Chapter Seventeen— Jamie
I swallowed hard. Felt like I was trying to force a scream back down my throat.
Why the fuck was I being stupid?
Why had I saved his ass?
My nerves were so bad it felt like ants crawling under my skin. He gave me a way out. I should've taken it.
But I think that's the reason I didn't.
He came back for me. To let me go before he died.
Who does that?
Who the fuck does that in this world?
Nobody I'd ever known.
People take. They save themselves. They step over your bleeding body and don't even look down.
But he didn't.
He came back broken, shot, bleeding — and the only thing on his mind was making sure I lived.
It made my chest tight in a way I didn't like. Made me feel things I didn't have the capacity to understand. It had to be some type of mental illness.
I sighed and picked up the half-smoked blunt. Took a long drag, watching the smoke curl and vanish into the air.
I'd gotten too fucking soft over the years.
Lola wouldn't have given a fuck. She would have run.
But now I was Jamie. I'd spent nights homeless, nights hungry. And it was always the people who didn't have shit that gave me their last. I was officially a bleeding heart type bitch.
Momma Grahm would be proud of me.
I turned and looked at him. He was still out, slipping in and out of fever dreams.
I calculated how long it would take for him to recover.
If the bullet missed everything important, he'd start coming around in a few days. Another week before he could walk without help. Two or three before he moved like himself. Four to be dangerous again.
That's if nothing got infected. If the stitches held.
I sighed and rolled my shoulders.
Looked down at him again. He was drenched in sweat. The bandages needed changing.
I filled a bowl with warm water and grabbed a clean cloth.
Peeled his shirt back. The wound looked better than I expected — swollen but not red.
He didn't stir as I ran the cloth over his skin. I kept my touch gentle. Didn't mean to let my eyes wander. Didn't mean to remember the way his body had felt pressed into mine. How he touched me like he needed it to breathe.
My thighs clenched.
Get it together, Jamie.
I rinsed the cloth and moved to his chest.
He mumbled something again.
My name.
Not hers.
What did that mean?
I gritted my teeth. Nothing. It meant nothing.
I finished wiping him down and wrapped the wound again. Tossed the dirty bandages into a trash bag near the door. Washed my hands.
Then I made soup.
Real soup. Not some canned shit. Carrots, garlic, onion, chicken I'd shredded by hand. Threw in a bay leaf just because it reminded me of Momma Grahm.
The cabin was quiet.
We were hidden deep in the woods in Sarasota. Way past where people came to party. The guy I used to fuck owned the place. A real estate douchebag who only used it in the winter when he wanted to "escape Miami."
It was the middle of summer.
We had time.
I brought the soup to the bedroom and set it on the nightstand. Sat across from him again, arms crossed, head tilted back against the wall.
He needed to wake up.
Not just because I was worried about him — fuck that.
He needed to eat. Drink something. So I could leave soon.
And I needed answers.
I needed to know what the hell happened at that warehouse. Why Virginia wanted me dead. And who else knew I was still breathing.
He was the only one with those answers.
So yeah, I wanted him to open his eyes.
Not because I was scared he'd die or anything.
I'd be free then.
That's what I told myself.