Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Mase
Something is wrong.
Tension keeps my shoulders high and rigid as I make my way back to my apartment.
Jayne didn’t show up tonight. She didn’t answer my text. Texts.
It’s caused an anxiety-induced knot to make a home in my gut, and it won’t ease. Especially not after the way she looked earlier.
I park, then ride the elevator up, pacing the small space while my hands clench and unclench.
Something is fucking wrong. I can feel it.
I notice the silence, the darkness, the feeling of emptiness as soon as I walk through the door of my apartment.
“Jayne?”
I quickly sweep my gaze over the living room and kitchen, then stalk down the hallway.
Her bedroom—or rather, the guest bedroom—is the first place I check.
“Jayne?” I knock on the half-closed door, then switch the light on and scan the room. Empty.
For the briefest second, my foolish heart settles, because if she’s not in this room, then there’s a chance she’s asleep in my bed.
But I know before I’ve even turned on my light that she’s not in there.
I stand in my doorway, staring at my empty bed with growing dread.
Where would she have gone?
On my way back out to the living room, I pop my head into the bathroom, just in case she’s sitting in the dark, then end up doing a double-take when I notice her stuff is gone from the counter.
My chest grows tight as I step inside, yanking open the drawers and not finding anything of hers in them, either.
I rush out of there and return to the guest bedroom to look around properly, searching for her stuff, her clothes, her bags.
All of her belongings are gone. Every last shred.
No.
Gripping a fistful of hair, I spin once, my gaze swinging around the room, heart thudding.
Why the fuck did she leave?
It’s not like she officially lives here. I know that.
But things have been going well between us . . . at least, I thought they were.
But haven’t I been sensing something’s been off with her for a couple of weeks now?
Or was this triggered because I asked her to come to my mom’s place with me for Christmas?
Maybe she’s finally realized that she doesn’t want someone like me?
Teeth gritted, I sit on the edge of the bed.
I should have expected something like this. Friends, family, it doesn’t matter. Anybody I care about, besides my mom, doesn’t want anything to do with me once they know.
I stare blankly at the floor, remembering our time together.
No, that’s not who she is. She stuck around after finding out. She sought me out, showing me with every touch that she doesn’t have the same view of me as I do.
But, if it’s nothing to do with me . . . then maybe it’s whatever she’s been keeping from me.
Maybe it’s time to demand the answers to those questions I’ve been sitting on this whole time.
There’s only one way to know for sure why she left.
Keys in hand, I walk back down the hall and shove through my apartment door, then I ride the elevator back down to the parking garage.
Twenty minutes later, I’m climbing the steps of her apartment, my heart pounding in my throat.
I knock a little harder than intended, then hold my breath, waiting for any sound from the other side.
A second later, I hear the floorboards creaking from inside, then the door swings open.
Jayne’s eyes are bloodshot, but there are no tears, no indication of emotion.
She steps back, motioning for me to enter, as if she was expecting me, which doesn’t make me feel any better.
Slowly, I step inside, feeling the chill of her apartment and maybe from the atmosphere in here, then I turn around to face her, watching as she closes the door behind me.
“What’s going on?” I ask. She keeps her focus on the closed door, her back to me. “Talk to me, Jayne.”
Seconds pass before she finally turns around, and without warning, she rushes at me, lifting her hands to pull my head down to her mouth.
I’m stunned, unmoving at first, but her tongue delves between my parted lips, her kiss fierce and persistent.
After the initial surprise, I place my hands on her shoulders, attempting to keep a cool head because we desperately need to talk. “Jayne,” I mumble against her lips, but she doesn’t stop. And god, her lips feel good. “Just hold on a second.”
She keeps kissing me, trying to coax me, her lips grazing my jaw.
When she reaches down to rub me over my sweats, I fold, returning the kiss and wrapping my arms around her back to pull her closer.
I can’t seem to deny her anything. Every time she’s near, every time she fucking breathes in my direction, everything else fades away.
I get caught up in my hunger for her, forgetting why I’m here, forgetting what happened, forgetting my worry.
Her hands slip under my shirt and jacket to stroke my skin, the cool touch of her fingers making gooseflesh appear.
Little sounds drift from her lips while she rubs her body against mine, like she’s trying to meld our bodies together.
My cock is already responding, the memory of what it feels like to be deep inside her fueling my desire.
I lay kisses down her throat, grinding into her, squeezing her breast and ass with each hand.
“I want you to fuck me,” she whispers, angling her head to give me more room. “I want you to hold me down and take what you want, just like you want to.”
My body stills, and I rip my mouth away from her neck, my chest heaving while I stare down at her. “What?”
Licking her lips, she tries to bring me closer again. “I said fuck me, Mase. Take me roughly, use me.”
I pull back completely, separating myself from her, a deep V forming between my brows. “Wh-why would you say that?” Taking a few steps away, I rough a hand through my hair, then turn back. “I don’t want you like that, Jayne, especially not when something’s clearly wrong.”
Her eyes fall to the floor, fingers twisting together. “I’m sorry.”
“Tell me what the fuck is going on with you.”
She shakes her head, arms curling around her waist. “I . . .”
When she doesn’t say anything more, I step closer, drawing her gaze back up to me.
“Tell me why you left. Tell me why you have such low self-worth; why you work at that fucking club.” I reach for her hand and slide her sleeve up, my stomach plummeting when I see a fresh cut.
“Tell me why you’re hurting yourself like this. ”
Tears fill her eyes and then spill over, tracking down her cheeks.
“Fuck, tell me something, Jayne,” I beg, my voice coming out raw. “I can’t help you if I don’t know.”
I don’t know what the fuck I could do, but at least I’d be here with her.
“You can’t help me,” she finally murmurs after a painful silence, then drops her gaze to her arm.
“Why?”
Sucking in a deep breath, she pulls the sleeve down, then sets her jaw like she’s accepted something. “The cuts . . . there is one for each day Jacob was in prison. And now that he’s out . . . I can’t seem to stop.”
My eyes fall shut, and it feels like my chest was put in a vice. I suspected as much when she mentioned marking days off like a calendar.
And I knew Jacob was being released, and I should have known it would affect her.
“Jayne, you need to talk to someone about this. Maybe a—”
“He didn’t do it,” she cuts me off with her shaky declaration.
I open my eyes again, forehead creased with confusion. “What? What are you talking about?”
“Jacob.” Her voice cracks, eyes still cast downward. “He wasn’t the one who attacked me.”
I freeze while those words turn around and around in my head, and I try to make sense of them. Because surely, I misunderstood, or heard wrong, or fucking missed something. “What do you mean, he wasn’t the one who attacked you?”
Jayne finally lifts her tear-filled eyes to me, and the sheer amount of guilt I see in them has me taking a step back, shaking my head.
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
What the fuck is she saying?
“It was an accident.” She reaches for my hand, but I pull it back, stepping further out of reach. “Mase, please. I didn’t mean to.”
I turn away from her while my gaze and my mind both try to latch onto something that will make this make sense. “I don’t understand. How exactly do you accidently accuse someone of rape?”
“He was there when I came to. I was . . . I was confused and scared. And then the police were there, and everything was just happening.”
“So you blamed the first person you saw?! And then what, you realized it wasn’t him?”
A sob rips from her chest as she steps closer. “It wasn’t like that. I truly believed it was Jacob who did it . . .”
I stare at her for long seconds, jaw clenched and mind still playing catch up, while my heart thumps behind my ribs.
No.
This has to be a joke.
A sick fucking joke.
Gnawing on my cheek, I pace a few steps away, then reach up and grip my hair with both hands. “Help me understand this, Jayne, because I’m fucking struggling here. Why do you say it wasn’t Jacob now, when you were so sure it was him back then?”
“Because I found out who actually did it.”
Fuck, this isn’t a joke.
I think I’m going to be sick.
Jacob didn’t do it. He didn’t fucking do it.
That reality doesn’t just slap me in the face, it sucker-punches me in the gut.
“Jesus. You sent an innocent boy to prison.”
“I know.”
My jaw aches from clenching it so hard, but my fucking heart aches more. “When did you find out it wasn’t him?”
She wipes under her nose, her tears falling freely. “Two years ago.”
I huff through my nose, shaking my head because I still don’t want it to be true.
But it all makes perfect sense now: why she’s been sabotaging her happiness for the past two years, why she’s punishing herself.
I tug my hair harder, the biting pain a way to tell myself that this is real. “Why was he still in prison, then? Did you tell anyone when you found out? Did you try to get him out?”
There’s desperation in my voice, because I need to know that she tried. I need to know that she’s not an awful human being.
Her breathing comes out faster. “I couldn’t.”