Not when you’re the one creating it.
Track 20
“More” Nat King Cole, 1965
ALANA
IT’S NEARLY 4 a.m. by the time I get to my building.
My body is drained, shot from the vicious waves of adrenaline and fear that took their turns on me.
Fear for Jake. Fear of Derek. Fear for me.
Derek was arrested shortly after his wounds were tended to. He’ll need a few stitches over his left brow, and his top lip will have a pretty rough scar, but other than that and a concussion, the EMTs claimed he’ll be fine.
Turns out he had an outstanding warrant to accompany the illegal prescription drugs he was already carrying—go figure. The officer said he’ll likely be sentenced in Texas before extradition to Florida for his other crimes. I don’t know the logistics behind any of it, but I don’t really care. All I know is Derek will be gone for a long, long time, and that’s more than enough for me.
My climb up the stairs is slow and grueling. Every muscle in my body cries out as I make it to the landing. I look down at my keys, searching to pull the right one out before my eyes meet my door. My heart stops cold in my chest.
Jake is sitting at the foot of my door, wearing his exhaustion like a badge of honor. His hair is sloppily pushed back, his head tilted upwards as he leans against the door behind it. His shoulders are slumped, arms resting on his knees, legs spread wide. The sleeves of his gray thermal are pushed up to his elbows, the fabric coated with splats of crimson. Blood from him and Derek.
I walk to him slowly, his eyes opening just as I come to kneel between his scuffed black boots. He looks down the bridge of his nose at me. Worn, battered, and bruised. Like a warrior.
My eyes travel over his inflictions, taking each one in at a time. There’s a small slice across the bridge of his nose, another just under his left eye. Both are already turning a purplish blue. His right brow looks like it could use a butterfly stitch, maybe two—no doubt the work of Derek’s ring. His beautiful bottom lip is split just off the center, dried blood already beginning to bond the wound. His knuckles are red and raw. Two are split as if they hit something sharp. A tooth, maybe.
Before I even know it’s happening, my fingers are grazing every cut. Proof of his willingness to defend me, to save me when I needed to be saved. I trail my fingers from his ravaged hands and up his arms to the patterned spots of blood on his shirt. I whisp my fingers gently along his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a swallow as I trace his jaw and then his lips. I can hear the tremble that comes in his next breath, and my beyond exhausted body suddenly feels revived.
“Come,” I say, my voice shocking me with its warm calmness. “Let me clean you up.”
I stand in the space between his legs and offer my hand to him. He places his hand in mine, using his other to push himself off the floor as he stands with a groan.
I unlock my door, tugging him in behind me and letting it fall shut.
“Stay here,” I tell him as we enter the dark kitchen. “I‘ll be right back.”
I walk through the living room to the bathroom, turning on a small table lamp on the way. I gather my first aid kit, along with alcohol, gauze, and Vaseline.
When I get back to the kitchen, Jake is leaning back on his hands against the counter, lost in thought. I freeze, my jaw falling slack. I’m still stunned to see him like this, marked and rundown. Somehow, he’s insanely sexy. Rugged and masculine. His large frame fills my small kitchen so perfectly, I almost don’t want to touch him.
A few silent seconds pass before his head turns to me. His eyes land on mine with a dangerous heat. The fire it breeds licks at the center of my soul and makes my mouth go dry.
I shake my head to bring myself back to reality. “I grabbed everything I could find,” I say, explaining the medical supplies in my arms.
His eyes follow me, but he doesn’t move as I place everything on the counter beside him. I separate the supplies so they’re readily available when I need them, then turn to look up at Jake.
“It’s gonna be a little hard for me to reach. You’re kind of tall.”
“I can bend down.”
He pushes off the counter, moving to his knees, and I stop him.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll just…” I hop onto the counter, giving me a few more inches in height. “There,” I say, meeting him eye to eye.
His hands takes residence on either side of my legs, just an inch or two between them and me. I part my legs enough for him to stand comfortably between them. He leans his head down, and his eyes pour into mine with a quiet ferocity. Dark and intense. My heart rate kicks up, and my skin pricks with a need I shouldn’t feel at a time like this.
I blink my eyes away from his, grabbing the gauze and wetting it with alcohol.
“How’s your wrist?” he asks. His gravelly voice vibrates in my chest and down to my center.
