JAX (The Beckett Boys #2) - Olivia Chase Page 0,49
and swings my dad’s hand around in the air. “Just relax.”
I shift in my seat, preparing a bevy of excuses, when the door dings open and in strolls Jax, his face tense. The lines ease up a touch when he spots me. He comes over and takes the seat beside me, pressing a distracted kiss to my mouth.
“Glad you finally made it,” Mom tells him. I shoot her a warning look to be nice, but she studiously ignores me, sticking out her hand. “I’m Brooklyn’s mom. This is her father, and her sister, Della.”
“Jax.” He shakes her hand, gives each of them an acknowledging nod; now that I’m looking at him, I can see how tired he seems.
“Everything okay?” I ask him.
“Smith was in an accident. That’s why I was late—I came from the hospital.” The strain in his voice is evident.
I feel a shock run through my system. “Is he…”
“He’s going to be fine,” Jax says, shrugging. “Wrecked his motorcycle. My brother loved that thing. Dumbass—he probably wasn’t watching what he was doing.” Jax shakes his head.
I swallow hard and reach into his lap to cup his hand. “I’m sorry. Let me know if I can do anything.”
He gives a quick nod, then releases my hand and picks up a menu. My face burns from the dismissal, but I try to shake it off. After all, I’m a little sensitive right now, and he’s stressed about Smith. He’s not going to be super affectionate with me under those circumstances.
Mom blinks. I can tell she’s unsure what to think of Jax. And his motorcycle-riding brother.
I give a weak smile. “Well, I’ll go by and visit him when he gets home. Maybe I can help Aubrey cook up some meals ahead of time.”
“She’d appreciate that, I’m sure,” Della said. “This kind of thing can’t be easy on a newlywed couple.”
“So what do you do?” Mom asks.
Our waiter comes by and takes our order. Once he leaves, Jax sips his water. “I run a bar with my brothers.”
“A bar?” She gets those telltale frown lines around her mouth.
I interject, “It’s doing well.”
Jax gives Mom a small smirk. “It’s called Outlaws. Probably not your kind of joint, huh?”
She’s not amused. “I’m curious what your parents must think of that.”
“Mom,” I say in a hard tone, right as Jax answers, “Well, considering it was my dad’s gift to us when he died, I’d think he’d be okay with it.” His voice is even, but there’s definite strain in his eyes.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mom says awkwardly. She picks at the corner of her paper napkin. “I didn’t mean any offense.”
God, this is a disaster. I clear my throat. “So, how’s Cam doing?” I ask. Talking about him always gets my parents happy.
Della perks up. She reaches over and strokes his soft hair. “He’s walking really well now. Too well. He’s going to be a terror when he gets older.” She laughs.
“He’s really cute,” Jax says, eyeing Cam, who eyes him back. When Cam starts to randomly scream, as he sometimes does, Jax flinches and eyes me with concern.
“He does this,” I say. I want to touch his hand again, to feel a comfort I only find with him, but the way he pulled out of my grasp earlier makes me feel paranoid and vulnerable. And I’m sure one of my family members saw it.
Our food finally arrives, and we eat. I pick at mine, my stomach too upset to dig in. Jax doesn’t really eat his either.
We sit beside each other, and for the first time since I can remember, we’re not touching. I realize how much I miss the absence of his hands on me. My stomach sinks—I’ve become so attached to him, so needy for him.
My parents make inane talk with Della about Cam. My mom is still pissed at me about my grades; I can tell by the chilly glances she throws my way when she actually looks at me. I’m in trouble.
Jax must notice the tension. “Is something wrong?” he asks.
Mom, blinking in shock that he said something about the quiet discomfort in the room, coughs. “I just learned that Brooklyn’s grades dropped this last semester. I don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?”
“Mom!” I say in a sharp voice. “Don’t do that.”
“And why would I know anything about it?” There’s a matching edge to Jax’s tone. He’s offended, and I don’t blame him. My grades are my fault, not his. I was the one who chose