And like the house itself is ratting me out, the front door creaks open in the living room.Shit.I shove the notebook under the bed like I’m hiding contraband and scramble to stand up—half-balanced and off-center.
I’m fully expecting Jax to walk in and give me some speech about how I should be “resting properly” or “letting my leg heal without complications” or whatever new condescending recovery mantra he’s come up with?—
But it’s not him.
“Lou?”
Lou’s already halfway into the room, spinning his arms wide like a hurricane in jeans and sunglasses—inside, of course.
“Pitfire! What are you doing here?” I hobble forward into the living room.
Lou doesn’t wait; he wraps me in a hug that smells like lemon cologne, then pulls back, takes one look around, and deadpans: “Girl. What. The. Fuck.”
He walks in with one arm raised like he needs to clear the air. “Okay, first of all—wow.I mean, he’s a St. Clair. I was expecting, you know… brooding-man-who-owns-a-typewriter energy. Maybe a broken lamp. Maybe a collection of half-empty whiskey bottles arranged for aesthetic. Butthis?This is abandoned-motel-meets-deadbeat-haunted-house. And this isTar Citywe’re talking about. Most people are happy if the plumbing works.”
“It’s not that bad?—”
He turns dramatically, arms spread. “There is literally a knife on the couch.”
I glance down. There is, in fact, a knife on the couch. A pocket knife, half-unfolded, like it’s been used recently and never put away.
“I guess it suits him,” Lou says, patting one of the pillows. A puff of dust erupts and he fake-coughs. “Oh good. The air is seasoned.”
I try not to laugh. “Lou—seriously—how did you even get in here?”
“Your kidnapper kidnapped me.”
“What?”
“I’m still trying to figure out how I’m getting both of us out of here,” he continues, pacing. “He made me put on shoes. Then he pointed at the bike like it was non-negotiable. Didn’t tell me where we were going. Didn’t speak. Just… stared at me like a criminal until I got in.”
I open my mouth to respond but the door opens behind us.
Lou freezes mid-rant.
“Brought cheese. You’re welcome,” Jax says, perfectly casual, holding up a brown paper bag like this is a normal day.
“You got cheese?” I repeat, firm.
He shrugs. “You like cheese.”
Lou raises an eyebrow. “What is this, a hostage negotiation with a fucking charcuterie board?”
“The fuck you want to drink, Lou?” Jax asks, already walking to the kitchen like we’re all in on the same script.
I stare at him. “Jax, did you kidnap Lou?”
“Yep. Sit the fuck down, Lou.”
“Told you,” Lou mutters, flopping onto the least horrifying chair.
“And why did you do that?”
“You’re lonely,” Jax says, opening the fridge. “You could use a friend.”
The nerve.
“Jax,” I snap, “will you please tell Lou he can breathe again? And also, that he’s free to go if he chooses to?”
