by Chelsea Fine
“You know what I mean. I’ve missed you so bad and I’m so glad to see you. But I don’t want you to go back to being the Jack you were before you left.”
A moment of silence passes before Jack says, “You don’t need to worry about the old Jack. I’m different now. Happier.”
“I know.” I hear the smile in her voice. “I can tell. That’s why I’m worried.”
“You worry too much, Mom. I’ll be fine. And besides, I have you and Sam to keep me in check.”
“And Jenna.”
He scoffs. “Hardly. She’ll be out of here as soon as possible. Not that I blame her. Did you really have to kiss her head?”
She quietly laughs. “Oh, Jack.”
“What?”
She lets out a little sigh. “I’m just happy you’re home, that’s all.”
And that’s my cue.
Clearing my throat, I make a big production of stomping loudly down the hall before turning into the kitchen with a bright smile. “Sorry about that.”
The bottle of Maker’s Mark is on the table next to three glasses filled with ice. As I sit down, Lilly pours me a drink then moves to fill the glass in front of Jack.
He shakes his head. “I have to go out later.”
Lilly’s frown matches my own. “Tonight?” She glances at the clock on the wall. It’s almost midnight.
He nods. “I want to catch up with some old friends.”
“Can’t you wait until morning?” she says.
He shakes his head. “The longer I wait, the more people will know I’m back in town. And I was kind of hoping to… surprise a few people.”
I narrow my eyes. After his whole speech about me not driving at night and being so exhausted, Jack wants to go hang out with friends? I call bullshit. He’s up to something. And after everything I witnessed at the bar earlier, it’s probably something shady.
Lilly shrugs and pulls his empty glass back. “Fine then. More whiskey for me.”
“Is it okay if I borrow your car? Just for tonight—” He runs a hand through his dark hair and mutters, “Shit. You don’t have your car.”
“Nope.” She shakes her head. “Samson drove it to Vipers tonight and left it there.”
“Dammit. Why did he have to sell his bike? So inconvenient.”
“Money,” Lilly says. “That Harley was the only thing of value Samson owned.” She frowns. “Where is that boy, anyway? Is he asleep on my couch? He better not be drooling on the cushions again.” Standing, she plucks her whiskey glass from the table and stalks to the living room, mumbling, “Especially when he’s got his own damn bedroom ten feet away…”
Once it’s just the two of us in the kitchen, Jack’s demeanor changes, like he’s slipping back into a well-worn suit as he smiles at me sympathetically. “I bet you’re pretty tired.”
I eye him as I sip on my drink. “Not really.”
He leans back in his seat with a very fake yawn. “It’s been a long day.”
“Uh-huh.” I lift a brow, knowing full well that this is his gearing-up-to-ask-for-a-favor voice.
Wait for it…
He leans forward on his elbows and implores me with his gray eyes. “Is it cool if I borrow your car tonight? Just for an hour or two?”
There it is.
“So you can go catch up with friends?”
He nods.
“Sure.” I smile sweetly and he perks up. “But only if you tell me why you’re really going out.”
He tries to look innocent, but innocent doesn’t really work with the whole unruly-haired, tattoo-covered, bad-boy thing he’s got going. “I told you. I’m going to see some old—”
“Friends. Right.” I take another drink. “Yeah, you’re a big fat liar. And I’m not letting you use my car unless you tell me the truth.” His features turn stony so I amend, “Either that, or you have to take me along with you.”
His shoulders slump, meaning me coming along isn’t an option in the slightest, which in turn means that he’s up to no good.
“Whatever,” he says.
I shrug. “Whatever.”
He sighs and gets serious for a moment. “I know you probably have some questions. About tonight. About—”
“The bounty on your brother’s head? Uh, yeah.”
“Shh!” Fear flashes in his gaze as he snaps his eyes to the living room. “My mom will hear you.”
I swallow, feeling guilty, and lower my voice. “Sorry. But… shouldn’t your mom know if Drew’s that kind of danger?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“No? These people want him dead, for God’s sake.”
“I know. But I don’t want to tell my mom anything until I do some digging to see if it’s a real threat or not.”
My mouth falls open. “Are you insane? You should be calling the cops! Not playing detective on your own.”
He exhales. “The cops can’t help us.”
I scoff. “Why? Is Little Vail run by mobsters or something?”
He studies me for a moment. “Something like that.”
I blink, waiting for him to correct his statement, but his expression remains serious. Genuine terror races down my spine as my thoughts fly in every direction, all of which lead to Jack dying.
“What the hell is going on, Jack?” I say, my voice on the verge of cracking.
He rubs a hand over his mouth. “You’re safe, I promise. And my mom and Samson are safe too. I know you have a ton of questions and I want to answer them—I really do. I just… I need to figure some stuff out tonight and then you and I can talk in the morning.”
I purse my lips. “You think I’m going to be able to sleep with all this flying around my head?”
He takes my face in his hands—an act he’s only done a few times before—and looks deep into my eyes. “I think you need to trust me.” He searches my face and I suddenly want to fall into him and tuck myself in his warmth where everything is familiar and sure; where nothing can hurt us. “I would never let anything happen to you.”
I swallow heavily and slowly pull out of his hands. “It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s you, wanting to run off in the middle of the night to visit friends. You’re not telling me the whole truth.”
“You’re right.” He looks at me sternly. “I’m not.”
Lilly suddenly returns to the kitchen, still muttering about Samson, and Jack and I lean away from one another.
“I’m sleepy,” she says with a yawn.
Unlike her lying little boy’s, Lilly’s yawn is authentic and reminds me that this poor woman probably has a real life to attend to in the morning and my penchant for late-night whiskey should probably come to a close.
I quickly finish my drink. “Thanks, Mrs. Oliver.”
“Call me Lilly,” she reminds me then looks at Jack. “Are you two sleeping in your room tonight or should I…”
She trails off, probably in the hope that one of us will jump right in and prevent any kind of uncomfortable silence from falling over the room like a wet blanket, but alas we do not, so the three of us stand in the soggy awkwardness for a good three seconds before Jack finally says, “Jenna can sleep in my room. I’ll take whatever drool-free couch you have left.”
Lilly brandishes a smile as fake as Jack’s recent yawn. “Perfect. I’ll get some fresh sheets and towels.”
Ten minutes later, I’m ready for bed. Not wanting to haul in all my luggage, I decide to sleep in the long T-shirt I have on over my leggings. Tomorrow, in the light of day when I’m feeling rested and cheerier, I’ll unload some belongings and shower and all that. But tonight, I just want to crash.
“We’ll talk in the morning. I promise. Night,” Jack says halfheartedly from his bedroom door after I’m all snuggled into his bed.
“Night,” I say.
He shuts the door behind him. The latch makes a loud click as it closes and the sound echoes in my ears. I don’t know how he expects me to wait until morning to get some answers from him about everything I’ve seen and hear
d tonight. I’m not a patient person and he knows it.
A nagging feeling scratches away at me but I can’t put a finger on it. Something about tonight. Something about Jack.
I burrow into the clean navy sheets of Jack’s bed and inhale. It doesn’t smell like him, which disappoints me in a way I’d rather not explore, but the room itself feels like him. Not just the him that currently lives in Arizona, or the dark him that used to live here, but a combination of the two.
A helmet propped on the simple dresser reminds me that Jack is a motorcycle guy. Whenever I see him on his bike back in Arizona, it always seems strange to me—like he’s pretending to be a bad boy—because his personality is always so light and upbeat. But staring at the black helmet in the room, I realize the tortured soul I’ve seen glimpses of these past few days is the real Jack—or at least the Jack he’s trying to outrun. My stomach twists, once again unsure how to feel about this other Jack. But then again, it would just be weird to see Jack driving anything other than a motorcycle. Even these last few days, it’s been bizarre seeing him drive my car.
The nagging feeling claws at me again and breaks the surface. I sit straight up. My car! Jack drove us here tonight but never gave me back my keys. And when I said no to him borrowing my car he hardly put up a fight, which is so not like him and—
I hear an engine come to life outside and my heart beats almost as fast as my legs jump from the bed and carry me down the hall.
Son of a bitch.
If he took my car, I’m going to be so pissed.
Reaching the living room, I sweep back the yellow curtains on the front window just in time to see the taillights of my little red Charger fade into the night as Jack speeds away from the house.
I drop the curtain with a muttered curse and spin around to glower at the living room furniture.
Well it’s official. I’m pissed.
I’m also a little afraid, for Jack, but I’m going to focus on the rage. Let it fester until Jack returns and I unleash my wrath.
I pause for a moment and frown.
Jack might have been right about my violent tendencies. I am rather quick to fury. But that’s neither here nor there. Focus on the anger, Jenna. A boy just stole your car while you were busy smelling his sheets. So really, this is your fault for being so pathetic that a guy’s bedding can completely undo you.
Goddammit, now I’m angry with myself.
Redirect, redirect.
Jack. I’m mad at Jack.
You’re also worried about him.
Shut up, you pathetic bed-sniffer.
And… that’s how the next twenty minutes go; with me scolding myself like a truly certifiable woman of wrath. But Jack still doesn’t return. I take a shower, more to clam my nerves than anything else, and wrap myself in a towel only to remember that all my luggage is locked away in my stolen vehicle. Fantastic.
I look at my discarded shirt and leggings and make a sour face. Putting dirty clothes on after I’ve scrubbed my body? In the words of Lilly Oliver, ick.
Padding my bare feet back into Jack’s bedroom, I start riffling through his drawers like a wet raccoon, searching for something that can pass as pajamas. I try on four pairs of basketball shorts and two shirts before finding items small enough to fit me without being obscene.
I’m not a small person—not at all. I’m average height, average weight. It’s just that Jack’s a giant who, apparently, wears size 100 in everything. Twisting the shirt around my middle so it hangs properly, I absently inhale and smile when I catch Jack’s scent.
What? No. Don’t smile about that, you idiot.
I unclench my fists from his shirt and smooth out the wrinkles I created clutching it to my nose. I’m not like a wet raccoon at all. I’m worse. Raccoons would be ashamed of me.
My inner dialogue—I’ve just accepted that I’m certifiable, at this point—comes to a halt when I hear an engine in the front yard. My first instinct is to run outside and smack him—you know, violent tendencies and all—but I regain my composure and choose a more mature tactic.
I stand perfectly still in the dark living room and wait for him with a scowl.
Through the window, where the yellow curtain didn’t fall back completely, I watch his dark figure stumble out of the car and slowly climb the steps all hunched over. What did he do, go get drunk? Awesome.
I cross my arms, scowl still poised to kill, and wait as he opens the front door and quietly steps inside. He flicks on the living room light and I ready myself for the shit storm I’m about to rain all over his ass. But my words, my anger, my bitter intentions fall away the instant I see his face.
“Jack.” It’s more a gasp than a word as it leaves my mouth and finds his ears.
He pulls his eyes from his hand, bloody and torn, and sets them on me, just now noticing I’m in the room.
“Jenna. What the hell?” Several emotions cross his eyes. Anger. Fear. Relief. Anger.
I pull a face. “Don’t ‘what the hell’ me. You’re the one who took my car and drove off into the night.”
He screws his face up. “So you waited up to yell at me?”
“Well…” I pause. Is that why I waited up? Well, crap. “Yeah,” I finally say, not particularly proud of my answer.
“Typical,” he mutters. “Listen. I’m not in the mood to bicker with you right now so if you don’t mind rescheduling this bitch-out for tomorrow, that would be great. Thanks.”
He marches past me and down the hall. That’s when I see the blood running down his back from a large gash between his shoulder blades and my heart stops.
“Jack?” I say, staring with wide eyes. “What’s wrong with your back?”
He looks over his shoulder and frowns. “Oh. That.” Turning back around, he continues striding down the hallway. “Knife wound.”
14
Jack
In a perfect world, Jenna would shrug the whole thing off and go back to bed without asking any questions. My world is the opposite of perfect.
“Knife wound?” Her voice is surprisingly steady for the amount of blood she’s probably still gawking at as she follows me into the bathroom.
“Yeah.” I avoid her eyes as I pull off my wrecked shirt and toss it in the trash.
“You got stabbed?” She circles around me, searching for my eyes as I concentrate on anything but the horror that’s surely on her face.
“It’s more like a slice.” Stretching my neck, I turn on the sink and pull out some bandages and first-aid supplies from the medicine cabinet.
Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time I’ve walked into this bathroom covered in blood. Hopefully it will be the last, though.
“Fine. You got sliced?” She has me cornered at the sink with no place else for my eyes to land but on hers.
“Yeah.” I reluctantly meet her gaze and brace for the shift that will surely take place in our relationship from this moment on. The guns earlier I might have been able to brush off as local bad-guy antics. But bleeding out from a knife fight? Yeah. She’ll never look at me the same.
Good-bye, Arizona Jack. Good-bye, Jenna.
I wait for her eyes to grow wary, but instead I see worry, briefly flecked with pain and quickly replaced with impatience.
“Turn around,” she says, twirling her finger. “Let me see if you need stitches.”
I eye her carefully then slowly turn around. “I don’t need stitches.”
She huffs. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Finding a cloth, she wets it in the sink and cleans around the cut between my shoulder blades in small circles. She has to wring it out and soak it again several times due to the amount of blood on my skin, but the process is soothing somehow.
I like her hands against my back, her fingertips pressing into me as she softly scrubs the wet washcloth across my skin. The warmth of her exhales brush against my spine as she huffs out in frustration, clearly mad at me and afraid, but doing her best to hold her tongue. I know what a sacrifice that m
ust be for her and I’m not sure I deserve it.
She starts to clean out the actual wound, and while it doesn’t especially hurt, the first stinging contact of the cotton swab to my open flesh takes me by surprise and I wince.
Pausing, she murmurs, “Sorry,” before gently continuing to disinfect the cut. “You don’t need stitches.”
I stare at the shower curtain printed with seashells. “Told you.”
She doesn’t reply and I glance to the side. I watch through the mirror as she carefully draws together my sliced skin with butterfly bandages before covering the full length of the gash with one large one. She tapes it to my shoulder blades with precise fingers and her eyes trail up and down my back, filled with sadness and fear as they trace my tattoos. She takes a shaky breath then, suddenly, her face crumbles.
My chest clenches as, for the second time since I’ve known her, I watch Jenna come undone. A tear falls down her cheek and she doesn’t even move to wipe it away, which is the worst kind of apathy. She’s not asking questions. She’s not yelling. She’s trying not to feel.
Dragging my eyes from her reflection, I hang my head. Jenna considers showing emotion for guys—for anyone, really—a weakness. My bloody body just scared the shit out of her and now she’s turning herself off completely.
“Jenn…” I start, not sure where my words want to go. “I’m sorry.”
She says nothing. Does nothing. Her instincts will have her pulling away from me before morning so I’ll never have a chance to terrify her like this again and she’ll never again have to risk caring so much.
I glance back at the mirror and watch the tear fall from her cheek to the floor.
Hell, she might already be gone.
She calmly swipes a hand over her face, then clears her throat and talks to my back. “Want me to clean up your hands too?”
My eyes drop to my bloody knuckles, where my skin is torn and dirty. I don’t need help cleaning these wounds, but I still turn around and place my hands in her care.
She doesn’t look up at me, not once, as she cleans each cut.
“Are you going to ask?” I say, watching her fingers delicately travel over my hands as she wraps my knuckles. “About where I was tonight? About what happened?”