18. Amber
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
amber
T here’s a persistent ache in my throat, and my body feels like it went five rounds in the ring last night.
I’m a sweaty mess, my mouth is dry, and my head is a little woozy.
Rolling over, I pry open heavy eyelids to stare at my ceiling.
How the hell did I get in bed last night?
I was at work when I started feeling sick, then Jake came for our meeting.
Jake.
Oh shit, Jake was here last night. I lull my head to the side, and sure enough, he’s awkwardly lying on my small couch fast asleep.
My gaze lingers on his body, his mostly naked body with no blankets.
He’s only in black boxers, and my god, it’s a delicious sight.
His tattoos run from neck to pecs and down both arms. One leg is tattooed from his ankle all the way to beneath his very tight boxers.
Even in sleep his muscles are prominent, the definition of his abs mouthwatering, and the way his thick arm is cradling Socks to his chest cracks my heart wide open. I’m so busy ogling every inch of his delicious body, it escapes my notice when he wakes.
A throat clearing drags my eyes up, but instead of finding his signature smirk, I’m met with a look of concern. He sits up, places Socks on the cushion next to him, and stretches his neck and back. Before I can figure out what to say, he’s across the room and crouching next to my bed.
“How are you feeling this morning?” His calloused fingers brush over my cheek, pushing my wayward hair behind my ear.
My hand flies to my mouth, aware I spent my night puking. “I’m okay. Better than last night.”
His hand moves to touch my forehead, lingering for a minute before he runs his fingers through my hair.
His eyes are soft and searching, but I don’t know what he’s looking for.
Last night is hazy. I know I had a fever and got sick, but I feel like I was hallucinating for part of it.
Did he help me shower? Oh, God , I think I puked on his pants.
“Did I vomit on you?” I ask, cringing.
“Yeah, Whiskey, you did. You don’t feel like you have a fever anymore. Do you think you can handle some toast?”
This is my worst nightmare. I have so many questions, but all I want is for him to leave so I don’t embarrass myself further. Why did he stay last night? Why is he still here? He needs to leave so I can pull myself together and get to work. Work!
“I have to call in one of the girls,” I croak, sitting up to reach for my phone. Stars float in my vision at the sudden movement, but strong hands steady me.
“Hey, it’s okay. I texted Lily last night, and she’s handling it all for you.” He hands over a glass of water from my nightstand. “Drink this, rest, and I’ll make you toast.”
I watch the tattoos on his back shift and flex as he makes his way to the kitchen.
With him distracted, I slowly slip out of bed and close myself in the bathroom.
Brushing my teeth, I stare at my sullen reflection.
My face is pale, but there’s some color in my cheeks now.
Can’t say anything nice about my hair. It’s clear I went to bed with it still wet, leaving it a tangled, frizzy, knotted mess .
I’m working my brush through it when Jake taps lightly on the door. “You okay in there? Your breakfast is ready.”
Opening the door, I find him standing with a coffee mug in one hand and a plate with my buttered toast in the other.
He’s still gloriously rocking his underwear, and I realize he may not have any clothes to change into.
I have so many questions for him, but before I can ask any of them, he nods toward the bed and tells me to sit.
My body is so exhausted, I comply without complaint.
After crawling onto the bed, I sit cross-legged in the middle, and Jake hands over the plate.
He watches me cautiously as I take a bite, then sets down his coffee and grabs my discarded brush.
Scooting onto the bed behind me, he runs it through my hair, taking extra care when it snags on a knot.
“I didn’t know what to do with it last night. Probably should have brushed it.” His deep voice is gentle and soothing, as are his subtle touches.
We aren’t those type of friends. I’m not even sure we are friends.
This is the softer side of him the girls have sworn is there, but I don’t like that he’s showing it to me now.
It feels like he’s only doing it because of how he saw me last night.
Like he’s pitying me in this vulnerable moment, and that feels like absolute shit. I don’t want nor need his pity.
“Thank you for helping me last night, but why are you still here?”
He’s quiet and continues brushing through my hair.
I’m aware I’m being rude, and he’s finally showing me kindness, but I’m embarrassed.
He helped me shower, dress, and cleaned my vomit when I only made it in the trash and not the bathroom.
The correct response is probably overwhelming gratitude to him.
My response, however, seems to be anger that he saw me like that, and confusion as to why he cared enough to stay.
When he still says nothing, my anxiety ratchets up a notch. “ No one shows kindness like this without wanting something in return.” I have nothing left to give him. I have nothing left for myself.
Finally, he responds, but it’s not what I’m expecting. “Why do you say that?”
He’s dropped the brush, and his hands have moved to my shoulders, kneading at the knots there. With him out of my sight, I decide to share this one small thing. It feels like it levels our playing field again after he cared for me.
“I had a lot of men come through our place when I was a kid. Not all of them were kind, but they all made sure they got something out of it. The ones that came off as nice were typically the ones that took the most in the end. Or maybe it was that my mom had higher expectations from them, giving them further to fall in her eyes. Thoren was the first man I saw care for a woman with no intention of taking something in return.”
Looking back now, I’m still not sure if my mom was having sex for money, drugs, or hoping someone would fall for her and take care of us.
Realistically, I think it was a little of each.
I was lucky, though. Lucky. That fucking word flutters through my head again.
The older I got, the more I noticed the wandering eyes of the men, but so did my mom.
Not that she stopped anything for my sake.
No one took advantage of me, but it scarred me all the same.
It was only solidified when a boy in high school saw me struggling with chemistry and offered to help.
He was a friend of the one boy I went on an awkward date with.
That help quickly turned into flirting, then him pushing my boundaries.
When I shut it down, he spread nasty rumors about me, and I went back to being the girl with no friends.
“Were you safe?”
“Safe is relative. Did I have a roof over my head? Yes. Did I have food to eat? Sometimes. Did I have a mother who preferred getting high and forgetting the daughter that ruined her life? Yes. But no man ever touched me, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Heat creeps up my chest with that admission.
Even with him at my back, I feel like he’s judging me and making assumptions.
I hate it. This is why I don’t open up to people.
My hands feel clammy, and I no longer want the food in front of me.
It’s like he can feel the self-loathing falling from me in waves.
“Sometimes, people just want to help. Sometimes, that help is laced with selfish intentions. After my dad’s accident, I begged my friends that were still living back home to help.
People I’ve known since childhood that I had stood up for, or that claimed to be my friends.
My parents refused to let me defer a semester to help with his initial recovery.
Everyone had some excuse as to why they couldn’t even stop by to check on them.
One friend came through, going over once a week to help out.
Turns out, he was going over to steal my dad’s pain meds.
People wonder why I came back from college a changed man.
That’s one of the reasons.” His hands are still rubbing my shoulders, maybe hoping to soothe the pain we’re both feeling at being open.
He’s trying to tell me he understands not everyone is good, but all I heard was there are always selfish intentions.
He’s admitting he knows I’m right, that people always want to be rewarded for their actions.
It feels like he stayed last night for a reason, to get something for his kindness. “What do you want from me?”
Jake steps off the bed, drains the rest of his coffee, and slips it into the sink on his way to my little stacked washer and dryer in the corner. He pulls his clothes from it and slides them on.
“I already told you, I don’t want anything from you, Amber.
I’m tired of you only seeing the worst in me.
I already own the one part of you no one else can have.
” He grabs his keys and stuffs them in his pocket.
“Don’t you dare leave. Your body is screaming for rest, if last night is any indication. Give it rest.”
With a scratch on Socks’s head, he leaves my apartment. I’m in a state of shock. Even though I wanted him gone, I don’t think I really wanted him to leave. I thought we were over the back-and-forth feelings between us.
I’m left with even more questions than when I woke up. I might have messed up here. He cared for me in ways no one else has, and he did it with empathy. In return, I was ungrateful and rude.
I’ve never had someone care for me when I was sick.
As a kid, I was sick frequently from living in nasty apartments, not having clean clothes or getting bathed enough, eating moldy food because it was all we had.
Not one time can I remember my mom stroking my hair, helping me feel better, or even caring I was sick.
When I moved in with Jana, it was like night and day, and I was hardly sick again.
The few times I succumbed to illness, I refused to let her care for me because I had relied on myself for so long.
I was scared to rely on her too much and become the burden my mom always told me I was.
Yet, here was Jake, doing it without being asked and with such tenderness.
By this point, I know that he hates when people make assumptions about him, yet here I am doing exactly that.
After his blowjob punishment—that wasn’t a punishment at all—it’s clear he can have anything from me.
I owe him an apology, but I’m too damn tired to give it now.
I send a thank you text to Lily, with a promise to call when I wake up again, and tuck myself back in bed to recover from whatever illness that was last night.