by Anne Jolin
Unknown: It’s Jayden. Let us know when you’re on your way.
Seems a bit too late and a dollar short, wouldn’t you say? Whatever.
Me: Leaving now.
Hesitating briefly, I wonder if I should save the number in my phone. Something about it seems like too much of a commitment. Or I simply don’t trust a doped-up me not to text her crush, who also happens to be her roommate when she’s having a weak moment.
As I’m mentally weighing the pros and cons, my cell chimes again.
Unknown : Drive safe, sugar.
On second thought, it’s best I do have his number. For emergencies, obviously. He’s my roommate.
Just my roommate.
It makes sense.
I can do this.
I can make this work.
The little voice inside my head breaks out into full hysteria, laughing and pointing her tiny little finger at me.
She’s right. I’m a shit liar.
Twenty minutes later, as Colt’s truck pulls into the cobblestone driveway of the guys’ house, a shirtless Jayden yanks the front door open.
Low-slung, grey sweatpants hang off his hips, showing off the V muscles that lead underneath them, and I feel heat pulsate through me at the sight of him. As he strides across the driveway, each of the muscles in his abdomen flex, and his arms, which are draped in tattoos, contract deliciously as he stretches them above his head with a lazy yawn.
Yup, it’s official. I’m completely fucked.
WHO IN THE fuck’s truck is that? Better not be a fucking boyfriend.
I’m sucker-punched by the sight of her in the side mirror. Her face is badly bruised, and I feel the rush of guilt settle in the pit of my stomach for the millionth time since she got hurt.
Staying away from Peyton for two years has been hard as fuck. Every time those violet doe eyes would lock on mine, I’d literally have to grab the first high-heeled bimbo I saw just to keep my hands from wandering over her petite curves. I can barely look at the women I’m with after. Most of the time, I have to think of Peyton and her sweet mouth just to get off.
I manage to keep my emotions in check more often than not, but seeing her on Friday—in my fucking shop, with Foster’s fucking hands on her perfect skin—killed me. Jealousy cracked my resolve, and I could barely see straight.
She never lets men touch her—ever. Not once in all the times we’ve been out as a group has she ventured into the arms of another man. Not that I’m complaining one bit. I sure as fuck don’t want to see that shit.
In fact, I won’t see that shit. Ever. She’s living under my roof; it’s my rules. No fucking dating.
God, I’m a pathetic fucking asshole. What am I, her dad?
Just as I reach the bed of the truck, an absolute brute of a man climbs out of the driver’s-side door. He’s taller than I am. Not by much, but I’d be willing to bet he outweighs me. The guy’s built like a brick shithouse.
Better not be her fucking boyfriend.
“Hey, man,” I spout off in some halfhearted attempt to seem nonchalant.
Everyone prefers me that way. Easygoing. Funny. Unbroken. And most of them only see that side. These days, Jackson is the only one who sees what those exquisite means of deflection are actually hiding. That version of me? He’s a sorry, sad piece of shit, and I do my best to keep him hidden from my friends.
“You could at least put on a shirt. Jesus,” the brick shithouse spits at me as he slams the tailgate down.
I guess we’re not playing nice, then. Fuck this.
“Worried I’ll catch a cold, are you, big boy?” I taunt him, rewarding myself when his jaw starts to grind.
“I’m not worried about anything except her.” He points to the passenger seat. “And if you can’t take care of her, I sure as shit will.”
If this prick was looking to push my buttons, it worked. Stepping closer to him, balling my hands into fists, I snarl, “I’ll take real good fucking care of her,” at him with a Cheshire grin across my face.
I’m way too focused on pissing him off that I don’t see it coming. His Hulk-sized fist connects with the left side of my face and I stumble backwards.
“Watch your mouth, asshole,” he scolds. “Don’t think for a second I won’t pick her up and take her away from you if you don’t get your shit together.”
Wiping the blood off my bottom lip, I grin menacingly at him. “If you take her away from me, I’ll—”
I’m cut off by the sound of something soft connecting with my driveway followed by an, “Ooof.” When I snap my head to the right, Peyton is sitting on her ass, her purse’s contents scattered everywhere.
“I fell,” she whimpers, tears pooling in her eyes.
Brick shithouse grunts, moving to circle around me, and I slam my hand against his chest, shaking my head. He might have hit me in my own driveway while I’m in my pajamas, but there’s no way he’s comforting my girl. Not a chance in hell.
Two long strides and I’m over to her. “You should have asked for help,” I reprimand her.
The water that was in her eyes is now replaced by fire. “I did, but you two goons were too busy hitting each other like overgrown apes to notice.”
Fuck. I’ve had her here for two minutes and I’ve already failed her.
Reaching down, I slide an arm under her legs and another around her shoulders.
“I can do it myself,” she pouts.
Shaking my head, I stand with her in my arms, “I don’t really give a shit, sugar.”
She growls, and I have to stifle a laugh. Peyton’s never this overtly sassy. She’s usually remarkably quiet, often only speaking when spoken to.
Pointing to the brick shithouse, she says, “Jayden King, meet Colton Cross.”
“Detective Colton Cross,” he adds, folding his behemoth arms over his chest.
Prick.
“Could you put me down please?” Peyton asks.
Nodding, I take off towards the front door.
“I said,” she protests, “put. Me. Down.”
Climbing the stairs two at a time, I chuckle. “I will.”
She starts to squirm, and I hold her closer.
“When your ass is safely parked on the couch, where it can’t meet the grim fate of another hard surface.”
As I slowly set her down on the sofa, the iPhone in her hand begins to ring. Before I can think better of it, I snatch it out of her hands and slide the answer button over. “Hello?”
Beth’s voice comes through the receiver, and I press my lips into a firm line.
“She needs to rest. I’ll have her call you later,” I tell her before clicking the phone off.
When I look down, Peyton is glaring at me.
“What is this? A prison? Give me my phone back, Jayden.”
Laughing, I slide it into the pocket of my sweatpants just as Detective Colton Cross hits the landing of the second floor.
“Where do you want these?” He gestures towards the bags in his hands.
“Just leave them there. I’ll move them into her room later.”
He does as I said, placing a duffel bag and her purse on the floor before coming to stand in front of her. “I’m on shift this afternoon, slugger.” He smiles, leaning down to run his thumb over her bruised jaw.
Detective Brick Shithouse has three seconds to take his thumb off her body before I remove it from his hand.
“Call me if you need anything.” He dips down, softly kissing her on the forehead. “I’ll miss spending my mornings rolling around with you,” he whispers.
Turning around, I stalk directly into my bedroom and slam the door.
“Rolling around with you.”
I’m going to be fucking sick.
GLANCING AT THE clock on the wall for what must be the eighth time this minute, I curse under my breath. It’s been almost an hour since my roommate-slash-prison-warden stormed out of here like a bat out of hell. He couldn’t get away from me fast enough. What’s worse than living with you
r crush? Living with your crush when he literally flees from your presence like it pains him to be around you.
Thank the baby Jesus himself Colt was here to soften the blow. Otherwise, it might have been more than I could take today. My bitchiness from earlier gave way to my exhaustion, and crying into the object of my affection’s couch cushion is becoming a very near possibility.
After another twenty minutes and three failed attempts to get the TV to actually play something, I toss the remote onto the adjacent couch and stand—not gracefully, I might add. Shuffling down the hallway, I do my best to be quiet, not sure if I’ve worked up enough nerve to actually talk to him yet. I would assume I’m about as stealthy as a herd of buffalo heading towards water, but whatever. This is my house too, after all.
My house too.
Groaning inwardly at my own statement, I pause just outside his closed bedroom door. Lifting up my non—cast-enclosed arm, I hover it over the white-painted wood and wait. What am I waiting for? The hell if I know. Perhaps a set of lady balls? Who knows?
Flexing my fingers outward, I shuffle nervously before curling them into a fist. Whatever nerve I had dissipates completely when I hear movement on the other side of the door. Dropping my hand back down to my side, I turn on my heel to begin my embarrassing, slow journey back towards the living room.
I’ve not made it three feet when the bedroom door I was just staring at opens, and much to my dismay, a fully clothed Jayden steps into the hallway.
“Are you okay?” he asks, concerned, looking my body over from head to toe.
His gaze isn’t the heated one I sometimes see him try to hide. No, this one is like a parent looking at a baby bird with a broken wing their child brought home in a shoebox. It’s pity ridden and it fucking sucks.
Fidgeting uncomfortably at having been standing for so long, I nod. “Uhm . . .” I stammer. “I’m fine.” God, this is so awkward. “I was just wondering if you have my phone and if I could have it back.”
“Oh¸” he grunts, crossing his huge tattooed arms over his chest, “No.”
Furrowing my brow in confusion, I cock my head to the side. “No?”
“No,” he firmly repeats .
Pursing my lips, I rein in the temper he tends to flare up inside me. “No, you don’t have it? Or no, I can’t have it?”
“No, you can’t have it,” he deadpans.
I stare at him openmouthed, in shock, waiting for him to laugh or say that he’s kidding. But it never comes.
“But it’s my phone,” I say dumbly.
He smirks at me a little, and red starts to color my vision. He’s acting like some male nurse doubling as a dictator. With this kind of attitude, he should be wearing pink scrubs and partnering up with some beefy broad named Helga who doesn’t wax the hair on her upper lip. Butch and Helga, the dynamic duo. I guess that makes me some pathetic version of the Sundance Kid?
“Give me my phone, Jayden,” I snap.
Carefully stepping around me, he says again, “No.”
“And why the fuck not?”
Picking up my duffel bag and purse, he gestures towards a bedroom at the end of the hall, motioning for me to follow him. Fighting the urge to smack him in the back of the head with my cast, I shuffle behind him, stopping at the threshold to the room.
I open my mouth, ready to tear him a new asshole, when he spins around to face me.
“This is your room,” he starts, completely ignoring my question. “It’s the master bedroom, but unfortunately, we still only have the one bathroom”—he points to the door across the hall—“so you’ll have to share with us.” A brief flash of something passes behind his eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. Nervousness? I can’t be sure. “Braxton had all of your things delivered this morning. Any large furniture he put in storage.” He pushes the door open wider, stepping aside so I can finally see into the room.
“It’s . . . You . . .” I trip over my words as my eyes fly around the room.
He seems unsure of himself as he hovers behind me. “I hope this is okay . . .” His words trails off.
Nodding furiously, I step forward and run my hands over the sheets of my bed. The room has been painted a lavender purple, my furniture arranged to mimic the way it was in our condo. There’s a bookcase I don’t recognize in the corner of the room, and all of my favorite paperbacks as well as a few framed photos sit on the shelves. Next to it is a black-and-white floral-print, high-back chair, which matches my bedding.
“Jackson and I painted it yesterday . . . The girls said you liked to read so . . . If you don’t like the color or anything, we can . . .” His voice drops off again.
Looking over my shoulder at him, I smile. “I do. It’s perfect.” Sitting down on the edge of my bed, I choke back the tears clogging my throat. “Thank you.”
Nodding curtly, he turns back towards the door.
“Jayden?”
He pauses, resting his arm on the doorjamb.
“My phone?”
Tapping his knuckles on the white trim of the door, he regards me over his shoulder. “You were just released from the hospital and the doctor said you need to rest—”
Feeling the moment pass and my annoyance build, I cut him off. “How would you know what my doctor said? It’s not like you were there visiting me,” I spit, well aware that it’s a bit of a low blow given all he’s done for me. Even if it is out of pity or guilt, it’s kindness nonetheless, and the second the words pass my lips, I want to reach out and grab them.
He flinches at my statement before his features harden. “I called and spoke with your doctor this morning. I’m well aware of what your physical limitations are with regards to your recovery. When I feel like you’ve settled in and are able to withstand the constant stream of attention from everyone, I’ll give you your phone back.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whisper out loud, more to myself than to him.
Turning back around, he raps his knuckles on the doorjamb again. “Tough titties, sugar. It’s the way it is. Deal with it.”
Saluting his backside dramatically, I flop backwards onto the bed. “Yes, nurse warden, sir,” I grumble, wincing when my ribs protest against the movement.
“I heard that,” he calls out from somewhere down the hall.
“Good,” I huff, rolling my eyes at the ceiling.
This is going to be a long recovery process, and I think my pain might be the easiest part to manage.
I must have fallen asleep, because when I wake up, it’s nearly dinnertime. It’s a common side effect of the painkillers they gave me. They have a tendency to make you lethargic, or so I’ve been warned.
After crawling off the bed, I locate one of the old RFPD shirts Colt gave me. It takes me almost ten minutes to put it on by myself because of my cast and limited movement from the damage to my ribs. By the time I’ve finished, I’ve broken a sweat and I’m exhausted again. I make a mental note to only wear tank tops or dresses from here on out.
Padding down the hallway, I smell heaven. Okay, maybe that’s a slight embellishment, but my mouth waters every time I breathe. Hospital food sucks, so I can’t wait for real food.
When I turn into the kitchen, Jackson and Jayden are talking in hushed tones by the stove. Jackson is the first to notice me. Smiling, he walks over before enveloping me in a gentle hug.
“How are you feeling?” he asks just as Jayden slams a pot into the sink like a crazy person.
Pinching my eyebrows in his direction, I shake my head before turning back to my other roommate. “Like shit run over twice.”
Nearly spitting out the sip of beer he just took, he laughs at me. Catching me eyeing the lager in his hand, he raises it in my direction. “Want one?”
Before I can answer, Jayden smacks him in the back of the head.
“She can’t mix pain medication with alcohol, you imbecile,” he scolds, passing by to grab something from the fridge.
Jackson comically widens his eyes at me, and I g
rin back at him. At least one of my roommates doesn’t have something the size of an Olympic pole vaulter’s stick shoved up his ass.
“Something else, then?” he suggests, waggling his eyebrows. “Shot of Jack? Some cocaine? Anything else that might go great with your pain meds?”
This time, he’s rewarded with a full-bellied laugh, which is followed by a harsh intake of air as pain flares in my ribs. “Water’s fine,” I squeak.
“Stop making her laugh,” Jayden demands. “It hurts her.” He stomps towards the kitchen table to set plates and cutlery down.
Jackson shakes his head.
“Is he always like this?” I ask. “He’s usually the laid-back one.”
“Humor is a deceptive and brilliant cloak, Peyton,” he says seriously, “but this behavior”—he nods towards Jayden—“is all for you.”
Uhhh . . .
Not sure what to think of that, I follow them to the table, sitting down on the chair between them.
Lifting his beer, Jackson announces, “Here’s to new roommates.”
Here’s to surviving, I toast mentally as our glasses clink together.
HERE’S TO NOT killing my best friend.
It was all I could do not to slam the cast-iron pot right into his head when he hugged her. Luckily for him, the sink took the beating instead. I know he would never go there. I trust him with my life, even the ugly parts, but the claim I feel over her clouds my rationalization into utter overcast. She gives him her smiles. The smiles I crave. The ones she keeps from me. The ones she gives so freely to Detective Brick Shithouse and my roommate. She’s even wearing a fucking RFPD shirt that’s way too goddamned big for her, which means that the prick gave it to her. She should be wearing my clothes to dinner, not his. The entirety of it all makes me blind with jealousy. I half wonder if I’ll turn into the goddamned Hulk one of these days—it makes me that crazy.
I felt like an asshole storming out on her earlier, but the very thought of her “rolling around” with someone else every morning made me feel sick. I needed the space to calm down before I said something I couldn’t take back. It feels like we keep having these moments—moments when the thing between us flares to life but then something stupid jars us back into this awkward shit.