Bad Wolf Page 13
Something like terrible pain.
Then he moves away, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets, and the moment is broken. Did I see that? Did I imagine it?
Was it real?
Does it matter?
Nothing makes sense. He doesn’t make sense, and neither do my actions.
Clenching my hand with his number on it, I grab my purse and head to the door. I hesitate before I open it. He’s watching me, broad shoulders slightly hunched.
“Keep that wound clean,” I whisper, my voice hoarse, and I remember with sudden clarity myself screaming as I came from his mouth and fingers. Oh God. “Goodbye, Jarett.”
And without waiting for an answer, I open the door and spill out into the night.
Chapter Fourteen
Jarett
Too restless to go to bed, I grab my barbells from the corner of the room and stand by the window to do some curls, get rid of some adrenaline. Up and down, my muscles burning, my heart thumping hard.
She left.
I can still taste her.
Fuck.
I close my eyes, lower the barbells. The exercise normally calms me down, but tonight it’s not working. Nothing is working.
Everything’s broken.
Putting the weights down on the floor, I start to pace. I wanna kick and break things, smash the furniture, shatter the windows. Shoot the lightbulbs to let in the dark.
I’m just like Seb. Yeah, I’m a fucking addict, like him, craving my fix, sinking so low I can’t breathe because she was here.
And she left.
The sound of the apartment door opening registers, and heavy, unsteady footsteps lead into the apartment. The door never closes, and cursing to myself I march out of my room and predictably find it wide open, the landing outside dark and cold.
“Seb!” Shutting the door, I go looking for him, and find him in the kitchen, throwing what little is in the fridge out, onto the floor. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” he mutters, not turning around. “What’s all this shit?”
I start toward him, pissed as all hell, the events of the whole goddamn evening crashing down on me, and haul him away from the damn fridge. “Where the hell were you? I looked for you everywhere at the club.”
“Oh, so sorry, didn’t know you were my fucking nanny now.” He turns, shoves down his pants, showing me his skinny, ugly ass. “Here, change my diaper before I take a shit on the kitchen floor. Hurry.”
I look away, disgusted. “Goddammit, Seb. Pull your fucking pants up and go to bed.”
“Nah.” He pulls his pants up, and they hang loose around his hips. He’s lost too much weight, I think, my anger draining away. “Night ain’t over. Gonna party some more before I’m dead.”
A shiver racks me. “Don’t say that.”
“Or what?” He approaches me, eyes narrowed. He likes looming over me, though he’s thin like a scarecrow. “Or what, you’ll run to Mommy?”
“Fuck off.”
He shoves me again, and that does it. I lunge at him, close my hands around his neck, and in my head, I’m back in a dirty group home with the stench of old sweat and urine. Back in time, where madness was the only sane way to go.
But then something shiny flashes at the edge of my vision, and a cold edge presses into the side of my neck.
A knife.
Whoa. I lift my hands off him. “Okay now. Calm down.” Two knife-fights in the same evening? For chrissakes.
“Now you want me to calm down? Then maybe you should watch your fucking mouth. Your fucking actions.” He presses the blade deeper, and it stings as it parts my skin. “Remember I’m the one in charge, not you, you son of a bitch.”
Warm blood trickles down my neck. My heart is racing. “Seb—”
“I just need some money. Gimme your wallet.”
“You need to lay off the drugs. That’s what you fucking need to do.”
His mouth turns into a flat line. “Your wallet.”
I let out a shaky breath, angry at myself for not seeing this coming. I never do. “It’s in my back pocket.” I hiss when the knife moves. “Jesus.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. He fumbles at my back pocket with his free hand, yanking my wallet out. He opens it one-handed, and grabs the bills, letting my wallet fall to the floor.
Total déjà vu.
“Don’t do this,” I say quietly, not to set him off. After all, the blade is still pressing into my skin, the cut burning like a line of fire. “Don’t.”
“I thought you didn’t care about money,” he mutters, taking his eyes off the cash to shoot me a sly look. “Remember what you told me the other day? ‘You got money, dude!’” he mimics my words, but in a high, girly voice. “‘You get paid well.’”
Fuck him. “Fucking drugs are killing you. Get out of the gang, Seb. Leave that life behind, go visit your mom—”
He kicks at me, and damn if he doesn’t find my bad leg again. Or maybe it’s on purpose, I think, gritting my teeth against the dark tide of pain rolling up my leg, praying it won’t turn again into that red haze.
“I told you not to talk to me about my mom. She’s not your mom, Jarett, no matter what you think.” He leans in, slides the knife down to my throat, and I swallow hard against the blade. “Never was.”
No argument there. I reach up and grab his wrist, even as the knife pushes on my windpipe. “Don’t go, don’t do this. Come on, just—”
He yanks his arm free of my hold and staggers out, pushing the knife back into his belt. By the time I gather my wits and start moving, he’s already inside the elevator, riding down.
I brace my arm on the doorframe, feeling so damn defeated. I press a hand to the cut on my neck. “How the fuck am I supposed to look after you, brother, if you never listen?” I whisper. “How am I supposed to help you? And what will I tell your mom?”
“How is she today?” I ask the receptionist, Macy. She’s taken a liking to me and lets me in at weird times, which works, as I keep weird hours.
“Oh you know, the usual.” She gives me a quick smile. Lately I’ve noticed her cheeks turn pink when she talks to me. “She had a couple of bad days. Seemed more focused today, though.”
“Thanks.” That’s good news, right? “I’ll just pop in and say hi.”
“Go ahead,” she says, smiling. “Just don’t be long. You’re way past visiting hours.”
“I know. Thanks.”
“What happened to your face?” Still giving me looks from under lowered lashes.
I touch my swollen jaw, and grimace. “An accident.”
“Ow.” She grimaces in sympathy.
“I’ll be just a minute.” Shooting her a grin, I hurry down the long corridor with doors on either side and slip into the familiar room. Closing the door behind me, I lean on it, allowing myself a second to gather myself.
Fighting with Sebastian isn’t hard. Sure, it hurts, his punches land hard, and my knee is still giving me trouble two days later, but it’s all physical, superficial. The pain will fade.
Being in the gang is hard. Keeping my damn mouth shut, my fists in check, doing my best to appear harmless and obedient, watching over my brother, it’s hard.
Visiting her, though… That’s the toughest shit. Seeing her like this hits me in the chest every fucking time, grabbing my insides and twisting.
Mom, I think, though I’ve never said it to her.
Because it isn’t true, anyway, and it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t.
She’s seated in her chair, the TV playing on mute, her gray hair coming loose from its tie at the back of her neck. She’s dozing, and I stare at her, my throat closing up.
I could go. Come back another day. Put off this conversation, that it’s the same every time. Same questions, same answers, same ache in my chest.
A floorboard creaks under my foot, and her eyes open.
Too late. Fucking shit, it’s always too fucking late.
She stares at m
e, and I know she doesn’t recognize me. I’m always a stranger to her, every time.
“Hi,” I say, stepping closer, trying to smile. “It’s me, your favorite man, Rett. How are you today?”
She shoots me a suspicious look. “The food here is terrible. They’re trying to poison me.”
“No, they’re not.” I sit down across from her, reach for her hand, but she draws it away. “Besides, you’ve got cake.” I nod at a small cake on a plastic tray beside her, on a coffee table. “A friend of yours brings those, right?”
She shakes her head a little, as if not understanding my words.
My chest tightens. “How are you?”
“Fine. Who are you?”
“Rett.” I swallow hard, smile wider. “Your awesome secret admirer. Don’t you remember?”
She snorts a little. “You young men, these days…”
Every time I make her laugh, I give myself bonus points. It warms up something inside me. Makes me think my visits are worth it.
Then she glances up at the TV, and her gaze goes distant again. “I don’t like this show.”
I grab the remote. “Let’s change it then. What do you want to watch?”
“Nothing.” She turns to look at the door. “Where is my son? Is he here with you?”
“He couldn’t make it today,” I lie.
I lie to her every time, and every time she asks about him.
Sebastian, her real son.
It’s normal, I tell myself sometimes, when I’m feeling sorry for myself and need a lie to believe in. Her short-term memory is gone. She probably doesn’t even remember meeting me, let alone taking me in. Having me in her house. Those memories are gone.
In her mind, there’s only Sebastian. As it should be. Right?
Damn right. That’s why I try to keep him safe. Keep him alive. For her. As for me, I’d never have made a good son anyway.
Funny how it still hurts, like a bullet lodged under my ribs, sinking deeper with each breath. Funny how I like that pain and I hope it never goes away. It carries in it all my memories of her, the ones she has forgotten, and I need them. Memories are all that’s left in the end, all you have—and the good ones are too few to let them fade.
Her hand on my forehead when I was sick one time.
Her frustration with me when she caught me smoking, time and again.
Her smile when I hugged her back the second Christmas I spent with her family. Her, Mr. Lowe and fucking Sebastian. When I felt I’d maybe found a home, at last.
If only she could remember it, too.
Chapter Fifteen
Gigi
“Gigi. Wake up.” An elbow nudges my ribs. “Wake up!”
“I wasn’t asleep,” I mutter irritably, my pen dropping from my fingers to the floor. I glower at the girl sitting next to me, then up at our boring linguistics lecturer. I feel that it’d be perfectly justifiable if I fell asleep. “Just thinking.”
“Ah-huh,” she says, and chews on the cap of her pen.
I was thinking. I swear. My brain won’t stop spinning my thoughts into threads and webs of doubt and confusion.
It’s Jarett’s fault.
Something isn’t adding up. That night with him last week… God, the memory of it has haunted me every single day and night since. So hot, the way he pressed me down, gripped my hair, fucked my mouth. Who knew I liked that so much? And later his mouth on mine, then between my legs…
I squirm on the seat, all hot and bothered all over again.
The girl beside me, whose name escapes me, shoots me a murderous look. I probably make her look bad with my behavior.
Screw her.
Jarett. His thick cock in my mouth, his groans of pleasure in my ears, his masculine scent all around me. That night he owned me. Broke me. Marked me.
I keep thinking about it, and about all the other times I met him. I have to talk to him, but if I do, I’ll be hooked again.
And I can’t figure him out.
He saved my friend, and not for the first time. He didn’t even ask me to pleasure him, until I followed him home.
He asked for payment, fucked my mouth.
Then asked me if I’m okay.
He went down on me, made me come like nobody ever has before.
And gave me his phone number.
I have it. I copied it carefully from the palm of my hand into my phone, my fingers shaking as I entered his name, and then I felt like a fool for not scrubbing it, erasing it and forgetting all about it in the first place.
Now I’m sitting in the classroom, my instincts warring, and stare at my phone that’s resting so innocently on the desk. Pretending it doesn’t contain a link to him.
It’d be so easy to text him. Ask him how his day is going. If the wound on his back is healing fine. If he’s also thinking about the time we spent together. About me, like I’m thinking about him.
Oh boy. This is bad. So bad. Why am I even considering texting him? He admitted he’s in a gang, and he obviously invited me to his apartment so I could suck him off.
But then why ask me if I’m okay, why look concerned, why all that confusing stuff? Is he trying to drive me crazy?
Crazier.
Gathering my stuff, I shove everything into my backpack and get up. I can’t take this anymore. I need to move and clear my mind.
“Miss Watson,” the lecturer snaps. “The class isn’t over. Where are you going? I’ll mark an absence if you leave now.”
“Something came up,” I mutter, and make my escape. I hurry down the hallways of the college, squeezing between groups of students talking. I need fresh air.
What’s this feeling, this indecision, this inability to get him out of my mind? After the way he behaved, after the way I behaved… any sane person would have just walked away.
But I can’t.
He’s a bad boy, and bad boys don’t turn good through the power of love. I’m not so stupid as to believe in such fairytales.
Any fairytales.
I’ve seen what bad boys do, back in Destiny. Bullies. Arrogant dicks. Violent drunkards. Selfish boys who enjoy causing pain.
No way am I doing this. I know better. I’ve learned things.
And yet I feel so lost. I need to talk to someone, but my go-to confidante is Sydney, and she’s the last person I want to see right now. I mean, I called and texted a thousand times since last week, asking if she’s okay, and she only replied with the shortest of texts to say she’s fine.
Well, screw her.
I stand, indecisive, in the hallway, streams of students flowing around me. Who can I talk to? Not my mom. Or Merc.
God, no.
I need to talk to my sister.
“Sure, you can come over,” Octavia says on the phone. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh yeah. Absolutely. Fantastic.” I cross the street quickly, heading to the bus stop.
“Gigi. You’re not very convincing, you know. You’re worrying me.”
“No. God, no. I’m fine.” Shit. I managed to scare my very pregnant sister. Way to go. “Everything’s just fine, I promise. I only want to see you and ask you about something.”
“You pinky-swear you’re okay?”
“Yes, yes. Please, Tati, don’t worry, okay? I’ll catch the bus and be there soon.” I fish in my purse for my bus card. “See you in a bit.”
If she goes into early labor because I stressed her out, I’ll never be able to live with myself. Maybe going to Octavia for help was a stupid idea.
But who else could I talk to?
I chew on this as the bus arrives, and I climb inside, shivering in my thin red jacket. Finding a seat at the back, I unwind my earbuds from around my phone and plug my ears, shutting out the buzz of the other commuters.
I hit play and lean back as the first notes of “You Don’t Own Me,” the remake by Grace with G-Eazy, rock me. Humming, I press my forehead against the cold glass of the window, staring out at the streets and houses and people rolling by.
She’s on to something. She knows how to judge human character. If nothing else, at least she knows how to tame wild men, and may have some advice for me.
Hey, I’m desperate.
Rummaging in my purse, I find my lipstick and slather my lips in red as we roll through the suburbs. I check my phone, scroll through my contacts just to see Jarett’s name among them.
Pathetic, Gigi. Totally pathetic.
Sighing, I gather my purse and backpack, and get off at my stop, then trudge down the street to Octavia and Matt’s house. From afar I see the front porch and the oak tree in the garden, and smile.
We may live in the same city, but I often find myself missing Octavia. We’re a very closely-knit little family. For as long as I can remember, it was only Mom, Octavia, Merc and me versus the world, and that was just fine by me. I didn’t need anyone else. These were the people I trusted, and nobody else.
Of course now to this small circle was added Matt, Octavia’s husband, and his kids, his mom, and soon Octavia’s baby. Sydney was an addition as well, though excuse me for having my doubts right now about the wisdom of that—and Jarett.
I used to trust him. Trust him to have my back. To listen to my stories without judgment. To be there—with the secret hope he’d eventually open up to me, just like I had to him. That he’d want more from me, just like I did from him.
And here I am, bewildered and aching with something I don’t dare name.
I ring the bell, and drum my fingers on my leg while waiting for Octavia to open the door, nervous. I don’t want to talk about this, about my confusion, my feelings, my mistakes and doubts.
Problem is, I can’t seem to find a solution on my own. I want to believe that Jarett is good, deep inside. That his bad moments can be explained.