Chapter 24 Violet
VIOLET
My body groans in protest as I roll onto my side.
Ooookay. Yeah, that hurts.
And when I say that, I mean my entire body.
I squeeze my already closed eyes even tighter.
Yup. I still feel like I got the shit kicked out of me.
Actually, I did get the shit kicked out of me, bless my sperm donor’s soul.
The memory leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
And so does the reminder of how I’m once again out of money and in desperate need of a new laptop.
I also have to move today, which, considering how hard it was to roll over, means carrying boxes is going to be a real treat.
I let out another groan and peel open one eye. Might as well get it over with. The bed is empty, and the sheets are just as soft as when I first climbed into them. They smell good, too. Like Jagger and laundry detergent. The combination is weirdly comforting. Emphasis on the weirdly.
It’s late. Later than I usually sleep in.
The bag of defrosted peas sits on the nightstand next to a glass of water, a small bottle of pain meds, and a handful of saltines with peanut butter slathered on top.
My mouth lifts in the smallest of movements as I force myself to a sitting position and steal one from the plate.
It’s good. Salty and sweet and nutty and exactly what the doctor ordered.
Well, if I could afford one, anyway. Regardless, I appreciate it.
The sweet gesture. It reminds me of the haunted house and how a certain someone managed to surprise me then, too. Man, it feels like a lifetime ago.
I still don’t know what convinced me to show up at Jagger’s house last night. I guess desperate times call for desperate measures. Do I regret it? I don’t think so. And that’s the scariest part of all of this.
After washing down a couple of pain killers with the water Jagger left me, I steal one more saltine with peanut butter, hold it between my teeth, and reach for my sweats, though I don’t bother taking off my borrowed shirt.
Maybe I should, but the idea of stripping naked, only to pull on a bloodied alternative feels pointless, or at least it’s what I tell myself.
Besides, he let me borrow it. So what if I keep it for an extra day?
Right? Once I’m dressed, I tiptoe out of Jagger’s bedroom.
The question is, where do I go? Do I simply walk out the front door and pretend I never came in the first place?
Or do I track down my personal doctor-slash-host and thank him for his help?
It’s not like I’ve ever found myself in a position like this, so I have no idea what the proper etiquette is, or if there even is one.
Besides, what do I even say? Hey, thanks for fixing me up and giving me a place to stay after I showed up unannounced and without an invitation.
I hope I didn’t drool on your pillow, let alone bleed all over it.
My hand grazes the railing at the base of the stairs, but I take a left instead, following the low hum of music while hobbling further into the house where I hope I’ll find last night’s savior.
What if he already left? I don’t know his schedule.
Maybe he’s not even home anymore? Or maybe I’m searching for excuses to hightail it out of here instead of finding the nerve to face Jagger Harden in the morning light when he looked a little too good bathed in last night’s moonlit glow.
Yeah…last night? Last night did something to me, and the sooner I get out of this house, the sooner I can bury those feelings forever. But first, I need to find Jagger and thank him for his help because without him, I don’t know where I would’ve ended up.
Tiptoeing down the hall, I reach the kitchen but stop short.
Ford looks over his shoulder. His back muscles are on full display with a pair of workout shorts hanging low on his hips. The combination leaves way too little to the imagination. So much so, I can’t help but check him out.
Those Harden brothers. Yeesh. They’re something else.
“Hey, Sleepyhead,” he greets me.
Sleepyhead? Are we friends now?
“Uh. Hi?” I offer.
Where’s your shirt?
“You look like shit,” he adds.
With a scoff, I touch the side of my tender nose. “Thanks.”
“How you feelin’?”
I drop my hand to my side. “About as good as can be expected.”
His eyes bounce around my messed up face. “So you feel like shit, too? It’s not just looks?”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Count on Ford to say it like it is. At least he’s consistent. “Guess not,” I reply.
Motioning to a coffee machine on the counter, he asks, “Coffee?” He lifts a water bottle in his hand. “Water?”
“I’m good.” I fidget with my fingers and rock back on my heels. Why does this feel so hard? “Is, uh, is Jagger around?” I add. “I’ll get out of your hair, but I just… I guess I figured I should thank him before I leave.”
“Leave?” He cocks his head. “Why?”
Well, it’s not like I can stay here. The thought runs through me, but I stop it before it can slip past my lips. “Do you know where Jagger is?” I repeat.
He glances at the hallway to his left. “Follow the rock music.”
Okay, then.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
I slip past Ford and into the hallway, following the rock music like he instructed.
Underneath the heavy bass, a steady thump-thump hits my ears, but I can’t place why it sounds so familiar.
Thump-thump. Thwack-thump-thump. Thwack-thwack-thump-thump.
What is that?
It’s coming from a door at the end of the hall.
It has to be. When I’m close enough, I notice the door’s cracked open, so I peek through the small slit, not wanting to interrupt.
Or at least, it’s the lie I’m going with.
Truly, I’m only curious. And also seriously second-guessing my decision to stick around and face Jagger again when the alternative is so much more appealing.
Thump-thump. Thwack-thump-thump. Thwack-thwack-thump-thump.
My tongue quadruples in size in an instant.
Holy shit.
Shirts off. Skin glistening with sweat. Jagger and Hawke go head-to-head in the ring as Roman waits on the side, his chest heaving as if he’s taking a break but will jump back in at any second. They all fight? Since when?
Winding up, Jagger leaps forward to hit Hawke, but he dodges at the last second, landing a quick jab to Jagger’s side. Jagger’s laughter mingles with the music as he jumps to the right, then connects his gloved fist to Hawke’s chest in a muffled wham.
“You’re getting faster,” he tells his little brother.
“Or you’re getting slower,” Hawke quips.
He drives forward with another one-two hit, but Jagger blocks it, covers his face, sweeps around, and takes out Hawke’s legs.
With a loud thud, Hawke lands flat on his back, but he responds in a flash.
Twisting his leg under him, Hawke swings it hard, bringing Jagger to the ground with him.
They roll on the mat, each fighting for the upper hand, though I’m not educated enough to know what it is.
All I know is it’s hot as hell. Watching two grown men grapple with each other.
And not in a dominating or angry way, either.
It’s almost…playful. Like a pair of lion cubs or something.
I guess it makes sense. They're brothers. Neither wants to actually hurt their opponent. It’s like all they want to do is learn and grow and practice and…
Lexie would die if she saw this. Three grown men all sweaty and sexy and muscly and… she’s totally wearing off on me.
“Enjoying the show?” Ford teases from behind me.
I nearly jump out of my skin and turn to face him. “Oh. Hey. Sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
A sexy smirk plays at the edge of his mouth. “Sure, you didn’t.” Slipping past me, he pushes open the door, then grabs a pair of gloves from the corner and steps onto the mat. “Hey, Jag, you have a visitor.”
Sweat clings to Jagger’s dark strands as he finds me in the doorway while I simply stand there like a paralyzed gazelle.
Well, shit. Not exactly the way I wanted to start this conversation.
Not that we’re even having a conversation.
Nope. I’m still standing here. Unsure what to do or what to say.
Clasping my fingers in front of me, I fight the urge to melt into the wall entirely.
Why, hello, Jagger. Don’t mind me. I most definitely was not checking you out or anything.
Nope. Because it would be weird. And totally inappropriate.
Yep, yep, yep. Super inappropriate. Especially when you take into account how I most definitely asked you to stay with me last night after showing up on your doorstep out of nowhere.
Yeah, I’m seriously second-guessing the whole tracking-Jagger-down decision from five minutes ago.
Chest heaving, Jagger catches his breath, continuing to pin me with a stare I can feel from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. And suddenly, everything else fades away. There’s only me and him.
Me.
And him.
Okay, so the chemistry I swore I made up last night is apparently still very real. Got it.
“Be right back,” Jagger says. He jumps to his feet, steps off the mat, and strides toward me with a swagger I swear can’t be taught.
Nope. It’s all him. Or maybe it’s genetic.
Actually, considering how his brothers seem to operate in the same way, it’s definitely genetic.
How can he be so…casual? So confident and self-aware?
So unaffected. By me or anyone else. Honestly, it isn’t fair.
“Hey, Little Thief,” he greets me.
The stupid organ in my chest flutters to life all over again at the use of his nickname for me.
Say something, Violet!
“Hi.”
Good one, Violet. Super suave.
My hand itches to slap my forehead, but I dig my fingernails into my palm instead.
He takes in my expression, his forehead wrinkling. “You good?”