26. Chapter 26
Chapter 26
T he world tilted and spun, shadows swimming at the edges of Jesse’s vision.
Cold asphalt pressed against his cheek, gritty and damp. His breath came ragged, every inhale scraping like sandpaper against his ribs. The pain in his side throbbed sharp and deep, wet warmth soaking into his shirt.
He blinked hard, forcing his eyes to focus, but the black creeping in threatened to pull him under.
Fuck.
His fingers curled against the ground, pressing into something sticky. Blood. His blood.
The coppery scent mixed with the piss-stained alley air, the lingering reek of garbage and stale booze.
Memory hit in jagged flashes.
The junkie.
Strung out to hell, eyes wild, pupils blown wide. The kind of high that gave men superhuman strength and zero sense of consequence.
Jesse had been following leads, asking around about Kwilé, putting pieces together.
And this guy—this fucking ghost of a man, all bones and twitching muscle, had taken exception to that.
Or maybe he’d just seen an opportunity.
Jesse hadn’t even seen the knife until it was too late.
Rookie fucking mistake.
His jaw clenched as he slid a hand over his ribs, exhaling through his teeth when his fingers came back slick and red. Not too deep. Surface wound. It would bleed like a bitch, but it wasn’t fatal.
Not this time.
The guy had gone for his pockets—his phone, his keys, his wallet. Everything.
But Jesse had fought back. Hard.
He wasn’t an easy mark, even half out of it, even caught off guard. He’d gotten his hits in, landed solid blows, enough to make the bastard run instead of finishing the job.
But it had been close.
Too close.
His breath came hard and uneven as he planted a hand against the brick wall, pushing himself up, every muscle in his body screaming.
Move.
No cops. No hospitals. No more fucking complications.
Just get up. Get moving.
A shuffle of movement echoed in the alley, a presence lingering just beyond his blurred periphery.
Jesse tensed. His hands curled into loose fists, instinct bracing for another attack.
Instead, a familiar voice rasped through the dark.
“Easy there, brother.”
Jesse’s head snapped toward the sound, his vision slowly adjusting—to Paul.
The old vet.
A man who had lost everything years ago but still walked the streets like he had some kind of purpose. The only guy in this whole damn city Jesse could trust to keep his mouth shut.
Paul crouched beside him, his sharp, weathered face set in something between concern and amusement.
“Didn’t take you for the kind to get rolled by a junkie,” Paul muttered, pulling something from the pocket of his ragged military jacket. “Looks like I misjudged.”
Jesse let out a short, pained laugh. “Yeah, well. Surprise.”
Paul shook his head and tossed a dirty bandana at him. “You’re lucky I came by when I did. That bastard was gonna take the boots off your damn feet.”
Jesse huffed, pressing the makeshift cloth against his side, watching as Paul’s gaze flickered over him, assessing the damage like an old war medic.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” Paul muttered. “But you gotta get that cleaned up. Last thing you need is infection.”
Jesse grunted, shifting his weight until he was steady enough to stay upright. “I’ll handle it.”
Paul snorted. “Yeah? You look like you can barely stand.”
Jesse shot him a tired smirk. “Good thing looks are deceiving.”
Paul watched him for a beat, eyes narrowing before he let out a sigh. “Someone at home to help you?”
Jesse swallowed, his throat tight. “Yeah.”
Paul nodded, like that was all the answer he needed. He stepped back, giving Jesse space.
“Then get the hell out of here.”
Jesse shoved the bloodied bandana against his side, bracing himself as he pushed forward.
Toward her.
The wound was shallow, but it burned like fire. Every move sent a sharp, wet pain lancing through his ribs, blood seeping hot against his side. He should stop. Should press something cleaner against it. Should get stitches.
Later.
He’d figure it out later.
Right now, he had somewhere to be.
Someone to see.
Hayley.
His mind latched onto her like a lifeline, cutting through the pain, through the haze, through the fucking chaos screaming inside his skull.
Go.
His body moved on instinct, slipping from the alley’s shadows and toward his truck parked a few blocks away. He weaved through the city like a ghost, head down, steps quick, keeping to the dim-lit sidewalks, avoiding the places where people would look too long, ask too many questions.
He didn’t have time for questions.
One foot in front of the other.
The rhythmic pulse of pain.
The slow, sticky warmth of blood under his shirt.
He exhaled through his teeth, forcing his breath steady as he yanked the truck door open and climbed inside. His fingers trembled as he shoved the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life, a low, steady growl that echoed in his bones. His ribs flared hot as he pulled out, the city’s neon glow stretching and blurring as exhaustion crept in.
He reached for his phone, flipping it open, his thumb fumbling over the screen. The texts popped up first. Multiple.
Then—
Voicemail.
His pulse thundered as he lifted the phone to his ear.
Static. Then—her voice.
Soft. Breaking. Raw.
“Jesse… I don’t know where you are. I don’t know if you’re okay. I don’t know if you’re hurt or if you’re just… gone.”
His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
She sounded small. Scared. He could hear it in every syllable, the tight strain of breath between words. The way she hesitated before speaking, like she was trying to hold herself together.
Like she was trying not to fall apart.
“But I can’t do this. I can’t do this if it’s going to be like this.”
His jaw clenched.
She thought he left her.
That he was pulling the same old Jesse shit. Ghosting. Running. Disappearing when things got too hard.
A sharp twist coiled in his gut, something angry, something sick. He checked the time on the dash. It was late. Late enough that she’d probably cried herself to sleep.
“I need you,” she whispered. “I don’t care what’s happening, I don’t care if you think it’s better to stay away—I need you.”
A ragged breath tore from his chest.
More than his ribs. More than the knife wound. More than any fucking thing else—this hurt.
“I can’t do this alone.”
The voicemail ended.
Silence.
Jesse stared at the screen, blood roaring in his ears.
She thought he was gone.
His breath came fast, shallow, his heartbeat erratic and painful.
Not this time.
He shoved the phone into his pocket, pressing harder on the gas, cutting through the empty streets toward her. His vision blurred, his body running on fumes, every muscle trembling from pain and adrenaline. But none of it mattered.
Because suddenly, through the dim glow of streetlights, he saw it.
Her building.
Right there. Just beyond the next block.
His stomach twisted as something dawned on him.
He was still the same guy to her.
Still the same Jesse Navarro she’d known three years ago. The addict. The fuckup. The one who hurt her so badly she had no reason to believe he wouldn’t do it again.
Even now, with everything they’d been through, with everything he’d sworn—she didn’t trust him.
Not really.
Not in the way that mattered.
And maybe… maybe she was right.
His hands shook as he parked, his vision swimming. He shoved the door open and climbed out, his body screaming in protest as he stalked toward the entrance. The weight of it pressed into his bones, heavy and suffocating.
The knowledge that no matter how much he changed, no matter how much work he put in, he would always be the guy who left her questioning if he’d stay.
If he was strong enough to stay.