11. Jensen
11
JENSEN
“Earth to Jensen.” Javi reaches across the bar and snaps his fingers in my face. Leaning on my elbows, phone in hand, I slide my gaze from the screen to his amused expression. “You spend a lot of time on your phone. Anything exciting you’d like to share with the class?”
“I’m the class,” Trevor states dryly, raising one hand while typing on his laptop with the other.
“Doing some research,” I lie.
Javi chuckles and shakes his head. “You and your research lists.”
“Information is power.” I slip my phone into my back pocket and pick up the dirty glasses I had intended to grab before my phone distracted me.
“Are you blackmailing people now? Bar life isn’t good enough anymore, so you’re doubling as a secret agent?” Trevor asks.
“Something like that,” I mutter before firing a question back at him. “Why are you here?”
“Gina took the kids to church with her parents. Thought I’d get some work done.”
“On a Sunday? You could be working at home, enjoying the peace and quiet,” I say.
“I’d much rather hang with my boys.”
Javi points to the laptop on the bar. “But you’re working.”
“But I’m here,” Trevor responds, as if his reasoning makes perfect sense.
I roll my eyes and resume the group activity everyone, except Trevor, showed up to do: party cleanup. Tatum’s show was a success. A stressful, lucrative event I’ll never host again. My staff was so exhausted by the end of the night, I sent them home and told them we could deal with the mess this morning.
Javi follows as I push through the kitchen door with the glasses in hand. “My abuela’s birthday party is next month.”
“It’s on my calendar,” I say.
“Don’t forget. She’ll be disappointed if you’re a no-show.”
Bristling from the unspoken accusation, I dump the glasses in the industrial sink and face him, hands on hips. “Since when do I forget things?”
“You tell me,” he says. Meeting my challenging stance, he plants his feet wide and folds his arms across the suede vest he’s wearing. It has fringe, for fuck’s sake.
Annoyed that he’s bringing up my mistake from the last karaoke night we held, I turn my back on him and yank open the dishwasher. “It was one keg. And that was a month ago. Get over it.”
“And the wings we ran out of last night? Who forgot to put in the order for extra?”
Me.
Sighing, I cram the last glass into the top rack and slam the door shut, close to losing my temper. Not because Javi’s poking at my weak defenses, but because I’m weak, consumed with the blinking dot on my phone. Every day, a thousand times a day, I pray the dot moves toward Walford. And when it’s here, like yesterday, I pray it never leaves. But the dot relocated this morning and now blinks proudly in Austin.
Because I was busy working last night, I didn’t talk to Maisy, so I’m in a shitty mood today already. The last thing I need is more of Javi’s prodding.
Facing him, I add a hard edge to my tone. “I have a lot going on, especially with trying to help Vera. Who else is gonna do it? You? Trevor?” I ask, waving an arm toward to the door where Trevor sits on the other side.
“She’s not your responsibility, man.”
“Yeah? Well, I don’t see anyone else stepping up. She has no one.”
“She has Maisy,” he argues, which only adds fuel to my fire.
Rather than yell at my friend, I control my raging emotions and grit my teeth. “None of us have Maisy.”
He clamps both hands on my shoulders, his eyes sweeping over my face like he’s searching for cracks. The cracks are there if you know where to look for them, and Javi usually knows. Thankfully, he nods as if confirming I’m still whole and drops his hands.
“You own a business,” he says, reminding me of my priorities. “Your attention is needed here.”
Need .
“I’m aware.”
“Good. Keep your head on straight and put Maisy out of your mind. She’s not coming back, man. There’s no sense in getting your hopes up every time she blows through town. Even if she decides to help with Vera, she’ll never stay. She’ll show up, do the bare minimum, and flee again.”
Leave it to Javi to sour my mood further with hard facts. Refusing to hear more, I push past him and exit the kitchen. I stride toward the stage where Danny Foster packs up the video equipment from last night’s show. He and his friends from the school’s AV club ran a live feed to neighboring businesses because my bar couldn’t accommodate the huge turnout. Curiously, Danny’s friends are nowhere in sight.
“Where are your buddies?”
My voice startles him. He jolts upright and sweeps the blond bangs off his forehead. “Um. They slept in.”
“They left you to do this alone?” I glance from him to the pile of cords and equipment. “How long will this take?”
He gives me a helpless shrug. “Maybe an hour? It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, kid. Hold people accountable.”
“Yes, sir,” he mumbles, cheeks flaming red as he resumes his work.
Whether he’s affected by my short lecture or the embarrassment of being ditched by his so-called friends, I’m not sure. I heave a sigh, resigned to be stuck here all day. My to-do list is a mile long without adding everyone else’s jobs on top of it.
“Tell me how I can help you get this done faster.”
Relief floods his brown eyes when they meet mine. “Thanks.”
An hour later, Danny and I are still working when my phone rings. Pam Wakefield’s name flashes on my caller ID, and my gut delivers an ominous feeling. She has few reasons to call me, and none of them are good. I’m smart enough to put two and two together and conclude this phone call is about Tatum or Jake, likely both of them. And my bad day’s about to get a whole lot worse.
I’m sitting on the weight bench in my garage, wishing I could work out. Lifting weights or running on the treadmill helps me deal with stress, and I’m stressed out at maximum levels right now. Usually, I throw on a metal playlist and grind until my muscles tremble. Today, I’m sulking in the quiet because I can’t move my arms, much less lift them with added weight.
After Pam’s phone call yesterday, Jake kicked my ass. My little brother beat the shit out of me, and I lay there and took it because I deserved his wrath after betraying him. I’ve kept Tatum’s secret—the reason she disappeared from his life—for ten years. My silence cost him dearly, and he may never forgive me. I won’t blame him if he doesn’t.
Lucy patched me up, assuring me I don’t have any broken ribs, but my body screams when I move. And I can only see out of my right eye because the left one is swollen shut. For a man who’s never been in a fight, Jake unleashed his rage on me. Again, I deserved every punch and more.
Afternoon sunlight streams through the small windows in the garage door, providing the only source of light in the dim space. With slow, careful movements, I peel off the dressing covering the butterfly stitch on my eyebrow and toss it on the floor to deal with later. Lucy told me to replace the dressing each day for the first two days, so I’m following her instructions and being the perfect patient. However, I’m flying blind, attempting to nurse myself with one functioning eye and no mirror.
Javi’s managing the bar…again. After I limped out of Jake’s house yesterday, I called him, claiming I had a family emergency and needed him to cover for me. He pressed me for information, but I refuse to share Jake and Tatum’s story with anyone, even him. I didn’t tell him about my injuries either. If he saw me right now, he’d turn into a mother hen and try to sleep over or coach me through this ordeal. I don’t need or want his silver linings. For a day or two, I need to be left alone to wallow in my guilt.
When was the last time I had a vacation? Never.
As I’m poking around my face to determine where to place the fresh dressing, the doorbell rings. If it’s Javi, I’ll be pissed. I could wait the person out and pretend not to be home, but my Jeep’s in the driveway.
It takes a full minute to rise from the weight bench and limp to a window. A familiar silver car sits behind my Jeep. Any other day, Maisy showing up on my doorstep would excite me. She hasn’t been to my parents’ house since she was fifteen. But I prefer not to let her see me like this, and I damn sure don’t want her coming to me out of pity.
On my way to the front door, I remember I’m only wearing athletic shorts, barefoot and shirtless. I snag the T-shirt off the recliner and hold my breath through the agony of getting dressed. Slipping the shirt over my neck and left arm is a difficult feat, considering most of the damage occurred on my left side. I give up on trying to stick my right arm through the sleeve. With how long I’m taking to answer the door, Maisy might run away before I open it. Knowing her, she’ll get impatient, or regret coming here altogether, and bail.
To my relief, I spot her through the narrow window. I inhale as deeply as I can before opening the door. And what do I find? Her back, of course. Today, that back is cloaked in a cutoff sweatshirt above a pair of high-waisted leggings showcasing her perfect ass. I summon all my inner strength to suppress the moan building in my chest. The torture of having her close and not being free to touch her surpasses the physical agony coursing through my battered body.
She spins around and jerks back with a sharp gasp. “Holy shit! What happened?”
When she traces the bruises on my exposed ribs with gentle fingers, I’m forced to call upon every ounce of willpower I possess to keep from whimpering. Not only from the pain the mere ghosting of her fingertips causes, but because she’s touching me. Intentionally.
“Jake,” I say through clenched teeth, extreme longing, and the worst torment I’ve ever experienced.
She hasn’t directed the worried expression on her face at me in ages. And she doesn’t show sympathy often, reserving it for people she cares about. I’m overcome with relief that I’m still considered worthy of her compassion.
People think Maisy is cold-hearted and apathetic, but they don’t know her like I do. In truth, she’s an empath locked in a steel casing her parents forged. I witnessed the construction of that impenetrable casing over many years. In the end, my Maisy’s sweet disposition became buried under a sharp tongue and an allergy to vulnerability.
As she showers me with a moment of care, I close my eyes and revel in the feeling of my Maisy touching me. Her apathetic mask has slipped, and I’m grateful she doesn’t realize it.
“You didn’t deserve this,” she chokes out as those soft, shaky fingers hover near my eye and lip, like she’s willing my injuries to heal from her proximity alone.
Her despair hits me straight in the chest. What does it say about us that my physical pain causes her heart pain, which brings me heart pain because she ’ s hurting for me? It’s a vicious cycle we’ve been stuck inside forever because we’re so attuned to one another’s feelings.
Disregarding her comment about what I do or don’t deserve, I gingerly move aside as a gesture of invitation. For the first time in thirteen years, Maisy’s size five-and-a-half shoes step into my parents’ house, and her presence ushers light into the dark space.