Page 27 of Jax

“Momma told me if I had nothing nice to say, I shouldn’t say it at all.”

“Your momma sure had a nicer mouth than you’ve ever had.”

Asshole.

With that comment, I took no time in getting up off my ass and stretching my leg. Though the trip was short, and my sleep even shorter than I’d have liked due to a certain traumatic ride home, both seemed to have rejuvenated my strength a little and I felt sturdier on my feet than I had in a while.

The moment I opened my eyes this afternoon, I had hoped for a better day, until I had hit the bathroom and saw the destruction.

I should have stayed in bed.

“Don’t talk about my momma,” I punctuated with the clip of my helmet. The strap sprung loose along with my hair before I handed it back to him.

Jax didn’t apologize.

He stood up from his seat, the bike’s suspension giving a little breath, being released from his weight. He placed the helmet on the vacated seat before Jax moved over to the saddle bags where he stuffed all of my things.

“What are you doing?”

“Unpacking your shit,” he turned with a puff of dust around his ankles and holding the bag out to me.

I looked at him, then at the bag. Then back at him. “Why?”

He frowned at me like I was a piece of gum on the bottom of his shoe. “Do you really need me to spell it out for you?”

“Whole words would be preferable than letters, actually. You know I was never good at literacy,” I chirped, earning an annoyed glare.

“You’re staying here.” Jax shoved the bag into my arms.

“What?”

I looked from him and to the ranch house—Mr. Jenkin’s ranch house to be exact.

Max, I knew, was in a stable in the empty barn. She had it all to herself since there were no other animals on the property, and all the expensive vehicles and equipment used for harvesting the corn field were stored in a safer, sealed, and alarmed facility on the other side of the land.

My gaze then shifted to the house, whose occupant I had yet to meet face-to-face.

Then at last, I looked to Jax.

He raised a brow above the lenses of his glasses. “You sure you don’t want letters? How about I write it down?”

“I can’t stay here!” I exclaimed, ignoring his rhetorical and sarcastic question.

Hugging my bag to my chest, I looked between Jax and the house. The old, dreamy home that was now filled with charm, having remained untouched by time. “It’s Mr. Jenkins’ house.”

“The old man went into hospital yesterday for hip surgery,” Jax replied, fishing a key out the other saddle bag. The thing was big, clunky, and looked heavy as Jax pulled it out. It suited the house. “Nothing major,” he added as an afterthought. “He’s just going to be out the house for a while. Told me to look after it, but I also got to be at the club. This makes it easier.”

Well, he made sense; I couldn’t deny that.

“How long will he be gone for?” I asked as Jax turned away from me, his hot cut displayed over his shoulders. I trailed after it, watching as the skull rippled with each twitch of his muscles carrying him up the porch steps.

The door swung wide. I expected a slow and steady creak but was met with smooth silence. I followed Jax through the door and onto a porch cushioned by a welcome straw mat, which was threadbare and crying with homemade style. I paused with my dusty boots on the mat.

Momma loved those….

Jax’s heavy footsteps resounding ahead brought me back as I knocked the dust from my soles before following him.

Trailing behind him, I noticed the way Jax’s large body seemed to shrink the beloved home. The ceilings were taller than the typical eight feet, but the doorframes were a contrast. They were small and built for people narrower and slimmer built than Jax, whose hair brushed along the top of each frame. Walking through them without hesitation told me that he’d been working on this farm for a long while, enough to become familiar with how he fit through each archway.

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