3. Jayce
THREE
Jayce
I brace myself for the worst as I hobble toward the car, each uneven step jarring and slow. My pulse pounds in my ears, but what I find isn’t what I had expected.
A guy slumped in the passenger seat, head tilted awkwardly to the side like one of those bobblehead dogs. I don’t know who he is? A date of hers? His chest rises and falls with a steady rhythm, and the loud, guttural snore that escapes his mouth is enough to break the tension in my chest.
He’s alive. Thank God the idiot is alive.
The stink of booze hits me as I lean closer, wrinkling my nose. So this must be the stench I have too. Interesting that I’m able to smell it on others; it should smell normal to me. I was drunk almost every other day for weeks. My shoulders sag, and I exhale a long breath of relief. At least he’s not dead. Rosie shocked me to the core.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, giving him a gentle shake. “Can you hear me?”
The guy just grunts and snorts. Alive and plastered. The car itself looks like it’s had better days, though. That’s when I notice what kind of car it is. It’s not an average one. And the guy is not sitting in the driver’s seat. Oh shit. I move backward.
“Rosie?” I spin around, spotting her standing a few feet away, hands over her mouth, tears still streaming down her face.
“Did you drive?” I ask, though I know it’s a dumb question even before it leaves my lips. She never drives. This doesn’t make sense.
She shakes her head, a sob hitching in her throat, and for once, her usual fiery sarcasm is nowhere to be seen. “I don’t know. I can’t concentrate. I—”
I ignore the fact that this car is a Lamborghini Urus, worth more than three hundred thousand dollars. I close in on her, take her head in my hands, and check her eyes. Yep. Dilated. I bite the insides of my cheeks. Of course, she’s on drugs.
“First of all, he’s not dead, but second of all, who the fuck is this?” My brows furrow as I gesture to the unconscious guy, feeling like I’m missing a piece of a very important puzzle. Or more than just one. And did I mention that I’m drunk? I may not be the best help right now.
“Kix Lyle,” she says. “I-I don’t remember anything. I just woke up…on the driver’s side and panicked. I thought he was dead, he wasn’t breathing, I swear—”
“Kix Lyle?” That name hits me like a slap shot to the chest. Another goddamn insufferable singer. Just what we need. I think he just won all the Grammys there are and is called “the new shit,” or whatever the kids call him. As if her awful boyfriend wasn’t enough to deal with already. I swear, I can’t stand this new generation and their obnoxious singers in baggy jeans and—shit. I’m starting to sound like my grandpa.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter, trying to steer my thoughts away from the fact that I’m thirty-one. Eight fucking years older than the girl I’m holding in my arms right now. “We need to think straight. Is it his car?”
Rosie nods, and that’s when it hits me—she’s not wearing a jacket. Goddamn. It’s spring, and she has no jacket. Fuck. I sound like my grandpa again. But seriously, it’s freezing. I pull off my hoodie, aware that even though it’s clean, I’m not. But whatever, better to smell bad than freeze. I slide it over her shoulders, and she lets me. Which is insane, because Rosie usually fights me on every damn thing I do. This…broken version of her? I don’t even recognize her.
“Okay, idiot and his car have seen better days. And it looks like you drove it. Destroyed it. So, what do we do, what do we do…” Since I don’t know what to do, I rub her forearms to at least stop her from freezing, although I don’t know if her shivering is from the cold or an anxiety attack. “We should call the cops, but—”
“No,” she says, looking at me with those puppy eyes. “Please don’t. I took…”
“Yeah, you used again. I know. We can’t call the cops.” Her college is a fucking elite one, they even have it stated on their website that they need their students to be extraordinaire, and drug use is prohibited. If they find out, she’s gone. I won’t have her give up her dream.
Even though I hate that she treats her body like this.
And then again there is this little voice in my head. You’re a hypocrite. You’re destroying your body even more. She’s not in this state twenty-four seven. You are.
But it’s Rosie. I don’t care about me. I care about her.
“No cops. We just…we just bring him home. He’s wasted but fine. Do you know where he lives?”
She shakes her head.
“All right, his stupid car probably has a home button on the fucking navigation system. We can figure this out.”
“Thank you, Jay,” she whispers, her voice shaking.
With one hand, I grip my cane while the other holds her hand, getting us to the car. Goddamn, she’s not even wearing shoes. She’s definitely getting a cold. Once we get through this, I’ll yell at her. I’ll spank her—wait, what? No. Focus. Now is not the time to get twisted up, you pervert. She’s twenty-two, for fuck’s sake. And her brother would kill me.
Shaking my head, I manage to get her into the car and breathe a sigh of relief when she slides into the backseat, away from me, my dirty hands, and dirty thoughts.
I glance at the driver’s seat of Rosie’s disaster-on-wheels. Damn, it’s so low. The seat’s ridiculously low. I bend down and nearly cry out from the pain. I haven’t been driving since my injury, and trying to sit in this thing feels impossible. I bend again, and—ugh—let me just collapse into the seat.
I think I scream because Rosie rushes forward from in between the seats to check on me. “Jay, oh my god, are you okay?”
“Yeah.” No.
“That didn’t sound good.”
“It’s just my stupid leg.” I put the cane on the sleeping guy next to me. Now that I look at him, I think I’ve listened to one of his songs at some point.
I grab my injured leg with both hands, wincing as I pull it into the car. Fuck it’s stiff like a wooden plank. Thank God this stupid car is automatic. Who buys an automatic sports car? A four-seater, no less. What a joke. But hell, if this thing were manual, we’d be screwed. There’s no way I could manage a clutch with this messed-up leg.
I meet Rosie’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and there it is again—pity. That damn look. I can feel it in my chest like a weight I can’t shake.
I don’t want to see it.
So, I look away, my hands finding the steering wheel of the Lamborghini, the engine growling beneath my palms. I press the button to ignite the engine. The car immediately comes to life, filling the air with a deep, rumbling sound that resonates in my body, sending small shocks through my leg. Despite the numbing effects of alcohol, it still stings like hell.
I shouldn’t drive. Not because of my leg. Not because of the alcohol. I used to be responsible—would never have driven with even a sip of alcohol in my system. But I need to get her out of this mess. It’s stupid. It’s so damn stupid. But it’s her. I’d do anything for Rosalie.
The seat sinks under me as the car shifts, a soft hum beneath the sound of the engine as I press the brake and shift into drive. I glance at the rearview mirror again. Rosie’s still there, eyes downcast.
I force myself to focus, hands gripping the wheel as I pull away. The pity isn’t going anywhere, but at least I can drown it out with the sound of this damn car.
You can do this, Jayce.
Just don’t get caught.
It’s against all the rules.
Hell, it’s breaking a few laws, too, but Rosie needs me. And the thought of those cops getting their claws into her? Not on my watch.
“Jay, are you sure about this?” Rosie’s voice quivers from behind, her pale hands wringing together like she’s trying to squeeze out her own anxiety.
I flash her a grin that I hope looks more confident than I feel.
“Piece of cake,” I lie through my teeth and drive backward.
She convinced me to hide our faces, insisting that Kix Lyle has lots of cameras around his villa. That’s why we stopped at my place, where I grabbed gloves, disinfectant spray, and two masks—one with Deadpool on it and the other a panda. When I held them up for her, she laughed. I might’ve cracked a grin, too, because honestly, it was ridiculous. But it didn’t matter. We started wiping down the car, scrubbing every inch, even under the asshole’s seat, hoping that would erase everything we’d done or not done.
“You listen to too many true crime podcasts, Rosie,” I mutter, my fingers moving methodically over the car’s door handle.
“I don’t want Kix Lyle suing me,” she responds, her voice tight. “He already has a feud with Vaughn.”
I glance at her, shaking my head. “Okay, so you thought you’d get back at your lover by kissing his rival?” I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. Why the hell did I say that?
She shoots me a look—sharp and cold, one that reminds me of the old Rosie. The one I used to know, before all this shit. Before she got lost in drugs. My stomach tightens, but I quickly turn back to the car, pretending I didn’t just dig a hole for myself.
I finish cleaning and slide into the driver’s seat again. I manage it better this time, but it still hurts like fuck.
“No,” she says flatly. “I told you. I have no idea how I ended up there. No memory from the night at all.”
I nod, my eyes scanning the road again as we pull away, the headlights of Kix Lyle’s house blinking in the distance. It’s one of those mansions where you half expect a butler to open the door, eyeing your muddy shoes with disdain. Thanks to Riley and the Huntingtons, I’m used to that kind of world—don’t like it, but I’m used to it. Doesn’t matter how much money I make or how close I am to “rich-rich”—I don’t flaunt it. Most of my money goes to my family, but they’re as stubborn as I am, and half the time they won’t even accept it. So I have to find ways to make them.
Kix Lyle, though?
He loves showing off his new wealth. His house is all sharp edges and pristine white, surrounded by bushes shaped like…whatever the hell they are. It looks shit. I park his car in front of his garage and take our masks out. I’m Deadpool and she’s Panda. We find his keys buried deep in the pocket of his fur coat after a few minutes of fumbling that would’ve looked ridiculous if I weren’t so damn wound up.
“Got it!” I exclaim, a little too loudly as the keychain jingles triumphantly in my hand.
“Shh,” Rosie hisses, her eyes darting around like she expects the hedges to have ears.
We drag Kix Lyle’s lifeless body out of the car, and damn, for a guy who looks like he lives off protein shakes and an inflated ego, he sure picked the worst moment to play deadweight. I take the brunt of it—his upper body—and Rosie grabs his feet. We’re both sweating, huffing, puffing, and dragging him up, and I can’t believe how hard it is. Just hours ago, I couldn’t even imagine climbing the stairs to my second floor. Hell, I’ve been living on my couch for weeks now.
But somehow, we make it to the top of the stairs and drop him in front of his door.
For a split second, I consider leaving him there, just leaving him like some pathetic sack of shit. But then I think better of it. That would be cruel. I sigh, open the door, and we drag him inside.
As soon as we’re in, I spot a glimmer of hope—salvation in the form of a black leather office chair, sitting smugly beside a desk that probably costs more than my parents’ house. It’s almost comical, the stark difference between this glossy, high-end setup and the hellish task we just endured. But right now, that chair is the closest thing to comfort I’ve seen all day.
“Grab his feet,” I whisper, positioning the chair next to Kix Lyle.
“Are we sure this is a good idea?” I see her eyes widening behind the mask. “Trust me, I’ve wheeled worse things on ice before,” I assure her, only half joking.
Together, we roll the snoring Kix Lyle across the polished floors, his head lolling like he’s judging our technique. Finally, we plop him onto the couch, a symphony of grunts from all parties involved.
“Is he going to remember any of this?” Rosie asks.
“Let’s hope not,” I reply, wiping sweat from my brow. “For his sake and ours.”
With Kix Lyle safely marooned on his couch, Rosie and I exchange a look that probably says, What the hell just happened? But with our masks on, it’s hard to tell—and there’s no time for answers now anyway. We’ve got to get out of here before Prince Charming wakes up and turns into a pumpkin or whatever happens to drunk pop stars after midnight.
“Come on,” I say, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
But once we get up and get ready, I notice what state his house is in.
“Holy shit,” I say. “What happened here?”
Rosie gets up from her crouching position next to Kix Lyle. I would laugh because she looks so funny with my way-too-big hoodie and those ripped cloth strands poking out underneath it. But there is no time to laugh. His house looks like it was rampaged. They trashed objects, furniture. His couch is basically the only thing left. And that’s when I noticed it. The cameras are destroyed. Okay. Something is fishy.
“Fuck,” she says, grabs my hand, and pulls me out. I limp as fast as I can. “Let’s get out of here.”
I slam the door, a little louder than necessary, but hey, it’s been one of those nights.
As soon as we reach a safe spot a few feet from the house, we remove our masks, and I tuck both mine and Rosie’s into the back pocket of my jeans. We exchange that are-we-really-doing-this look, but we’re past the point of no return now. The air is crisp, and our breath fogs in front of us as we trudge back to my place. We just leave his car in front of his house, and honestly, looking at the state of his house, he should consider himself lucky he even has a car left.
“You seriously didn’t have any other shoes at your place?” Rosie grumbles as she tries to keep up her pace. I glance down at the Crocs she’s struggling in.
“None that would fit your tiny feet.”
“They’re killing me,” she groans.
“Should’ve thought about that before you went full Cinderella-meets-DUI,” I tease, earning a playful jab to my ribs.
“Shut up,” she snaps, but there’s no real fire in her voice. We’re both too damn tired for anything that resembles a real fight. Instead, we keep moving, each step a little slower than the last.
It’s quiet as we walk, the kind of silence that’s comfortable rather than awkward. The occasional streetlight pools gold on the sidewalk, giving the night a weird, otherworldly glow. Rosie’s whiskey eyes catch the light, and I can’t help but think that beauty like hers doesn’t need any embellishments. Even when her makeup is all over the place, like right now. She’s always been exceptionally beautiful.
We reach my beach house, and I fumble with the keys.
It’s one of those old brick buildings with character and creaky floors—nothing like the pristine palace we just left Kix Lyle snoring in or like the Huntington mansion just a couple feet away from my house.
I catch Rosalie looking at her parents’ villa.
“You want to crash at your folks’ place?” I ask, pushing the door open to reveal a living room that could really use a woman’s touch. It practically screams man cave.
“God, no,” she replies quickly, stepping inside like she’s afraid I might turn her around and drag her back home. “I’d rather stay here…or drive to New York if you don’t want me—”
“Not gonna happen, Rosie,” I cut her off, closing the door behind us. “We need to talk tomorrow. You’re staying here, no argument.”
She winces slightly, probably already knowing where this is headed.
“Okay. Thank you so much, Jay. I can’t even put it into words how thankful I am for you,” she says, and before I can offer her anything—water, a blanket—she collapses face-first into the couch. Out cold.
“Guess the couch is taken,” I murmur to myself with a half-smile.
I grab a throw from the armchair and gently cover her, watching how it falls over her body, the way her dark hair spills onto the cushions like ink. There’s something strangely peaceful about seeing Rosie so still. Normally, she’s a whirlwind in a tutu, but right now, she’s just a girl who had a night she probably wants to forget.
“Sleep tight,” I whisper softly, flicking the lights off.