Page 46 of Sweet Surrender

I can control myself. I can.

“I’m sorry, Jasey.” My mom wraps her arm around my shoulder and pulls me against her.

I won’t cry.

I will not cry.

“I tried to help you. To get him to take you, not because I don’t love you, but because I do.” She presses a kiss to the side of my head and my body goes numb. “I’m not doing good. I try to but I can’t control it.”

I hate you.

The thought runs loops in my head, but I’m not sure who I’m talking to: My dad for choosing my brother over me. Nathaniel, the only person who knows what goes on in this house. Or the ugly disease that’s stealing, tormenting, and changing my mom’s mind slowly.

Day by day.

Minute by minute.

The person who I know loves me but who I’m now tasked with taking care of. Alone.

“It’s okay, Momma.” I wrap my arms around her waist and hold on. “I’m here. I’m not going to leave you.” My voice breaks. “I’ll always take care of you.”

She didn’t leave me.

She at least loves me.

But by the time the hug is over, by the time I walk to my small bedroom and shove my duffle bag that was full of hopes back under the bed, she’s already gone.

Maggie Gizmodo is sitting on the edge of the couch. She rocks as her fingers rub back and forth absently at the worn corner of the blanket she always keeps close.

Her mind has retreated to the safety of wherever it goes when she can’t handle the life all around her.

When it becomes sick.

And when I feel most alone.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Hendrix

It’s massive.

Jase’s house, that is. Although the thought and the term conjure up a strong visual of his erection in Vegas.

Yeah. Sue me for thinking it but a girl has to fixate on something when her life has been put in a blender and turned on, and to my own detriment, which is what first came to mind.

I shake my head and chuckle at how stupid my thoughts are, especially when I’m standing in a backyard situated on the edge of a canyon. Jase’s house is nestled in the Hollywood Hills overlooking Santa Monica with hints of the ocean in the distance.

The house itself is big and bold and overwhelming. It’s concrete walls with curved edges and travertine floors that could be so very cold but somehow feel warm and welcoming. The bottom floor feels open and flowy with one end of the house leading down a hall toward where there’s a recording studio. The upstairs has one wing with a primary suite that’s separated from the other side by a loft of sorts. That space holds all kinds of BENT accolades and other rock memorabilia, and on the other side of it, where I’m staying, has a couple of en-suite bedrooms.

To be honest, I feel like an impostor living in an extravagant resort. I have a closet full of new clothes that don’t feel like they’re mine regardless of how many times I see them hanging there, color coordinated, and beside a binder from the stylist of how I can use each item.

Then there’s all this space and comfort. The peace and quiet and the time to just sit without the bakery downstairs calling to me to come work.

And when Jase is here, regardless of how many times he tells me to make myself at home, I feel like I’m invading his space and privacy. So it’s times like right now when he ventures into the city to do whatever he does, that I feel like I can explore.

But I do know what he does, because the past two days he’s made sure to find me before he leaves to give me a detailed explanation of where he’s going and when he’ll be back. The studio. A stop at Nathaniel’s office. Then back to the studio before he heads home. For a man who has a reputation that he cares about no one, I’m beginning to think whoever started that rumor has never really met the real Jase Gizmodo.

Or maybe he doesn’t want them to.