I wipe bloody knuckles on my jeans, rough enough to sting but not enough to forget how fucking phenomenal it felt to be deep inside of Jenna.
“You want me to drive?” Turner’s voice is distant, and I blink a few times, and then reach for the ignition. The engine roars to life, and I let out a sigh.
“I’ll drop you off at the bunkhouse. Keep an eye on Cade.” My voice comes out in its usual tone, but it feels alien, like my brain is in a fog.
Because it is. Why did that Ian guy piss me off so bad? I didn’t have to sucker punch him for fuck’s sake. There were so many better ways to handle that.
I replay every second of the last hour, every bad decision, every moment I could have walked away. Especially before fucking Jenna. That might’ve been the worst decision of the two. The last thing I needed to do was fuck the woman.
“I did pretty well tonight,” Turner starts talking, unbothered and relaxed. It’s a good thing he’snotall worked up over this, because then I really would be fucked.
“That’s good. Making progress.” I fish the bottle of Advil from the glove box, dry swallow four, and chase it with the dregs of last morning’s coffee. It tastes like fucking shit. I pull out of the parking lot and ignore as Ian’s vehicle stays in the same place.
He could’ve called the cops on me. Lucky me.
The drive home is slow, every mile a reminder of the chaos I’ve now kicked off for myself. I mean, I already have two headcases. Now, I’m royally coming for the only element that has any stability and peace. And speaking of…
What the fuck is Molly going to think?
I chew the inside of my cheek as I mull that over. I guess it’s just one more fucking secret to keep.
Chapter 22
Jenna
The apartment is lessthan six hundred square feet, but it feels so much smaller, like the walls shrink a little more every time I make another freaking bad decision. I don’t even knowwhatmy plan is anymore.
I fucked the man whose house I broke into, whose daughter I’m fake tutoring, and who probably knows where my brother is.
And I don’t think I’ve gotten any closer to Cade.
All I’ve done is let myself be dicked down by an asshole.How nice.
I eye my jeans on the floor, and roll onto my stomach, burying my face into my pillow. I feel like a fucking idiot. Calvin Bradford fucked me, I liked it, and then he ran me off. And now there’s a wedge between us.
Unless I come up with a way to fix it.
I roll back onto my back and run my hand down to the inside of my thigh beneath the covers. I wince at the tenderness there. I imagine bruises already forming, fingerprint marks painting my skin in blue and sickly yellow, the shape of Calvin’s.
And that makes my body ache with some sick sort of satisfaction.
I stare up at the cracks in the ceiling above me for a few moments, tempted to replay the night in a way that ends differently. But as my fingers brush over my damp underwear, my phone rings.
I almost don't answer, but when it keeps ringing, the panic spiral kicks in.What if it's about Cade? What if itisCade?I reach for the phone, sliding to answer without evening looking.
“Hello?” My voice is gravel as I answer, ripping the charger out of the wall on accident. I let out a frustrated sigh, and then drop back down on the hard bed.
There's a silence on the other end, then the tight, pinched timbre of my mother, calling from a thousand miles of emotional distance. “Jenna. You sound terrible. Did I wake you?”
“No,” I mutter, instantly regretting my decision to answer. “I just haven't had coffee yet.”
She sighs. “It's noon. Are you on an odd teaching schedule or something? You’ve never been one to sleep in like this.”
“I'm not working today, and I was out late.” I go back to staring at the ceiling, counting the water stains. “Did you call for a reason, or?—?”
“Jenna.” There's a click of her tongue, the sound she makes before she delivers bad news or a pointed observation. “I've been trying to reach you for two days. I left messages. You know how I worry about you. You can’t just drop off on me, like this.”
I wince. “You don't have to worry,” I say, but it comes out as a hiss. I dig my fingers into my thigh, wishing it hurt worse than it does.
