9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Mac
I feel Jordan return more than I see him, the little hairs on the back of my neck rising when I hear the wheels of a chair creek.
“Are you painting his nails?”
It’s another session with Cedar, the second day in a row of her torture by way of shading and color. We’re hours into the piece, but once more ink colored my skin, she insisted on a break because apparently, I was too green.
Hence, nails.
“You got a problem with that?” Cedar asks my bodyguard without losing a bit of concentration as she swipes black across my thumb nail.
I’ve painted my nails before. Multiple times. And yet there’s something about Jordan being here to witness it happening, that has my insides twisting up.
Does he hate it when I do shit like this?
Nerves build up, my shoulders going tense with each millisecond that passes.
“No,” Jordan murmurs as he plops his ass into a chair. I watch him watch us, me , and that feeling in my torso loosens.
That’s it. That’s all he says as Cedar continues applying the paint on each of my fingers.
There’s a silence that falls over the three of us, carrying with it a tinge of awkwardness that I don’t recall always being there.
Fuck, I really need to shake this off. Get a lock on these feelings that make me act strange enough for even Cedar to say something the second we were alone. I know it’s radiating from me like light beams, demanding the attention of anyone willing to recognize it, and poisoning the shit in my life that’s also good as it is.
Jordan as my best friend is good just like this.
Which is exactly why we’re going to the club as soon as my sister-in-law is back from her studio.
I need a reset.
A chance to see more of what’s available to me without all the baggage and restrictions. No more worries and no more tension.
Something to get my mind out of the rut I’ve fallen in with these age-old feelings that’ll never be reciprocated. He’s my bodyguard for Chrissake. There’s rules and shit against it.
Some one to take me straight into the rebound I never let myself have.
Even though there’s hope that I’m making the right choice, I still find myself on the verge of nausea at the thought of anyone else touching me.
For so long, it’s been him. Right there. At my side, on my mind, and in my heart.
Like he was supposed to be, and not just because of his job, but instead because he chose to be. He took the chance to be. As my best friend and partner in crime from the time he joined our crazy little family of found fuckers.
Doesn’t that mean more?
To me … it means everything.
And yet it can’t mean anything.
Huffing out a breath, I blow on the wet paint in half a daze, though I know it doesn’t do much to speed up the drying process.
I go through the motions of changing into what my sister-in-law gives me without much thought, the rest of the room falling away like a backdrop on the stage. No one’s looking at it, but it’s still there. Still filling out the space in hopes of drawing attention.
My mind deep dives into introspection as we drive, a winding path of thoughts making each step feel like I’m running through water and getting nowhere fast.
I need this , I remind myself for the thousandth time when my Chucks hit the dance floor, the flashing lights and pounding base filling the club up like it’s a living thing. Something breathing. Something pulsing with life, and bodies, and freedom.
The autonomy feels so foreign and far away that when I physically reach out to grab it, to hold onto it, my hand filled with a cup instead.
I smash back the contents, though I have no clue what was in it. I don’t taste a thing. I don’t feel shit, either. Nothing but a tingling numbness that takes over my entire body like a cage that I can’t break out of.
The lights all bleed together until there’s nothing but one giant bright strobe shining right on me, the beat melding each note as one, leaving nothing but one long rush of static.
Not even the music sounds the same.
My stomach rolls when I feel pressure of a hand on my hip.
An invitation I turn away from.
It’s not his .
I swallow back another drink.
Step out from another’s grip.
“ Mac. ”
It’s like I’ve left my body behind, my mind watching from a dark corner somewhere as arms that don’t belong on me try to box me in. I maneuver away with bile rising up the back of my throat.
I think I’m dancing, but I probably just look like a madman as I swat against another grabby grip.
They aren’t him .
I’m swaying, stepping out of embraces and away from sweaty bodies on a beeline to the bathroom when I spot the sign through the haze.
My chest is pumping double time when I all but crash into the vanity held together by stickers and duct tape.
“I need this,” I say without any heat to the reflection in the spider-webbed mirror, but not even the words can change the man staring back.
It looks like me, but he’s got black smudges under his dead green-blue eyes. Pale skin that’s dimmed by a sheen of sweat. A bandana with curly hair spilling from the top that’s weighed down by the pressure making me hunch over the sink.
I need this.
The seams are bursting, the demons held back by the strength of the fraying strings getting the better of me.
Just breathe .
Funny how the words sound just like Jordan’s in my head that hangs between my stiff shoulders.
“In and out. One breath at a time.”
I nod, though I’m not sure if he’s real because all I hear is my own thoughts screaming.
“Just like that, Vida. One more.”
Warmth floods my shoulder and it’s like someone pressed play on my simulation, waking up all of my senses at once, bringing the world back into focus.
The grime-covered drain winking at me.
Sticky tiles beneath my feet.
A white-knuckled grip on the adhesive coated porcelain.
The thumping of music.
My vibrating limbs and a coldness that’s seeping into every one of my bones, fought off only by the grip on my shoulder.
I suck in the first full breath like I’ve been hiding underwater this whole time, and with it, my lungs fill with the distinct scent of Jordan .
It’s sweet and clean, almost like an apple and soap, and it’s the last sense I need to bring my mind home.
Slowly, I straighten and release my death grip, my hands aching in protest as I force my focus on a singular sticker clinging to the mirror’s upper corner.
Take the chance. It’s yours.
Very fortune cookie, and yet, it feels so damn profound.
I tear my gaze away and nearly lose all the oxygen I just collected when my sight crashes with Jordan’s navy blue eyes. They’re laced with worry but hardened as if he’s holding back anger.
“You mad, bro?” I half snap with a lift to my brow and a thin line to my lips.
His nostrils flare and he stares like he can see right through me.
“You okay?” he grits out, his arms crossing over his puffed chest I do my best to ignore.
“I …” My shoulders sag, exhaustion settling deep into my bones. “I’m fine,” I lie.
Jordan sighs, his arm dropping, and just when I think he’s going to either give me shit or walk off, he just … looks at me. His gaze softening on mine as he searches for all the answers in my eyes that I let scream all the things inside me.
Maybe if he could just see it for himself.
He reaches out, grabbing the same shoulder he held to calm me and does the last thing I expect.
He pulls me in until I’m practically falling into him, our chests clashing, his heat blanketing my still trembling body.
Shit, he’s hugging me.
“Let me take you home, Vida,” he says into my hair as I clutch at his sides, my fists clenching around his shirt. “Please.”
“O-okay.”