Chapter Thirteen

Isabelle

Breakfast was peaceful—with a side order of awkwardness tossed in for good measure. I watched him watching me, glaring at the bruise below my eye.

Jameson was trying to appear like he wasn't gawking, but he was staring right at it. He'd always turn away when I caught him looking. And for a while, we'd managed to avoid the elephant in the room. But then that truce was shattered, and the elephant was allowed out of its cage to run free—where it trampled over everything in its path, of course.

“Who hit you? Was it someone you trusted?” he finally asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Did someone you trust do this to you? You know friend, family? Husband?” he asked, reaching across the table he stroked my cheek, causing me to flinch. “Whoa, hold on. I’ll never hurt you. These hands are made for lovin’, sweetheart.”

Heat rose in my cheeks, and I looked down, avoiding his gaze. “Yes.” I surprised myself by answering the question—something else I hadn't intended to do.

Who'd done it to me wasn't any of his business. But the word just slipped from my lips before I could stop it. And once it had escaped, it unlocked something deep inside of me, because so did the tears.

They came hard and fast, and my body was suddenly racked with sobs, my breath coming in heaving, choked gasps. I was mortified that I allowed myself to cry like that in front of him, but he'd finally managed to rip the band-aid off the wound he'd been messing with for days. I was swamped beneath a flood of emotions and couldn't find my way back to the shores of calm—or at least, what passed for calm in my sorry life.

Jameson dropped his sandwich, stood up and rounded the table to sit on the edge of the bed nearest to the table and wrapped his arm around me, pulling me in close. He held me pressed against his body as I wept. I buried my face in his chest and let the tears fall.

He’d opened the Pandora's Box of emotion deep down inside of me and I had no control over what came bursting out. I was used to holding everything in, never letting anybody see beneath the big girl mask I projected to the world. I was used to being tightly in control of my emotions and only letting people see what I chose to let them see.

What made it worse was now that it was open—I wasn't sure how I was going to get it stuffed back in there again. Ever tried putting toothpaste back in the tube? I said I wanted to be real. Be careful of what you ask for.

“Who was it?” Jameson asked, gritting his teeth as if he were either angry or in pain—but given the conversation we were having, I was relatively certain it was anger.

“My ex-boyfriend—Scott,” I said, still surprised I was talking about it all, let alone with a full-blown biker-thug.

For some reason, though—reasons I couldn't come close to identifying—it just felt natural to open up to him now. To tell him these things. It was like, now that I had started crying on his shoulder, I felt like I could suddenly start flapping my jaws and spilling my guts, too. I hardly knew him, and yet, suddenly, I was telling him about Scott. And the biggest shock to me, was that I even felt comfortable doing so. Perhaps I just so desperate to unburden myself of all these lies and all this misery that I finally opened the gates to the one person who persisted in trying to get through them.

“He hit you?”

I nodded, wiping my eyes.

“Was this the first time he'd done it?” he asked softly. “The first time he'd hurt you?”

I shook my head, hanging my head down low. “No, but it's the last time he's going to do it.”

“Good girl,” he said, stroking my hair as he held me close. “Good girl. Don't go back, no matter what he tells you. No matter how convincing and sweet he sounds. No matter how much he's promised you he's changed and that it'll never happen again. Because let me tell you, he’ll do it again. They always do it again. With scumbags like him, it's never a matter of if. It's always a matter of when.”

This didn't sound like the same man I'd known over the last day or so. Not at all. His voice was soothing, protective. It was full of caring and compassion. I could see the empathy for me in his eyes. It wasn't pity—I'd been wrong to think so. It was empathy and concern.

I found his presence comforting. It was a strange turn of events, given how we'd started. When I first met him I honestly didn't think I’d ever be comfortable around him. I honestly didn't think I'd even want to be around him at all. And yet, here I was, opening up even more.

“And if you do go back,” he continued, “you may not get out of it alive next time. I've seen it happen all too often.”

Without meaning to, I figured he'd just told me what had happened to his mom. As I looked up at him, I saw tears shining in his eyes, but he pushed them away and smiled at me, putting on that familiar cocky smirk he usually wore. But the more he spoke, the more I was beginning to see that smirk he had plastered on his face was little more than a disguise. A front. He was busy putting up his mental and emotional walls—much like I did. Our reasoning was very different, but the effect was the same—we were both different people than we pretended to be. Than we let the world see.

And now that I'd seen past them, beyond his walls, I saw them—and him—for what they were. Saw that we were far more alike than I'd ever thought possible.

And I knew much of that confidence, swagger, and cockiness he walked around with was little more than a facade to keep people from seeing him for who he really was. To keep people from seeing that deep down, he had a soul. Of course, he had a tough exterior and a rough around the edges personality, but deep down inside of him, there was a good man. I could sense it. See it.

“So, this Scott asshole, how long were you two together?” Jameson asked.

“Little over a year,” I said, pulling myself away from Jameson's embrace.

I sat up and cleared my throat, straightened my top, and tried to regain some measure of composure. He simply sat there, looking at me with a soft, gentle, and patient expression on his face. He wanted to hear my story, but he was willing to let me tell it in my own time.

“Can you believe I moved all the way from the East Coast to be with that fuckwad?” I asked, barking out a laugh. “Makes me want to kick my own ass all the way back home for being so gullible and stupid.”

“I'm sure you had no idea it was going to turn out like this.”

“Not a clue,” I said, sitting back down at the table. I avoided his gaze as he got up from the bed and moved back to the table. “My parents loved the douchebag, too. They sort of pushed me his way, telling me that he'd take good care of me, give me a good life and good things, like clothes and cars and houses. That I needed to appreciate everything he was doing for me.”

“Well, pretty lady, I don't know anything about those things,” Jameson said, scratching at the stubble on his chin.

I couldn't help myself from stealing a glance. He really was incredibly attractive, in that dirty, gritty, bad boy way. He most definitely wasn't the clean-cut, businessman, country club prick-type that Scott was. To me, there was a lot more to life than the amount of money in your bank account. Sure, I wanted to be comfortable and secure, but I didn't need to be filthy, stinking rich to be happy. Money wasn't the key to my heart or a condition of my happiness. I was learning that lesson fast.

“So, what about you?” I asked, casually. “Got a girl?”

Jameson shrugged. “I did, he said. “But we ended things recently.”

“Why?”

“I dunno,” he said. “Bad fit? Cosmic realignment? Murphy's Law? Shit happens? Take your pick.”

I stared at him for a long time before asking, “You cheated on her, didn't you?”

“Fuck no,” he said, pulling another breakfast sandwich from the bag, offering another to me as well. “She was completely cracked out—though, she hid that little fact from me. Hid that habit. Which was smart thinking. If I’d known she was on the shit, I would have never hooked up with her in the first place. If she'd started using after we got together, I would’ve cut her ass loose right then and there. I don't fuck with that shit. That's not my deal.”

Jameson’s face got very dark, and his voice started to crack. He bit hard on his sandwich and then swallowed and cleared his throat, perhaps to try to clear his mind. But he wasn’t finished with his story. It seemed to have a hold on him.

“I don't mind partying and dabbling in weed or some lightweight shit like that, but she was into the serious, hardcore stuff. Way too hard for me. Hard enough that if I took it, I'd be a little worried about my own safety. I'm no prude, but I'm not going to deal with somebody doing that kind of shit. I don't have time for it. I told her to get clean. Told her I’d help her, do whatever she needed, or I was done.”

“She chose the drugs?”

“Yep,” he said, staring off in the distance.

I could see the bitterness in his eyes—not that he was doing a whole lot to cover it up. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched as he opened and closed his fists. I could see the pain in his eyes—dark and abiding—roiling with his gut. He'd let himself cry, and that was what told me that he'd cared about her. More so than he was willing to admit. He was so casual and flippant about it, but I knew better.

“I don't get it. But hey, she made her bed, right?” he said through teeth he was doing his best to avoid gritting. “Now she has to lie in it. You don't do anything like that, do you? You're not into the hardcore shit?”

“No,” I said. “Besides lousy taste in men I'm as clean as they come.”

“You can always change that,” he said, giving me a funny look.

“Yeah, I can tell you're a good, wholesome girl. You didn't seem the type to me.”

“The type?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The type who was into that sort of shit,” he said. “To me, you seem like the kind of girl who just fell in love with the wrong kind of man and got caught up in some really bad shit. That's all. I didn't mean anything negative by it. In fact, if you want my honest opinion, I think that's a really big positive. For whatever that's worth.”

“Well maybe you don't know me too well, then,” I said, holding my head up high as I said it. “Maybe I'm not the good, wholesome girl you think I am. Maybe I've got a real dark side that you don't see.”

He raised a dark eyebrow in my direction, and I lost it, breaking down in laughter over the way he looked at me.

“Fine, fine, maybe you're right. I'm a good girl. Too good sometimes,” I said. “But I can't help it. It's how I was raised. It's kind of ingrained in me. Some things I've been able to set aside and evolve from, but drinking and drugs is something that's stuck with me my whole life. Like you said, it's not my deal.”

“Ain't nothing wrong with that,” Jameson said with a smile. “Nothing at all. And I'm glad you're getting out of your marriage situation, Isabelle. I really am. A fine lady like you deserves way more than what that asshole could have ever given you.”

I felt my cheeks flush with color, and just wanted to change the subject as quickly as possible. I didn't take things like compliments or flattery very well. Never had. I wasn't the kind of person who likes to be praised or have somebody's focus entirely on me. It always made me feel uncomfortable. Exposed.

“So, do you mean what you said? About taking me shopping?” I grinned. “Because I'll give you a chance to revoke that now before it's too late and you're stuck inside a Macy's with me.”

“Nah, I meant it,” he said. “I'll do what I can to make your stay in Milling as comfortable as possible. Make sure you're looked after. And once your car is back up and running, you can get the hell out of here and hopefully build a better life for yourself—wherever you might land.”

“Definitely not Milling,” I muttered.

“Whatever you say,” he said and I could have sworn there was a touch of sadness in his voice. “Mind if I step outside for a smoke? You can get all dolled up or whatever, then we can head out?”

“Sounds good,” I said, watching as he picked up all the sandwich bags and disposed of them. His ass in those jeans was something straight out of my dreams, I swear. As he went to step outside, I met him at the door and I stood a little too close to him. He cocked his head and look at me questioningly.

I offered him a smile and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek—coming a little closer to those sexy, scrumptious lips of his than I'd intended. But I managed to pull away and plant a gently kiss right on his stubbly cheek instead.

“I mean it. Thank you. For everything.”

His smile was warm, genuine, and surprised. He was obviously not the kind of man used to being thanked for anything.

“You're welcome,” he said and walked out to the parking lot, shutting the door softly behind him.