Chapter 17 Leah
Leah
She walked back into an ambush.
Alistair Hale sat at the dining table, back straight and fingers tapping, cell phone neatly placed by his right hand. Celia and Niamh perched on the couch, Stepford Wife–still and perfectly poised. There was no sign of Jackson.
Leah smiled politely, her stomach giving an uneasy roll. “Can I get anyone a drink?” she offered.
“I think not.” Jackson’s father exuded the grim air of someone about to deliver news he knew would not be well received.
Jackson sometimes wore a similar expression, but she was learning that his was only surface grimness. Scrub it away and something softer lurked beneath. Alistair Hale was written through with grimness, like the growth rings on a tree stump.
“You brushed off my earlier question about leaving this house, Miss Raven. But I would like to know when you will be moving on.”
“Esther wanted me to stay and finish her final book.” Leah could only repeat what she’d said before.
“Even though that could be accomplished from anywhere?”
“Jackson says it’s OK.” She folded her arms around her body. His earlier support had warmed her; she wished he was here now. “Where is he?”
“The finer points of legalese are not Jackson’s forte. And it’s possible he’s been careful of your feelings up to now.”
Leah fought a nervous urge to giggle. She smiled again in an attempt to defuse the tension. “I assure you that isn’t the case. Your son is more than capable of putting honesty above sensitivity where needed.”
“You’re being obtuse, Miss Raven. What I am trying to say, very respectfully, is that your presence is not wanted in this house any longer.”
Words she’d heard before, so many times that a muscle memory of sickness oozed through Leah’s limbs. She gave a long blink and swallowed. It took every ounce of resilience she had to straighten her shoulders.
“You may well be correct. But I believe it’s Jackson’s call to make. I will be sure to have that conversation with him as soon as possible.”
“He’s got a headache.” Niamh’s interjection was unexpected. “He’s gone to bed, so I’m getting a ride back tonight with Mr. and Mrs. Hale. He won’t want to be disturbed.”
“OK.” Leah wasn’t surprised. His tension when he arrived was tangible and the afternoon had hardly been a relaxing one.
She was so ready for this day to be over.
Jackson’s father climbed to his feet. He was similar in height to his son, and while not quite as broad, somehow more domineering.
He rattled her shaky morale. “I don’t want anything to hold up the sale of this house, Miss Raven.
I’m prepared to make leaving worth your while.
How about I cover the initial deposit and first month’s rent on a suitable apartment? ”
“That’s very generous.” Leah forced a smile, hating that he was offering something she might seriously need to consider. Hating that, yet again, she was in a position where she had to hold her tongue. “Let me have a think about it and I’ll get back to you.”
Alistair Hale looked down at her. “Don’t think too long. My offer won’t stay on the table.”
She left Jackson alone until after breakfast the next morning. His curtains were drawn, the lights were off, and he gave no indication he’d heard the door open but somehow Leah knew he wasn’t sleeping.
“Jackson? Can I get you anything?”
He didn’t answer.
Leah eyed the empty nightstand in the murky darkness. “Do you need some water?”
“No. I’m fine.” His voice was hoarse, his words so blatantly untrue that she felt a tender twinge of sympathy.
“I’ll check on you in a little while, so have a think if you need anything when I come back.” Her hand was on the doorknob when he spoke again.
“Leah.” Jackson’s growl was muffled by his arm.
“Yes?” She walked toward the bed.
“I’ll probably throw up soon. Could you please bring me a bowl or something?”
He lay on his back, forearm across his face, his hair and the duvet both a mess.
Rumpled evidence of a disturbed night. The dim light didn’t hide the flush of color on his cheekbones; she hated that he was embarrassed.
Snagging the bath towel he’d draped over one of the radiators, Leah spread it out on the floor beside the bed.
“If you get caught out before I’m back, there’s a towel next to you. I won’t be long.”
Within five minutes, she was pushing open Jackson’s bedroom door again. Arm still over his face, he hadn’t moved, the light brown hair in his armpit just visible where the short sleeve of his white t-shirt gaped.
“OK, there’s a bowl right next to you. Tell me if you need it. And I’ve put a glass of water on the nightstand. Have you taken any painkillers yet?”
“Some in the night but I’m due another dose. I don’t know where they are.” Jackson slowly lowered his arm, revealing a face so tense he looked like he could shatter at any moment. He didn’t open his eyes.
Leah scouted the room for the pills, spotting them eventually on the floor between the nightstand and the bed.
She was opening the bottle when Jackson groaned, the color leaching from his skin.
Grabbing the bowl, she pushed it into his hands as he rolled to the side of the bed and retched.
When he’d finally finished throwing up, he collapsed onto his back again, gray-faced and clammy.
She returned from the bathroom with a clean bowl and a facecloth soaked in warm water.
Jackson shivered, fine tremors quivering the damp hairs at his temple.
When Leah perched gently on the edge of the bed, he slowly opened his eyes.
And even in the low light, the blue of his irises, barely visible through narrow slits, was startling.
Like an unexpected dip into an ice bath. He didn’t speak, just looked at her.
Handing him the cloth, Leah reached for the painkillers and the glass of water. “One or two?”
“One.”
Leah tipped the bottle and dropped the pill into his hand.
Wiping his face and lifting himself shakily up onto an elbow, Jackson pushed it between his lips.
The water slopped dangerously as he swallowed a mouthful before he lay back on his pillow, sweaty and drained, eyes drifting shut.
Goosebumps raised the fine hair on his arms and Leah tugged the comforter up to cover his chest.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Not wanting to leave him, she crossed to the other side of the bed, taking the clean bowl and the facecloth with her, and slid carefully onto the mattress.
Leah propped one of the spare pillows against the headboard, moving as smoothly as possible so he wasn’t shaken or bumped, placing the bowl down by her side.
“What are you doing?” He turned his head in slow motion to squint at her.
“Someone stole Crabby Jackson and left me with you. I’m keeping watch in case they take you, too.”
Something in his expression eased a little and his eyes fluttered shut.
She watched his chest rise and fall, the pulse beating in the side of his throat. A couple of quiet minutes ticked by but she suspected he was still awake. “What does it feel like?” she asked quietly.
“Like someone opened a nightclub in my head. Strobe lights and all.”
“No one’s raving in this room on my watch,” she whispered. “They can all fuck off.”
Jackson huffed what might have been the shadow of a laugh but didn’t answer.
He threw up multiple times throughout the morning, retching and sweating, wet hair slicked to his temples. Each time he apologized. Each time he told her she didn’t need to stay, but Leah hated the idea of him struggling alone.
Twice, she encouraged him to peel off his soaked t-shirt and found him a fresh one.
The first time was a learning curve of awe and restraint.
As the inches of tanned skin and smattering of hair were revealed, she forced herself to turn away and give him privacy, ignoring the warmth blooming in her own stomach.
Eventually the nausea seemed to slow a little and, around mid-afternoon, after a bout of heaving when Jackson had nothing more to bring up, he tumbled into sleep.
Leah left the room only to grab a sandwich and gather her phone, notepad, and Kindle, before taking her place on the bed again.
Angling the screen away from him, she settled down to fact-check gunshot wounds, blood loss, and recovery times.
After an hour or more, Jackson twisted toward her in his sleep.
His breathing low and even, his cheekbone pressed against her thigh.
Leah edged her notepad away and laid down her phone.
She examined his face; his color looked a little better.
His hair, still moist, was rumpled. There were strands sticking to his forehead and she reached down to brush them back without thinking.
That frown between his eyebrows hadn’t shifted and Leah’s thumb moved toward it, smoothing out the lines with a couple of light sweeps.
Then her fingers drifted to his temple, hesitantly teasing the hair away from his face with a delicate touch.
Jackson exhaled jaggedly, his wide chest rising and falling with a soundless sigh. Leah froze and drew back her hand, guilty heat spreading at the base of her throat. “Don’t stop,” he murmured, eyes still closed. “Please.”
Of their own accord, her fingertips resumed their journey, stroking from his frown to his temple, through his hair and back again.
Slowly, rhythmically, over and over. Outside, Leah could hear a mourning dove on the roof, the tip of a tree branch brushing against the gutter.
Inside the bedroom, it was silent, but her heart upped its beat at the raw intimacy of the moment.
“How are you feeling?” she whispered.
“Better, thank you.” But he didn’t move or open his eyes.
“There’s no place for lies in the Bed of Truth.”
Jackson’s lips twitched. “The Bed of Truth?”
“You’re breaking the code. If you persist, there will be consequences.”
“Heaven forbid.” One blue eye squinted up at her. “In that case, I feel pretty crappy.”
“I thought as much.”
The dove outside cooed again beyond curtains shutting out an overcast afternoon. And the strands of Jackson’s hair passed between her fingers, rich brown and naturally bronzed at the ends, their length a surprising anomaly.
“That feels so good.” Weary and gruff, eyes drifting closed once more, he lay as still as a sculpted effigy beneath the covers.
“How often do you get migraines?”
“One like this, maybe three or four a year.”
“What brings them on?”
His mouth tightened a little and Leah had to smooth out the knot that reappeared between his eyebrows. “Stress, usually.”
“Could you manage a drink?” she asked him, eyeing the glass of water on the nightstand and wondering if she could reach it without disturbing him.
Jackson said nothing for a few minutes. When he finally spoke, her heart flip-flopped in her chest. “Please don’t make me move. I’ll drink later.”
Face still pressed to her leg, lips resting against her jeans, he fell silent again. Peace was a fragile, tangible presence in the Bed of Truth. Leah continued to stroke his hair until exhaustion pulled him under once more and he slept.