To Each Her Own

by Molly Mirren

  “I want to know what happened. Who were you with? Did he . . . ” Jay swallowed hard and then spoke with slow, succinct words, overenunciating to make sure she heard him. “I need to know what happened. I need to know if you were . . . forced.”

  He was talking about rape, and she'd come damn close to it. This time, a memory of Duncan sitting on top of her, trying to undo her jeans and get her shirt off, flashed through her mind. She stared at a spot just above Jay's shoulder, unable to look him in the eye. “No. No one raped me.”

  He studied her face, as though trying to figure out whether she was telling the truth. “Then where did the bruises come from?”

  “Things got a little rough with the guy I was with. It's not a big deal. It . . . was consensual,” she lied.

  “Bullshit,” retorted Jay. “I don't believe you like it rough. You're not the Fifty Shades type.”

  “Really?” she challenged. “How do you know? How do you know experimenting with the whole freaky dev thing wasn't just the tip of the iceberg? Maybe I'm all kinds of depraved and kinky.”

  Jay's brow creased in irritation “You're not, so tell me who hurt you.”

  She didn't want him to know what had happened, didn't want him to know what a loser and a slut she was or that, although her issues ran deep, the main reason she'd smoked heroin and gotten so fucked up was to escape her feelings for him. It was so juvenile, so high school, and she'd be mortified if he knew. She just wanted to pretend none of it happened. “Let it go, Jay. It's none of your business.”

  His lips pressed together in a grim line of disagreement.

  “Please,” she added.

  He hesitated. Then, as if making a decision, he pulled the pillow out from between his legs, chucked it to the floor beyond the foot of her bed, and reached over with one hand to grab the edge of the mattress on his side of the bed, pulling until he was lying on his back. His legs were still angled toward her, so he had to shove his knees over with his other hand before getting his elbows braced under him to lever himself, inch by inch, into a sitting position.

  It was something Erin took for granted, the simple act of turning over and sitting up, but for Jay, because some of his abdominal muscles were paralyzed just like his legs, there were all these extra steps involved. A lot of things were like that for him, but he made it all seem normal, like it wasn't a struggle at all. There was something very admirable—and very sexy—about that.

  Once he was upright, he transferred to his chair, which was next to the bed, and lifted his legs at the knees to maneuver his bare feet onto the footrest. His feet were sort of puffy-looking and limp, and because they were never used for walking, they were devoid of any calluses Erin could see. It was the first time she'd seen him without socks, and the sight sent a little thrill to her special parts.

  And there she went again, being a freak, getting turned on by something any non-creepy person wouldn't be turned on by. She added that to her growing mountain of guilt, her stomach going all wrong and tight. Even so, she felt bereft and cold without Jay by her side and didn't want him to leave. Sitting up, she said, “Where—where are you going?”

  His shaggy blond hair was mussed and kind of smooshed in on one side, and the usual daily allotment of hot-guy, blond stubble shaded his jaw. He looked adorable, despite an abruptness to his movements and a set to his mouth that told Erin he was pissed, that he didn't want to just let things go. Biceps bulging under his T-shirt sleeves, he gripped his wheels and drew his shoulders back as if about to swivel his chair around.

  “Where are you going?” she repeated.

  “To get you something to eat,” he said gruffly.

  Relief that it was something so innocuous almost made her smile, not to mention it was really nice of him. She was glad he was letting her off the hook for now, even though he was clearly annoyed with her.

  But her relief was short-lived. He lifted his head and looked straight in her eyes, direct and steady, and said, “And then we're gonna have a talk, darlin'—one where I ask you questions and you give me actual answers.”

  Chapter 18

  The doorbell rang while Jay was heating up Campbell's chicken noodle soup on the stove. The soup was the very basic version, just broth and a few paltry noodles, but he didn't figure Erin's stomach could handle anything fancier yet. If she kept this down okay, he'd make her something heartier.

  He reached up to turn off the burner, wiped his hands on a nearby dishtowel, and wheeled through the living room to answer the door. When he opened it, a guy of average height and long, dark hair was standing on the porch, holding something black in one of his hands, down by his side. He wore a faded black T-shirt and skinny jeans so tight they must be cutting off the circulation to his balls. He had the same rocker/musician vibe as Erin's brother.

  Jay raised a brow in inquiry.

  “Uh, hi,” the guy said, looking down at Jay. His demeanor was cautious. “Uh, is Erin here?”

  Remembering a chat with emanomaly where she'd told Panhead what traits she found attractive in a guy, Jay felt a stab of jealousy. This guy looked like he fit the bill: dark-haired, most likely a musician, and, from Erin's miniature perspective, tall. Jay guessed the guy could be called good-looking, which made Jay instantly dislike him. At least this guy didn't have an Australian accent.

  “Now's not a good time,” Jay told him. “She's been sick.”

  Frowning, the guy ran a hand through his hair and looked away. He was fidgety and hardly made eye contact, like someone who was guilty of something. And then Jay realized the black thing in the guy's hand was Erin's ankle brace. Jay instantly wanted to kill him.

  The guy began, “But is she . . . ,” and then trailed off, giving Jay a sideways look, like he wanted to know more but didn't want to say too much. “I mean, she's okay, though?”

  Jay crossed his arms over his chest. “That depends. You the one who got her so fucked up? You the one who put those bruises on her?”

  The guy's eyes widened and the color drained from his face. “Bruises? I—”

  “Jay,” Erin interrupted in a flat voice, coming up behind him. She took the door from Jay's hand and stepped back, opening it wider and indicating with a slight tilt of her head that he should leave. He ignored her. He wasn't going anywhere.

  She exhaled and pursed her mouth but didn't argue. As she turned her attention to Rocker Boy, Jay studied her. She was gaunt, but at least she was vertical and seemed steady on her feet. Her long brown hair was in a loose ponytail, and she'd changed into tight black yoga pants and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt that hid the bruising on her wrists. Her eyes were lit by the morning sun, making their hazel tint even lighter than usual.

  “What are you doing here?” she said to Rocker Boy. Her voice sounded kind of hoarse, although it still had that unusual doll-like quality that Jay found so hot.

  “I wanted to bring you this,” he said, handing her the ankle brace. “And I, uh . . . ” The guy's eyes darted down to Jay and then back to her. “I just wanted to make sure you're okay.”

  “I'm fine.”

  Rocker Boy shoved his hands in his jeans pocket and hunched his shoulders. His jeans were so tight, Jay was surprised the guy could even fit his fingers in the pockets. “Can we just talk—”

  “No,” she said, cutting him off.

  “I'm, you know . . . ” Again, a quick dart of the eyes toward Jay. “I'm sorry.”

  She didn't respond, just stared at him.

  This time his eyes traveled more slowly over to Jay, the action significant, before he said to her, “You didn't—”

  “No.”

  She didn't what, Jay wondered. Rat him out?

  The guy nodded and cleared his throat. “Uh, thanks . . . and, just, you know, I'm sorry.”

  She continued to stare at him, which made the guy squirm more.

  “It won't happen again,” he said. “I didn't—I mean . . . ” Another swipe of his hand through his hair. “That's not who I am. I don't—”

&nb
sp; “You should leave now,” said Erin.

  The guy's mouth clamped shut. Then, with a nod, he mumbled, “Right,” and retreated down the front steps, making his way down to an ancient white Mercedes station wagon parked at the curb.

  Erin's hand fell away from the door and she disappeared, leaving Jay to sit alone in the doorway. He shut the door and swiveled his chair around to see her heading for the kitchen. By the time he reached the kitchen himself, she was pulling a bottle of Ozarka from the fridge. Maybe she'd be able to keep this one down.

  She went into the living room and plopped down on the couch, wedging the insteps of her feet on the coffee table, her knees bent. Her bad ankle looked slightly swollen.

  Jay finished warming up her soup, ladled it into a bowl, then loaded it onto his wooden lap tray, along with a paper towel, a spoon, some saltine crackers, and the ankle brace Erin had left on the kitchen counter. He pushed himself over to her and handed her the tray.

  “Thanks,” she said, setting it beside her on the couch. She put her bottle of Ozarka next to the soup bowl.

  “So,” he said, keeping his tone casual, “who's the shithead with the nut-huggers?”

  The corners of her mouth lifted into a reluctant smile. “Nut-huggers?”

  “You gotta admit, his beanbag was packed in pretty tight.”

  “You always notice the crotches of strange guys?”

  Jay shrugged. “One of the perks of living in a chair. You're always eye level with belt buckles, zippers, and crotches.” He cocked his head. “Don't worry, darlin'. I stare at plenty of ladies' crotches, too.”

  She gave an amused snort and rolled her eyes. “They were skinny jeans,” she said, like that explained Rocker Boy's blatant testicle abuse.

  “I think that's a style I'll let pass me by,” Jay said dryly. In a more serious tone, he asked, “Who was he?”

  She picked up the plastic sleeve of saltines from the tray, selecting a cracker with her slender fingers. Before popping it into her mouth, she said, “His name is Duncan. He's a friend.”

  “A friend. The friend you been playing slumber party with for the past week?”

  “Yeah.”

  The jealousy Jay'd felt earlier morphed into something darker and spread through him like thick, black oil. He gripped the tires of his chair until the treads dug into his palms, trying not to show how much the thought of Erin with another guy bothered him. Still, he couldn't resist saying, “Where did you find him, Chuck E. Cheese's?”

  She shot him a don't-be-an-asshole look. “He's not that young. He's twenty-one.”

  “Twenty-one? Oh, sorry, my mistake. He's probably a fucking paragon of maturity and wisdom.”

  “Yeah,” she said, undaunted. “He's a regular Buddha.”

  Jay folded his arms over his chest, frustrated he couldn't get anything out of her. She turned her attention to her soup, cupping the bowl in one hand and holding the spoon with the other.

  Jay loved her small hands and her short fingernails, which were painted their usual midnight blue. He liked that she didn't have those long, fake claws so many women sported, including his ex-wife.

  After taking a few careful bites of soup, she set the bowl down and bit off one corner of a cracker, giving him a glimpse of those slightly uneven teeth of hers. Somehow their imperfection made them more attractive to him.

  She was so pretty, even when she wasn't wearing any makeup. Jay liked her better without it. She wasn't a classic beauty, but there was something so striking about her, so mesmerizing, so cool. And those eyes. Jesus. Even bloodshot and plain with no dark eyeliner to accentuate them, they were stunning, compelling.

  She gave off something that drew him in, and he wanted to be closer to her—physically closer, like sitting next to her. Maybe she would open up more and be less aloof if he could touch her. “Scoot over, darlin'.”

  “Why?”

  He eyed the space where he wanted to sit on the couch, near the end. “Scoot over. Make room for me.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Only if you promise not to grill me.”

  Jay leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked up at her, speaking gently. “You were in pretty bad shape, darlin'.”

  Her lashes lowered.

  “I don't think wanting to know what happened to you is too much to ask.”

  She paused, then said, “They shouldn't have called you and gotten you involved. I'm sorry.”

  “Would you stop saying that? I'm glad Hector called me.”

  She looked at him, frowning a little. “Who?”

  “The Hector whose lawn you pulled a Goldilocks on.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, pressing her lips together and closing her eyes. “Not one of my prouder moments.”

  Jay waited until her eyes opened and met his. “Hey. It's over now. And you can call me anytime you need help, darlin'. Always. Anytime.” When she didn't respond, he said, “You hear me?”

  She nodded reluctantly. “Yeah.”

  “So, you gonna scoot over or what?”

  With a faint quirk of her lips, she moved the tray of soup to the coffee table and scooted over.

  Jay's wheelchair was at an angle to the couch, the way he liked it for a transfer. He grabbed his leg that was closest to the couch and flopped it off the footplate so it wouldn't get in his way, then grabbed the outer frame of his chair with one hand and placed his inside hand on the couch cushion. In a quick, efficient move, he shifted his weight from his outer hand to his inner one and swung his butt onto the couch, then adjusted his legs with his hands, looking down at his feet to make sure they weren't twisted.

  “You make that look so easy,” said Erin offhand. “It almost looks like you're using your legs.”

  “Huh.” He heard what she was saying but wasn’t really comprehending it because he could feel the warmth of her body and smell the tantalizing scent of her now that they were shoulder to shoulder.

  She glanced furtively at him and leaned forward to grab her water bottle off the tray. Her shoulder brushed his as she flopped back against the couch. She didn't take a drink, only tore idly at the bottle's red label, but her focus on it became too intense, like all of a sudden it was the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen.

  Jay wondered what was wrong. Was she embarrassed about calling attention to his legs? Hoping that talking about his disability would make it less of a big deal, less awkward, he said, “Transfers like that are easy now. When I first got injured, though, they were a bitch. Busted my ass a few times before I got it down.”

  She didn't say anything, just kept staring at the Ozarka bottle.

  He cupped her chin and turned it toward him so she would look at him. “Hey. It's okay. It's okay to talk about it.” When she didn't say anything, he said, “I won't think it's weird. I understand it all—you—more now, Erin. That stuff I said about devs—that was me being a judgmental prick. I didn't know what the fuck I was talking about.”

  She jerked back her head, breaking his hold. “Just like that, you've had a change of heart?” She shook her head. “Uh-uh. I don't believe it. You can't change deep-seated . . . ,” she looked around, as if searching for the right word, “ . . . revulsion like that overnight.”

  “It wasn't overnight. I didn't know any devs then. Now I do. I've lived with one for the past three months.”

  “I'm not a dev,” she said, looking obstinate.

  “You can't change something like that overnight either,” he said.

  “I'm not a dev,” she insisted.

  He was still skeptical. “Why are you denying it?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because I like you.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “I do like you,” he insisted. “Do you think I would've taken care of your ass for the last two days if I didn't care about you?”

  She assessed him for a long moment. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I think you would have.”

  That surprised him. “Why do you think that?” />
  “Because maybe you're not the asshole I thought you were.”

  He grinned. “Thanks. I think.”

  There was the barest smile on her lips.

  “I like you, Erin. You don't have to deny the dev thing with me. I'm okay with it.”

  “Yeah, right.” Her tone said she was still far from convinced. She held the water bottle to her mouth and took a sip.

  “Let me show you how much I'm okay with it.” Before she could do anything to resist, he cupped the back of her neck with his palm, then leaned toward her and grazed his mouth across hers. It was innocent as kisses go, but when their lips touched, an instant buzz of electricity made Jay's heartbeat stutter.

  Abruptly, Erin crunched the plastic bottle in her hand and broke away. “Don't.”

  “Why?” he asked, sure she must have felt the same buzz he had.

  “How can you—God.” She tossed the Ozarka to the side and scrubbed her hands over her face. “You don't even know where I've been or what I've been doing.”

  Jay hated the reminder she'd been MIA for over a week with Rocker Boy, aka Duncan. “I just met Duncan, remember? And I got you through the worst hangover in human history. I've got a pretty good idea what you've been doing.”

  She hung her head. “How could you possibly want to kiss me?” She turned to him. “You were right, you know, that day in Luis's apartment. I am a bottom-feeder.”

  “Goddammit. I never should have said that.” He ran his hand roughly through his hair, close to pulling out a good chunk of it in frustration. “I wish I could take it all back, Erin. Every single word. You are not a bottom-feeder.”

  She didn't respond, just stared at nothing.

  Jay ached to tell her so much more—for starters, how good he thought her novel was. She was a smart and talented writer, but he couldn't tell her because it was a part of herself she hid from him so thoroughly. He should tell her anyway. He should come clean and tell her he was Panhead, but he felt like they were about to turn some kind of corner here, like maybe if he could say the right thing, she might begin to trust him—trust him, Jay Bontrager, not Panhead.