This wasn't taking either, evidently, and he'd had to cut it out so he wouldn't cause irreparable damage to his nerves and be unable to use his hand.
He needed it to kill that motherfucker.
Discarding the knife, Jax stepped out of the shower, his blood mingling with the water and forming tiny rivulets down his fingers before falling to the floor.
Like a slow heartbeat.
Drip. Red.
Drip. Red.
Drip. Red.
He liked the color of red on the white background of tiles. The unpredictable design of the droplets of blood. The way they grew darker with every drop.
It was calming, in a manner, which makes it a risk of addiction. If he got used to this view, he'd want to view it again and again, in greater quantities. As with a drug.
He didn't do addictions, though.
And he kept one from getting dangerous over six years ago.
So he was stable now. He should be stable.
Jax tore his eyes off the blood and stood in front of the mirror. The anti-fog coating showed a clear image of water cascading down his hair, onto his face, which had no expression, his abs, and to his half-hard dick. It had been like this since that bastard left him with blue balls, and he wouldn't touch himself.
This wasn't excitement because of anything he'd done, and it was just a simple miscalculation in his fucking system.
He swore to fuck, if his dick continued to be a problem, he'd castrate it.
That threat inside his head doesn't make the little bitch get the fuck down.
Sighing, Jax threw a towel over his head, wrapped another around his waist, and bandaged his hand. The blood still oozed through, making a stain.
Maybe he needed stitches.
What a bloody mess.
Jax halted after he walked into his room drying his hair with a towel.
"What are you doing here?" he queried in a disconnected tone, not even troubling to feign irritation at finding his brother sitting on his bed.
He was the last person he wanted to have to handle right now.
Stiles's arms were stabbed behind his head as he leaned against the ornate headboard, ankles crossed as he looked at Jax.
He was about two and a half years younger than Jax but a fourth-year med student because he likes to show off his smarts and took the trouble to skip ahead. Jax skipped a year, but just that.
Standing out like that was the last thing Jax wanted.
There was a glint in Stiles's dark-blue eyes. They hardly resembled siblings. He had Mom's eyes and Dad's dark hair. Jax had Mom's blonde hair and Dad's green eyes.
And he despised those eyes—Dad's and Jax's, that is. Something about not being Dad's favorite.
Well, he shouldn't have stood out.
"Just checking in on you." He smiled. "Saw blood on your car steering wheel."
So Jax might have started the knife thing when he got into the car, using the spare one in the glove box. Now, he was feeling guilty for Medusa—his car. He'd had to give her a good wash and apologize for putting her through this.
Jax's eyebrow rose. "And why were you looking at my car?"
"So I could mess with your brakes as threatened before."
"I do." Jax walked to his desk, not in the mood to go through their same tired routine where he threatened to kill him and Jax pretended to be scared or that he freaked him the fuck out.
He didn't. He was Jax in a new, less flashy font.
Jax just didn't want to be put in the same category as him.
He'd usually be studying or faking it at this time, but now he needed Stiles gone so he could sleep.
"See what?" He launched himself off the bed and moved towards Jax with a faint clenching in his eyes. "That's all you've got to say?"
Good news and bad news about Stiles being present:
Good news: his hard-on was gone. Thank fuck.
Bad news: he was suspicious of him.
"I just had a bad night." An understatement. "Can I get a rain check on your shenanigans?"
"Bad night in what sense?" He nodded toward Jax's bandaged hand. "Who did that?" A dead man walking. "It was an accident."
"Who caused the accident?"
"Why are you asking?" Jax let his lips curve into a smile. "You'll avenge my honor?"
Our honor. Don't want you embarrassing my last name."
Jax threw his hair towel at him. "Just don't be a red flag and we won't have that problem."
"You're bleeding again." He waved the bloodied towel in his hand. "You probably need stitches. I'll take a look if you beg me to."
"No, thanks.