6. Present Day…
MANDI
I’ve needed Jason King countless times over the years. Gotten myself into all manner of troubles and yearned for him so badly I’ve almost sought him out to beg for his mercy and have him straighten out the perpetual mess I am. I’ve never been brave enough to face him again, though. It gets harder with every year that passes, and I doubt he could ever find it in his heart to look at me with anything but disgust.
I ruin everything.
Instead of mending bridges with people, I set them on fire, and there’ll be no repairing the damage. Not with him or anyone else. Not anymore. There’ll be no more chances given, and nor should there be. Apparently, my family was right all along — I’m fucking toxic.
One way or another, I need to be contained, and there is only one person who has ever been able to do that successfully.
Jason promised he’d help me if ever all other hope was lost. Unfortunately, I’ve waited so long to beg for his forgiveness, I’m almost certain he’ll refuse to work his magic and salvage the wreck I’ve become. That’s a fucking big job. A lot to ask of someone I left in the past without even saying goodbye. Too much, probably. But he’d kick my ass if I gave up without at least reaching for my last resort.
I hang my head and crouch as small as I can, so the security guard won’t see me when he walks by on his rounds, or he’ll definitely stop me from stalking his boss.
I groan inwardly. There’s a chance not even Jason can save me from myself.
But I’m sure he’d love to punish me, and it’s past time I was held accountable for my behavior, so hopefully we’ll both get what we want.
I cling to the shadows, avoiding the cameras in his building’s underground parking lot, until I find what I’m looking for.
The motorbike looks way more expensive than the one he used to ride, but it’s his. The helmet sitting on the seat is black, sleek, and sexy, with a golden Celtic knot embellishing the back, where the helmet would protect the base of Jason’s skull.
He has the same symbol tattooed low on the back of his neck. I traced it with my finger, on one of the rare occasions he let me touch him that close to the scars he kept hidden beneath his tight, black T-shirts.
He always had a thing for knots.
I shiver and hug my thin sweater closer, as I rest back against the nearest pillar, to wait.
I doubt he’ll be pleased to see me, so an ambush is the best approach. He won’t be able to avoid me this way, like he would if I made an appointment, and I need him to hear me out. If I can even figure out what to say.
He made me a promise once, and even though I broke every single one I ever made him, he’ll stay true to his word.