“Yeah,” she says darkly. “I’m this close to ordering poison and slipping it in her drink. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not kidding. Time that viper had a taste of her own venom.”
“She’s here for Matt.”
Sisk freezes. “…what?”
“Fucking walked in on them,” I mutter, not bothering to hide my disgust.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re serious.”
“Told you,” I shrug. “Viper’s more history than anything.”
That takes the wind out of her anger just enough for her shoulders to relax. She exhales and finally sinks onto the couch. “Well… that explains why Matt’s been acting weird all day.”
I reach out, my hand finding the back of her neck, my thumb rubbing circles on her skin without thinking.
“How was your day?” she says, her voice muffled as she lowers her head to my shoulder.
“Rourke showed up.”
Her head lifts instantly, her body tensing again. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I lean back against the cushions. “Said Rosen’s seeing Ivan’s ghost now.”
Sisk goes still. “This shit will never get easier,” she says quietly, the words hanging in the air between us.
“No. It won’t.”
“We need to do something about this.”
“You sound like O,” I shake my head. “Told you both. Nothing gets better with me still running around.”
“Do not say that again,” she snaps, her head lifting off my shoulder. Her eyes are blazing again. “I told you.”
“It’s times like this I don’t know…” I say, looking at my hands. “Feels like it’s all my fucking fault. I’ve got no idea how to make any of it better.”
Sisk looks at me immediately, her expression softening. “It’s not your fault, Jax.”
“Ivan pulled you in,” I say. “But I pulled Dean and Bear.”
She blinks.
“And so many others since.” My voice lowers, the words barely audible. “City’s been bleeding ever since that night.”
Sisk watches me for a long moment, her eyes searching my face. “This shit’s been happening long before you, Jax.”
“I’m not making it any better,” I shoot back.
“You never told me exactly how it all happened,” she says softly. “After you went looking for Dean.”
I shrug, staring at the floor. “Didn’t seem useful to tell you.”
“Maybe it is,” she says. “Like therapy.”
I snort. “Therapy.”
“Talk to me.”
For a moment I consider deflecting. Making a joke. Getting up. Pouring another drink. Anything to avoid opening this particular wound, but the look on her face stops me. It’s not pity or sympathy. It’s just… her. And that’s enough to crack me open.
