“You trying to blackmail me, Morgan?” I question.
“Nah, I’ve already got that locked and loaded from the haunted house.”
My eyes thin. Did he just say he has something locked and loaded from the haunted house? What does he have? He can’t have evidence. The only actual proof available is the footage from that night, which is on our servers and only our servers. But if he doesn’t have anything, why mention it all? How did he know about it in the first place? Was it his sister? Did she say something? “What did you just say?” I ask.
“Nah.” He picks up the second beer and waves it around like he’s batting away a pesky fly. “We’ll save that reveal for a different day. Right now, all I wanna know is whether or not you’re in for a rematch.”
Refusing to give in unless I’ve exhausted every other option, I try a different tactic. One I know will leave a mark, even if it doesn’t convince him to agree to a fair fight.
“Honestly, I’m a little disappointed, Morgan. A rematch, sure. I get it. But asking me to lose on purpose?” I scoff. “And here I thought you were an actual competitor.” I rub my jaw. “Is it because of this morning?”
Shifting forward, his expression twists in disgust as if he’s seconds away from snapping. “I had you.”
“How’s the windpipe?” I ask.
His nostrils flare, the hostility growing in the small shack with every bated breath. He squeezes the bottle in his hand so tight, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. He’s probably debating whether or not he’d hit his mark if he decided to throw it at me. Talk about a sore loser. Yeah, okay. Maybe I pushed him a little too far. I don’t regret it, though. The guy’s a dick who deserves to have his ass handed to him. Again. And I’m tired of playing his game. But the worst part? Is knowing, even now, he has the upper hand. My body itches to throw down, my fingers threatening to curl into fists, but I keep the tension at bay. If he’s dumb enough to make a move, I’m more than ready to go again, but I refuse to show it. Morgan looks toward the kitchen, probably checking in with Pete, his backup.
You nervous, Morgan?
Mechanically, he settles back into the couch. “Take it or leave it, Jag Off. Your girl’s house? Or your pride? You pick.”
Fuck.
Fuck!
The ultimatum lands as he intends, twisting like a knife in my gut as I fight to find a solution. I keep my expression impassive, but my mind is a frenzied carousel. I need a solution. An option that doesn’t ruin me or my brothers or Violet. The problem is, I can’t find one. “Saturday,” I grit out. “Look for a text.”
His mouth tugs into a grin. “Can’t wait.”
49
JAGGER
The drive is long, though I feel like I make it there in two seconds flat. It’s late. I’m exhausted. But I could only avoid home for so long. I already know the guys are waiting for me. I just wish I knew what to say. Pushing open the front door, I toss my keys into a bowl on the side table as the sound of scuffing feet echoes from the front of the house.
“Jag, that you?” Roman calls.
Everyone’s in the family room. Ford’s ass is planted on the couch, while Roman stands by the fireplace with Hawke beside him. Seems I wasn’t the only one a little anxious this evening.
“Where’s Cobie?” I ask.
“Asleep upstairs,” Hawke answers.
Asleep? My brows dip as I check the time on my phone. It’s just past one in the morning. I haven’t slept in over thirty-six hours. Damn. No wonder my thoughts feel foggy.
“How’d it go?” Roman asks.
How’d it go? Well, let’s see. Not exactly great. Pretty shitty, actually. The asshole gave me an unwinnable ultimatum, but I don’t see any way around it, not without sacrificing my girl’s childhood home, which she loves, so…yeah. We’re fucked.
“Jag?” Hawke prods.
With a sigh, I take a seat on the arm of one of the couches. “He’s moving out on Sunday.”
Surprise paints each of their faces, like they’re shocked as hell I actually came through. Then again, considering what I had to agree to, I guess I understand their reactions.
“What’d you have to do?” Hawke asks.
“Gave him what he thinks it’s worth.”
