14. Rosalie
FOURTEEN
Rosalie
I lie on top of him as if it’s the easiest thing there is, as if the two of us have never danced this silly dance of ignoring our feelings. I draped one of my legs over his thigh, my head on his chest as I trace all of his tattoos. It’s some kind of Maori design, and here and there he has some words written on his skin.
Together they fight, apart they love.
“What does this mean?”
He traces my back, and I’ve never felt this safe before. It’s as if all of the threats that are against me right now are far away and this man can shield them all for me. It’s like, as long I can hold him like this, nothing else matters.
“It’s about my father. You know he had that accident when I was eight and he’s been in a wheelchair ever since. My family was forced to hold together from that day on. That’s why I started working in construction at fourteen so that we could keep our house.”
I trace the tattoo once more, my fingers gliding over the inked words. His skin carries so many sentences, each one a piece of his story. I remember it all. Jay was always a hard worker, which is how he became part of our lives. We needed a new pool house, along with a pool, and his company took on the job.
The memory is as vivid as if it happened yesterday. I was thirteen, and he was nearly twenty-one. I knew he was way too old for me, but it was no different from a teenager obsessing over an unattainable movie star. From the very first day, I was captivated. He was stunning—perfectly built, effortlessly charming. Then he and my brother became inseparable, and before I knew it, he transferred to Riley’s college. Riley made sure Jay got a scholarship, and the rest is history.
“You should get a tattoo for your injury, etching it into your skin and out of your mind.”
“I’ve actually thought about it,” he says. “Maybe it would help. Wanna go with me?”
“Sure. Do you know what kind of motive?”
“Yeah, I was thinking about the Greek Moirai,” Jay says softly, cupping my ass and making me swoon all over again just from that single touch. “The goddesses of fate. I want a depiction of them cutting my life thread—as a symbol of a life that ended.”
“That’s…pretty dark,” I whisper, my chest tightening as fear grips my throat.
He exhales slowly. “That day, my life did end. At least, that’s what it felt like. Hockey was everything—until it wasn’t.”
I reach for his hand, squeezing it gently. “Yeah, but just because one chapter ends doesn’t mean you won’t find happiness in another.” There has to be hope. I won’t let him get a tattoo that dark.
He looks at me for a moment before pressing a warm kiss to my forehead. Oh, those ocean eyes. “True.”
“I think you could let them cut it, but maybe one sews it back together?”
“That actually sounds good.”
He smiles, and it makes my heart lighter. I can just feel it—he’s doing better, even if he drank tonight. He just needs to stop burying his feelings. And me? I need to step away from bad influences, focus on my goals. I snuggle against his chest and listen to the beat of his heart. It’s steady, and I close my eyes for a few heartbeats.
He’s holding me like he never wants to let go, and I just lie there, letting myself feel it. Feel how safe I am with him. My world is falling apart, but when he’s here, I start to believe I can make it through.
“Jay, can we make a deal?” I whisper, eyes still closed, listening to his heartbeat quicken.
“What kind of deal?”
“You quit drinking, and I quit drugs.”
He hesitates. “I…I don’t know if I can when you’re not around.”
“Try,” I plead, opening my eyes to meet his, seeing the worry in them. “Even if you only stop when I’m with you, that’s a start. And maybe, over time, the craving will fade. Let’s just try, okay? Besides…” I manage a small smile. “I want to be around you all the time, so that part won’t be hard.”
His laugh is soft but real, and I get all those fuzzy feelings in my stomach. “I’ll try. Who am I to deny the effect you have on my mental health, Miss Huntington.”
I smile up at him. “You know, I don’t even want to do drugs anymore. The only time I struggle is when I’m in a triggering place or feeling really low. But when I’m with you? The need is…it’s gone.”
His arms tighten around me. “I think you’re my drug now.”
I press a soft kiss to his chest, breathing him in. God, he smells so good.
“There’s…something else,” I say hesitantly. My heart beats a little faster because I know this might not go over well. But I can’t just blurt it out—I need to ease him into the idea. “I want to give you my therapist’s number…” Okay, that wasn’t really easing him into it.
Jay tenses beneath me. “I…I’ve never been to therapy before.”
I don’t tell him that it shows. Instead, I keep my voice gentle. “I think everyone could use a therapist—especially men. You guys are terrible at expressing your feelings.”
He lets out a mock-offended huff. “Ouch.”
“I mean it,” I say, running my fingers lightly over his tattooed arm. “A therapist could help you. Maybe even help you figure out what you want to do next.”
His hand stills. I miss the touch the second it’s gone.
“You know…” he starts, his voice quieter now. “There is something I could do. Coach Mercer said he’d like to train me as a coach. It’s something to think about. I used to play with the neighborhood kids all the time, teaching them street hockey before we even had an ice rink. I remember how much fun that was…”
My face lights up. “Jay, that sounds amazing ! Why don’t you call Mercer tomorrow? Give yourself some direction.”
He exhales sharply. “I just—I don’t know if I can handle being around the game again. Watching the boys play, being at the rink…Just thinking about it makes me want to walk straight to your bar and drink that whiskey.”
I sit up, determination settling in my chest. “Okay. Then I’m getting rid of it all.”
I swing my legs over the bed, take my pink silk robe from my nightstand, and wrap it around me.
Jay props himself up on his elbows, watching me with confusion. My eyes involuntary roam over his chest, down to his abs, and all the way to his…Fuck, why is he so hot? Maybe it’s because I’ve always wanted him, and now that he’s finally mine —or something like that—my brain short-circuits just looking at him. Right now, I can have all of this, exactly the way I want—and damn, I want it.
“What are you doing?”
I glance back at him, raising an eyebrow. “Exactly what I said.”
I walk over to my bar, grabbing every single flask and carrying them to the kitchen counter. One by one, I start pouring the liquor down the drain. The scent of alcohol fills the air, but I don’t stop. It doesn’t take long before I hear him moving behind me, his footsteps growing closer.
“Rosie, you’re wasting hundreds of dollars.”
I look up at him as he leans against the doorway, his weight shifting onto his good leg. The dim light casts soft shadows over his body, highlighting every sculpted line. He’s wearing nothing but his briefs, and as I tilt the flask, watching the last drops of liquor disappear, I can’t help but stare.
He hasn’t trained in months, yet his body remains so fucking strong, effortlessly toned—like muscle memory never let him go. It’s in his posture, in the way his broad shoulders hold a quiet power, in the way his abs remain defined even after everything. He’s like a soldier, a warrior, a Greek god carved from marble.
I’ve never been with someone like him before—never had someone so utterly breathtaking yet so human in his brokenness. And the fact that I get to care for him, that he lets me ? It stirs something deep inside me, something I never realized I craved. No one ever truly needed me before—not in a way that couldn’t be solved with a paycheck.
But he needs me. I do him good. And for the first time, it’s not about money, not about status. With Jay, it’s different. With him, I matter .
“I don’t care about money, Jay. I care about you, and there will never be a drop of alcohol in my apartment ever again. Next, I’m emptying yours.”
I won’t even touch alcohol again if it means I can have him.
He steps up behind me, close enough that I can feel his warmth, his breath ghosting over my shoulder. His fingers twitch at his sides as the sharp scent of alcohol fills the air, and I know— God , I know—how hard this is for him. I never was able to say no to coke when someone offered it to me.
But instead of reaching for the bottle, instead of rescuing his alcohol, he reaches for me . His hands find my hips, his grip tight, almost desperate, as if grounding himself in my touch. I tip another flask, the liquor burning my nose as it swirls down the drain. His fingers tremble against my skin.
He’s fighting it.
And I can feel every ounce of his struggle in the way he holds onto me like I’m the only thing keeping him from slipping. Like I’m his anchor. And that’s when my eyes sting a little. I’m important to him.
“I will never be angry at you when you have a weak day, Jay,” I whisper, watching the brown liquor vanishing as he holds onto me. “All I’m asking is for you to try. There were many times when I was weak. Addiction isn’t easy, but we have to try. We’ll kill ourselves if we don’t.”
He’s trembling, but instead of pulling away, he leans in closer, burying his face in the curve of my neck. His breath is unsteady as he inhales softly, as if memorizing my scent, grounding himself in nothing but me .
“Thank you.”
“Nothing to thank me for. You believe in me too,” I say.
His hand tightens on my waist, pulling me even closer. “Rosie, you’re way stronger than me. You don’t need me like I need you .”
I smile softly, feeling the weight of his words. “I’m just a lost soul, finding my way. But I think you’re finding yours, too, Jay.”
“If you ever slip…I won’t be mad either. Just—promise me you’ll never lie to me.”
I turn my head, meeting his gaze. “I won’t. I promise.”
And so, we stand there, wrapped in the dim glow of the kitchen as I pour flask after flask down the drain.