“I can take care of myself, Jackson. Take me home.”
2
Jackson
We finished the short drive to Iris’s place in silence, with her staring out the window, arms crossed. When I pulled into her driveway, I tried one last time. “Pack a bag and come back out here.”
I knew it was stupid to offer. Not because of any trouble Iris’s deadbeat mom might bring to my door, but because I’d never been able to see Iris like I was supposed to, like a bonus sibling to watch out for. No, I saw every curve and feature and far, far beyond, to the tender heart underneath.
But I’d much rather spend a sleepless night on my couch, imagining her in my bed, than a sleepless night in my bed, worrying about her being here alone.
She snorted, flung herself out of the car, and stomped toward her house, wobbling in her shoes. I had to fight the urge to followher, offer her my arm, but she’d surely toss her head and tell me to get back in the car.
So, I watched her. Or, more accurately, I watched her round ass sway back and forth as she mounted the handful of stairs to get on her porch. I watched the delicate curve of her hand as she turned the handle of her front door, her pale skin glowing in the yellow light of her porch. The loose legs of her jeans swirling as she stepped inside and shut the door behind her.
Then I waited in her driveway, in case she changed her mind, and reminded myself that I shouldn’t be looking at her like that, no matter how tightly her jeans hugged her generous ass, or how sexy her dark hair looked pulled up in that high ponytail, or how sweetly she’d settled into the seat of my SUV.
Travis trusted me to look after his sister while he was away, and I couldn’t repay that trust by sleeping with her.
You want to do more than sleep with her. Travis wouldn’t mind if you were serious about her.And I would be, if I ever had half a chance. Serious about Iris, that is. She was the perfect combination of feisty and kindhearted. I wanted to sit her in my kitchen and cook for her, push her onto my couch and tell her to relax while I rubbed her feet. Throw her down on my bed and make her see god.
But I’d taken myself out of the running for serious eight years ago. Kneecapped any dreams in a single night. Because Iris wasn’t picky; she had standards, and one of them was she wouldn’t tolerate liars. And me? I’d never be with someone I was keeping secrets from.
And one big secret had just waltzed back into town, with bad news written all over her.
The buzzing of my phone jerked me out of my self-castigation.
Go home Jackson. I’m fine.
With a sigh, I pulled out of her driveway. I already had a shit-ton on my plate, but I added “getting Sue the fuck out of town” to the list.
It shouldn’t be too hard. It never had been before.
The next morning, I woke extra early, dragged myself out of bed, and drove an hour to the nearest minimum-security prison, feeling more like a hired taxi service than ever.
Not for Iris’s family drama, though. This was for mine. Cole shouldn’t have been over at my place so late last night, but we’d had to figure out what to do with Hunter. Not that we’d made much progress before Savannah called. I’d been ready to let Cole deal with her, since it would put an end to our endless arguing, until she said she was with Iris.
At the prison, I had to do the usual pat-down and metal detector, plus a bunch of extra paperwork before they finally sent out Hunter.
It was a shock to see him in regular clothes instead of institutional green. The T-shirt and jeans must have been the same ones he’d been wearing when he was arrested four years ago. Before he’d gone in, these same clothes had hung off of him, but now they stretched tight over his chest and shoulders.
The men in our family had always been sturdily built—broad shouldered, barrel chested, hairy as fuck—and Hunter looked a lot healthier with the weight and muscle he’d put on in prison. Then again, what else did he have to do inside besides work out?
The buzz cut he’d taken to wearing in prison would almost pass as a fashion choice, rather than one made out of convenience, except for the smattering of faded and shaky tattoos on his hands and arms, none of which he’d received in a legitimate shop.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” I nodded to the bundle in his hands. “Is that everything?”
“Yeah.” He glanced around. “They give us the all-clear?”
“Yeah.”
“Great, let’s get the hell out of here.”
He didn’t need to tell me twice. We got out as fast as the guards would let us and booked it to my car.
Inside, he slumped in the passenger seat. “Can I crash with you for a few days?”
