Contents
JAX
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
NOAH
DELTA: RICOCHET
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
JAX
New York Times Bestselling Author
Cristin Harber
CHAPTER ONE
Slap.
Jax's cheek stung as the eighties rock band hit a power chord and the dance floor went wild. Wedding guests danced, guys lifted their beer bottles as they sang along, and kids screamed through the melee with blinking neon lights. He would've put his hand to his face to calm the sting from the open-palmed hand-slap rejection, but there was no way he would give Seven that level of satisfaction.
"What?" Seven let her delicious pink lips tip into the slightest hint of a smile. "You've never been rejected before, big boy?"
Maybe he'd had a few too many wedding-reception-themed shots, but that she didn't give him her full smile… He shook his head and considered it a challenge to earn her full, sexy grin. "Was that a no?"
"Most people would think so."
He raised an eyebrow. "Too bad. I thought it was the start of foreplay."
"Not a chance." The tip of Seven's tongue darted out and licked her bottom lip, taunting him with her tongue stud. "I didn't think I had to spell it out."
His deep laugh rumbled as his hand ran behind the dress shirt's loosened collar. "And why's that?"
"You're the type to have been slapped a time or two."
"Never once."
"Really?" An eyebrow with two tiny pink jewels on the end of an unseen barbell piercing lifted. "I call BS."
"Cross my heart." He made a cross as she rolled her eyes.
They would be the oddest pairing in the history of wedding reception hookups—except this one was going nowhere… unless she left with him.
"Never slapped until me."
"Until you, sweetheart." And wasn't that the hottest thing that a woman had ever done? Said no with style. Seven was unforgettable in every way he could tell.
For the past two years, they had shared more than a few dirty looks, and for the past two hours, they'd shared liquor, shaken and stirred, poured into shot glasses, and announced with ridiculous names like Devotion Potion, About Thyme, and Something Blue.
Each shot was as brightly colored as Seven. The bold colors were needed, she explained, to combat dark and grumpy people like him. Twice, she'd called him a jerkface, and with every jab, he wanted to take her back to his hotel room even more.
When she'd slapped him, it had taken every ounce of restraint not to kiss her until her mind changed. Consent was a thing, and he got it loud and clear, but God, Seven made his chest tight when she got feisty. He was certain her "no" was concrete, but hell if he didn't want to know what lay under her maid-of-honor dress.
Jared Westin slapped Jax on the back. "Am I interrupting?"
Jax grumbled, and Seven snickered her hello. And poof—the locked-eye standoff between him and Seven disappeared like forgotten bad dance moves on a wedding reception night gone long.
"Hey, Boss Man." Jax checked his annoyance and decided it was better that Jared thought he was on his best behavior rather than irritating the wedding party. "Just catching up."
"My lady friends deck me too when we catch up."
Jax's official title could have been Titan Jackass for all the aggravations he'd caused, though most times it was justified. Including now. "No punches were thrown."
Jared tipped back his beer and took a long draw, lifting it away to greet someone a few tables over then turned back to Seven. "Miscategorization. Was it a slap, then? I just saw…" He lifted his arm and swung it out. "The follow-through after impact."
Jax chortled. "Drama llamas."
"Do llamas drink beer?" Boss Man joked.
Jax kept laughing. "Have you been asking your kids for your lines lately?"
"It was a slap." Her coy smile served only to reignite Jax's hope that a "no" today might be a "try again" sometime soon. "As evident by the handprint on that handsome cheek and my deep satisfaction."
"Handsome, huh?" Jared repeated, stroking the beard he'd been growing. "Eye of the beholder."
Jax rolled his eyes. "Some could say the same about—"
"Remember who signs the paychecks."
"Handsome or not"—Seven elbowed Jax's side—"he deserved it."
She lingered, warm and playful, and Jax took a tight breath as Boss Man eyed their dynamic. He'd already been slapped, so what did Jax have to lose? He tossed an arm over her bare shoulder and sensed Seven freeze. His skimming fingers caressed her soft skin as goose bumps prickled. He couldn't wait to try again sometime soon and gave her arm a light squeeze. "You left no handprint, beautiful. No evidence."
"How do you know? You can't see your cheek." She leaned closer, long eyelashes upturned, and the friction of their clothes made a soft swish in the raucous room.
A choked laugh caught in Jared's throat, and amused, he tipped his bottle toward Jax. "But there was a witness." Then he took another swig and tipped his head toward Seven. "If you need a guy, I hold up well under cross-examination."
"Good to know," she joked.
Jax fought the urge to fold Seven tighter to his side and mold her to his hip. Her laughter ran the length of her body, staying with him after she stopped.
"On that note…" Seven blew Jax a kiss while her fingernails scraped across the back of his silk shirt, hidden by his suit jacket she'd nuzzled into. Only a few inches separated her lips and his cheek, close enough that he could feel the shadow of heat on his skin. "I have to run. I'll see you if you come back to Iowa sometime."
He dropped his chin and whispered, "Mixed signals, babe."
"Good night, Jared." She extracted herself from Jax's side and turned on the sky-high heel that had first left Jax dazed in church. He'd said a prayer of thanks when he saw her walking down the aisle because she had no idea how much he'd needed to see her, those shoes, and that dress—but mostly her. Now Seven waltzed away as though she knew he couldn't stop staring.
"Don't look so surprised." Jared shook his head, cracking his knuckles against the side of the longneck. "She knows you."
She knows you… For as little as she did, Seven may have known him better than Titan.
A dark cloud coiled in his chest. Accusations of an often-recurring attitude problem echoed in his ears. Gone was the high of toying with Seven, the closeness of touching her, and the adrenaline burst from making her react.
"And your night is about to get worse," Jared warned as Jax caught Sugar, Jared's wife, making a beeline for them.
"I gotta roll also." If he thought some of his teammates were a pain in the ass, this woman had it in for him. He didn't need a liquor-fueled confrontation tonight. "But I'll have my phone on if anything unexpected pops up—"
"Too late." Jared laughed into his beer as Sugar's long stride made record time. "Should've just split."
"Jax." She coolly pursed her red lips together.
And have Jared chew his ass for that? Nope. "Looking nice tonight, Sugar."
The dark-haired, leather-clad façade faded long enough for the ice queen to smile for her compliment. Then Sugar's suspicious smoky eyes narrowed. "There are more than enough biker bunnies here."
Sugar's social assessment of his behavior was Jax's cue to take cover, and he stepped away, giving no shits how obvious the duck-and-cover was. "There are. Good night."
She stepped forward, on the offensive. "Who would gladly say yes to whatever you offered Seven."
"Two witnesses, then." Jared rumbled with sarcasm. "I'll make sure Seven knows."
"Generous of you." With a quick wave, Jax ducked away and kept walking through the eclectic groupings of people.
The straightlaced mixed with the straightedge. All of Sweet Hills' community leaders mingled with 4-H Council leaders, who wore their best overalls and mud-scraped work boots. Then there were Titan Group and Mayhem MC, an odd combination of Ryder and Victoria's social circles, filled with former military, CIA spooks, and gang members of the motorcycle club variety.
Very few occasions—births, weddings, and funerals—could bring this assortment together without needing to call the police. Even the sheriff was on the dance floor, ignoring the outstanding warrants Jax assumed Mayhem had. The motorcycle club had to have a few with their guns and drug runners. Having worked a Titan op a couple years back and turning on national news regularly, Jax didn't believe the club's legitimate business ventures were anything more than a BS front.
He moved to the bar, and the bartender held up a shot glass that Jax regrettably recognized as Something Blue. "Never mind." He waved it away. "Water instead."
"No problem."
Jax threw down a tip for the open bar and glanced at the paper embossed with Victoria and Ryder. There would be so much hell to give Ryder about this Pinterest explosion, then Jax cringed that he knew what Pinterest was. He blamed his teammates and the pregnancies over the years.
"Anything else, buddy?" the bartender asked.
"No." Jax held out his water bottle. "Cheers to the day we stop pointing out the obvious. Pretty damn sure I know whose wedding this is."
The obvious surrounded him as the bartender moved on, and Jax obviously shouldn't have hit on Seven. Yet, the way she'd slid her arm under his suit coat said she obviously didn't mind their flirtations too much. Jax smiled around the top of his water bottle before taking another sip of water. After she'd slapped him, when they had been close enough to taste and tease, her breath startled for a second, surprised, as though maybe she couldn't believe she'd done that.
Tension had to erupt somehow… and, inhaling slowly, Jax wanted that panting breath next to his ear next time, with her thighs wrapped around—
"Need anything else?" the bartender asked again.
"No." He needed to bail and gulped his water, tugging at the already unbuttoned collar of his shirt. "Thanks, man."
The bartender's good night met his back as he left without so much as a goodbye to his teammates and walked out of the Sweet Hills Community Center.
Farm trucks mixed with minivans and rental cars in the parking lot, and at the front were two rows of Mayhem Harleys, the club's insignia on full display. But more interestingly, Seven was at the end of a row. Her hands were on her hips, and her brightly colored hair matched the angry expression on her face. She was pissed, which seemed par for the course. At least he wasn't the only guy there getting a dose of Seven's bitching as she stood behind an MC member leaned over a car.
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. L
eathers 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.
"Seven," Johnny snapped. "What does your sweet ass have to be mad about? Nothing."
She glanced up at the church steeple. "Sorry, Big Guy." Then she slammed the door shut and spun, her finger up and wagging. "Don't you dare play dumb with me, Jonathan Andrew Miller."
Johnny rolled his eyes. "You're mad about the drugs."
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