Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jennifer
Mortified.
Disgusted.
Embarrassed.
The growing list of things I’m feeling this morning.
I hug my blanket tighter, burying my face into my pillow. I’m not sure what time it is, but by the looks of the light shining through my window, it’s around mid-morning.
I don’t want to face the world yet.
Last night was a huge mistake, a terrible lapse in judgment. My mind and body were taken over by something foreign.
I guess I should be happy that I was able to get through my forced time in that dark room. But it came at a price, and I hate that I had to lose another piece of myself just to be able to do it.
Things are a little hazy, like I was in a dream-like state, but I remember dancing, and laughing, and not freaking out.
I remember rubbing my body on those men and being okay with it.
Mercifully, none of them took advantage of my inebriated state, and thoroughly enjoyed their dances with my outfit firmly in place.
Then, because I was feeling so good about how things were going, I decided to have a shot of tequila to celebrate between two of the clients, then again at the end of the night.
Naturally, those two shots hit me far more than they would anyone else, especially since I don’t usually drink, and I hadn’t eaten anything.
Candy probably would have had a drink with me, but she wasn’t working last night.
Melody was more concerned than anything, and less willing to celebrate, which is probably for the best. I have a feeling that she might have tried to walk me home had I not escaped before she could notice.
Turning over, I stare at my ceiling.
I can’t believe I acted so foolishly in front of Mase, rubbing my head on his chest and letting him see me in my underwear. Because, of course, those moments are crystal-clear in my hazy memory.
Add sick and gross to the list of things I feel this morning.
Covering my eyes with my hand, I let out a groan.
He saw my arms. The churning in my gut intensifies.
Lifting my hand, I run my gaze over the scarred and wounded flesh.
I only ever wear long-sleeved shirts or sweaters and hoodies. And at work, I always have elbow-length gloves on.
Yet, I took it all off last night without caring that he was in my home.
God, what was I thinking?
I wasn’t thinking, and that’s the problem.
Maybe subconsciously, I wanted Mase to see the cuts, to see me.
He didn’t get a chance to ask about them, but I saw the questions in his eyes.
Why would you do this to yourself?
How long have you been doing this?
Why are there so many?
I can only imagine what he’s thinking about it all, especially if he was already worried about me.
I had blurted out something nonsensical and escaped to the bathroom to shower, spending far longer in there than necessary. Partly, because I was still a little high and the water felt so good, and partly because I was avoiding him.
It was an asshole and cowardly thing to do.
Par for the course, I guess.
When I had finally left the bathroom, I had peeked into the living room and saw him sitting on my couch with his head tipped back and eyes closed. I don’t know if he was asleep or not, but I left him alone and got into bed, falling into a restless sleep minutes later.
I would love to stay buried in these blankets for longer, maybe even sleep the day away. Can my bed not just swallow me whole?
I guess I should get up and get myself and my mind sorted.
Flipping off my blanket, I sit up and rub my hands over my face, a chill sneaking through my body. Maybe the cool air will be good for my foggy brain and overall “off” feeling.
The only plus is that I don’t feel like I’m going to be sick. But my head feels heavy, like it’s stuffed with cotton.
With a sigh, I push off my bed.
A cup of tea would be nice, and maybe something to eat. Unfortunately, I don’t think I have much in the way of food here.
Grabbing a hoodie off the floor, I slip it on and pad barefoot across the cold laminate. But I pause when I reach the doorway.
What if he’s still here?
God, my brain must be working at a snail’s pace if it took me this long to consider that possibility.
I suck in a slow breath and tiptoe out of the room, holding the air in my lungs as if he’ll be able to hear me breathing. When I find my apartment empty, I release it with a heavy exhale. Thank god.
Pressing a hand on my stomach, I go to my kitchen and flick my kettle on.
Maybe after my behavior last night, Mase will finally keep his distance. That would be best, really.
Even so, the thought of it doesn’t sit well with me for some reason.
I stir some milk into my tea, then toss my spoon into the sink, the loud clatter of it hitting other spoons a sharp sound in my otherwise quiet apartment, causing my shoulders to flinch.
Barely a moment later, there’s a knock on my front door, and I snap my head that way.
The only people who come here—besides the odd lost person, who I only talk through the door to—are my landlord . . . and Mase.
Shame and embarrassment vie for top spot. How am I supposed to face Mase after last night if it is him?
I’m not late with my rent, but perhaps Clint is just here to collect his bucket. I glance at it briefly on the floor before walking over to the door, the floor creaking beneath my feet as if to announce my presence.
Swallowing, I look through the peephole.
My eyes close, forehead dropping forward.
Aw, dammit.
“I have your key,” Mase calls through the door. “Took it to lock up after I left. I know you’re in there. Don’t make me use it.”
I peek through the hole again. The sun is out, but I know the inviting sunshine is a lie that disguises the cold air. “How did you know I was still here and hadn’t left to go somewhere?”
I watch the corner of Mase’s mouth kick up, a puff of white dispersing into the air as he huffs. He really is an attractive man . . . far too attractive to be wasting his time on me.
“I heard some noises as I reached the top step.”
Stupid spoon.
I unlock and open the door just a fraction, but when I notice the tray with two drinks in one hand, and a bag in his other, I push it open.
My brows dip. “What is that?”
Mase lifts the hand with the bag. “Thought you may be feeling a little rough this morning, so I brought you some breakfast.”
The knot in my stomach tightens, and I chew the inside of my cheek. “You didn’t have to do that,” I tell him quietly. “But, um, thank you.”
Stepping back, I open the door some more, motioning him to come in out of the cold.
“I know.” Mase enters, then places the bag, drinks, and key on the kitchen counter as if he belongs here, while eyeing the ceiling above the bucket. His attention returns to me. “How are you feeling today?”
“Like shit,” I admit, tugging at the cuffs of my hoodie.
He jerks his chin at my couch. “Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll bring you a plate. I brought fruit salad, some bacon pieces, and a donut. Oh, and coffee. Hopefully, it’ll all help you feel better.”
“Stop being so nice to me,” sits on the edge of my tongue, but I keep my mouth shut as I take a seat, curling my feet up under the cushion.
Even knowing that I shouldn’t be accepting this kindness—and certainly shouldn’t be encouraging it—doesn’t stop my stomach from grumbling at the food he mentioned.
“I’m . . . really embarrassed about last night,” I admit, getting it out of the way because it’s preferable to drawing it out. “That wasn’t me. I-I never do that stuff.”
I watch him as he pushes his sleeves up, revealing the swirling tattoos there, then pulls items out of the bag. He’s dressed in black joggers and a black jacket with the gym logo on it.
Black suits him in every way, I decide. Like it was made specifically for him, or he was made from it.
Mase shoots me a quick glance. “I have to admit, it was a little concerning.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t owe me an apology.”
After pulling a plate off the drying rack, he piles some of the food onto it and brings it over to me, placing the coffee on the small table beside my couch. I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t drink coffee.
I accept the plate from him, watching as his eyes drop to my outstretched arm. It’s covered, but I know he can still see every shameful hidden mark.
Clearing my throat, I settle back into the couch with my plate on my lap. “Are you not having any?”
“I already ate.” Mase walks back to the kitchen to grab his own coffee, then leans against the counter. “And I actually have to leave for work shortly.”
“Oh.” I pick up a piece of fruit and chew on it, trying to ignore the many elephants taking up space in the room.
But then he speaks again, and suddenly, the elephants are the only things I can see.
“Your arms.” They’re only two words, yet they carry the weight of a novel.
Two words that are filled with questions and feelings and stories and things to be kept hidden.
He looks like he’s searching for the right words to say, the right thing to ask. “Why?”
My heartbeat feels louder, my breaths a little faster, and the thought that I might get sick after all fills my insides.
Why?
I try to answer as best as I can, because I owe him something, don’t I?
“Most people use a calendar to mark off the days passed.”
A horrified look passes over his face, much like last night, before he smothers it, his eyes dropping back to my arms covered by sleeves.
He’s doing the math to what he assumes was my starting point. He’s right, but also very wrong.
There are close to three thousand five hundred marks.
There isn’t a single part of the inside of each forearm that hasn’t been touched, and some parts of the outside as well.
I drop my gaze to my plate, popping another piece of fruit into my mouth to chew slowly.
The juice seems too sweet for this moment.
My head jerks up in surprise when Mase crouches in front of me, my widened eyes landing on his. “May I?” Slowly, he reaches for one of my hands, and when I don’t pull away, he carefully slides my sleeve up.
I just sit here, frozen, heart pounding, letting him do it.
Why am I letting him?
Gently, he runs his thumbs over the roughened skin, as if he didn’t believe what his eyes showed him last night.
And still, I let him.
My breaths increase, chest tightening, skin feeling itchy. Prickles spreading.
Too nice. Too close. Too personal.
“Have you talked to anyone about this?”
I almost want to laugh and cry at the same time.
Talking to someone would mean getting help. Getting help would mean making things easier. Making things easier would mean I’m okay with Jacob being in prison. And I’m not.
“No. It’s . . . complicated.” I finally pull my hand from his grip and tug the sleeve down.
His dark eyes bore into me, waiting for me, waiting for answers. But I can’t give them. I can’t.
He so badly wants to ask more, but as if hearing my thoughts, he pushes to his feet, slowly nodding to himself.
“All right. Well . . .” He glances at his watch, his lips flattening, before looking back at me.
“I have to get to work.” It looks like he’s torn, like he’s not ready to leave just yet.
“I’m sorry I took your key, but I didn’t want to leave your door unlocked.
I hope the food helps.” After a few steps, he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re off tonight, right?”
Did I tell him that, or does he just know my schedule now? “Yeah. I am.”
After a lingering look that conveys all the words he doesn’t say, he continues out the door.