Knowing Jack

by Rachel Curtis

  I’m not even sure what all of this means, except it’s a definite no. And I don’t have any energy to fight.

  So I let him go and flop back with a gusty sigh. “You’re mean.”

  “I’m sorry, princess”

  “I’m good at sex.”

  “I know you are, although I’m not sure you’d be at your best tonight.”

  “I would be good. I can give you a blow job if you want.” Then suddenly even talking is too much. “But first I’m going to go to sleep.”

  “Okay. That’s a good idea.”

  And that’s the very last thing. I sleep.

  Ten

  As you might expect, I wake up feeling like absolute shit.

  I don’t even know what time it is, but it’s still dark in the room, so it can’t be morning yet.

  My mouth is so dry I can barely get it open. I smack my lips a few times to see if they’re still there. Then I roll over and immediately regret the move, since my head is pounding.

  It’s not the first time I’ve drunk too much, but I don’t actually drink all that often. Now I remember why.

  I need water—so desperately I can barely process it

  The only way I can get it is to stand up and walk to the kitchen. Or, if I can’t make it there, I can maybe get to the bathroom and drink from the faucet.

  It’s not that far. It’s an accomplishable quest.

  If I can just stand up, I’ll be able to get the rest of the way.

  I try to start lifting my back, and the room swims so much I collapse back with a moan.

  But I’m still lying here, parched and sick and in desperate need of water. It will be worth the suffering. Getting the water will be worth whatever it takes for me to make it there.

  So I start to heave myself up again, and my head hurts so much my vision goes briefly dark.

  “Here, princess.” Suddenly, miraculously, there’s a bottle of water at my lips. I have no idea how it got there¸ but it seems to go with the low, soothing voice.

  I take a sip, and it’s so good I take another. Then I take another, but it’s too big and it makes me cough.

  The coughing hurts my head, and I fall back to the pillow, feeling a couple of tears slip out of my eyes.

  God, is there anyone on earth more pathetic than me.

  “Please don’t cry, princess. It’s just a hangover.” A big, rough hand moves to my face and wipes the tears away. “You’ll feel better if you can drink more water.”

  My mind starts to function enough to give context to the voice and touch. “Jack,” I croak.

  “Yeah.”

  My head is being raised and the water bottle is right there, so I drink some more. It’s still good, and I don’t choke on it this time.

  And I’m aware enough now to know that Jack is still in the room as I close my eyes and fall asleep.

  Or maybe I just pass out again.

  ***

  So now I can think of at least ten reasons not to get wasted at a college party in some sort of futile attempt at vindication.

  One – The person you’re trying to prove something to may not even be around to witness your vindication.

  Two – Vindication can be better achieved when you’re sober and can think of a workable plan.

  Three – Being shit-drunk really isn’t as attractive or impressive as you might think.

  Four – You’re not the only one who loses inhibitions when drunk or high.

  Five – Those inhibitions are what cause us to act in a civilized way with each other.

  Six – Getting drunk and crazy is better done around people you trust.

  Seven – You wake up the next day with the world’s worst hangover.

  Eight – You’re still stuck with the broken heart, or whatever made you want to do it to begin with.

  Nine – You won’t always have a bodyguard to come save your butt.

  Ten – Your act of rebellion does nothing but make you miserable—no vindication in sight.

  ***

  When I wake up the next time it’s not nearly so bad. My mouth still feels like someone died in it, but I can move without my head knocking me out. There’s still a dull ache at my temples, but I can definitely deal.

  As soon as I’ve oriented myself, I lift myself up so I’m sitting on the side of the bed.

  I’m wearing an oversized t-shirt and not much else. Jack must have undressed me, although I have no memory of that happening.

  “Your top was torn and you puked all over your clothes,” a voice comes from the doorway. “I figured you’d rather get them off.”

  “Yeah.” My voice is still not much more than a croak. “Thanks.”

  He comes over with a fresh bottle of water and I grab it eagerly, gulping it down. Some of it dribbles out of my mouth, but that’s not really bothering me right now.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Pretty damn stupid.”

  “That’s dumb.”

  So this is not one of my brighter mornings, but I’m pretty sure he’s talking about what I just said, rather than how I acted last night. “It’s not dumb. I have every reason to feel stupid.”

  “Only because you hold yourself to too high standards. So you’re not perfect. Big deal.”

  “It is a big deal.” I start to remember the night before—nothing clear or complete but enough flashes of memory to give me a sense of the whole. “Oh God, if you hadn’t come, that guy would have…”

  “Just don’t.” The words are basically growled out.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t dwell on it. I did get there. He roughed you up a little, but not as much as I roughed him up. Nothing else happened except you threw up in front of that Kent kid and a couple of nobodies.”

  I sigh and rub my face. Then remember the water in my hand so I drink some more. “Poor Kent,” I breathe, lowering the bottle after a couple of gulps.

  Jack makes another growling sound—this one wordless.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I peer at him, trying to figure out what his bristling is in response to.

  “What’s wrong with me? ‘Poor Kent’ had abandoned you when you were in no condition to deal with a situation like that party.”

  I thought about that. “He’d drunk a lot too.” Before Jack could object, I added, “And I don’t think he abandoned me on purpose. It’s easy to lose track of people at parties like that. I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who would—.”

  “He is definitely the kind of—”

  “Stop it, Jack. You don’t know Kent. He didn’t try to do anything inappropriate with me himself.”

  I try to think back to make sure that’s true.

  “I’ve seen him with his hands all over you. I’ve never going to think that’s appropriate.”

  “Yeah, well, he didn’t do anything wrong last night. But, seriously, thanks for coming to get me.”

  “What else would I do?” Jack is gazing at me differently now—still possessive but softer somehow.

  “How did you even know where I was? I mean, I snuck out on that sub.”

  “I know you snuck out. I called him to check in, and he said you were having tea with some lady. I knew that couldn’t be right. Not yesterday, anyway. So I figured, if you were sneaking out, there was only one place where you were heading.”

  I slouch back against the pillow. “God, I hate that I’m such a cliché.”

  “You’re not a cliché.” He reaches over and cups my cheek. “There’s nothing about you that’s a cliché. I just know you.”

  For some reason, the way he says it feels significant, meaningful.

  I look at him blurrily and realize he looks absolutely exhausted. There are shadows under his eyes and his beard is growing in—he obviously hasn’t shaved in a few days.

  I reach out a hand toward him and manage to find his arm. “Are you okay, Jack?”

  He looks surprised. “Of course. You’re the one who—”

  “Was stupid and drunk
too much. But you look like…” I trail off, no possible way of finishing the sentence.

  I’m not sure what he looks like. Like he’s hurting, like something is tearing him apart, like he has more of a burden than I can possibly understand.

  Surely, the burden isn’t all me.

  “I’m fine. A little tired.”

  “Did you sleep at all? Probably not.”

  “I don’t need much sleep. Stop worrying.”

  He looks so bad I say, “Well, at least take a shower. Although maybe wait until after I take one.”

  “That’s a good idea. Why don’t you take a shower, and I can get one afterward.”

  This sounds reasonable—like he’s acknowledging my concern—so I get out of bed and manage to make it to the bathroom.

  The shower has to be a long one for me to feel anywhere close to human again, so it’s almost a half-hour later when I emerge from the bathroom, feeling clean, more awake, and more comfortable in sweats and a clean t-shirt.

  My head still aches but in general I feel okay.

  I come out to the living area and am about to say something when I see Jack sitting on a chair in front of my desk with his back toward me. His shoulders are hunched, and he’s dropped his head into his hand.

  No, that isn’t quite right. He’s talking on the phone, leaning against the hand that holds it.

  He looks so burdened that I stop myself from saying whatever I was going to say.

  Instead, I listen to his side of the phone conversation.

  “That’s not what happened.” His voice is low. So low I can’t really read the resonance, except he’s definitely not happy. After a pause, he continues, “I know that’s what you heard, but I’m telling you it’s wrong.”

  There’s a longer pause, and his shoulders hunch even more. “The same thing isn’t happening here…No, I’m not denying that I’ve done some things, but it’s not the same situation. I’m not going to blow it this time…Mike is next to incompetent. He can never—”

  He makes a sound like a groan as the other person talks. “Okay. It’s your decision. You can do whatever you want…No, I know you’re not excited about it, but if you really wanted something different than this, you would just do it.”

  The half of the conversation I can hear doesn’t make much sense at all. I don’t even know who he’s talking to, although, if pressed, I’d guess his dad.

  He sits for a long time in silence, still holding the phone to his ear. He doesn’t say anything else.

  I realize the call has disconnected and he’s just frozen by whatever happened during the conversation.

  I hurry over toward him, forgetting that I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, needing only to help or comfort him somehow. “What’s the matter?”

  He jerks in visible surprise. “Nothing”

  “Yes, there is something wrong. I’m not an idiot. Was that your dad?”

  I’m leaning against the desk right in front of him, and I see his features twist reluctantly. “Yeah,” he says at last.

  “What did he say?”

  “He was just checking in.”

  “He was not just checking in. Tell me what the hell he said. Tell me right now.”

  He sighs hoarsely and pulls me into his lap. It feels more like he’s seeking comfort than giving it, so I adjust myself to be more comfortable and reach a hand up to stroke his face. “Tell me what your dad said, Jack.”

  “I’m fired.”

  “Oh.” This is surprising, so I have to think about it. “Because of me?”

  “In part.”

  “So he took you off the job of protecting me?”

  “Oh, no. He really fired me. I’m not an employee anymore.”

  “What? How could he do that? Why? You’re his son.”

  “And also a major disappointment to him in every way.”

  He’s dropped his arm and his body feels stiff, so I get up off his lap. “How did he even find out about us?”

  “That Kent kid reported me to him—he called to ‘officially lodge a complaint.’ I’m not sure how he found out who your parents hired, but somehow he did.”

  “What? Kent turned you in? How did he know that we were—”

  “He didn’t know anything. He just suspected. So my dad called Bill, who had no choice but to admit that I spent the night with you. More than once.”

  “And he fired you for it?”

  “Yeah.”

  I’m silent for a minute. Too long for a normal conversation. But I have no idea what to say, and my chest now hurts as much as my head.

  I want to respond, to answer what he’s just told me, but words are entirely impossible.

  Instead, I reach out and put my hands on his shoulders. I can feel how tight the muscles are there, so I start to knead without thinking it through.

  I mean, who’s going to turn down a shoulder rub when offered?

  Evidently, Jack. He practically jumps away from my hands.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask, my voice breaking in surprise and hurt feelings.

  “Nothing. Sorry.” He settles back in his chair, although he seems stiffer than before. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I know I don’t. I want to. So stop being stupid.”

  He doesn’t object again and he doesn’t pull away, but I can tell he’s not comfortable as I rub his neck and shoulders—lightly at first and then gradually a little harder.

  I hear his breathing start to slow, and it makes me feel good—that he’s responding, that it’s working, that I’m helping him…at least a little.

  After a while, I ask, “Isn’t firing you kind of harsh?”

  “Not really.” His breath hitches as I push at the muscles just at the nape of his neck, so I pay more attention to that spot and am pleased when he releases a long, thick sigh.

  “Is he really that strict about the bodyguard code of conduct?”

  “No. I mean, yes.” He has his eyes closed now and has started to lean back into my hands. “He is. But it’s not just that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I’ve messed up before. This was my second chance. There’s no third chance with my dad.”

  Now I know we’re getting close to something important, something private, something that has made him act the way he does, something he’s never admitted even exists. His visceral response to my massage has given me courage, so after a minute I ask, “How did you mess up before?”

  He doesn’t answer immediately, but I feel his shoulders stiffen. Then he says, “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  He doesn’t answer. I’ve found a muscle in his neck that must be painful because he winces when I knead it.

  I gentle my touch to work on it, gradually building back up to a deeper massage.

  He flattens his hands on the desk and leans forward, releasing a long, hoarse groan that does something very strange to my insides.

  It’s not really arousal, but it’s akin.

  I keep working on his neck.

  “Fuck, princess,” he mutters. “You’re really good at that.”

  I don’t really think I’m any sort of expert, but I’m glad he’s appreciating it. “So you shouldn’t be so stupid about letting me help you.”

  “I don’t need you to help me.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  I’m suddenly sure of it, more sure of it than I’ve been of anything for a really long time. The revelation sparks an unfamiliar excitement in my heart, my belly. “You need someone—you need me—to take care of you.”

  “I don’t like to be taken care of.”

  “I don’t care.” I slide my hands up into his thick hair and start to massage his scalp. He moans again.

  My own headache has completely vanished. I feel good and strong and not helpless.

  “I don’t want you to see me…” He doesn’t finish. His eyes are still closed and his body is relaxing palpably. I can feel it beneath my hands, hear it in his voice.<
br />
  “You don’t want me to see you what?”

  “Broken.”

  “Everyone breaks, Jack.”

  He doesn’t answer for a long time, and I keep up my ministrations on his scalp, his neck, his shoulders, his back.

  I make him lean forward so I can reach more of his back, and he’s groaning almost helplessly now.

  So I finally ask again, “How did you mess up before, Jack?”

  This time, there’s only a slight hesitation. “I slept with a girl I was supposed to protect.”

  “Oh.” I don’t like that idea—at all—although I’d have to be a complete idiot not to know he’s been with other women in the past. “And your dad found out?”

  “Not until everything blew up.”

  “How did it blow up?”

  I’ve moved back up to his shoulders. I make note of it because they tense up again, just slightly. I work on them hard until he’s relaxed them once more. “I didn’t protect her.”

  “Oh.” I swallow hard because this is not at all what I expect. “She got hurt?”

  “She got killed.”

  “Oh.” Oh God, oh God, oh God. “God.”

  After a pause, I add, “Because…because you weren’t doing your job?”

  “I don’t know,” he mutters. “Maybe. I’ve been over and over and over it. I can’t think of anything I could have done differently or better, but I must have been compromised. It was supposed to be a cotton-candy case. That’s the only reason my dad trusted me with it when I was so young. But I still took it seriously. I wasn’t in bed with her at the time or anything, but it’s still my fault. She was my responsibility, and a sniper got her.”

  “How is it your fault? If you didn’t do anything wrong?”

  “I didn’t do everything right enough. My dad never really forgave me.”

  “He didn’t forgive you for doing what? For making a mistake? For not being completely invulnerable?”

  “For letting him down.”

  Oh, fuck, this is just horrible. I can’t even imagine what it’s like for Jack to have to carry this around. Even if he didn’t do anything wrong, he’ll still blame himself.

  How do you shrug something like this off?

  “I was nineteen,” he adds hoarsely. “On summer break from college. It was one of my first jobs. It was supposed to be a cotton-candy case.”