23. Jax
Jax
By the time Sunday rolls around, the anticipation for the meeting with Monroe has reached a fever pitch in our house.
My brothers are all on edge. They don’t know where the ten grand I’m bringing will come from, but they know I’m going to have it by the end of the day, and some of the fear has gone from Scott’s eyes as a result.
His wounds are slowly healing, and he’s moving a little easier than he was. Although he still hasn’t seen a doctor, Ben brought him some Steri-Strips and managed to persuade him to stick them over the cut above his eyebrow, and it’s slowly closing up day by day.
I’ve had about eight hours of sleep over three days, and I’m mentally and physically exhausted. I planned to catch up on Sunday morning with a later alarm, but the prospect of the lunch I’m required to go to has me super agitated.
I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror in my room, wearing the skirt, blouse, and jacket that Jones bought for me.
I have to admit I look pretty good, but I definitely don’t look like myself.
Everything about the outfit makes me think of the girls who bullied me in high school, and I long for my black figure-hugging dresses and heels.
The flats he bought me are ugly, and I hate them off my feet as much as I do on.
When I go downstairs, ready to leave, Ben, Seb, and Scott are lounging on the couches in the living room, playing video games. They all stop to stare at me.
“What the fuck?” Seb says. “Who are you meeting, the Queen of England?”
“I hope not, she’s dead,” I mutter.
“What the hell, Jax?” Scott says, laughing good-naturedly. “When did you join a sorority?”
“Fuck you. I’ll be back later this afternoon. Clean the kitchen while I’m gone.”
“Seriously, where are you going?” Scott asks, rising with a wince and following me to the door.
Before I can stop him, he grabs the neck of my jacket and pulls it down.
“Where did you get a Ralph Lauren jacket?” he asks incredulously.
“I didn’t pay for it,” I mutter, then see the glint in his eye as I fall right into his trap.
“What’s going on, Jax? You found yourself a sugar daddy or something?” At my furious glare, he raises his hands defensively. “No judgment. You’re saving my ass, but who is this guy?”
“Look, this has nothing to do with you. Clean the house, get the money together, and I’ll meet you at the club tonight.”
He grabs my hand as I’m about to leave. “Are you okay? You look… weird. Is he making you dress like that? Because it doesn’t suit you at all.”
“I’m fine, Scott. This is just temporary for today, and then I’ll be back to normal.”
“Thank fuck,” interjects Ben, who is lying on the couch and looking hungover as hell. “You look stupid in that outfit. Like a soccer mom at a charity event.”
“Clean the—”
“The kitchen. Yeah, we heard you,” Scott says, but his eyes are worried as I head out the door.
As I make my way down the steps, I consider going back and explaining my job to him.
I can count on one hand the number of secrets I’ve kept from my twin brother throughout our lives, and it makes me uneasy not to be honest with him.
I don’t know what he would think about my arrangement with Gray, or the existence of companies like Sterling House. I’d like to think he’d be open-minded, that he wouldn’t care, but it’s hard to believe any brother would be happy that his sister is selling her body to the highest bidder.
Besides, it’s not like I can quit. Not until Monroe is dealt with.
I head to the bus stop and make the twenty-minute trip to where Jones’s mother lives. It’s a seriously nice neighborhood, and I catch myself staring out at the houses in awe.
Everything is so clean around here. It’s nothing like my neighborhood.
I get off at the stop, pulling out my phone to check the GPS. It’s only a twenty-minute walk to her house, and although the leather jacket isn’t exactly warm, the thick scarf Gray bought me when I wasn’t looking helps, and I find myself snuggling into it as I start walking.
What I hadn’t accounted for was the shoes.
How can flats be so excruciatingly painful? Even my six-inch heels hurt less than this; the backs of my ankles red and raw and screaming in pain after only ten minutes.
I have four blisters by the time I approach the right street, and I’m cursing Gray and everything he has made me do today as I head toward the house.
He’s waiting outside with an amused quirk to his lips, one hand in his pocket, effortlessly suave and casual as I limp forward.
“Well, don’t you look nice.”
“I hate you,” I mutter as I reach him. He looks down, frowning as I limp toward the steps.
“What’s wrong?”
“These fucking shoes are torture devices, that’s what’s wrong.”
“Did you walk here?” he asks, stepping forward to open the gate for me.
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I have a car, Mr. Bigshot.”
“Want me to carry you over the threshold?” he asks from behind me.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Oh, I should mention, my mother doesn’t appreciate bad language in the house.”
“Yet another reason I should just fucking go home.”
His fingers circle my wrist as he gently pulls me to a stop. “We should go in together, or it looks like I’ve brought you here against your will, Jacqueline,” he says gently.
I sigh irritably, looking him over. He’s in dark jeans and a soft jacket, with a white sweater beneath. He looks amazing, and I stare for a little too long.
“What?” he asks. “Do I have food on me or something?”
“No,” I say begrudgingly. “You just look good.”
“Likewise.”
I’m annoyed to find myself preening a little as we ascend the steps. I don’t look good, I look ridiculous, but this is clearly more along the lines of the women Gray usually hangs out with.
“Any advice for meeting your sisters?” I ask.
“Carrie’s the only normal one,” he murmurs under his breath. “And just… Well, you’ll understand the vibe when you meet my mother.”
That doesn’t fill me with confidence. The door opens before we ring the bell, which is also a red flag. It’s as if she’s been watching us from the window.
Donna Jones is small, with gray hair and very bright blue eyes similar to her son’s. She doesn’t smile when she sees me, but she does smile at Gray.
I step inside after him, shocked to see four other women behind his mother staring at me in a group as if I’m a prize pig at a fair.
“So you’re Jacqueline?” Donna says, stepping back and putting her hands on her hips. “Are all of those clothes brand new? You look like you stepped out of a catalog.”
Wow. Nice.
“Mother,” Gray mutters, and I glance at him.
Unfortunately for Donna Jones, I’ve had people look down on me all my life, and I’m used to standing up for myself. Nobody makes me feel inferior for who I am.
“Yes, actually,” I reply simply. “Gray wanted to impress you. But I’m figuring that’s hard to do.”
Everyone goes still. I make sure to inject a note of humor into my voice, but I also won’t let this woman intimidate me.
I can tell her type a mile away—overbearing, judgmental, making sure I’m ‘good enough’ for her little boy.
Why does no one ever question whether he is good enough for me?
“You have a beautiful home,” I say, getting out the little gift I wrapped for her.
From my minimal research on Gray’s mother, I struck gold on her Facebook page. I found out she loves wind chimes, and thankfully, so did my mom. We have them all over our yard, along with dream catchers on most of the walls in our home.
With a little polish to remove the cobwebs, it looks good as new. The one I’ve brought is small but pretty, with crystals glittering beneath each chime.
Donna takes it carefully, glancing at her son before unwrapping it. All four of his sisters are completely silent as she pulls it out, and it makes a little pleasing melody that instantly reminds me of my mom.
“It was my mom’s,” I say, aware that it’ll sound more impressive than it is. There are fifty identical ones in our backyard. “I hope you like it.”
Donna stares at the chime for several seconds and then hands it to Gray. I’m not sure what that means until she points above her head, and he hangs it on a little hook in the center of the kitchen door.
“Doesn’t it go nicely with the paint?” Donna asks him, without looking at or thanking me, and then goes into the kitchen.
Gray blows out a breath, turning to me, his eyes unreadable as he gives me a look I can’t decipher. And then suddenly I’m surrounded by a gaggle of women.
“You can sit by me at lunch,” one of them says. “This one’s got balls,” she murmurs to her brother, and I find myself enveloped in a hug before I can pull away.
When I do pull back, they all drag me into another room, and I look helplessly at Gray, only to see him standing beneath the wind chime, looking up at it as if he’s never seen one before.
He reaches up, touching the crystals almost reverently, before lowering his hand again and meeting my eyes, the same crease between his brows.