Jax (Titan #9)(3)

So a drug deal was going down. Classy. At least Seven was pissed about that.

"Should've left with me and screwed." He rolled his eyes at the questionable, illegal activities, turning the other way, not needing to see whatever they were getting into, and wandered until the sidewalk ended.

Behind him, a motorcycle started and revved, and Jax didn't look to see if Seven was on the back of the Harley, going home with a biker. "Have fun."

But he turned as the car Seven and the biker had been leaning against rolled toward the parking lot exit. The driver's window was still down, and Jax froze. The car slowed, the driver's eyes caught his. It'd been years since they had seen one another, and violence long held at bay boiled under his skin.

Jax snarled. He couldn't process words. Hatred couldn't form the vileness needed to justify a breath wasted on the driver.

The car continued its slow drive away, crunching the gravel in the lot until it sped off, and Jax couldn't tear himself away from what—or who—he had just seen.

Deacon Lanes—a ghost from his past, the source of his misery, and a string puller at the CIA.

Why had Seven been talking to the man who had killed Jax's wife?





CHAPTER TWO


The familiar roar and vibrations of Johnny's Harley should've been comforting as Seven held on to her ex-husband as they flew down the highway. The hog had been a part of their marriage, even their friendship, for as long as she could remember. Seven knew how the motor growled down the asphalt because she had watched him build it by hand, piece by piece, from stripped parts.

The custom front springer and chrome grips to the throwback fenders made the Harley uniquely Johnny—classic but rugged, just like its owner. Sliding on to Johnny's Harley was like slipping on a pair of her favorite jeans.

They slowed as they exited, and Johnny turned his head. "Relax, babe."

"Sorry." She was stiff as a brick on the back of his bike, but then her hiked bridesmaid dress flew from where she had pinned it under her thighs.

As the dress flapped in the wind, she breathed deeply, hoping some of the oxygen would work its way to her angry muscles. She let her mind wander back to Victoria's wedding—to Jax Michaelson. The brooding anti-biker could moonlight as the poster boy for Italian sex gods. Seven blamed his dark hair and matching eyes more than his muscles. At least she was more curious about running her fingers through his hair than along the curves of his cut arms and chest.

Johnny turned his head. "There ya go, babe."

"What?" she yelled, ripping her mind from the absurd fantasy of touching Jax's hair.

"Loosening up, finally."

Ugh. Apparently, thoughts of Jax helped her relax—when he wasn't working her up with obnoxiously rude comments.

She balanced her high heels on the foot pegs as her hair whipped loose from the skullcap. Johnny slowed, leaning onto a side street as she stayed straight. Two turns later, they pulled into the church parking lot, where she'd left her car after carting Victoria from the hair salon, in her dress, with makeup and hair done, ready to marry the love of her life, Ryder.

When Seven and Johnny had gotten married, they'd done it at the courthouse, same place they'd gone to drop off their divorce paperwork. There had been no hairdos and no special makeup. Seven couldn't remember what she'd worn to either event but could bet that Johnny had been dressed in his uniform of jeans, a Mayhem MC tee, and his leather cut that proudly displayed his member patch. At the time, she'd thought he looked fine—hot, even. Leathers had worked her up at the time. How times changed.

Johnny killed the motor, and Seven slipped off. She unfastened the skullcap and gave it back to him, not bothering to check out what he was wearing and not caring if he looked good. She leaned over to fluff her hair then stormed as best she could in her high heels toward her car.

"What? No 'thank you'?" Johnny called.

Seven spun, making effective use of the flare at the bottom of her skirt, and evil-eyed him like only she could. They had never had a falling out. They'd never been the couple with big blowup fights, who threw bottles at one another, or the crazy couple who hollered until the cops showed up. They hadn't made asses of themselves at the MC compound.

They'd simply known they shouldn't be married, so they'd stopped. It was that simple. The elevator didn't go any farther, and they had gotten off the relationship ride. Johnny had kept the apartment, and together, they'd shocked the Mayhem world when she moved into a house and he helped move the boxes of her belongings.

But at the moment, Seven wanted to fight. "I have to go get the kids."

"Fine. I don't want to hear about it later, though."

Unable to wait until she got home, Seven folded the skirt as best she could to calm down, but it didn't look right or stay still, which made everything worse.

"Did you hear me?"

She scrunched the fabric then smoothed it out violently. "I don't want to throw down in God's parking lot. But you will hear about it later."

Johnny tossed his leg over the back of his bike, and his boots crunched with every step as he came forward. "Don't even tell me you're mad."

Mad? "You think?" She beelined for her car door, repeating a mantra: "A fight at God's house was seven years bad karma." Why seven? Why not? Her name and all… Man, she was pissed and gritted her teeth. With a quick unlock, she pulled the door open.