Page 49 of Jax (The Kansas City Reapers #3)

Stella

The kitchen smelled like rebellion and chocolate.

Maddy was elbows-deep in a mixing bowl the size of a toddler’s bathtub, digging through dough like it held the answers to her emotional stability. Bellamy, never one for half-measures, had twisted her hair into a high, war-ready bun and clutched a wooden spoon like she’d seen combat with it.

Maddy sang off-key into a whisk. Bellamy iced a cupcake like it was a competition. It wasn’t baking; it was battle. And the boys must’ve felt the tremor in the Force, because they started trickling in like confused predators, unsure what prey looked like anymore.

Bellamy didn’t look up as they trickled in from various corners of the house. Just pointed back the way they had come and said a single word. “Out.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She simply issued the order like slippered royalty, spine straight, spoon lifted, gaze locked on the cupcake she was icing.

Niko blinked. “You live in a safe house. Our safe house.”

“And we’re very safe,” Maddy replied, scooping dough with surgical focus. “Because we have brownies.”

Carrick crossed his arms. “We’re supposed to protect you.”

“Then protect our right to high-fructose corn syrup and unfiltered rom-com tears,” Bellamy snapped. “It’s girls’ night.”

I bit back a laugh and lifted my cup of wine—yes, wine, in a Disney villain mug that said Poisonously Pretty —in salute. “Go. Before we make it weird.”

Jax didn’t move. Just leaned a hip against the doorframe, arms crossed over a black long-sleeve henley that looked one strategic exhale away from indecency.

“Giving me orders now, are you?” he asked, voice low and laced with amusement.

“Damn right,” I replied, sipping. “Go babysit us from your surveillance command post, like the overqualified voyeur you are.”

He grinned, slow, sharp, and sexy as sin. “As you wish.”

Bellamy made a dramatic shooing gesture. “That’s it, boys. Go lift something heavy, or polish a gun, or whatever it is you do when your masculinity gets threatened by women who bake.”

“I’m not threatened,” Sully said, already backing toward the hallway like a man with instincts honed for survival. “I’m intimidated. Very different vibe.”

Deacon said nothing, just glanced at Bellamy’s spoon like he was evaluating the structural integrity of wood under high-stress impacts.

Niko gave Maddy a long look. “If you set the oven on fire, I swear to God….”

“It’s preheated, not possessed,” Maddy chirped.

“Highly debatable,” he muttered, turning on his heel.

Carrick didn’t leave without a fight. “This feels like discrimination.”

Bellamy pointed her spoon at him like it was Excalibur. “You’re lucky I don’t make you wear glitter to earn back entrance privileges.”

“That better not be a threat,” he warned.

“It’s a promise, sugarplum.”

The door shut behind them, the curtain falling on the first act of a sprinkle-fueled uprising. Maddy high-fived the air. Bellamy swiped frosting across her cheek like war paint.

“Victory is ours,” Maddy declared, already hip-deep in the fridge, retrieving another bottle of Prosecco with militant precision.

I took in the chaos—flour-dusted counters, rogue sprinkles, music shaking the walls—and something strange bloomed in my chest. Not fear. Not grief. Not strategy. Joy. Ridiculous, untrustworthy joy. But I wanted to believe it.

Bellamy tossed me fuzzy socks with glitter skulls. “Put these on and take a shot of whipped cream like a grown woman.”

“You people are emotionally unwell.”

“Duh,” Maddy said, popping the cork and letting it rocket into the living room. “Why do you think we do this?”

And then, God help me, I laughed. Actually laughed.

The rebellion was officially underway.

Pajama time arrived without warning. One moment, we were high on frosting and brownie batter. The next, Maddy strutted out like a war goddess on sabbatical, pink silk robe, angry cat socks, glitter face mask shimmering like weaponized unicorn snot. She wore it like armor. Regal. Terrifying.

Bellamy gave a slow nod. “We wear pink. On every day ending in Y.”

“No notes,” Maddy said, slicking glitter balm across her lips like she meant to kiss and conquer. Somewhere along the way she’d stolen the brownie pan, and now perched on the couch arm like a goblin monarch, eating with royal entitlement.

I didn’t have pajamas. Just a faded black tank, borrowed sleep shorts, and the vague hope no one noticed I wasn’t dressed for sparkly combat. But Bellamy lobbed a blanket at me with divine force, and I sank onto the oversized couch like I belonged.

The remote passed between hands like a sacred weapon.

“We’re watching 10 Things I Hate About You ,” Maddy declared, hurling herself across the cushions like an Olympic gymnast mid-vault.

“Because it’s the blueprint,” Bellamy said, peeling open a face mask packet with her teeth like a deranged skincare surgeon.

I raised an eyebrow. “Is emotional sabotage part of the skincare routine?”

Maddy nodded, solemn. “It’s exfoliation for the soul.”

Bellamy gave me a once-over, then pointed her spoon at me again. “You need this.”

“I do not.”

“You have so many feelings, and none of them have been properly moisturized.”

“Is that a diagnosis or an insult?”

“It’s a love letter written in glitter and glycolic acid. Shut up and hydrate.”

I didn’t argue. Bellamy had the vibe of someone fully willing to pin me down and apply a collagen mask by force.

I took another sip of Prosecco, dragged the blanket higher, and felt something ease in my chest, like my muscles were starting to believe the war was actually on pause, if only for one night wrapped in frosting and pink silk.

The couch dissolved into a tangle of limbs, snacks, and stolen pillows.

Bellamy claimed mine without shame. Maddy sprawled on the floor like Heath Ledger’s smile had emotionally assassinated her.

String lights glowed from every window, Maddy’s handiwork, no doubt.

A prescription for serotonin and ambience.

Popcorn crackled from the kitchen like celebratory gunfire. The air smelled of chocolate, hairspray, and mutiny. Onscreen, Julia Stiles launched into her monologue, and Bellamy mouthed every word like scripture. Maddy cried when Kat read the poem. I pretended not to.

I didn’t know what this was, this chaos pretending to be comfort, but I liked it. No one asked me to laugh, or quote along. No one cared whether I stayed quiet or cried. They just let me exist. No edge required. No performance. Just space.

That alone felt revolutionary.

A brownie crumb shot past my face. Maddy’s doing. Bellamy retaliated with a pillow, missed Maddy, and nearly decapitated me. I sipped without flinching.

“Children,” I muttered.

“Glitter gremlins,” Maddy corrected mid-swing. “Say it with respect.”

I shook my head and tried not to smile. Failed. No one was watching, but I smiled anyway. And somehow, that was the most dangerous part.

Bellamy tossed a popcorn kernel in the air. “Three for three, bitches,” she announced, catching it with a triumphant smirk. She pointed at Maddy, already winding up.

“Miss, and you owe me your glitter socks.”

“You’ll have to pry them from my cold, pedicured corpse.”

Maddy’s shot hit her square between the eyes and bounced into the couch.

“Shit!” she laughed. “That should’ve counted.”

I watched from my corner of the couch, back propped against the cushions, legs stretched out, glass balanced on my stomach. Bellamy handed me a kernel like it was sacred.

“Your turn.”

I raised a brow. “Do I look like I have the coordination for this?”

“You look like a woman who needs a win.”

I snorted, tossed the kernel. It arced, then smacked me in the cheek and vanished into my bra.

Bellamy blinked. “Boob bonus. That counts double.”

Maddy wheezed. “God is real, and she’s got excellent aim.”

I fished it out and held it up like a trophy. “So what’s the leaderboard?”

Bellamy grinned. “Me: elite. Maddy: tragic. You: blessed by the titty gods.”

It was stupid, chaotic, and the kind of nonsense Violet would’ve loved, or at least faked for my sake.

She’d have topped off my glass, kept me grounded, reminded me not to get so lost in the laughter that I forgot the world’s teeth.

She was the first to make me feel like I didn’t have to earn the space I took up.

Now I was here, drinking Prosecco and slinging snacks with women who didn’t know me, not really, but still offered something that felt like safety. Softness wrapped in sarcasm and sugar.

The movie played on, flickering shadows across the walls. 10 Things I Hate About You. Maddy and Bellamy mouthed every line like gospel. I didn’t know the words. Didn’t care. I liked watching them know. Watching them love it without apology.

A line floated from the screen. “Do you think people can be trusted?”

The room quieted. Not awkward, just thoughtful. Bellamy tucked her feet under Maddy’s legs. Maddy swirled her wine and stared at the ceiling like she was deciding how honest to be.

I said nothing. Didn’t want to. I just let my body sink deeper into the couch, into the glow of warmth and proximity, into the quiet realization that, for tonight, I wasn’t on the outside.

Bellamy leaned against Maddy. Maddy painted her nails with glitter polish like it was sacred. I stared at the ceiling, chest heavy with all the things I didn’t know how to say.

I thought about Violet. How she braided her hair too tight, wore fuzzy socks year round, avoided sad movies unless she needed the release, and when she did, she picked the saddest one she could find and cried into my arm until she fell asleep.

She would’ve hated this movie. But she’d have sat through it anyway. For me.

And now she was gone. Not distant or ghosted or unreachable. Gone. Taken. Erased by men who wore power like armor and treated cruelty like currency. They didn’t need a reason. Just an opening.

And here I was, full of sugar and Prosecco, letting myself forget. Just for a minute.