Chapter Six
Jona
My arm is numb.
Monika’s been asleep on top of my body on the couch in the living room for three episodes of Sons of Anarchy. I wasn’t aware when the nerds got cable, but it’s a change I don’t mind. I’d talked Monika down from her panic, comforting her until she fell asleep on me. But my arm is killing me. I struggle to wedge it out from between our bodies and fling it over the back of the couch with a grateful sigh.
This isn’t how my night was supposed to go. But there’s no way I’d let her phone call go without doing something, and there’s no way I’d let that son of a bitch off without a warning. My right knuckles burn. I clench my fist, opening and closing it. Nothing’s broken. Yet.
Just as I’m sliding out from under Monika, Justine comes into the room, eyes searching for me. When she finds me, her jaw clenches. I wait for her backlash. The accusations. Instead, she crosses her arms over her chest and takes a deep breath. A breath I’d bet is the only thing saving me from another wound.
I turn the television off and grab a blanket from the back of the sofa, draping it over Monika’s sleeping body. When I’m free of the living room, I struggle to meet Justine’s eyes. I know her. She’s probably thinking of all the ways to disembowel me before I even get up the stairs.
She grabs my right hand and studies my wounds, bottom lip between her teeth as she does so. “You didn’t break anything.”
“You sound disappointed.”
She shrugs slightly, peering up at me. “Why not?”
I press my forehead to hers. “Because I didn’t have money to take you to the doctor. I damn sure don’t have any to take myself.” Her eyes close. We remain that way, breathing the other in, feeling things that may not be different, but strangely feel the same. “You want to go to bed now?”
This is the start.
To sleep together, wake up together, to sift through what’s left of us both and put together the remnants. She gives me a small nod. I try not to overthink anything as we head upstairs. I peel off my clothes and fall into my bed, watching as she kicks off her shoes and follows. She curls up against my chest. In the dark, our promises don’t feel so frightening. But we can’t stay in the dark forever.
Eventually, we’ll have to face the light.
***
Pain in my hand wakes me.
The split in my knuckle is throbbing. I can only imagine the bit of monster that slipped in when I knocked him out. Justine’s snoring on my chest, a small puddle of drool on my shirt and her knee inches from my groin. I slip out carefully and grab my jeans, hopping into them as I head downstairs. My knuckle reminded me of my guest, but when I get down there the couch is empty, and Jacob’s staring out the front window like a zombie.
“Where is she?” I ask, drawing his attention.
He blinks and walks past me. “She broke up with me.”
“Who?” He looks like his eyes are far away.
“My girlfriend.” His eyes focus on mine. “You were right. She was cheating on me.” The devastation on his face is making me uncomfortable. I’m not good with emotion period, but especially when there’s balls attached to it.
“Uh.” I pat his back awkwardly as he stands there, eyes pleading for help I wouldn’t know how to give myself, let alone him. “There’s plenty of more pussy in the sea. Trust me.”
His eyes harden. “Can I have her number?”
“Who?” Kid’s freaking me out. He looks unhinged.
“The girl you came over here with.”
“Monika?” A good girl and a dweeb. That seems right. Giving him a grin, I guide him into the kitchen. “Yeah, sure.”
“I loved her.” He settles numbly into a chair. “I really loved her. What do I do now?”
I know all too well how this goes from my end. Random hook ups and booze didn’t seem like his style, though. “Advice for advice?” I offer.
He frowns but nods. “Sure.”
“They come and go. I’ve watched it happen time and time again. If she really loves you, she’d have found a way to keep her panties on. She didn’t. That’s really all you need to know. Call Monika. Take her out. And stop trying to hold yourself back for other people. You’re in college, bro. Live it up before it’s over.”
He stares down at his feet, moving his sock covered toes over the wooden grain in the floors. “What’s your question?”
I try and think of a way to word this without forfeiting what little manhood I have left. “How do I make a girl happy without all the bullshit?”
“What bullshit?”
“Drugs, sex, booze. You know, all the cool shit you never do.”
He smiles a little. “Well, first of all, women are harder to please when you’re trying. And they’re not all the same either. Find out what makes the one you care about happy and never forget it. Oh, and don’t let them go to college out of state either, or they’ll cheat on you and give you excuses like you’re only young once.” He pushes away and leaves me in the kitchen, his feet pounding on the stairs.
What makes Justine happy? The question stumps me so completely I can’t think about anything else.
“Breakfast in bed might be a good start,” I hear him call from the top of the stairs.
I scratch my head. “How do I do that?” I call back.
“Food. Cook it and bring it up.”
“Cooking?” I stare nervously at the stove.
Hearing a heavy sigh, his feet pound once more and then he’s back in the kitchen. “You better put in a good word for me with Monika,” he grumbles as he opens the fridge. “Does she like eggs?”
“She likes tacos.”
He gapes at me. “We can make chilaquiles? We have eggs, salsa, and tortilla chips.”
I gape right back. “What’s a quiles and why is it chilly? Should we buy it a sweater?” He groans and turns away, opening the cupboards. “Maybe a pair of mittens?” I continue. “Or one of those grown up onesies?”
“I get it,” he snaps. “You’re clueless. Shut up now. Can you at least help by shredding some cheese?”
“I can cut the cheese.” I smirk when he glares. “Okay. I’ll help.” He hands me a block of cheese and a dangerous looking metal thing. I try to keep my fingers out of the way as he cracks eggs into a pan.
“Make coffee.”
I don’t appreciate being ordered around but do as he says anyway, putting the coffee maker into a headlock until it gives me what I want. After which, I’m not allowed to do anything but watch. He dishes three plates. “One for the chef,” he says when I raise a brow, and then rushes me out of the room and upstairs with orders to “be a gentleman,” like I know what the hell a gentleman is.
Justine is twisted in my sheets when I come in balancing two plates of food and a mug of coffee. I feel like an idiot. Waking her up with a hangover? No problem. Waking her up with breakfast in bed? I want to put myself in a headlock.
I clear my throat. “Jus?” When I don’t get a reply, I set the food down and fall into bed beside her, pulling her against my chest. Her sleeping face is something it isn’t typically. It’s soft and vulnerable. She probably feels that way sometimes. Even more so after what her old man did to her. I trace her bruises on her throat. I push her hair out of the way and kiss her on the darkest parts, feeling her pulse thrum on my lips, her life pounding.
I’d never last a month. But I had to try. Even if I proposed and she said no, at least I tried.
“Mmm,” she groans, brushing me off. “What are you doing?” Her sleepy husky voice brushes over me.
“Trying to wake you up.”
“Why?”
“I brought you breakfast in bed.” I cringe, but isn’t this a part of this? Trying.
“What?” She laughs in disbelief and lifts her head, giving me an unsure expression.
“Well, Jacob helped. But I shredded the hell out of that cheese.”
Her smile grows, and she peeks over my shoulder to spy the plates. “You made me breakfast in bed, Jona Kyles?”
“Hmm,” I concur, waiting for her to laugh at me.
Instead, she props her face on her palm and touches me with her free hand, skimming her fingers over my stubble covered jaw. “That’s really hot.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She guides my face close, pressing a kiss to my cheek with her sleepy lips. “It’s too bad I can’t thank you.”
I capture her lips with mine, savoring the warm softness of her kiss. We fall back. I ease between her legs and melt on top of her. The scent of her perfume and the heat of her body is clouding my brain. As soon as I move to hump her, she pushes me off and sits up. “No friction,” she reprimands.
I eye her little black panties. She’s still wearing her black hoodie too. The dark against her tanned skin makes me want to lick her all over. I want to trail my tongue from her ankle to her inner thigh. I wouldn’t stop until my tongue was deep in her pussy. “But friction is a good thing.” I reach for her thigh and she smacks my hand away. “Just a taste?” I beg, eyes stuck on her thighs. “I made you coffee. I deserve it.”
She reaches down to pet me, gripping a fistful of my hair. “You want a taste?”
I’m already salivating. “Yes, please, baby.”
Her deep brown eyes catch fire. “Fine. If you want to that badly, I’ll—”
I don’t let her finish.
I grab her leg and pull her over, ignoring her yelp as I grab for her panties. I peel them off her thighs and throw them over my shoulder, grabbing her legs and fawning them open until her pussy is in my sights. It’s a beautiful pussy. Shaved, wet silk. I dive between her thighs and nuzzle it, shoving my nose between her folds and inhaling her sweet musk. Above me, she moans, her fists in my pillow.
Using my nose, I part her, sliding my tongue up her slit. Her clit pulses when I reach it. I press my tongue down on her hard and then I eat my idea of breakfast in bed. Her husky moans are like striking a match across my heart. They bring me to life. I’d be content to exist solely as this. A sieve for her pleasure. Between her legs, her taste on my tongue, and her pleasure my prisoner. What the hell more do I need?
Her fingers twist in my hair. “Jona,” she breathes, grinding herself against me as I feed her hungry clit.
“Is it a leap year?” I ask.
“What?” she gasps.
“I don’t think I can last thirty-one days.”
She laughs breathlessly. “That doesn’t even make sense. It’s not even February.”
To shut her up, I shove two fingers inside of her. “It’s whatever month I want it to be.”
“Sure, Lover.” She arches her back and her thighs quiver when I increase the pressure of my tongue and the movements of my fingers. When her orgasm hits, I hang on, riding out her pleasure until she sags onto the bed and moans at the ceiling.
I scrub a hand down my face and settle on top of her, using her thigh as a pillow.
“Eat it up while you can. I’m going to start my period in a few days.”
I reach up and press a kiss to her slick pussy. “Blood doesn’t make me squeamish.”
She shoves me aside with a groan and gets up, stomping her fine ass away as I chuckle. So far, I can get used to this. Pussy and food. What more do I need? When she comes back out, I watch her dig into her food cautiously.
“How much of this did you contribute to?”
I take a bite of my own to show her it’s safe. It tastes amazing. Thanks, nerd boy. “The parts you love.”
Her eyes spin as she takes a bite, and then they widen. “Wow. This is good. Tell Jacob I said thank you.”
“His girlfriend cheated on him.”
She surprises me by sighing. “That’s too bad.”
“Is the nerd growing on you too?”
“Kind of. He’s … sweet. Safe. He won’t choke me. Let’s just say that.” Her sad tone makes my heart squeeze in my chest.
“I told him I’d set him up with Monika.”
She stabs at her eggs. “But Monika wants you.”
I cringe, sensing where this conversation will go if I don’t do something to save us. “It’s not like that, Justine.”
“But it is for her.” Her eyes meet mine. “She could have called someone else when the shit hit the fan. She barely knows you. But you’re who she called. You think she doesn’t know what she’s doing? She wants you. She won’t go for a guy like Jacob instead.”
I refuse to step into her ring of fire. “Maybe we should go with him?”
“What? Like a double-date?”
The revulsion in her voice is as deep as my own, but if this thing between us is going to work, we can’t keep doing the same things and expecting a different outcome. “Yeah. We can hang out here. Light a fire in the back. Drink some booze.”
For some reason, her face pinches together, and she shakes her head. “Beer sounds disgusting.”
“Sweet tea?”
Her furrowed brows relax. “Better. In fact,” she says, glaring down at her food. “This is disgusting too. Is that oil?” She pushes the little puddle of oil around on her plate in disdain. “So gross.” Shoving her plate at me, she takes off for the bathroom. A second later I hear her puking.
She’s resting across the toilet when I come in, sweat matted to her scalp, eyes closed.
I sink down with her, pushing the sticky hair on her temple aside softly. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the tacos were bad? How do you feel?”
I rub her back and eye her naked legs. “Horny.”
“Ack.” She smacks my arm away and pushes to her feet. She takes my toothbrush out of the cabinet and squeezes a line of mint paste onto it, scrubbing it over her teeth as I flush the toilet and wipe it down. I start the shower for her. “Thank you,” she mumbles, tearing her sweatshirt off and stepping inside.
I close the bathroom door behind me and then search for my cell. I scroll through my contacts until I find the number I’m looking for, heading downstairs. I slide the patio door closed and sink onto a worn wicker cushion overlooking the empty yard. I stare at the number a long time before I press send. If I do, my past is over. I’m not worried about that. I think parts of me are ready for the emptiness to stay where I found it. But I’m not sure Justine is. She says she is. She looks like she is. But that doesn’t mean she is. If I take a step forward only for her to take one back, I’ll be on my own, and we’ll be separate when all I want is to be whole.
The phone rings twice before his familiar voice answers.
“Hello?”
He doesn’t have my number. I could still hang up. Stay where I am. Or I can take a step and embrace the ruin. “Bach?”
“Speaking,” he mumbles, sounding preoccupied. “What can I help you with?”
He sounds alarmingly normal. Our phone calls usually consisted of the where’s and when’s of pussy and dope. But he’d crossed over the line I currently straddled. “It’s been a year. You forgot me already?”
There’s a pause on his end, and then a chuckle. “Jona? What’s up, bro?”
I feel like a loser when I say, “Nothing.” Because for him, everything has changed, and I’m still here doing the same shit. “What’s up with you?”
“Cut the shit, Jona. We haven’t talked in a year. What’s going on?”
I missed that. His no-bullshit, say-what’s-on-his-mind attitude. “I need a job.”
He whistles on the other end. I expect some ridicule. Some teasing. He and I don’t do jobs, but I know he’s got one, and he knows what it’s like to have no clue how to get one. But he doesn’t ridicule or tease. “You want me to get you a job at the dealership in Houston? What’s going on? You knock Justine up?”
“Something like that. Or nothing like that. I just … need …”
“Something different?” he offers. “Something that isn’t full of dope and whiskey?”
“Yeah,” I breathe, running my fingers through my hair. “Look, I get it if you don’t want to put your neck on the line—”
“Come by,” he cuts me off. “I get off at five. I’ll text you the address. You have to be able to pass a drug test, Jona.” He pauses, giving me a chance to blow it already. “I can’t fake that. This is a nine-to-five job. You gotta look the part, even if we’re both the biggest bullshitters in the world, you have to pretend until it doesn’t feel like a lie anymore. It’s hard at first. Trust me. I know. I still feel like an imposter in this fucking suit and tie. But it’s what’s good for Harley. What’s good for Justine too, right?”
I don’t say anything to that. What’s the point? Bach gets it better than anyone. “I’ll come by tonight.”
“Bring Jus,” he says. “Harley would love to see her.”
“You sure that’s such a good idea? Our dicks have crossed paths once or twice.”
He laughs. “We made this fucked up bed, Jona. What else we gonna do but lie in it?”
I run a hand down my face and sigh. “We’ll see you tonight.”
The hard part is getting Justine there. She’s a runner. I’m more of a wallow in my shit until I’m covered in it kind of guy. Seeing Bach and Harley again will dredge things up. But who else are we going to hang out with? The nerd brigade?
“Where are we going?” she moans, as I get dressed. She’s been in bed all day, puking and sleeping.
I hop into a pair of black jeans and search in my closet for a shirt, pulling out an all-black long sleeve. “To see an old friend.” I come back out to find her sitting up in bed. Her brain churns in record time, and before I know it, she’s glaring at me.
“You’re not seriously going to kick it with Bach Bachmen are you?” When I look away, she screams in frustration. “How can we move forward doing that? Huh, Jona? Bach and I hooked up. A lot,” she emphasizes, trying to piss me off, so I change my mind.
“I need this job, baby.”
“You can get a different job.”
“Where?” I demand. “Who’s going to hire someone whose best skill is drinking an entire bottle of whiskey and not OD’ing on his own stash?”
Her eyes soften at the same time they harden. “This pity party you’re throwing yourself sounds like a boring ass snooze fest.”
“Harley’s going to be there,” I say, knowing deep down, despite her resistance, she likes her. Harley’s one of those women who can hang with the bad and still come out good and perfect. She was never really my style, what with dating Dylan and then Bach, but Justine has a soft spot for her. “Little Miss Perfect?” I add, earning a half-groan, half-smile from her.
“Like she wants to see me.” She slides to the end of the bed and starts looking through her duffle bag. “Are we really doing this? Jobs, futures, facing our shit?” She pulls out a pair of jeans and looks at me, eyes fearful. “I mean I want to, but I’m not sure I can.”
“You can,” I promise gently. “All that strength you’ve been building inside of you, that’s what it was for. Us. Use it, baby. So you can save us both.”
Her eyes close and she takes a deep breath. “Stop.”
She gets dressed as I try to tame my hair. I tie my black boots and then spray a bit of cologne across my chest, eyeing myself in the mirror over my sink. I don’t look like me. The me before Hillary was a blurry image. An empty body. I’m not any fuller now, but I can hold my gaze. I don’t want to. I don’t like the memories in my eyes, the truth that resides in them, but I can look at it. I can face it, even for a second.
In the car, she’s quiet. The sun’s setting over the horizon as we get on the highway for Houston. The address Bach texted isn’t hard to find. The car dealership is on its own lot. Huge. The Ferraris and Audis gleam under the setting sun. As I’m pulling in, I spot Bach.
The familiarity of him is a small comfort. Like bringing a piece of my past into the now made it more human. Or easier to break. He’s wearing a fitted dark blue suit. But he’s got a shit eating grin on his face, showing me not all his past is gone.
“Asshole,” Justine mutters, but there’s a smile in her voice.
I chuckle, watching him give her a wink. “You want to wait in the car?”
“Yeah. Sure.” She clutches at her belly and puts her feet up on the hood, her black Vans mucking up my dashboard. When she spies me glaring, she drops her feet with a roll of her eyes.
I reach over and dust the scuff marks off. “Easy on the ride.”
Bach takes his hand out of his pocket, clasping it against mine when I get out and greet him. “What’s with the hair?” He ruffles it.
I knock his paw away. “Justine likes it.”
“And what the ladies want, the ladies get.” He pats me on the back and urges me along. “Tell me about it.”
“How do I do this?” My fear takes control of my mouth. “How do I go from our past to suits and ties?”
“Think about going back there. Faceless pussy. Empty bottles. There’s that whole do it for yourself thing, but that’s for people who had more before they tried. We don’t. We don’t have shit but the women who let us have them, so we do it for them.”
I wait a beat before I give way to the question burning in my mind. He opens the door to the dealership and nods me inside. The cool of the A/C shoots onto my face. Before I can ask, a familiar face catches me short. Whitney looks up from the front desk. She gives me a knowing smile. She used to be Dylan’s hook up.
“You work here too?” I ask.
“What is this? Some kind of reunion from hell?” another familiar voice says.
I look over to spy Dylan coming out of a door, dressed head to toe in a black suit. He limps over to us. I remember he got hurt in Afghanistan during active duty last summer. Judging by his limp, he’d not healed yet. But he’s walking. The last time I saw him, he could barely do that.
My question burns so hotly; I dig my nails into my palm before I give in.
“I’d love to stay and catch up,” Dylan says, giving me a look that says he’d rather gut me alive, “but I’ve got a client waiting out front.” He limps away.
Whitney sighs. I almost can’t help myself.
“He okay?” Bach asks, giving Whitney a knowing look.
“Yeah. Harley’s been dredging up stuff in therapy. It’s starting to get to him, I think. He’s got Aubrey this weekend, though, so hopefully, that’ll cheer him up.”
Bach nods, eyeing Dylan’s retreating back at the mention of Aubrey, Dylan’s daughter. Clearing his throat, he turns to her. “Print out the paperwork for a new hire. Is there a training opening anytime soon?”
Whitney starts tapping away at the computer. “Froy will want to know,” she hints.
“He will.”
“No opening.” She swivels her chair over to the printer. “I’ll bring these to you.”
“Guess that means I’ll be training you.” Bach grins. “This is going to be fun.” Taking the freshly printed pages from Whitney, he hands them off to me. “Fill these out. We can talk at my place. I’ve got some loose ends to tie up. Give them to Whitney when you’re done.”
The papers feel unnecessarily heavy in my hands. I can’t help it anymore. “How is she, Bach?” I catch and hold his gaze, boring into him. His sea green eyes soften with understanding.
“Hillary’s okay, Jona.” Then he disappears into the door Dylan came from.
Whitney gives me a tight smile. Blurry images of her dark blond hair twisting in the air as she danced drunkenly come back to me, but for all I know, my imagination made it up. I do remember her with Dylan. But that’s it. The holes in my past scare me. I have this feeling I’ll never refill them. Even if I spend my entire life trying to cover the cavities. “Paperwork,” she reminds me. “You need a pen?”
I take the black ball point and take a seat at one of the loan desks, filling out my name, address, and social security number. As I do, I feel this pressure in the back of my skull. I want this. Whatever this is. Whatever this isn’t. I want it. I can’t go back to a place that never even existed.
“All done?” Whitney asks, taking my paperwork after I hand it off. “I’ll make copies and mail them to the address you provided. Payroll will need a voided check as well. Now,” she says, face serious. “There’s a lab down the street we use to take our drug tests. They close at six. You can either come back in the morning or run and take one now. I’ll call them and let them know you’re coming.”
This is a test. And finally, one I can pass. “I can run over there now.”
She nods, business-like, even though I remember her short skirts and whiskey days. Whitney’s a babe. Large, pale blue eyes and rosy cheeks. She’s got a smooth southern accent that rolls words around enticingly before she lets them out of her rosebud mouth.
I can’t help myself and look over my shoulder for Bach. Finding him still gone, I lean close and whisper my heart out. “Really, how is Hillary?”
She bites her lip and sighs, sitting back in her desk chair. “She’s doing great. She started her prerequisites for her nursing degree. Aubrey adores her. Dylan is a million times better since meeting her. She’s okay, Jona. I promise.”
I close my eyes as relief rolls over me. It’s dizzying. “I can’t stop thinking about her. I didn’t think she’d want to see me, you know, after everything.”
“She has class tonight,” she says, and I know that Hillary probably doesn’t want to see me.
“I don’t blame her,” I admit hoarsely, wanting so badly to smash my head into the desk until I blackout. Just like my mom. She didn’t want to see me anymore after I watched her break apart either. I can see Mom’s face suddenly, her beautiful face, and everything inside of me starts to break. I have to get out of here.
“What’s wrong?” someone asks. Bach. He grabs my shoulder to steady me.
“I’ll go take the drug test and meet you at your place?” I start backing away.
He frowns at me. “Yeah, sure. I’ll text you the address.”
“Cool.” I’m out of there before I can puke. I walk quickly to my Mustang and put it in reverse, ignoring Justine’s concerned gaze.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You sure? You look green.” She touches my arm, but I shake her off. “Jona? You’re freaking me out.”
I don’t realize I’m shaking until my hands tremble on the steering wheel. “I’m fine. Promise. Maybe I have what you have.” But that’s a lie. My unease isn’t an illness. It’s the truth. It was being a child and watching my mother shoot her veins full of heroin to forget her rape, to forget that I saw it happen. I can’t see through my memories.
“Jona!” I hear Justine cry out.
Before I know it, my Mustang smashes into the guardrail, and we’re careening down an embankment. Her screams are in my ear, both Justine and my mother’s. Her desperate pleas for them not to hurt me in exchange for her. She saved me, but she lost herself. All I can think is: where are you, Mom?
“Jona!”
Glass shattering and pain invades my body. It tears me from my memories. The smell of gas burns my nose. I feel myself flying, weightless, as my heart screams from somewhere. And then my body smashes into the ground. Everything I remember no longer matters; my brain fades to nothing.
***
Everything hurts.
My heart feels like it’s pumping through mud, like my blood coagulated, and it’s struggling to make it where it needs to be. There are sounds around me. Sobbing. Creaking metal. Heat.
“Bach,” I hear a familiar voice beg. Break. Sob.
“Where is he?”
Sobbing answers him. There’s a sound, like feet on grass, and then a sharp “Shit,” hisses from someone’s lips. “Jona?” Hands prod my neck, checking for a pulse. “Can you hear me?”
Yes, I want to answer, but my lips won’t move, and my brain’s having a hard time understanding what the word yes even means.
“Call 911,” he instructs. “Justine!” he snaps, when sobbing answers him yet again. “He’s still alive. Call the fucking paramedics right now. Here’s my cell.”
All I hear is her screaming “There’s so much blood!”
There is? That can’t be good. I love you, I want to tell her.
“Are you okay?” I hear Bach ask, but it’s from so far away I feel like I’m floating again.
Justine has to be okay.
She has to.
“Jona,” her heartbroken whisper responds.
Justine!
There’s another sound, sirens. Shouting. Screaming. Justine’s screaming my name repeatedly. Bach’s screaming at her. There are people talking to me. But I can’t feel my body. I feel lifeless.
Like I have no answer at all.
***
Quiet tears rouse me.
Well, maybe not the crying. The fucking pain is blaring. It’s so strong I feel acid rise in my throat. I must make a noise because the crying stops.
“Jona?” a hopeful voice begs.
“Ahh,” I groan, a zombie in absolute pain.
“Oh, thank God,” it cries, and the pain increases.
“You can’t touch him, Jus,” someone else says. Bach. “Get off.”
Something wet and warm presses to my cheek. “Oh, baby. I love you, Jona. I love you so much.”
“Ahh,” I groan again. Zombies don’t got shit on my act.
“Call the nurse,” Bach orders. “Go, Justine. Now!” he snaps.
“I’ll be back, okay, Lover?” There’s a promise in her voice. Strong. Forever.
“Ahh.” I can’t open my eyes. The pain in my right arm is excruciating. I can’t keep it inside anymore. Puke burns in my mouth. I’m lying down, and I struggle to open my eyes.
“You’re in the hospital, Jona,” Bach explains. “You crashed your Mustang two days ago.”
Two days ago?
“You broke your arm. Almost ripped it off. The guardrail went through your arm and ruptured your artery. You, stupid son of a bitch,” he growls, emotionally and scared.
I scared Bach? That’s a bad sign.
“You hit your head. You have a concussion. They knocked you out to do surgery on your arm to repair your artery and screw your bones together. They’re going to come in here and make a big deal out of your medical insurance. But we’ll figure it out.”
But I’m already out of it before I can even comprehend what he’s saying.
I can’t get over the image of my mother’s face when she crawled out of that alley. Knees bloody, shirt ripped, and light brown eyes bleeding.
Like they’d stolen her heart, her good, and took any chances at life away from us both.
***
Justine
I understand what my life means now.
I know why I was put here. Why my path was hard, painful, and full of mistakes. Because the only right thing I could ever do was love Jona Kyles. My life’s reasons no longer matter—they never have—and now I know why I’d always been so lost.
I was supposed to find myself with him.
I study his handsome wounded face intently, too drained to cry. He has a cut across his cheek and purple bruising along with a slit over his right eye. I press my lips to his, and my eyes flutter closed from exhaustion and the weight of my terror. Parts of me shake. I can’t tell him. He’ll never want to know.
Behind me, someone shifts in their chair.
“Are you hungry?” Harley, Bach’s girlfriend, asks quietly.
“I could use a snack,” Bach answers. “Thanks, babe.”
“What about you, Justine?” She comes to rest her head on my shoulder.
“I left him for six months,” I whisper, hating myself. “For another guy. I didn’t even love the guy. And I left Jona for him.”
She sighs, wrapping her arms around me. “You have to stop doing this. Jona loves you. It’s always been you. He’s okay,” she promises, tugging me into her arms.
I fall against her, gripping her tightly as I sob. But I’m not okay. “I love him so much.”
“I know, Jus. I know. And he’s going to wake up and get better, and you’re going to tell him all of this. But you have to calm down. Breathe.” She moves to grasp my face, her eyes as pretty and gold as I remember. Her golden-brown hair is in a messy bun, and she rushed over here days ago when Bach called her.
Before she can continue, I tell her the truth. “I miss you, Little Miss Perfect. Bach too. But I know there’s no way we can be friends anymore. Our pasts are too messy, too fucked up. And you’re both happy, and Jona—” I can’t hold my tears in anymore. The sobs break free.
She pulls me into her arms, rocking us back and forth. “Of course, we can be friends. I’m trying to embrace fucked up ever since I fell in love with Bach Bachmen.”
I laugh through my tears. “He is pretty fucked up.”
From behind us, he clears his throat. “Sitting right here.”
I look at him over her shoulder and hold his gaze. Out of all my hookups, Bach was one of my favorites. Not because of the sex, not because of the drugs and booze, but because he was real. He was broken and he never tried to be whole, at least not until he met Harley. His sea green eyes hold mine for a moment longer before he gives me a hard glare.
I look away and free myself from Harley’s grasp. “I’m not hungry.”
“Too bad,” she grunts, grabbing her purse and pressing a long kiss to Bach’s lips before sashaying her beautiful ass out of the room.
“You have to tell him.”
“Mind your own business, Bachmen.”
“Justine,” he warns. “This’s going to bite you in your ass if you don’t do it the right way. Remember what happened to Dylan? He still can’t make up for it almost three years later.”
I tap my foot impatiently, growing aggravated. “Thanks for the advice.”
“Is it Jona’s?” he asks softly.
I close my eyes in misery. “Yes.”
“You sure?”
I taste the salt of my tears. “He’ll leave me, Bach.”
“No, he won’t.” He sounds so positive. “He looks better. Healthier. Why?” he asks curiously, leading toward something.
I shrug half-heartedly, watching Jona’s unconscious face. “Your sister getting attacked really messed with his head.”
“Figured as much.”
I let my breath out and my guilt. “I’m so sorry for that, Bach. I didn’t know she’d get hurt. I—”
“I know, Jus.” He sighs heavily and shifts, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He’d gone home to change into jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, but his dark brown hair is wayward, and his eyes are tired, not to mention his stubble’s growing in. “We’re here for you, if you need the help,” he offers, letting it go.
I let out a relieved breath. “Thank you, Bach.” I leave Jona’s side and settle down beside Bach, hugging myself. But my eyes stay on Jona, like a life force—I’m nothing without him.
“How’s your wrist?” he asks, eyeing my bandage.
I turn it over, rubbing the white bandage where the glass cut my arm. “Fine. What got into him?” The horrified sick look on Jona’s face as he drove over the guardrail haunts me. What was he thinking?
Bach’s arm drapes around my shoulders, and he brings me to his chest. I try not to like it so much, but there’s always been something comforting about Bach I couldn’t shake. His broken parts make mine feel more comfortable. “He was sober. His blood work came back clean. I don’t know.”
“He doesn’t do drugs anymore. We’re … trying.”
He chuckles knowingly. “Scary shit,” he admits. “I’m still trying.”
“But you’re doing it, right?” I need to know that trying leads to doing.
“Right. My reasons are simple. Just like yours are now, huh?” he hints, nodding at Jona.
Jona is my reason. I rest my head on Bach’s chest. But secrets are a reason too. And I don’t know how to deal with one and keep the other. “Yes.”
“What happened to your throat?” he asks next. Pointedly. Like he saw the bruises before we got into the accident.
“My old man tried to kill me.”
He inhales sharply and flinches back, leaning away from me with a horrified look on his face. In his beautiful pale green eyes, I see demons flare. They writhe in understanding. We all have demons, but Bach’s have always been large and destroying.
His face becomes stone. Hard. Beautiful. Dangerous. “Where is he?”
I roll my eyes. “You and Jona are ridiculous. He took off. He tried to kill me. I doubt he’s going to come back and say ‘hi.’” I love how he doesn’t ask if I’m okay. Doesn’t try to talk down my explanation. Makes no sense of my horror. He simply wraps his arms around me and lets me cry. I don’t like breaking, don’t like succumbing. But lately, I can’t hold it together. Falling has become my way of walking.
The door opens, and Harley comes in, hands full of coffee and food. She takes us in with a pained sigh. She starts opening food, making the coffee sweet, all while I replay the bone-shattering terror of watching Jona fly through the windshield. Of losing the only reason I survived my father. I try to get up, to do something, I don’t know, run maybe, but Bach holds me in place, the smell of his cologne foreign but still somehow comforting.
“You need to eat,” Harley coaxes, waving a breakfast burrito in my face.
The scent of grease is so strong it turns my stomach. But the real reason it makes me nauseous turns my heart. I break free of Bach’s hold and run to the bathroom across the hall, kicking a stall open and heaving. I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday when Harley forced a salad down my throat at plastic forkpoint.
After heaving, I sag onto the floor and stare down at my belly. Is this a joke? An ultimatum? Do I have to choose? A flare of protection burns through my blood, something I’ve never felt before for another person. Jona doesn’t need protection. He needs love. But I also feel heartbreak, because even though I know if I have to choose, there is no other choice to make than the one fate already made for me.
Feeling hollow, I return to the room to find a nurse checking on Jona. I watch her like a hawk.
“When is he going to wake up?” I ask.
She checks his IV. “His body needs rest to heal. He’ll wake when he’s ready. He’s stable, though. His surgery went well. The doctor will be in later this afternoon to check in on him. He should have some more information. Keep talking to him. Tell him about your day. Tell him about your memories. He’ll wake up,” she assures me, patting my shoulder on her way out.
Her advice, like most I’ve received, does little for me. I spend one more day in the hospital before they force me out. They switch Jona to a room with two other people recovering in it and slap me with a bill with so many zeros I have to sit down before I fall over. He’ll never be able to pay this. Even if he spends the next twenty years, he’ll only have made a dent. Why won’t he wake up?
I’m standing outside, lost and numb, when a gentle hand pulls me along. I blink aware inside of Bach’s huge 4X4 truck. I don’t know what to do without Jona. I used to, but those options are gone. Gone the moment I walked away unscathed, and he couldn’t wake up.
“Whose cars are those?” Bach asks, dragging me from my numb haze.
We’re parked in our driveway. “Jona got roommates. They pay the rent.”
“You know this place is a hole, right? He’ll never pay this place off and take care of himself. He’s gonna have to walk away.” And then he says, “Roommates, really?” Like he can’t believe it either.
“They’re sweet guys,” I defend before I can stop myself. “I think they make him feel better. Young boys don’t throw parties that hurt women.”
He sighs. “Makes me wonder why Hillary’s moved on, and he can’t figure out a way to do it too.”
“Demons,” I explain.
He nods slowly, holding my gaze. “I have to go to the dealership. Froy can’t cover me anymore. Harley’s youth-center needed her back too. I get off at five. I’ll stop by to pick you up then and we’ll go and see him.”
“I can’t wait that long.” I open his truck and slip out. “I’ll have Jacob drop me off.”
His eyes tighten in disapproval, but I’ve never cared what he thinks. “You have my number. He’ll be fine, Jus. It’s a broken arm. That’s it. But you need to take care of you too. You need rest and food and—”
I slam his door shut before he can finish, and make a run for the front door. I slam that shut too once I run inside, and then I sag against the door. My legs give out. I slide down and sink to the floor, my sweaty limbs exhausted and ripped apart. Too much has happened to stop and think. There is no time to wallow. There is only time to do.
“Where have you guys been?” Jacob demands, sounding like an older brother.
My eyes fill with tears when I meet his kind, concerned gaze. “Jacob,” I whisper, struggling to my feet. “It’s Jona.”
He freezes. “What happened?”
“Accident. He … I don’t know. He drove his Mustang over the side of the road. Went through the windshield. Broken arm. He won’t wake up,” I sob, falling against him.
“Oh, Justine.” He hugs me to him. “Is he in the hospital?” I nod. “They kick you out?” he guesses. I nod again. “Is he okay, though? Just a broken arm?”
“He won’t wake up.”
“Is he ventilated?”
I don’t know what he means. I shake my head.
“Does he have breathing tubes?”
“No.”
“Then he’s breathing on his own. He probably hit his head. Or he’s in shock. These things happen when the body goes through damage. He’ll wake up. I promise. Tell me what happened.”
He leads me into the kitchen and makes me a cup of coffee, but caffeine and choices make me shake my head and ask for a bottle of water instead. I cringe when I get to the accident. The feeling of falling, of the barbaric crash of metal and glass. The fear in my heart feels new, strong, and bigger than me. I can’t breathe around it.
“Jacob,” I whisper, meeting his hazel eyes. “What if—”
“No,” he denies my fear. “No. He’s fine. I promise. You want something to eat?”
No, but choices and truths probably don’t mind that I’m starving. And the knowing look Bach gave me penetrates my fog of fear. “Okay.”
“Good girl. Probably go with cereal.” He pours a huge bowl of Lucky Charms comically quickly as if I’ll change my mind and run away before he can make it. He sets it down on the table and helps me into it. Typically, I’d help myself. But right now, I don’t have the strength to be strong. “He’ll be okay,” he promises, rubbing my back as I shove tasteless shapes into my mouth. “Have you slept?”
“Some.” While bent over in a chair having nightmares of the accident. “I want to get back. Can you take me?”
“Yeah, of course. Go shower and change, and I’ll meet you downstairs. You have blood all over you,” he points out when I shake my head, motioning to the blood on my jeans and the tear in my hoodie. “Go shower. It’ll take five minutes.”
Shoving away from the table, I head upstairs, tearing my clothes off along the way. I stand beneath the hot spray of his shower and feel … hollow. Without him, there’s no spark. No life. No anger. No love. There’s nothing to feel at all. He’s my heart, holding my emotions and existence in his hands. He’s been protecting them since the day I met him. My hand falls to my stomach. I stare down at it as the shower pounds on my scalp. Heartbreakingly terrified.
I dress when I get out in whatever I touch. In this case, jeans, panties, no bra, and a white tank top. I put my damp hair into a bun and then pull my Vans on, stuffing my purse full of my cell, which they pulled out of the Mustang, and Jona’s possessions. His wallet, his keys, and his cell. I have no choice but to put on his deodorant and then I’m out, smelling like the man I love.
Jacob nods approvingly when I bound down the stairs. I’m twitchy in his car, tapping my fingers on my knee as he takes each turn painstakingly slowly. I glare at the side of his face. “Listen, grandpa, I want to get there before sundown, so speed this shit up.”
He doesn’t respond, keeps going the speed limit, which is probably smarter than giving in. When we get to the hospital, I tap my foot impatiently as he messes with the parking ticket, setting it perfectly on his dash. After that, it’s a headache-inducing wait for the elevators, and another hour before the receptionist in recovery lets us in.
By the time I can see him again, my heart is near bursting for a reason to live. They’ve moved him again. He’s on the main floors, in a crowded wing with four other people. One of which looks to be in agony, a knife sticking out of his side. Jacob blanches as we slip behind the curtain.
I find Jona sitting up in bed.
My soul takes a deep, relieved breath.
“Jona,” I moan like he just placed a gentle kiss to my heart.
He looks over, head whipping. His eyes soften, but his mouth is twisted in anger. “What is this shit?” He waves his left hand around.
The sound of his voice is a form of beauty I haven’t yet experienced before. Deep dark perfection. Not all beauty is bright and unhindered. Some are wearing a cast and had red eyes burning in their cinnamon and amber depths. I fall on him and press his head to my chest, nestling him between my braless tits. “Oh, Jona.” I rub his face like a puppy. “I love you. I’m so sorry for ever leaving you. I love you, Jona.” Tears burn in my eyes. I want him to know that I’d never run. Not anymore.
“As nice a wake-up call as this is,” he grunts, rubbing his head against my tits, “you are killing me right now.” He pulls away, teeth gritting in pain. Spit siphons through his teeth, and his eyes are pinched shut. The bruises on his face are worse, and the cuts look meaner, redder. “What the hell am I doing here?”
“You don’t remember what happened?”
He doesn’t open his eyes, speaking through his clenched jaw. “I remember. I mean what am I doing packed in a hallway with Jax Teller?” He jabs his left thumb at the stab wound victim.
I have to admit he does have that whole biker gang thing going on. Beard, leather, and tattoos. The knife victim flashes me a bloody smile when he spies me looking, but I turn away, focusing on Jona. He gets a smile from me. “We’re poor.”
He rolls his eyes in understanding. “I’m fucking starving, baby. I’m so thirsty I’d drink your piss. And my arm is killing me!” he screams, making the nurse walking by flinch.
She ducks behind the curtain and plucks his chart from the end of the bed. “I told you already, Mr. Kyles, you’re allowed to leave. Your catheter’s out. The scans turned up nothing new. The doctor checked you out an hour ago.”
“Fucking county bullshit,” I hiss when she tucks the chart away and takes off. I stare down at him helplessly. Then I swallow my aches and fears and put on my big girl panties. I lift the sheet to find him in a pair of blue paper disposable boxers.
“Nurses were starting to get freaked out by the wildlife.” He chuckles, and then groans, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes.
“Well, your dick is kind of like a python. But much tastier.” I pat his thigh with a grin I don’t feel. “Okay, so here’s what’s going to happen. Jacob, go get a wheelchair.” He takes off, giving Jax Teller a sallow look. “Jona, deal with the pain until I can get you to urgent care for a prescription. The hospital wants it filled here, but I don’t have any money.”
“Where’s my Mustang?” he asks instead like he didn’t freak out and drive us over the edge of the road.
“Totaled. Bach’s dealing with your insurance company.”
“What the fuck,” he hissed, seemingly more upset by this than anything else. “I didn’t have full coverage. It was paid off.”
I stare at him closely. “Jona. You flew through the windshield.”
He shakes his head, cutting me off. “Fuck, I bought that stereo six months ago.”
“It’s not like you can drive like this.” I point at his arm. “Your arm might never be the same. That’s what the surgeon said.”
He looks livid. The pain and anger in his eyes are unnerving. I know he isn’t upset with me, or even his car. But he’s upset about something, and I think it’s because, beneath his anger, he’s as terrified as I am.
“Wheelchair at your service,” Jacob announces.
It’s not as difficult as I thought it’d be to get him out of the hospital. He supports his own weight without a problem and sinks down in his blue paper boxers, his shirtless bruised chest and abs on display. Jacob takes off his windbreaker and drapes it over his shoulder, and a nurse hands me a pair of scrub bottoms. I bend in the hall in front of everyone and pull them over his feet, up his calves, and pull them to his hips when he uses his left arm to support his weight.
His eyes find mine, and in them, I see many burning emotions. But most of all, I see mine. Love and fear. “What about you, baby? Are you hurt?”
I smile sadly to hide my tears. “I’m fine. Just a little scrape.” I lift my arm to show him my bandage. I have mental bruises, I don’t say, but I think he already knows this. “Let’s go home.”
Jacob and I both wheel him out. The wheelchair’s got a crappy wheel, and it takes us both a few pushes to get him over the threshold of the hospital in Houston. We both help him into the front seat, and then I buckle him in. “From now on, we buckle ourselves in.” I press a kiss to his pain-twisted face and then get in the back.
The drive to Crystal Gulf is silent. I’m in a state of disbelief. That accident, it wasn’t a joke. If anything, it’s more like a warning. I’m not sure exactly what we’re doing wrong—take your pick—but I think it has something to do with my father’s hands wrapped around my throat.
We’d both been given a second chance. I think I know why.
My hand goes to my stomach. My blood rushes behind my ears. My mouth dries with panic and despair. What if Jona doesn’t want this second chance quite the way we’d been given it?
And why did they give it to a person like me? With bruises on her throat? With a man whom I’d barely agreed to even try. I didn’t know the first thing about being responsible for someone else, let alone so much. And Jona, he could say he’s lost, he could claim in me he’d find it, but that may all change when he learns what I learned when the hospital tested my urine for drugs and alcohol.
I don’t realize Jona is breathing hard until I pull in my own ragged breath. Jacob keeps sneaking glances at him, but that’s only because he doesn’t know that sometimes, second chances come with scars.