4. Jolie
JOLIE
I make it to my room without falling over, which feels like a miracle, and my legs are shaking so hard I have to press my palm against the wall just to stay upright, but the hallway is dark and quiet, nothing but the sound of my own breathing, my heartbeat, the blood rushing in my ears, and the wetness between my thighs that I don't want to think about but can't stop feeling.
My blouse is still open, and my breasts are still tender and swollen, leaking faintly against the fabric, and I should bind them, I should find the cotton strips in my suitcase and wrap myself up tight until everything goes numb again, because that's what I've done since I was sixteen, that's what I know, but my hands won't move.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Jett on his knees in front of me, and I feel his tongue hot and insistent, pulling at my nipple while Jarvis held me from behind like I was something precious instead of something broken, and the taste of Jett's kiss is still on my lips, salt and something darker, and my stomach keeps flipping like I'm on the edge of a cliff.
I press my forehead against my knees and breathe in and out the way I used to when I was little and the restaurant would call and my mother would leave again, reminding myself that I was fine, that I didn't need anyone, that needing people only made you weak, but I'm not fine, my body is throbbing in places I don't have names for, not just my breasts though they're aching with a deep and heavy pulse, but lower too, between my legs, a hollow and desperate ache that started when Jarvis looked at me like I belonged to him and Jett put his mouth on me like he was starving, and I've never felt this before.
I should get up and change and do something normal and sensible and safe, but instead I sit there on the floor with my back against the door, and I wonder what would happen if I let them in, not just into my room but into the part of me that I've kept locked up so tight I forgot where I put the key.
A soft knock comes at the door, and I jump so hard my head hits the wood.
"Jolie." Jarvis's voice comes through the door, low and steady.
I scramble up, wincing as my breasts shift. I fumble with my damp blouse, barely halfway buttoned when the door opens.
Jarvis fills the doorway in dark jeans and a black T-shirt, his hair still damp from a shower.
He looks enormous in the frame, too intense for any normal man.
Behind him, Jett leans against the hallway wall, arms crossed.
His dark henley and jeans fit his broad frame, and his sharp eyes immediately settle on me, knowing exactly what I was doing on the floor.
"You didn't answer," Jarvis says.
"I was getting up."
"You're still dressed."
I look down. My blouse is buttoned crooked, gaping at the chest. My jeans are the same ones I've worn all day. I'm a mess. I always feel like a mess around them, small and young and out of my depth.
"I was going to change," I say, but my voice sounds thin even to me.
Jarvis steps in. Jett follows, closing the door with a soft click that makes my stomach clench.
"Don't," Jarvis says.
"Don't what?"
"Don't change. Don't bind yourself. Don't do whatever you're planning to do to make yourself smaller." He moves closer, and I retreat until the backs of my knees hit the bed. "We told you downstairs. You're not hiding anymore. Not from us. Not from yourself."
I look past him to Jett, who's watching me with that half-smile that isn't really a smile at all. It's a warning. A promise.
"You don't understand," I say. My hands shake behind my back. "I have to. If I don't, I'll leak through everything. I'll hurt. I'll get infections. I've had them before."
"Then we'll take care of you," Jett says, like it's the simplest thing in the world. "That's why we're here, sunshine. Not to watch you suffer alone in the dark."
Jarvis reaches out and undoes the top button of my blouse. His fingers are warm and steady, brushing my collarbone, and I suck in a breath that sounds embarrassingly loud.
"What are you doing?" I whisper.
"Taking care of you," he says, and undoes the second button. "Properly."
The third. The fourth. My blouse falls open, and the air hits my skin, and I want to cover myself but I can't move. He's looking at me like I'm art. Like he's inspecting work he's proud of.
"Jarvis," I say, half protest, half plea.
"Shh." He cups my face, his thumb stroking my cheekbone with such gentleness it makes my eyes sting. "Let us do this. Let us show you what you should have had all along."
Jett moves to my side, and suddenly I'm between them, surrounded by their heat and their size and their certainty. Jett's hand goes to the button of my jeans. Jarvis slides my blouse off my shoulders, letting it drop.
I should stop them. Part of me screams that I don't depend on anyone, that I handle things myself, and that letting men undress me goes against everything I've learned about survival.
But another part is exhausted from being strong, from wrapping myself in cotton strips and pretending I don't feel the pressure building underneath.
Jett unzips my jeans. Jarvis unhooks my bra. I stand there in nothing but my underwear, trembling, while two men who are practically strangers look at me like I'm the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"Beautiful," Jarvis murmurs.
"Fucking perfect," Jett agrees.
They guide me toward the bathroom. The tub is already filling, steam rising in soft clouds that smell like lavender and something darker, something masculine. The lights are dimmed. Towels stacked on the counter.
They've planned this. While I was sitting on my floor trying to convince myself I could go back to normal, they were planning how to take me apart.
Jarvis hooks his fingers into my underwear. He looks at me, waiting, and I realize he's asking permission even now.
I nod. It's small, barely there, but he sees it. He always sees.
He pulls them down. Jett helps me step out.
I'm completely bare now, every secret exposed, every flaw visible in the soft light.
The red marks from my bindings are still there, angry lines across my ribs and under my breasts.
The swelling hasn't gone down. If anything, it's worse, my breasts heavy and tight and aching for relief.
Jarvis turns off the faucet. Jett takes my hand and helps me into the tub.
The water's hot, just shy of too hot, and I sink in with a groan I didn't mean to let out. It laps at my shoulders, my collarbone, the undersides of my breasts, and for a moment I just float there, eyes closed, letting the heat seep into muscles I didn't know were knotted.
Then hands are on me.
Not grabbing or claiming. Just washing.
Jarvis kneels beside the tub with a washcloth. He starts at my shoulders, working in slow, firm circles that make my head fall back against the rim. Jett moves to the other side and lifts my foot, massaging my arch with his thumbs.
I whimper. I can't help it. It feels so good. Too good.
"You're tensing up again," Jarvis says. Quiet. Intimate. "Relax, little one. We've got you."
"I don't know how," I admit. The truth slips out before I can catch it. "I don't know how to relax when people are doing things for me."
"Then learn," Jett says, his thumb pressing into a knot at the base of my foot. "Right now. With us."
Jarvis moves the washcloth down my arm, over my wrist, between my fingers. He cleans every part of me with methodical patience. When he reaches my breasts, he pauses. The washcloth hovers over the swollen flesh, and I brace for the embarrassment, for the shame that always comes.
Instead, he dips the cloth and gently cleans the dried milk from my skin. He traces the red marks where the bindings dug in, his jaw tightening.
"Never again," he says. It's not a suggestion. It's a vow. "You don't hurt yourself like this. Not while we're here. Not ever."
"He's right," Jett says. He's moved from my foot to my calf, his strong hands working the muscle. "This body isn't a problem to be managed. It's a gift. "
"You're not real," I whisper. Tears prick my eyes, hot and humiliating. "This isn't real. Men like you don't do this for women like me."
Jarvis sets down the washcloth. He cups water in his hands and pours it over my breasts, watching it run down my stomach.
"What kind of woman are you?" he asks.
"A mess. A freak. Someone who's been binding her chest since she was sixteen because her body doesn't work right."
"Someone who's been surviving alone because the people who should have helped her failed," Jarvis corrects.
His dark eyes meet mine, and there's no pity.
Only fire. Only possession. "Someone who's been strong for so long she thinks needing help is weakness.
Someone who's about to learn that it's not. "
Jett's hands slide up my thigh, stopping just below the waterline. "You're our mess now, sunshine. Our perfect, beautiful girl who makes us so hard we can't think straight. And we're going to take care of you whether you think you deserve it or not."
I don't realize I'm crying until Jarvis wipes a tear from my cheek. He doesn't tell me not to cry. He leans in and presses his forehead against my temple, breathing me in, while Jett's hand strokes my knee in slow circles.
"Let it out," Jarvis murmurs. "Whatever you're holding in. Let it out."
And I do.
I don't know why. Maybe the hot water loosens something in my chest. Maybe their gentle hands and certain voices make me feel safe. Maybe I've carried this weight since I was a little girl watching my mother walk out the door, and finally someone is offering to lift it.
At first, I cry silently, tears slipping into the bathwater. Then my shoulders shake and my breath hitches. I turn into Jarvis's neck, and he lets me, holding the back of my head while I finally release the tears I've carried for years.
Jett moves behind me, his chest pressed against my back, his arms around my stomach. I'm surrounded by them, held by them, cradled between their strength while I fall apart in the water.