Chapter 165

Chapter 165
Jax said she looked okay from what he'd observed. Said she was spending a lot of time with Addy and Xander, eating, going to therapy like she said she would. “Doing better,” he’d offered, like it was a compliment.
Better.
Was that supposed to make me feel relieved? Cause all I could feel was sick.
It was narcissistic in the most fucked up, sinister way, but what if she stopped needing me?
What if the therapy worked too well? What if she finally fixed whatever she thought was broken and realized she didn’t need the man who was losing his goddamn mind three days into her absence?
I tossed the phone aside and ran a hand through my hair, nails digging into my scalp like I could claw the ache out. The silence was too loud.
I stood. Paced. Thought about calling her again. But no. One call. Tonight. After Jax tells me she’s home.
It’s what she asked for. Time. Space. Trust.
God, I was trying.
I rescheduled the staff meeting I’d been avoiding anyway and grabbed my gym bag. If I didn’t move, if I didn’t sweat this out, I was going to end up on the floor of this office.

An hour in the gym did absolutely nothing. I’d pushed harder than I should’ve, until my arms trembled, until the sting in my lungs dulled the ache in my chest, but the storm inside me hadn’t quieted.
I sat on the bench, towel slung around my neck, head bent low between my elbows. My phone buzzed beside me. For a second, everything in me surged with hope...stupid, blinding hope, and I snatched it up, thumb hovering over the screen.
But it wasn’t her, it was Jax.
“Yeah,” I answered quickly, forcing the disappointment down.
“ Is everything okay? Is Layla–”
“She’s fine. I’m not calling about her.”he cut in, his voice rougher than usual. Strained.
That clipped response made me sit up straighter. “Then what?”
There was a pause. One of those long ones Jax liked to take when he didn’t know how to word something without throwing a punch at the same time.
“Where are you?”
“Gym. Why?”
“I’ll be there in fifteen.” He hung up.
No explanation. No room to argue. I sighed, rubbed my face, and packed up my stuff. Maybe the fresh air would do more than the weights had.
The sun outside was already sinking by the time I stepped outside. I barely had time to check my phone again before I heard it, a deep, throaty growl of an engine that made a couple of guys in the parking lot turn.
Of course, he showed up on that new bike he’d bought with my card without even bothering to ask. Because that’s how Jax operated, like the world owed him something and he didn’t care what it cost.
Still, I had to admit, the thing was beautiful. Matte black, sleek with an angular body that looked like it had been carved out of a damn shadow. It suited him...dark, aggressive, and always moving too damn fast.
He pulled up beside me, killed the engine, and slid off with that same tense, deliberate grace he always had. But for once, the usual scowl wasn’t there. But it wasn’t calm either. I couldn’t place the look on his face.
It was unreadable, and that, with Jax, was a warning sign all on its own.
He walked over, gave me a once-over. Didn’t comment on how wrecked I probably looked. No snide remark about my face or the bags under my eyes. Nothing.
That’s when I knew this wasn’t some casual drop-in.
“You gonna stand there breathing at me,” I asked, “or is there something you actually wanted to say?”
He looked away for a second, jaw ticking. “The facility called.”
I didn’t need clarification. I knew exactly which one he meant.
I tensed. “And?”
“She’s not doing well. You should go see her.”
I scoffed. Cold. Hollow. “That’s what this is about? I told you, Jax, I don’t give a shit what happens to her.”
“You don’t fucking mean that.”
“I do,” I said, stepping around him. “And I’ve got better things to do.”
“Like what?” His voice sharpened.
I stopped. Turned back. “I don’t have time for this.”
“She tried to kill herself.”
The words hit like a brick to the chest. I didn’t move.
“I know the only person you give a damn about is Layla,” he went on, voice tight. “But this is your fucking mother, Adam. And you’re being an absolute jackass.”
I’d never heard that much emotion from him. Not in all the years I’d known him. It rattled me more than I wanted to admit.
I looked at him, really looked, and saw it in his eyes. That edge of something raw. Something guilt-stained.
He pulled out his phone. Tapped something. A few seconds later, mine buzzed in my pocket.
I checked it.
An address.
“ They said she keeps asking for you,” he stated, “ And you owe me. You know you do.”
He'd never pulled that card before.
“I’m sure the bike more than covers the guilt trip,” I muttered.
He held out the keys.
I didn’t take them.
I stared at him, heart thudding harder than I liked. He didn’t blink. Didn’t back down. Just held the keys like they weighed more than they should. I stared at them in his hand, then back up at his face. “Why do you even care?” I asked. “Why are you so fucking invested in her?”
He didn’t say anything.
I watched him, jaw tight around whatever he wasn’t saying. And it hit me, suddenly, how uneven this whole friendship was. He knew everything about me, every dark little corner. But him? I didn’t know shit.
He drank too much, smoked like his lungs were borrowed, fought like he had nothing to lose. And I wasn’t even sure he gave a damn about anyone.....except maybe me. And now, apparently, her.
I didn’t say any of it. Just let the thoughts settle, sharp and bitter, in the back of my throat.
I paused, breath heavy, gaze unflinching. Still nothing. Not even a blink. Just that same unreadable look.
“Go see her,” he said. “Before you end up living with regret for the rest of your life.”
He then turned his back on me, steps echoing in the silence like a clock ticking down. He made it a few paces before stopping, shoulders stiff. Then he turned, eyes colder than I'd ever seen them.
“If you don’t go,” he said, voice low but clear, “this is the last time you’ll hear from me.”
Then he turned again, straddled his bike, and without another word, tore down the street like the silence wasn’t dragging behind him like a scream.