25. I See Red
I SEE RED
PRESENT
I don’t sleep. Minute after minute, hour after hour, all I can do is stare at the inside of my eyelids as I flop about on my mattress.
Why on earth did I let that happen with Jase?
I try to think about literally anything other than his fingers inside of me, but it’s no use.
I know it was stupid. I know I should have told him no.
I know I should have walked away. But I, being the momentarily overconfident idiot I was, thought I could get the upper hand.
I thought I could prove to both him and myself that he didn’t have an effect on me. Not anymore.
And look how well that’s worked out for me.
I’m now a prisoner inside of my room, even after the sun rises.
I consider going on a run…until I hear footsteps in the hallway.
Is it Jase? What would I say to him? Would I have to say anything?
For all I know, what happened last night could just be like any other evening out for him.
I could be nothing more to him than another woman on his infinity roster of hookups.
I know I shouldn’t care, but the last part leaves me physically nauseated, which is precisely why I refuse to get up. Not even to use the bathroom or shower.
By the sounds of it, everybody else has a packed morning.
I, however, have the day off, so I’m not in any hurry to leave my bed, regardless of the whole Jase situation.
In the silence, it’s impossible not to listen to the garage door going up and down multiple times, and by eight o’clock, I’m relieved to hear the roar of Jase’s motorcycle as it takes off down the street. I officially have the house to myself.
When I finally pull myself out of bed and pad my way to the bathroom, I go through my morning routine with bleary vision and utter detachment.
Sleep deprivation leaves my eyes dry, enough so that they feel like they’re being burned out of my skull when I put in my contact lenses.
They tear up so badly that any attempt to put on eye makeup leaves everything black and smudged until I have a proper set of raccoon eyes.
Surrendering for the moment, I toss aside my mascara wand and wipe everything off before heading downstairs.
All I can do now is hope the burning and involuntary crying will stop by the time I finish breakfast so I can reapply the makeup.
Since I didn’t get to have my bacon yesterday, I blindly make my way into the kitchen towards the refrigerator.
I’m about to open the door when I see movement out of the corner of my watery eye.
What the fuck?
The statement is all my brain can process, because I blink away my fatigue and tears to find Patrick Bouchard slinking in through the back door!
Again, what the fuck?
Instinct kicks in before any actual, coherent thought can form, and the asshole repeats my statement out loud, looking as equally horrified at the sight of me as I am with him.
His reaction, however, may have something to do with the chef’s knife I just pulled out of the countertop holder, now wielding it at him.
Patrick makes it as far as the kitchen table before he notices me, leaving him to bump and even trip over one of the chairs as he stumbles backward.
“What are you doing here?” High five to me for not just screaming bloody murder. I may be yelling, but by some miracle, I sound far more angry than scared.
He holds up his hands, as if to placate me. “No one was supposed to be here.”
He says this like that should explain everything, like it’s not illegal to simply enter someone’s home so long as it’s unoccupied.
But how did he get in? My family is generally good about locking the doors and windows when they leave.
Unless Jase did it.
Sure enough, Patrick points back to the door. “Will you relax, psycho? Jase said I could stop by and grab something quick.”
Is he kidding? Jase gave this fucker permission to come into my house?
“He doesn’t live here, asswipe,” I seethe. “ I do. And what you’re doing right now is trespassing.”
To anyone else, that statement alone would be more than a threat, especially since Vanessa insisted that Blythe install security cameras at the front and back entrances last summer.
There’s literal evidence proving Patrick illegally entered the premises.
Unfortunately, that’s merely an inconvenience for an Untouchable, so I have to step up my game.
“Either you back the fuck up and leave, or I’m completely within my right to defend myself.” The way I emphasize ‘defend’ makes it clear I’m taking liberties with the word, especially since I’m the one stepping forward.
If Patrick thinks he can make a habit of dropping by here whenever he feels like it, Trent will certainly follow suit, and the only way I would let that happen would be over my dead body. Literally.
The asshole looks equally freaked out and agitated. “Jesus, calm the fuck down. All I need is a few minutes to run upstairs quick, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“I have a better idea.”
Patrick whirls at the sound of the voice behind him, and even I startle.
Jase comes to stand in the back entrance, leaning contentedly against the doorframe. Where the hell did he come from? His bike is next to impossible not to hear, and there hadn’t been so much as a whisper of the engine.
I anticipate the bromance from the country club, waiting for the inevitable when he welcomes Patrick inside, takes him upstairs, or hangs with him in the family room as they watch sports highlights and porn.
So color me surprised to see Patrick recoil at the very sight of Jase, apparently deciding it’s safer near me and my chef’s knife. That healthy, tanned complexion looks a few shades paler, and Patrick Bouchard, Prince of the Untouchables, begins stammering. Yes, stammering !
May I repeat again: what the fuck?
Jase’s left cheekbone and eye look even worse than they did yesterday, and I can’t help but also notice Patrick’s right hand seems a little worse for wear as well. Bruises have formed on his knuckles, and there’s a split in his skin between the pointer and middle finger.
If his excuses are anything to go by, it seems Jase hadn’t extended an invitation to Patrick. He suddenly claims he just stopped by to talk to Jase, that he thought he was home, and that he wanted “to make amends.”
Moving faster than I can track, Jase charges for Patrick, and there’s an audible crack as his fist connects with the latter’s cheekbone. Patrick drops to the ground in a daze, uselessly trying to wrestle Jase’s hands away as he fists the front of Patrick’s shirt.
“Not so tough without your henchmen, are you?” Jase pries Patrick off the ground and through the back door as Bouchard stumbles and bumbles some more, his equilibrium shot.
I’m not one to snoop, but the two brought their shit into my house, so I feel a little deserving of some context.
The nook of the kitchen is too far away to hear what’s being said, but the window is the only one overlooking the pair as Patrick gets slammed against the siding of the house hard enough that it leaves him doubled over.
Jase isn’t done, because his hand goes right for Patrick’s throat, hauling him upright even as the latter coughs and wheezes.
And oh boy, does Jase look pissed. He’s smiling, but the look in his eyes is one I haven’t seen before.
At least not to this extent. He radiates ire, the muscles in his entire body flexing, including the ones in his arm that pin Patrick to the side of the house.
A fair amount of pressure must be applied, because Patrick’s face turns red…
and then begins taking on an alarming shade of blue.
Only once Patrick’s eyes start rolling back in his head and he wheezes something does Jase release his hold.
Patrick is back to doubling over, gasping and coughing as Jase says one last thing before slamming his fist into Patrick’s stomach.
The punch isn’t nearly as hard as the first, but it gets the message across all the same.
What that message is, I have no effing clue, and I’m not about to ask. Not when the back door slams shut and Jase’s footsteps approach the kitchen.
I make it back to the island before he sees me, so at least it’s not obvious that I was snooping. Jase turns the corner and looks at me, or rather down at my hand, and only now do I realize I’m still wielding the chef’s knife.
“You okay?” He’s holding his hands up in front of him, but not in the same way Patrick just was. He approaches me slowly, his voice lowered, like I’m a cornered, feral animal. “Did he hurt you?”
Apart from giving me a heart attack and making my lungs jump up into my throat? I manage to shake my head, and only once he reaches to take the knife away do I see how badly I’m shaking now, the adrenaline leaving my nerves fried. He sets the blade down on the counter, and then…
He’s reassuring me I’m alright, and he keeps repeating the words, as if to assure himself as well. He’s whispering, and his hands cradle my arms just below the shoulders ever so softly—the very same hands that he was just choking Patrick with. And he keeps calling me Birdie.
He isn’t mocking me or giving me a cold shoulder, and for the first time in four years, the nickname he assigned me doesn’t sound like an insult.
I flinch at the thought, but he mistakes the reaction, pulling back to inspect the areas he touched, expecting to see bruises or something.
When the assessment comes back empty-handed, Jase finally understands that he’s the one freaking me out now, though not for the reason he probably thinks.
I’m more than rattled by Patrick showing up here, yes, but Jase’s response—the fact he’s being gentle —startles me more.