
As I park my truck, I swear I can feel a pair of eyes on me. The question is, does it belong to one of Gus’s lackeys? Or my father’s? Fuck, does Morgan have someone tailing me now? It wouldn’t surprise me. I lean forward, looking out my windshield.
Where are you?
I examine the treeline, gravel road, the windows on Violet’s home. Not a soul in sight.
Probably not one of Morgan’s lackeys, then. The guy doesn’t know how to be discreet, even if his life depends on it. Ignoring the feeling, I grab the key Morgan dropped off at The Bean Scene this morning from the cup holder and climb outside.
Time to get this over with.
This might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Gravel crunches beneath my shoes as I stride toward the house. It could ruin me. I take the short set of stairs leading to the porch. I don’t have another choice. Not really.
Raising my hand, I tap my knuckles against the flimsy door. Last time, Roman shouldered his way in without hesitation. Last time, it belonged to Violet.
The rusty hinges scream in protest, revealing a cocky Ethan Morgan, despite his busted up face. The sight is almost enough to make this interaction worth it. Taking his time, Morgan looks me up and down. “If it isn’t the crowned prince of Harden Heights. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
