“Yeah,” I answer. “Thanks for… you know… coming by, Matt and…” I trail off, the words catching in my throat.
Took a long time to get her back in the same room with me. Can’t blame her. I didn’t just kill her brother; I made a fucking spectacle of it right in front of her. But when I asked for help going through his things, trying to figure out what the fuck he was doing with the tar, she showed up.She’s not forgiving me.I don’t think she ever will, but she’s starting to understand why I did it.
Murtaugh wasn’t just a scientist anymore. He was using his knowledge for some dark shit, twisting the tar into something it was never meant to be. He got what he deserved. Unlike that fucking coward Ivan, who’s still out there somewhere, hiding. He’s the one who started all this. He’s the one who deserves to be dead, but Sisk tells me Ivan got punished enough. She says losing his mind to the tar, his whole future just… erased, is a fate worse than death.Maybe she’s right,I don’t fucking know.
Still, the weight of it settles in my gut every time I look at Viper. That’s why I’m trying so hard for Matt. They’re good together. Better than good.
“Heard about the news,” I say, nodding toward her hand. “Congrats.”
She wiggles her fingers, the diamond catching the light. “When do I get to babysit?”
I pop the cap on an ashbrew bottle.
She narrows her eyes, her playful tone dipping. “Don’t deflect, Jax.”
“My dad’s up there,” I say. “Sisk only trusts a doctor to watch him for now. You know after everything… we’re still figuring things out.”
Matt claps me on the shoulder, his grip firm. “Look who it is. My favorite mortal.”
Ever since I stopped being the pit’s walking weapon, he likes reminding me of my newfound humanity. Usually with a punchline like this.
“I can still kick your ass,” I tell him.
“No chance,” he laughs. “You’re all soft now. I’ve seen you try to open a pickle jar.”
I’m about to fire back, but then I see Sisk lean across the bar, her hand reaching out to stop Andy from pouring a drink. She says something to him and he looks relieved. She smiles as she corrects his grip on the bottle and shows him the right way to pour. It’s nothing. It’s just Sisk being Sisk—kind, capable, taking charge without making a big deal out of it.
As she smiles everything else fades away and all I can see is her.
I used to think I wanted the world to burn. I wanted revenge. I wanted to tear everything down because I was so fucking angry all the time. But looking at her now, seeing that small, confident smile, I realize I was wrong.This is what I want.This is what I was fighting for, even when I didn’t know it.Her happiness.It’s all I ever wanted. My gaze goes up, past the ceiling, to the room where my son is sleeping, safe. My father is up there, watching over him. My father. The thought is still so strange it makes my head spin.How the hell did I get so lucky?
I’d burn the whole world down a thousand times over if it meant keeping this. Keeping her. Keeping them. I’d walk back into that pit tomorrow. Today. Right now. I’d do anything. Anything at all.
She finishes with Andy and turns, catching my eye. She walks toward me, and I meet her halfway, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her against me.I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that as long as she’s by my side, I’m home.
“So you guys really moving?” Lou asks, coming closer.
“We’re just going to the West Side,” Sisk says. “You’re acting like we’re leaving the country.”
“It’s not just ‘the West Side,’” Lou says, slapping his hand flat on the bar to make his point. “You’re moving back to THE ST. CLAIR MANSION. Jax is finally reclaiming the throne! You’re letting me decorate one room. Just one. I’m thinking velvet drapes and a gold chandelier in the bathroom.”
“Go for it,” she shrugs. “It’s going to be an adjustment, that’s for sure. For all of us.”
Lou takes a sip of his sidecar. “That house is a fucking palace.”
I notice the drink’s in the wrong glass, but I keep my mouth shut.
“It’s too big, I know,” Sisk sighs.
“We need huge,” I say. “Right now I’m sharing a bed with you, a nine-month-old, and a hundred-pound St. Bernard.”
Matt snorts.
“And Scotch snores,” I add.
“Scotch does not snore,” Sisk says.
“Scotch snores like a dying tractor.”
