Chapter 41
Sam
By the time night falls, the small hangout has turned into a full-blown party.
I take the joint Dylan hands me, bringing it to my lips, before passing it on.
I’ve been taking it slow, feeling Jameson’s watchful eyes on me with each drink I pour. At this point, I’m only two shots deep and plan on keeping it that way.
I know it bothers him when I get out of hand, but sometimes it feels like I can’t help it.
When the thoughts get too loud, it’s the only way to make them stop.
I’ve been trying to be better, though. To not let myself drown when that’s all I want to do.
But some days, the thoughts win and I’m not strong enough to silence them on my own.
“You good?” Jameson asks against my ear, his chest pressed to my back.
I turn, looking over at him. “Yeah.”
“You almost ready to get out of here?”
“We can go now if you want.”
“I’m not trying to rush you, baby. If you wanna stay—”
“No, really, it’s fine,” I tell him. “Can we go back to your house for a little bit, though? I don’t want to go home yet.”
“Course,” he answers, glancing around. “You see where Billy went?”
I shake my head, searching the crowd for him. Finally, I spot him wrapped around some girl and point him out. “Over there.”
Jameson starts in their direction, and I follow closely behind.
“We’re heading out,” he tells him. “You with us or staying here?”
Billy pulls his attention from the girl. “You go ahead. I’ll find a ride.”
I take the girl in. She’s a pretty brunette, her eyes wide like a doll’s. She blinks them up at Billy, her gaze fixed on him.
“All right, man,” Jameson says, his tone resigned. “Catch you later then.”
Billy tips up his chin in a silent goodbye before turning back to the girl.
Jameson wraps his hand in mine and leads me back to his car.
“I fucking hate that,” he mutters, sliding into his seat. “The way he uses them. Lets them use him.”
“He ever talk about it?”
“Billy talk about how he’s feeling? Yeah, no.” He starts up the car. “Everyone thinks I’m the one who’s closed off, but he’s just as bad.”
“Maybe you should try—”
My words are cut off when Jameson’s phone rings.
“Hold on, baby. Sorry,” he says, grabbing it.
I sit back as he answers.
“Yeah?” he snaps, clearly growing irritated by what’s being said on the other line. “Now? I thought we said tomorrow morning.” He sighs. “No, yeah. No, it’s fine. I’ll be there.”
Hanging up, he tosses his phone into the center console. “I’ve gotta go pick up.” He looks over at me. “It’ll be quick. That okay?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “It was supposed to be tomorrow. You know I don’t like to take you there.”
“I’ll just wait in the car like always. It’s all right.”
He nods, the movement tense.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re pulling into the back parking lot of a familiar worn-down warehouse. I’ve been here with Jameson a few times. Each of them, he’s refused to let me come in with him.
He cuts the engine and, just like all the other times, pulls out his gun and holds it out to me, muttering, “Just in case.”
The first time he handed me the gun, he asked if I knew how to use it. When I said yes, he gave me a questioning look and asked, “Johnny?”
I nodded, explaining how my brother had taught me the basics with the reasoning that he always wanted me to be able to defend myself if I needed to. He’d said the same words actually, “Just in case.”
Now the gun sits heavily in my lap as I watch Jameson walk up to the warehouse door. It swings open, and the same huge guy who always guards it fills the doorway, pointing another gun at Jameson.
He looks maybe ten years older than us, and his massive frame, along with his ever-present gun, make him plenty intimidating. Jameson warned me the first time to expect this, but I still suck in a breath, holding it until the man lowers the weapon.
Minutes pass, and I keep my eyes trained on the door, waiting for it to open and for Jameson to walk back out. With each minute that ticks by, the gun grows heavier in my lap, reminding me that Jameson gave me his only real means of protection.
Another car pulls into the parking lot, and I sink back into my seat, watching as a man exits and stalks up to the door. He gets the same tense greeting Jameson did before he slips past the guy and into the warehouse.
My knee starts to bob, my energy restless as I continue to wait. Fishing through my purse, I grab a cigarette, cranking down the window before lighting it.
I inhale, closing my eyes, trying to calm myself.
He’s fine. I’m sure he’s fine.
My body tightens thinking about the time I thought that same thing and things weren’t fine. I bring the cigarette back to my lips and realize my hands are shaking. I snap my eyes back to the door, willing it to open. It’s never taken this long before.
I grab my phone and shoot off a quick text, asking Jameson if everything’s okay.
Minutes go by without an answer, and I’m starting to wonder if I should go in there.
Two minutes. I’ll give him two more—
The sound of a gunshot splitting through the air cuts through my thoughts.
I jump, dropping my cigarette, and hiss as the cherry burns my thigh.
I’m out of the car before I can even think about it, running for the door. I pull down the handle, cursing when I find it locked, and start pounding my fist against it.
This can’t be fucking happening.
I can’t lose him, too.
Not him.
Finally, the door flies open, and I stumble, losing my balance.
“Who the fuck are you?” the huge man asks, his gun trained on my face.
“Jameson,” I breathe. “Where’s Jameson?”
He lowers his eyes to the gun I have clutched in my hand. “Drop that,” he says. “And back the fuck up.”
I shake my head. “Where’s Jameson?”
“He’s fine,” the man grits out. “Now step back.”
“I want to see him.”
The man takes a step forward. “He’ll be right out.”
“No,” I push. “Now.”
“I’m not going to tell you again. Drop the gun and back up.”
When I stay rooted in place, the gun still firmly in my hand, he sighs, muttering, “I tried.” In the next second, he’s got me disarmed and my wrists securely locked behind my back. “You should have just listened,” he says, kicking the door shut behind us.
“Let me go!” I scream. “I need to—”
“Quiet,” he hisses as his hold on my wrists turns bruising. “Now here’s what’s gonna—”
The door flies open, cutting off his words, and my knees weaken when I see Jameson fill the space.
“Jamie,” I choke out, my voice breaking, frantically trailing my eyes over him, searching for a wound, for blood. I let out a strangled sob when I find nothing.
He’s okay, I try to convince myself. He’s okay.
“Get your fucking hands off her,” he snaps, his gaze locked on where the man has my wrists pinned.
“She yours?” he asks.
“Yeah, she’s fucking mine,” Jameson seethes. “So get your hands off of her—now.”
“She came storming—”
“Stop talking!” Jameson all but shouts.
The man pulls his head back. “What’d you—”
“I’m not listening to shit you have to say until you step away from her.” He moves toward us. “I don’t care what she did.”
The man drops his hold on me, and Jameson is at my side in an instant.
“You okay, baby?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “You? When I heard the …” I shake my head. “I thought …”
“I know,” he whispers. “I know. I’m sorry.”
He wraps his arm around me, and I press into his side as he turns his attention to the man.
“We good here?”
The man stares him down, flitting his eyes to me before drifting back to Jameson. “You better lock this shit down,” he mutters. “The way she came storming in here …” He shakes his head. “She was lucky.”
Jameson steps forward, his body moving in front of mine. “That a threat?”
“Just letting you know she might not be as lucky next time.”
“Go wait in the car,” Jameson forces out.
“No,” I say, reaching for him. “Come on; let’s just go.” When he doesn’t move, I tighten my hold on his hand. “Please.”
My plea seems to snap him out of his rage, because he jerks his chin into a nod and begins to turn.
The man barks out a laugh. “Damn, never thought I’d see the day.”
Jameson stills, looking over his shoulder. “What was that?”
“Bitch has got you leashed, doesn’t she?” Assessing me, he drawls, “But with a body like—”
“Don’t finish that fucking sentence,” Jameson cuts in, dropping his eyes to the gun in the man’s hand and pushing me behind him. “You wanna say that shit to me without hiding behind a gun, huh?”
“He took yours, too,” I whisper shakily. “He has your gun.”
“You think I’m scared of you?” the man scoffs. “You’re just some punk kid who thinks he’s tough ’cause of who your old man was. Everyone walks on fucking eggshells around you. I’m fucking sick of it. You haven’t earned shit.”
Jameson lets out a low laugh, the sound menacing. “Oh, I haven’t earned shit? And you have?” He motions to the outstretched gun. “You gonna drop that or keep hiding behind it?”
The man lets go of the gun, his face smug. “Happy?”
“Kick it away.”
He does.
“And my gun you took off her.”
The man grabs Jameson’s gun from the back of his jeans, discarding it. “There,” he says. “Even.”
“You know,” Jameson mutters, moving toward the man. “I never liked you. Well”—he cocks his head—“actually, you never really crossed my mind when you were in my old man’s crew. I barely knew your name.” He takes another step forward. “But you knew mine, didn’t you?”
The man charges for Jameson, who shifts his attention to me for just long enough to ensure I’ve moved out of the way.
Then he sidesteps a punch the man throws, laughing as the man swings his fist again through the air.
Each attempt to land a hit on Jameson is futile, and it’s only making the man angrier.
Not once has Jameson returned the effort, and I realize that rather than giving a fight, he’s planning on delivering utter humiliation.
The man’s breathing is becoming heavy, and I see the satisfaction light in Jameson’s eyes. He lets out a condescending laugh.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” the man bellows, “and fight me!” He throws another punch that Jameson dodges, bouncing on his feet. “Come on.”
“Why would I?” Jameson asks.