“Not yet.”
“I can’t have you getting me water, food—what if I need the bathroom?”
“I’ll do whatever you need.”
I don’t think before saying it. Somewhere inside me, the tar stirs—amused, the motherfucker.
“Jax, you have the bar. I need crutches.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll go pick them up.”
I collect the cups and wrappers from the bedside.
“Will you just take a seat?” She grabs my arm, and I freeze—aware of how badly I want more of her touch and how I will never let myself have it again.
She pats the edge of the bed. “Here. I mean… if we’re sharing the bed.”
“We’re not.”
“And where will you sleep?”
“On the couch.” As if I'm gonna let myself anywhere near her when I sleep, as if I need to give my sorry-ass subconscious a chance to tear her apart.
“Jax—”
“You staying here doesn’t change anything,” I say, my voice flat, hard. “I’m not crossing lines.”
Keep telling yourself that, you piece of shit.I’ve been a motherfucker to her for months, pushing her away, all for her own good. If she thinks I’m over her, maybe this won’t hurt as much. For both of us.
She looks down. “Of course.”
“You don’t have to worry,” I add, because I’m a fucking asshole who has to twist the knife. “I won’t make you uncomfortable. Think of me as a… nurse.”
“A nurse?” she repeats.
“Yes.”
She exhales. “Okay, nurse. Can I please have a glass of water?”
I grab a cup from the kitchen, gripping it harder than necessary, and I take a look around the place—the mess, the stench of beer and disinfectant. She deserves better.
“Sleep,” I tell her when I return. “Rest. I’ll grab some food.”
She’s already sinking into the mattress.
Minutes later, a trash bag hangs heavy from my hand. I reach into my pocket and pull out a letter—the one I found at her place this morning. From that piss-his-pants-when-things-get-tough asshole. Gotta give it to him, the son of a bitch has some balls.
Don’t worry. I’m coming to rescue you.
Look at that, the piece of shit also has a sense of humor. I shove it into the bag.
* * *
“Jax?”
Her voice carries down the room and my heart stutters like I missed a step.
“I’m here,” I say, probably too fast. “What’d you do, fall?”
