I turned to leave but stopped, noticing two pictures peeking out from underneath a wooden box on top of his dresser. I reached over and pulled them up, studying the women in the images. One picture was old, an actual photograph of a girl—maybe sixteen or seventeen—wearing a defiant look on her face and a Cure T-shirt. Next to her sat an older guy—early twenties—with a cigarette in his hand. He had Jax’s eyes.

The second photo was a rack card, advertising a club in Chicago that held some kind of show. The woman in the images was dark and beautiful, dressed in a black corset and top hat. She was hanging in the air above a full crowd, but I couldn’t tell what was holding her up.

I looked between the two pictures, seeing the resemblance between the women.

I quickly stuffed the photos back where I found them and walked for the door.

Stepping out of the room, I turned the corner and descended the stairs. The party was still going strong—it was only a little after midnight after all—but the crowd had thinned. I didn’t see Shane, Madoc, or Fallon anywhere, and I was little pissed off about that. My cousin, at least, should’ve checked in with me before she ditched me.

A few people lingered around the pool table, in the foyer, and I could hear voices coming from the kitchen. Everyone seemed heavily relaxed as they barely noticed me.

Five Finger Death Punch’s “Battle Born” droned out of the speakers, and I walked out the front door in my bare feet, ready to just go home, when I reared back, planting my footstep back where it came from.

Holy shit!

“Jax! Whoo!” someone cheered, and I sucked in air and pinched my eyebrows together in horror.

Jax’s naked back faced me as he hunched on the ground, slamming his fist into some poor guy’s face. Well, not poor guy if he was the one slipping drugs to an unknowing girl, but poor guy because he was obviously down, and Jax wasn’t stopping.

His arm shot back, the muscles in his triceps and back bulged, and his fist hammered down right on the guy’s face. Again and again, and I fought against the pitching sensation in my stomach.

When Jax brought his fist back again, I saw blood, and I raced down to the walkway at the bottom of the steps, thinking it might be his.

Wiping his bloody fist on his jeans, he stepped up, bringing his victim with him by the collar.

I veered around the crowd that had gathered and hugged myself against a chill that didn’t come from the air. Jax dug in the guy’s pocket, bringing out a few small vials of liquid, and handed them to the same guy who’d come to Jax’s room.

The dealer wobbled back and forth, blood dripping down his lips and chin, and Jax hovered down on him, damn near pressing the guy into the ground with the anger in his eyes. His lips moved, and he whispered something in the dealer’s face, but I couldn’t hear it. I doubted anyone could, and I knew there was a reason for that.

People shouted threats they never intended to keep. Others whispered threats they didn’t want witnesses to hear.

Dropping his hands, Jax talked to Tattoo Guy while everyone started to disperse. Then he turned around and locked eyes with me.

“I told you to stay upstairs.” His voice was quiet but hard and annoyed.

I dropped my eyes, trying not to see all the blood. “I think I’ll go home. I’m not even sure I want to know you right now.”

Some girls may want a tough guy. An alpha dog who pushes them around. Someone who beats up drug dealers on their front lawn. It struck me that I’d simply like someone who didn’t attract drug dealers in the first place.

“You already know me. Intimately.” He smirked.

Several bystanders laughed, and I glared at Jax.

“That doesn’t mean you know me,” I bit out.

He stepped into my face. “And witnessing me pummel a nineteen-year-old guy who gave a sixteen-year-old girl GHB so he could do who knows what to her body doesn’t mean you know me, either, K. C. Carter.” He drawled out my sister’s name, trying to piss me off. “You can leave now.”

“Ohs” filled the air around me, and I stared at Jax as I ran my tongue along the back of my teeth, fuming.

I could say it was the fight that had pissed me off. Or I could say it was the plethora of questions without answers that had made the bug crawl up my butt.

But it wasn’t either one.

If he had come up to me and put his arms around me, looking at me as if I were the Christmas present he’d been waiting for as he had done in that room, I would’ve folded. I wouldn’t have cared that he got into fights or that he was a complete mystery.

What shut me down was the fact that I was disposable to him. Just like to my mother. To Liam. To most people who looked through me as if I were a piece of glass.

Fuck him.

I walked past him, not saying a word as I headed toward Tate’s house.

“Are you okay?” Fallon rushed up and touched my shoulder. “I just came out and caught the tail end of that. Anything I can do?”

I nodded, still walking. “Yeah. Get Madoc’s car keys, and get Shane. We’re going on a midnight run.”

Homicides occur more frequently during the summer. Little-known fact, but it’s true.

The irritation of the heat drives people to lose their cool—no pun intended—and they end up reacting in ways they might not in more temperate conditions. Sunshine blinds you, sweat trickles down your back, and your body heat rises, making you uncomfortable. Given the right circumstance—the right person getting in your face—your brain is pushed beyond the breaking point, and you snap.