Chapter 20 #2
Still, despite the situation, and despite the innocent comment it was probably meant to be, the darker side of me takes notice of her closeness, her scent, her sounds. And the image she just planted in my head causes an uptick in my pulse.
I can feel the blood in my veins trying to warm.
Lingerie wrapped around smooth curves and long satin gloves flash in my mind, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
Her back is pressed to my front, and my hands are still on her hips. The only time I’ve held on to a woman in this position was in my self-defense class. There, I don’t allow even a sliver of my carefully constructed wall to shift, crack, or crumble.
But right now, I feel like I’m peeking over that wall, and it’s a precarious position to be in.
One wrong move by either thought or action will have me tumbling down into dangerous territory—where I belong, but have kept myself out of for this long.
Get a fucking grip. She’s high and probably drunk.
She would have been doing worse than this with no clothes on at the club.
I snap out of it with that thought in mind.
Not wanting to seem like an asshole, I gently push her away from me, then I use my grip on the material of her jacket to guide her instead. “Let’s get you home.”
We step up onto the sidewalk, then continue down the block before stopping. “This doesn’t look like the bus stop.”
I open the passenger door to my pickup and urge her to get in with a hand pressed to her back. “It’s my truck. It’ll be easier and faster.”
“Oh.” Jayne hesitates for a brief moment before she finally climbs in.
I half expected her to still resist me on it and was prepared for a fight. Luckily, she’s in an agreeable mood.
By the time I make it around the other side and get in, she still hasn’t made a move to put her belt on. “Need me to buckle you in, or can you manage?”
A slow shake of her head. “You shouldn’t be nice to me.”
“Why not?”
Facing me, and looking more sober than before, she whispers, “Because I don’t deserve it.”
The broken shards of her voice wrap around my heart and squeeze, puncturing it. She’s usually so closed off and guarded, and I can only guess why she would feel that way.
Perhaps, since she’s been a little more open tonight, she’ll be willing to talk.
I go for it. “What makes you say that?”
Jayne stares at me for a beat, her gray eyes sad, and pretty face solemn, while I wait for an answer.
But then, as if a switch was flicked, her cheeks spread into a grin, and before I can react, she’s lifting a hand and rubbing a thumb between my brows, like she’s smoothing away my deep frown.
“You have unique eyes, you know that? So dark and mesmerizing.” She tilts her head and squints. “But they’re full of secrets.”
I resist the urge to jerk away from her, uncomfortable with her touching me but more-so with her assessment.
Instead, I slowly pull back and face forward, starting the engine. “Put your belt on.”
“Don’t worry,” she says once I’ve started driving. “I have secrets, too.”
I glance at her, wanting to ask what her secrets are, but when I see those enlarged pupils again, I decide against it. It doesn’t feel right taking advantage of her in her current state to get answers to questions she wouldn’t normally give.
I turn up the radio, letting the music fill the interior rather than questions we may not even want the answers to.
Once we pull up in front of her apartment, I switch back into caretaker mode and help her out of my truck. “You have your key ready?” She pulls it out of her pocket and hands it to me, this time without any hesitation, and I help her inside.
Jayne’s apartment is small, old, and fucking chilly.
She has minimal belongings and furnishings. No photos. Only one German shepherd figurine on a small table.
It makes me wonder again if something happened between her and her parents. Surely, they wouldn’t let her live this way if they were still on good terms? Or maybe it’s her choice.
I doubt having a leak in her ceiling is her choice, though.
The bucket and towel still sit in the same spot in her kitchen, under a large brown stain on the ceiling. “The landlord hasn’t fixed your roof yet?”
Jayne slips her jacket off and drops it to the floor in a careless heap. “Oh. No, he won’t.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because,” she answers simply with a small laugh and a shrug.
I walk over to inspect the ceiling, lips pressed together.
Why is she letting people treat her so poorly, as if she’s worth less than the dirt on their feet? Chester, those morons from the street, her landlord . . . God knows who else she lets treat her like shit.
Turning back to her, I watch as she slumps onto her couch with a dramatic sigh, arms and legs spread out like a starfish with her eyes closed.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had to look after someone who is drunk or who has taken recreational drugs.
A woman came to one of my classes a while back, high as a kite after running into her ex earlier that day. She was paranoid that he was hiding in the gym equipment, ready to attack her. Her behavior was much more irrational than Jayne’s, though.
While it doesn’t seem like Jayne is in that same head space, it doesn’t mean she won’t suddenly decide to go lay on the street, like she seemed to want to do earlier.
I figure I should hang around for a bit, even if it’s just sitting on the front steps.
“Why don’t you go get ready for bed, and I’ll get you a glass of water?”
She stretches, then like a boneless creature, slides down the couch to the floor. “I can just stay here.”
“It doesn’t look very comfortable.”
A lazy hum is the only response I get.
“Do you need my help getting up?”
“Hmm, maybe.” Eyes opening, she focuses on me. “But you help too much.”
I reach my hand out to her. “Come on.” I wait until she’s placed her hand in mine and I’ve pulled her to her feet before I reach down and scoop her up.
Jayne squeaks out a sound, her arms flying up to wrap around my neck. “What are you doing?”
“Carrying you to your room.” I ignore her continued weak protests, walking in the direction of one of the only doors that could be her bedroom.
So many times, I’ve carried my mother like this, so I keep telling myself that I’m just helping Jayne the same way.
There’s a distinct change in the feel of our surroundings when we step through the threshold of her bedroom. Like it’s the only space she bothers paying any attention to.
The scent of coconuts and something sweet fills my nose, similar to what I’ve smelled on her every time I’ve been close.
Pink-and-black-checkered pillows lay neatly over a thick, white blanket on her bed. A pink candle sits on the small bedside table with a lamp, and a comfortable-looking black chair with a pink pillow on it beside that. There’s also a painting of a black flower with a pink background above her bed.
I’m sensing a theme here.
I settle her onto the end of the bed, then step back, her pouty face looking up at me. “I’ll get you that water, okay? Be right back.”
In the kitchen, I grip the edge of the counter and stare out the window, wondering if I’ll ever feel like I’ve done enough for her, while simultaneously knowing that it’s not my place to be this concerned about her in the first place.
It all goes back to my compulsions, and that ever-present need for repentance.
“Trying to fix something you didn’t do,” my mother had said.
I’m not sure it will ever go away.
But it’s also more than that with Jayne.
At the sound of something dropping, I grab the glass of water, and walk back to her bedroom, coming to an abrupt stop when I see her on all fours, dressed only in her underwear while reaching for something under the bed.
“Jesus. Sorry.” I turn away from her, my eyes landing on a black, fluffy robe hanging beside her door. Quickly placing the glass on the dresser, I snatch the robe off the hook and move toward her, holding it out while looking anywhere but at her. “I heard a noise.”
Jayne scrambles to her feet, giggling as she steps closer in my periphery. “I guess it’s not like you haven’t seen it all before.”
While that may be true, seeing her barely dressed in her place of work and forcing my gaze to stay on her face is very different from seeing her on all fours, in her fucking bedroom, with all that lush skin on display.
I can feel my control falter, heat gathering in places it shouldn’t.
I know she wouldn’t be comfortable with this if she were sober.
“Or maybe you didn’t see it,” she muses. “I noticed you weren’t looking like other men do.” Her voice lowers a fraction. “Maybe you didn’t like what you saw.”
I turn to her then, my gaze incredulous, because how can she think I wouldn’t like her incredible fucking body? That’s not the reason I kept my focus elsewhere that night, or why I am now.
But it’s then, when I’m facing her and she’s reaching for the robe, that I see them.
Cuts. All over both arms.
My brows shoot up, horror slackening my jaw.
Plucking her hand from the air, I turn it over, scanning the inside of one forearm, then the other. Hundreds, maybe thousands of marks litter her skin. Some are fresh, while others are nothing more than little white lines. Scars from who knows how long ago.
My eyes trail up to meet her wide ones, her mouth opening and closing a few times before she yanks her hand from my grip, laughing nervously while backing away.
“You . . . you weren’t meant to see those,” she chokes out.
No shit.