Chapter Twelve: Whiskey on the Porch

The words slid out of me smooth, teasing, but there was truth tucked in the corners. Jax's mouth twitched, that almost-smile he tried not to let loose, and then he shook his head. A quiet chuckle broke from him, low and rough, the sound curling through the night air like smoke.

"You're somethin' else," he muttered.

His hand disappeared into the saddlebag, the leather creaking softly as he dug around. A moment later he came back with a bottle of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the pale glow of the streetlamp. It looked like gold had been bottled up and left waiting for us.

I laughed, sharp and bright, like a kid being promised candy after dinner. I reached for it without hesitation.

But he shifted it just out of my reach. "If you want any of this," he said, smirk tugging at his mouth, "you're gonna have to start bein' honest with me."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, please. I'm honest."

"Mm." He lifted the bottle higher, just enough to prove the point. "Not yet."

I reached again, fingers brushing the glass, and he pulled it back further, this time his tone dipping lower, heavier. "I mean it, Rae. I'm too tied up in this life to start gettin' attached again—just to watch you run."

It wasn't sharp. It wasn't meant to hurt. He said it the way you tell a friend to buckle their seatbelt, like it was about keeping me in one piece.

The whiskey didn't shine quite the same when he said it, but I sighed and gave a small nod. "Fine."

His smile softened, satisfied enough. He slid the bottle under his arm, swung a leg off the bike, and nodded toward the porch.

"You should pull her into the garage," I said, tilting my chin toward his Harley. "Just in case the Mayans decide to get bold."

"They'd be idiots to follow us here."

I gave him a look. The same one that used to shut him up when we were kids.

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Fine. Garage it is."

The house groaned when I unlocked the door, hinges dry, air stale. It smelled faintly of dust, old wood, and a little like the citrus cleaner the nurses had used. The kind of smell that felt like someone else's house, not mine. I led him through, down the narrow hall, and hit the switch that rattled the garage door awake. It yawned open, spilling a square of moonlight across the concrete.

Jax wheeled his bike inside, engine echoing off the bare walls. When he cut it, silence pressed in close. He propped the stand with his boot, leaned on the bars a second, then smirked at me.

"You can't be dangerous and safe all in one breath," he teased.

I crossed my arms, cocking my head. "Isn't that exactly what you are?"

For a heartbeat he went still. Then he nodded once, slow. "Guess you're right."

Inside, half-packed boxes crowded the living room. I knelt by one, newspaper crinkling as I dug for glasses. Jax followed me in, boots scuffing the hardwood, his eyes scanning like he was reading the walls.

"Looks like you already decided," he said. "Stayin' or leavin'."

I shook my head, still rummaging. "No. My brother and some of the nurses packed up most of Dad's stuff before I got here. The things they wanted to keep. This place was a disaster."

"Your old man was a collector," Jax said, pulling a glass off the top of the pile.

I snatched it out of his hand quick. "Careful. He's already half-sitting up in his grave 'cause you taught me to ride. He's probably halfway out of it 'cause you're standing in his house. If I let you drink out of his favorite glass, he'll come back just to haunt me."

That broke him. His laugh was deep and unguarded, shaking his shoulders. "All right. I'll wait on the porch."

"And the cut stays in here," I added, not looking up.

He froze, then groaned like I'd asked him to strip his skin. But when I lifted my eyes, the look I gave him was enough. He slid the leather off his shoulders, careful with it, and set it neatly across the couch. The reaper's face stared back in the dim light, muted but still menacing.

By the time I found two mismatched glasses, he'd already stepped outside. The porch creaked under his boots, the boards remembering his weight like they'd known it before. I joined him, glasses clinking softly together in my hand.

He poured, the whiskey sliding smooth, catching the porch light as it filled each glass. The smell rose sharp and sweet, cutting through the night air.

"Strange bein' here again," he said, handing me one. "Feels wrong not havin' to duck your old man."

I laughed, the memory bubbling up easy. "Remember when Gemma came banging on the door? Dad shouted through it, 'that damn Teller boy ain't here!' Whole time you were hiding in my closet."

Jax smirked, shaking his head. "You got me back for that. Climbed through my window after a fight with him, scared the hell outta me."

I smiled into my glass. "That's exactly why I wanted to see you again. To see if you're still the guy who'd risk a fight for me."

He didn't answer, but the look he gave me said plenty.

I took a slow sip, the burn warming all the way down. "Didn't expect you to settle down. With Wendy, of all people."

That made him laugh outright. "That was doomed before it even started."

"Me and Opie saw her at the clubhouse before I left. Told you she'd eat you alive."

His smile faded softer, more thoughtful. "Yeah. You did."

The night folded around us as we traded memories. Whiskey loosened the knots in our shoulders. Laughter slipped easier. We told stories that didn't need to be told but demanded to be remembered—like the night Opie dared Jax to jump his dirt bike over a ditch and he ended up laid out in the mud, cursing the whole way. Or the time I convinced them both to sneak beer from Piney's fridge, only to get caught halfway back to the woods.

"Opie swore you planned that," Jax said, grinning.

I raised my glass. "And you still followed me anyway."

His eyes softened at that, blue deepening like the sky right before dawn.

We fell quiet for a while, listening to the night. Moths batted against the porch light. A dog barked somewhere down the street, then another answered. The wood under our boots creaked when we shifted, like the house remembered each step.

Jax poured another round, the whiskey running lower in the bottle. His voice dipped, serious now. "All right. My turn. Who's Hunter Moretti?"

The name hit harder than the liquor. I swirled the glass, watching the amber cling to the sides. "Not tonight."

"How'd you meet him?" Jax's eyes never left mine. "Why're you runnin'?"

"I'm not." Too quick. Too defensive.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying me with that same look he'd worn as a kid when he knew I was lying about sneaking out. "Yeah, you are."

I sighed, leaned back against the rail, and tipped my head toward the stars. The night air cooled the heat in my face, but the whiskey burned steady in my chest. I lifted the glass, let the porch light catch it, and took another slow sip.

And said nothing more.

Not yet.