Page 58 of Tar City
One second he’s there; the next he’s yanked back so hard his feet actually leave the ground. His smug words turn into a choked gasp. Jax is standing over him, his fist bunched in the front of Whistle’s shirt. His eyes are black with fury. Whistle slams into the asphalt.
“Jax, stop!” I scream, but he doesn’t even hear me. He just raises his fist back again.
“She offered, man!” Whistle sputters, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ground. “I’m just taking what’s?—”
Jax punches him again. And again. There’s no rage in it, just a terrifying, controlled purpose. It’s like he’s been holding this violence inside him, waiting for a reason to let it out, and now he finally has his excuse.
Whistle is begging, a garbled mess of pain and fear. His hands are up, trying to shield his face, but it’s useless. Blood streams from his nose and lip, painting his chin and the front of his shirt. People rush in, shouting, pulling at Jax’s arms. It takes three of them to finally drag him back, his muscles straining, his eyes still locked on the bloody heap on the ground.
Whistle scrambles to his feet and runs, stumbling off into the darkness.
By the time the noise dies down, it’s just me and Jax staring at each other. Around us, the party stutters back to life—people pretending they didn’t see what they absolutely did.
“He did nothing wrong!” I yell, stepping toward him.
Jax doesn’t flinch. He just turns his head slowly, his eyes finding mine. His gaze lowers to my wrist, then it drifts down, over to my bare legs. In that moment, I see it. He’s not only angry at Whistle. He’s angry at me too.
“He knew what he was doing,” he hisses.
The fight drains out of me, replaced by a cold dread. My eyes slide away from his, drawn to the pit behind him. The dark, still surface of the tar seems to pulse, and the strangest, most terrifying thought makes its way in.Sweat will never be enough. Jeans will never be enough. This place, this hunger, it’s a black hole, and it will take everything until there’s nothing left.
Nineteen
NOW | JAX
“What do you want to eat?” I ask again, like I didn’t hear her the first time.
Sisk’s eyes are bright with that exhausted kind of fury—the kind that shows up when you’ve already made up your mind.
“Did you even hear what I said?” she spits.
I keep my hands on the dresser, fingers digging into the wood like I can anchor myself there. Days after the full moon, I’m barely myself. The tar doesn’t leave—it just quiets. But around her, I feel it stirring in my veins anyway.
“Yeah, I heard you,” I say. My voice comes out too controlled. “Right now you need meds, and you don’t take those on an empty stomach.”
Her mouth twists. “You sound like a brochure.”
I ignore it. I can’t afford to rise to it.
“Food first,” I repeat.
She shifts on the bed and the brace knocks lightly against the frame. A flash of pain crosses her face before she can swallow it down. She catches me looking and her expression goes numb, daring me to react.
“So,” she says, almost conversational, “what do you recommend for someone whose career you just snapped in half?”
The words land surgically clean. I inhale too sharply.
Scotch lifts his head at the sound—ears twitching—then crawls up and presses himself against her hip like he can glue her together.
She drags her fingers through his fur, like petting him is the only thing keeping her from ripping my throat out.
“Don’t,” I say quietly.
“Don’t what?” she asks.
“Don’t talk like that.” My throat burns. “You’ll dance again.”
She laughs bitterly.
