17. Chapter 17
It must’ve been a cold day in hell.
Only if hell was frozen over would Graham’s fiancée text from the driveway needing help getting Graham and Jase out of the car, and only on a night fit to ice fish on the lake of fire would Lindsey—a woman many times scorned by both idiots who couldn’t walk—consent to help.
Still in her dress, as if Jase would come home in any shape to be bothered by it, Lindsey had been sitting on the patio in front of a small fire she’d built for company, not watching for the single headlight from Jase’s bike to turn up the driveway, and definitely not thinking about what her brother said about Jase being jealous.
The longer she sat alone outside the house she now owned, the more she thought he probably wasn’t jealous, he just wanted to believe Lindsey used him while he was also using her to seem like less of a jerk.
Then her phone buzzed and Lindsey, with much grunting and cursing, helped Helen drag Graham’s soggy carcass up the stairs and flopped him onto his stomach in the middle of his bed. She pretended not to notice the neckties wrapped around both bedposts and Helen’s thong on the floor.
Hell had indeed frozen over.
With Graham settled, they went back down for Jase. He was even heavier and less cooperative than his brother.
“Where’s his bike?” Lindsey bit out from underneath Jase’s arm.
“At the Haunt,” Helen said from under Jase’s other arm.
The Haunt. Lindsey knew of it only from Jason’s video.
“It’s nasty,” Helen added.
“Paula, I need a refill,” Jase said as they hefted him into his room and set him on his bed.
A garbled cry sounded from across the hall.
“These men,” Helen muttered.
“Good luck,” Lindsey said.
“Paula,” Jase mumbled into his mattress.
Helen raised her eyebrows and pointed at Jase’s upturned butt. “You too.”
“He’s Paula’s problem now,” Lindsey said, whoever Paula was.
Helen retreated to Graham’s room and Lindsey was heading downstairs to put out the fire when Jase said, “Wait.”
That damn word again. So small yet capable of inflicting so much damage. Wait stopped her from getting on the bus in Austin.
Wait turned her around to Jase sprawled on his back now. He focused on her through bleary slits.
“Dad?”
“He’s not here,” Lindsey said.
Jase moaned and rolled onto his side, clutching a fistful of blanket.
“But I really wish he was,” Lindsey said quietly.
He mumbled something she didn’t hear, then started retching.
“Not my problem,” Lindsey hissed through her teeth. “Not my—”
She gagged on the smell, and even though he wasn’t her problem—had never been her problem—she wasn’t going to let him choke on his own vomit.
“Jase. You’re such…” She trailed off, seeing the sheen in his eyes in the light from the hallway.
Lindsey knelt beside him and reached for his shirtsleeve. It was a band T-shirt she’d never seen him wear, and tight, as if he bought it for a body without muscles. With a little coaxing, she worked one arm out, then the other while he hiccupped through his tears.
“I have to lift it over your head now,” she said. “Okay?”
He nodded, and she worked the shirt over his head. Vomit had soaked through, leaving sour, wet splotches on his chest. She’d deal with those in a minute. First, his pants.
His pants.
The last time she’d taken them off was at the hotel in Santa Cruz, after he brought her to two orgasms with his tongue.
“Screw it,” she said and guided Jase onto his back.
She unbuttoned his jeans and started pulling them down, then abruptly stopped.
Naked. Jase was naked underneath his pants.
Staring at the small tuft of dark hair above the penis she swore she’d never lay eyes—or anything else—on again, Lindsey debated leaving them on.
If the situation was reversed, she would be absolutely livid to learn Jase had completely undressed her when she was too drunk to stop him.
If there wasn’t puke on his pants, she would’ve buttoned them back up.
With assurances to herself and the barely responsive Jase that there was nothing sexual about stripping him down, Lindsey pried his pants over his hips, past the penis she tried not to notice was still impressive even when it wasn’t hard, down his legs, and finally over his feet.
Then she balled up all of his soiled clothes in his comforter, ran them straight to the washing machine, and stumbled through Mrs. Aldridge’s instructions for running a hot load.
She returned with a warm, wet washcloth to a man asleep. Tears on his cheeks made it hard to stay mad at him. The body of an Adonis, the face of an angel, the heart of…
The heart that doesn’t love me.
She sat beside him on the bed. As soon as she touched the washcloth to his skin, Jase jumped and grabbed her wrist.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Relax. I’m just cleaning you up.”
“Lindsey?”
“Hm?”
She switched the washcloth to her other hand to keep cleaning him while his thumb gently caressed her left wrist.
“Lindsey, I’m—”
“Shhh,” she whispered. “I’m almost done.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Go to sleep, Jase,” she told him.
“Do you hate me?”
“Jase.”
“You should hate me. I’m sorry.”
The washcloth stilled on his chest. His thumb stopped caressing, and his grip on her wrist loosened.
He was sorry. He’d said that already. He was sorry he’d messed up. Sorry he’d used her. Sorry he had no choice but to continue using her.
She wanted to scream. Why was it so hard to close the door between them, the one she’d left open a tiny crack in the misguided hope that her brother was right, and Jase was jealous because he wanted her?
She should’ve tossed her phone into the fire when Helen texted for help tonight, along with the deed to Jason’s house.
She should’ve let Jase sleep in his own puke.
She should’ve ripped her wrist from his grip and walked away.
It was all for the money.
As long as she didn’t forget, she might escape with the hardened pieces of her heart intact.
Lindsey finished washing his chest. She didn’t hate him. If anything, she hated herself because she couldn’t hate him.
“All done,” she said, turning to stand.
His hand found her waist and pulled her down beside him. Heat from that single contact spread in all directions from his palm.
“Don’t go,” he said.
There was nothing of the womanizing loner in those red, swollen eyes and mussed up hair. It was Jase in the raw, the man who needed a friend more than another lover. Lindsey had tried to be both.
If she climbed into bed next to him, he wouldn’t remember asking her to stay. In the morning, whether he woke up with surprise or regret, Lindsey would lose even more of herself to the man who was just drunk and grieving and didn’t want to be alone tonight.
“I have to,” she said with some effort.
“Because you hate me?” he asked.
“No,” she said. Then, since he wouldn’t remember it anyway, she admitted, “Because I love you too fucking much.”