15. Jensen
15
JENSEN
“Jensen.”
I’m a fucking mess, freaking out as I watch the unmoving dot on my phone’s tracking app. That dot should be in Philadelphia for a few more days, but it appeared in Austin late this morning.
“Yo! Jensen.”
My gut’s been fussing at me all day, warning me that something isn’t right. But how can I reach out to anyone, notify someone of my concerns, without exposing what I’ve done?
A hand touches my wrist, and my gaze travels up the person’s arm until it lands on Ainsley’s worried face. “Are you okay?” she asks.
My eyes linger on hers for a second, and I conduct a quick self-assessment before snapping out of my daze. I release the strands of hair in my fist and straighten from my slumped position against the bar. “Of course.”
She jerks her chin toward the opposite side of the bar where Tom waits with an empty pint glass and a frown. “I’ll handle this while you check on the stock we got in this morning,” she says.
I convey a silent thank you with my eyes and make a beeline for my office. Ainsley’s ability to come up with a convincing lie on the spot is both impressive and worrisome, and now I wonder how many times she’s lied to me.
An hour passes with me hiding in my office before Tatum answers my prayers, giving me the green light to investigate the dot in Austin.
Tate
I need a huge favor. Can you check on Maisy? She went back to Austin early, and she’s not responding to anyone. We’re worried.
Me
Sure. Address?
I pretend to be clueless even though I’ve had Maisy’s address memorized for months. What I didn’t have, until now, was the passcode to unlock the front door. Keys in hand, I’m hightailing it toward my Jeep while calling Javi to let him know I need his help at the bar tonight.
When I let myself into the house where Maisy’s staying, all the lights are off. Nothing but silence greets me, but she has to be here.
“Birdie?” I call out, making my way through the house and checking each room.
My first few gambles don’t pay off, leaving the last door down a short hallway. The bedroom is tidy except for an open suitcase with clothes scattered on the bed and floor. A faint light glows beneath another door to what I assume is the bathroom. I twist the knob and push the door open, my gut swirling in a frenzy.
Maisy lies on the tile floor, curled in a ball, her small form made visible by a night light. She’s afraid of the dark.
“Birdie,” I whisper, crouching beside her. She doesn’t move or make a sound, so I reach up to flip on the light switch. And screw my gut for sensing when something’s wrong. At the sight of her, a sharp pain seizes my chest, a panic I’ve experienced before.
Maisy, 10; Jensen, 13⒈／⒉
“Throw the can.”
“This is dumb,” Logan complains.
“Just throw it,” I say, sick and tired of his whining.
He rears his arm back and launches the can of spinach with the rope tied around it, his aim and trajectory perfect. The can sails over the limb of the oak tree in his front yard, and I easily catch it.
“Good throw,” I mutter.
He scoffs. “Only the best from the best.”
I roll my eyes because he’s full of himself when it comes to football. “Go grab the board.”
As I tie loops at each end of the rope, using the method I learned online, Logan retrieves the wood plank leaning against the tree. I check on Maisy, who’s riding her bike at the end of the street. She has a doll propped inside the basket on the front because she carries a doll everywhere.
“Here.” Logan shoves the board at my chest. “Let’s get this done and go to the field.”
Since the start of summer break, we’ve spent most days at the middle school football field, playing tag football and flirting with girls. Logan would spend his nights sleeping on the field if he could. He’s obsessed with the sport.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” he says.
“To keep her from bugging us,” I lie, testing the knots to confirm they’re secure.
Whenever Maisy asks for a swing set or something to play on outdoors, Vera says no without giving a reason. All kids deserve to play in the sun, especially Maisy, and this crappy tree swing is the best I can do with no money and limited handyman skills.
“Good point,” Logan says.
Maisy annoys him, which I’ve never understood because she doesn’t bother us. She stays in her bedroom or plays with her dolls in the corner of the living room. Alone.
When I glance down the road to check on her again, a car careens around the corner with music blaring from inside. Everything happens in slow motion. The car jerks to avoid her bicycle but clips the front wheel. My feet are moving before I even realize I’m pounding pavement, running to her like my life depends on it. She flies off the bike and lands in someone’s yard. I’m on her in seconds.
“Birdie,” I choke out, scooping her into my arms. An unbearable pain rips through my chest, like an invisible weight crushing me, and my frantic voice doesn’t sound like my own. “Are you hurt? Tell me where you’re hurt. I can fix it.”
Wide eyes stare at me, the shock of what happened holding them captive. “I-I think I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?” I set her on the grass and run my shaky hands all over her arms and legs, searching for injuries.
She nods. “Yeah.”
“Jesus.” I fall on my butt and scrub my hands along my face. My heart’s beating all out of whack, and I can’t slow it down. “You scared me.”
A small hand grips my arm. An even smaller, trembling voice says, “I’m sorry, J.”
Before I can say she has nothing to apologize for, the driver asks, “Is she good?”
I glare at the teenager who doesn’t have the decency to get out of his car and check on her. Asshole . Hopping to my feet, I rush up to his window and wave my arms in fury. “Slow the fuck down through here. You could’ve killed her!”
“Chill, man.” He peers around me. “She looks fine. Are you okay, girl?” he asks Maisy.
“Don’t talk to her,” I hiss, stepping to the side to block his view. He swallows hard because, yeah, I’m thirteen, but I’m as big as him and way more pissed off.
“Sorry.” He rolls up the window and speeds away like a maniac despite hitting a kid on a bike minutes ago. I memorize his license plate in case I need it in the future. Then I hang my head and inhale calming breaths like my dad taught me to do when my feelings get too big. Especially the ones I have trouble processing, like worry, fear, frustration, and anger. He says I care too much, and sometimes that makes me care too hard .
“Jensen.” Maisy’s whimper snaps my attention back to her.
When I spin around, expecting to find her in pain from a hidden injury I overlooked, I’m met with concern in her eyes. She’s worried for me when she was the one almost killed.
“I’m okay,” she reminds me with a watery smile. She hugs the doll that flew off the bike along with her.
Blowing out a harsh breath, I let go of my hair. My scalp tingles from the release, and I nod. “Okay. I’m okay too.” Am I?
As I carry her damaged bike toward her house, she walks alongside me, not a scratch on her. She may be physically unharmed after the incident, but her little heart will break if her mom refuses to repair or replace the bike. I examine the bent wheel. Maybe I can fix it somehow.
“Are we gonna finish this?” Logan yells from down the street, waving the board in the air. My too-big feelings of frustration and anger simmer because he didn’t come check on his sister.
When I look at Maisy to gauge her reaction to his negligence, her smile has morphed into a giant grin. I’ve never seen her smile so big.
“He’s making me a swing?” She squeals with joy, and the hope and happiness gleaming in her pretty eyes knocks me back a step.
A shift occurs deep inside me. A forceful movement that awakens a strange feeling. In this moment, I realize I’ll do anything in my power to keep her safe. To make her happy. To see her face overcome with joy simply because it makes me happy. Perhaps that’s always been the case. Maybe the soft spot I have for Maisy is something a little more solid. Something with chambers and vessels and a rhythmic flow. Something that beats with purpose when she’s around. And I think Maisy Donovan snatched that something right out of my chest.
Despite the fear gripping my gut from this terrifying and confusing discovery, I offer her an easy smile of my own along with a lie to keep hers in place. “Yeah. He’s making you a swing.”
She squeezes her doll and runs ahead of me. Heart racing and stomach twisting, my gaze remains fixed on her back as she flies into her undeserving brother’s arms.
Prepared for the worst, I lean over Maisy so I can get a look at her eyes, which proves difficult with her nose inches from the wall. Bracing myself on one hand, I sweep aside the hair covering her face.
She stares straight ahead with a severe scowl, like she’s angry with the entire world. Not at all what I expected to find. However, I shouldn’t be surprised. My girl doesn’t break easily.
Wearing an oversized T-shirt and cotton panties, she grips a large tote bag to her chest in a protective hold.
“Birdie, baby. What happened?”
“Boys always ruin things,” she says, but hearing her usual monotone doesn’t put me at ease.
Whether she’s angry or excited, Maisy reveals little emotion through voice alone. Her eyes communicate what she’s feeling, and I need to see them to assess her true state of mind. Unfortunately, she’s lying too close to the damn wall.
“I’m picking you up,” I declare, springing into action.
“No.”
“Yes. You need me to hold you.” I need to hold you.
Not giving her a chance to argue further, I lift her into my arms and settle on the floor with my back against the wall. With the bag wedged between us, she folds into me like a limp rag doll instead of coiling with her usual tension.
She closes her eyes when I sweep the curls away from her skin to get a better look at her injuries. There’s a large scrape along the left side of her face, an irritated spot on her nostril where she removed her nose ring, and a fresh bruise on her swollen cheekbone. Thankfully, everything appears to be superficial and should heal with little to no scarring, which she’ll be pleased to learn. From the gritty dirt and dried blood in her hairline, I can tell she hasn’t showered since whatever happened took place. She must’ve taken the first flight available after the incident.
“Talk to me, my beautiful girl,” I say, coaxing her with a gentle tone.
“Don’t use that voice with me,” she snaps. “Don’t treat me like a victim.”
“Okay. You’re not a victim.”
“Damn right. I still have my bag.” She squeezes the bag tighter against her chest.
A picture forms in my mind as I piece together the clues. To say the conclusion I reach relieves me, considering all the other horrific scenarios whirring through my head, is a huge understatement.
“Maisy, were you mugged?”
She scoffs and says, “Obviously not.”
I continue my subtle inspection of her visible injuries. Several scrapes and bruises mar her hands and legs, like road rash, but her arms appear to be untouched.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
“Tate sent me. She’s worried because you’re not answering your phone.”
“How did she—? Ugh.” She buries her face in my chest, mumbling against my shirt. “I forget we share our locations. Marcus’s stupid rules. Fucking dictator.”
From what I’ve learned, Marcus is in charge of Tatum’s security and runs a tight ship in their little group. He also despises my brother after Jake exposed Tatum while she was hiding from the paparazzi. The whole situation was a disaster, and Jake earned himself the title of public enemy number one in Marcus’s eyes.
“Marcus seems like a laid-back guy,” I tease.
The corner of Maisy’s mouth lifts. “Not even close.”
Feeling more confident about the progress I’m making, I give in to my true nature—to my need to care for her.
“Let me tell you what’s about to happen.” She stiffens in my arms, but I forge ahead, grazing my fingers along her back in soothing strokes. “I’ll run you a bath and wash your hair. Then I’ll tend to your wounds and tuck you into bed. It’s your choice whether I stay the night, but I will not leave until I know you’re okay. Understood?”
She hesitates before nodding.
“Good girl,” I say, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. When I tug the bag from her arms, she releases it without protest. “I need you to do something for me first.”
“What?”
Resting a knuckle under her chin, I say, “I need you to look at me, birdie.” I need to see your eyes.
With another nudge from me, she tips her face up and meets my gaze. My stomach clenches at what I find, but I force myself not to look away. The last time despondency dulled her eyes—the day on the porch when she lost all hope—I was the reason for it. Back then I looked away like a coward. Never again.
Someone put the hopelessness back in her eyes, but I refuse to let it claim her. She has more fight inside her than any person I’ve ever known, and I’ll remind her of her strength until she grows tired of me singing her praises.
“I’ll fill the bath, then leave you to get undressed and scrub yourself. Okay?”
She nods again, and I realize it’s her way of submitting while trying to maintain control. We’ll work on changing that. I’ll need her verbal consent in certain situations, but this isn’t one of them.
While she soaks, I dig through her suitcase in the bedroom, gathering the items to wash her hair. Shampoo. Conditioner. Wide-tooth comb. I also retrieve a plastic drink pitcher from a kitchen cabinet.
When I return to the bathroom, she’s sitting in the large tub with her uninjured cheek resting on bent knees. I dip a hand in the water to test the temperature, then flip on the taps to add warmer water.
“I’ll wash your hair.”
“I can do it,” she says on a sigh, as if all the fight has left her.
“Let me.”
I offer her a hand towel to cover her breasts and kneel beside the tub and get to work. First, I thoroughly wet and shampoo her hair, careful to keep the product away from the open wounds. Once the suds are rinsed out, I massage conditioner into her curls from the roots to the tips. Her eyelids grow heavy, and her head becomes pliable in my hands when her neck muscles relax.
“How do you know what to do?” she asks. Her tone carries no judgment or suspicion, only exhaustion.
“Vera used to wash your hair in the kitchen sink.” I work the comb through her curls starting at the ends, careful not to tug too hard when I encounter a difficult tangle.
“You have a gentle touch.”
“Because I can’t stand it when you suffer.”
“Hmm.” A sad smile forms on her bare lips, and her gaze sweeps across the fading bruises on my face. “We seem to hurt for each other, don’t we?”
“We do, but we also feel each other’s happiness. We’ve never had any control over the connection between us, birdie. It’s always been there. Stop trying so hard to fight what’s meant to be.”
She considers me, her hazel stare penetrating my every living cell. “Don’t tell me you, of all people, believe in fate.”
“I believe in us. Nothing else.” Before she can respond, I say, “Tip your head back.”
Refilling the pitcher several times with clean water, I rinse the coconut-scented conditioner from her hair. I’ve never been to the ocean or a tropical beach resort, but I imagine those places smell like Maisy. Sweet, light, refreshing.
With the conditioner rinsed out, I ask, “What’s next? Do you want me to use any products or?—”
“I can take it from here,” she says.
I sense our night together is nearing its end, so I ask the question I already know the answer to. “Have you decided if I should stay or go?”
She avoids my gaze and runs her hand along the surface of the water. “I think you should go.”
With a finger beneath her chin, I tilt her head up, begging her to read in my eyes what she doesn’t want to hear from my lips.
I don’t want to leave you.
Let me be here for you and hold you in my arms.
Trust me.
Instead, I throw one last, desperate Hail Mary and say, “I still have to treat your wounds and tuck you in.”
“You’ve done enough. Thank you.” She blinks away the tears welling in her eyes. “Be careful driving back.”
Sighing, I grab a towel from the shelf and place it on the edge of the tub. “Are you sure you’ll be okay alone?”
Her sad, watery eyes shred me when she says, “Aren’t I always?”
She’ll never admit she doesn’t want to be alone, and my skin prickles with the urge to scream loud enough to rattle her obstinate brain. Thanks to a lifetime of observation, and lots of trial and error, I’ve learned to choose my battles with her, and this isn’t a battle I’ll win.
“Call me if you need me for anything, no matter the time of night or day.”
She nods, and before I step away, she adds, “Promise me you won’t tell Tate what happened.”
Incredulous, my shoulders droop at her request. “What should I say when she blows up my phone, Maisy? I won’t lie.”
“Tell her I’ll explain everything when she’s back in Texas.”
Bending down, I bring us face to face and force her to meet my gaze. “Promise me you’ll be honest with her about what happened and how you feel. Lean on someone if you won’t lean on me.”
“I will. I promise,” she whispers, her soft breath touching my lips.
I press a lingering kiss to her forehead, squeezing my eyes shut when she chokes back a sob, then reluctantly walk away. To make her believe I’ve left, I open and close the front door with a loud thump. Sinking to the floor in the dark hallway, I rest my head against the wall and stretch out my legs. Then I wait and listen as she moves about the bathroom and bedroom, getting ready for bed.
I listen for the cracking sound of each new fissure when my heart breaks in sync with her quiet sobs. Maisy cried in secret when she was younger, but if I knew she was upset, I never let her cry alone. I’d wait a few feet away in case she ever needed someone. In case she needed me.
Her cries wane, and she succumbs to the exhaustion, falling into a deep sleep. Only then do I comply with her wishes and leave.