Bad Wolf(23)

The ceiling has a long crack bisecting it. I'm staring at it, sprawled on the chair, legs open, my panties on the floor.

Jarret is kneeling in front of me, looking smug.

Or satisfied?

Smug. Definitely.

"I should go." I tug down the skirt of my dress, but it's really short, not really covering me up. "Crap."

"Hey." He reaches down, adjusts himself through his pants. Is he hard again? "That was beautiful."

"I don't …  I don't know."

"Now I know how you taste." He wipes at his glistening lips and smiles.

"How then?"

"Like fucking sunlight. Like pleasure."

Why is he saying those things? Those beautiful, confusing things.

"I shouldn't have done this. I shouldn't have stayed." I bite my lip, my breath catching, a lump in my throat. Now the pleasure has ebbed, I can't imagine what got into me. "I have to go."

His smile fades. Slowly he gets up, picking up my panties. Before he gives them to me, he lifts them to his nose and inhales, eyes closing.

I snatch the lacy scrap from his hand and pull my panties on, avoiding his gaze.                       
       
           



       

I really shouldn't have stayed, shouldn't have given in. I know I'm right. I'm sure of it.

But as he limps over to the table and leans his hip against it, looking at me with those luminous wolf eyes full of shadows, I'm not sure I could have done anything else.



The apartment is cold as I walk to the door. Sweat is drying on my skin, making me shiver.

"Here," he says, and his deep voice makes me shiver for an entirely different reason. He holds my jacket out to me, and I grab it and drag it on.

I can't even remember removing it. This whole evening is like a strange dream.

"You could stay," he says quietly.

"No, I should go."

He arches a dark brow. "Kay, gimme your hand."

My hand?

He brandishes a chipped ballpoint pen. He reaches for me and scribbles something on the palm of my hand. It tickles.

"What are you doing?" I tug my hand away.

"My number. If you need help in the future."

"It wasn't help for me."

"I know. Your friend." He shrugs. "That's what you say you want."

"It is what I want. And you do it for the right price," I whisper, clenching my fingers, wondering why he'd do such an old-fashioned thing, instead of texting me his number.

"Damn right," he says cheerfully, but then his eyes meet mine, and I take a step back, because they're at odds with his expression. They aren't dark with desire anymore, but something else, something sharp, jagged, like a serrated blade.

Something like terrible pain.

Then he moves away, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets, and the moment is broken. Did I see that? Did I imagine it?

Was it real?

Does it matter?

Nothing makes sense. He doesn't make sense, and neither do my actions.

Clenching my hand with his number on it, I grab my purse and head to the door. I hesitate before I open it. He's watching me, broad shoulders slightly hunched.

"Keep that wound clean," I whisper, my voice hoarse, and I remember with sudden clarity myself screaming as I came from his mouth and fingers. Oh God. "Goodbye, Jarett."

And without waiting for an answer, I open the door and spill out into the night.





Chapter Fourteen





Jarett





Too restless to go to bed, I grab my barbells from the corner of the room and stand by the window to do some curls, get rid of some adrenaline. Up and down, my muscles burning, my heart thumping hard.

She left.

I can still taste her.

Fuck.

I close my eyes, lower the barbells. The exercise normally calms me down, but tonight it's not working. Nothing is working.

Everything's broken.

Putting the weights down on the floor, I start to pace. I wanna kick and break things, smash the furniture, shatter the windows. Shoot the lightbulbs to let in the dark.

I'm just like Seb. Yeah, I'm a fucking addict, like him, craving my fix, sinking so low I can't breathe because she was here.

And she left.

The sound of the apartment door opening registers, and heavy, unsteady footsteps lead into the apartment. The door never closes, and cursing to myself I march out of my room and predictably find it wide open, the landing outside dark and cold.

"Seb!" Shutting the door, I go looking for him, and find him in the kitchen, throwing what little is in the fridge out, onto the floor. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" he mutters, not turning around. "What's all this shit?"

I start toward him, pissed as all hell, the events of the whole goddamn evening crashing down on me, and haul him away from the damn fridge. "Where the hell were you? I looked for you everywhere at the club."

"Oh, so sorry, didn't know you were my fucking nanny now." He turns, shoves down his pants, showing me his skinny, ugly ass. "Here, change my diaper before I take a shit on the kitchen floor. Hurry."

I look away, disgusted. "Goddammit, Seb. Pull your fucking pants up and go to bed."

"Nah." He pulls his pants up, and they hang loose around his hips. He's lost too much weight, I think, my anger draining away. "Night ain't over. Gonna party some more before I'm dead."

A shiver racks me. "Don't say that."

"Or what?" He approaches me, eyes narrowed. He likes looming over me, though he's thin like a scarecrow. "Or what, you'll run to Mommy?"

"Fuck off."

He shoves me again, and that does it. I lunge at him, close my hands around his neck, and in my head, I'm back in a dirty group home with the stench of old sweat and urine. Back in time, where madness was the only sane way to go.                       
       
           



       

But then something shiny flashes at the edge of my vision, and a cold edge presses into the side of my neck.

A knife.

Whoa. I lift my hands off him. "Okay now. Calm down." Two knife-fights in the same evening? For chrissakes.

"Now you want me to calm down? Then maybe you should watch your fucking mouth. Your fucking actions." He presses the blade deeper, and it stings as it parts my skin. "Remember I'm the one in charge, not you, you son of a bitch."

Warm blood trickles down my neck. My heart is racing. "Seb-"

"I just need some money. Gimme your wallet."

"You need to lay off the drugs. That's what you fucking need to do."

His mouth turns into a flat line. "Your wallet."

I let out a shaky breath, angry at myself for not seeing this coming. I never do. "It's in my back pocket." I hiss when the knife moves. "Jesus."

He doesn't seem to hear me. He fumbles at my back pocket with his free hand, yanking my wallet out. He opens it one-handed, and grabs the bills, letting my wallet fall to the floor.

Total déjà vu.

"Don't do this," I say quietly, not to set him off. After all, the blade is still pressing into my skin, the cut burning like a line of fire. "Don't."

"I thought you didn't care about money," he mutters, taking his eyes off the cash to shoot me a sly look. "Remember what you told me the other day? ‘You got money, dude!'" he mimics my words, but in a high, girly voice. "‘You get paid well.'"

Fuck him. "Fucking drugs are killing you. Get out of the gang, Seb. Leave that life behind, go visit your mom-"

He kicks at me, and damn if he doesn't find my bad leg again. Or maybe it's on purpose, I think, gritting my teeth against the dark tide of pain rolling up my leg, praying it won't turn again into that red haze.

"I told you not to talk to me about my mom. She's not your mom, Jarett, no matter what you think." He leans in, slides the knife down to my throat, and I swallow hard against the blade. "Never was."

No argument there. I reach up and grab his wrist, even as the knife pushes on my windpipe. "Don't go, don't do this. Come on, just-"

He yanks his arm free of my hold and staggers out, pushing the knife back into his belt. By the time I gather my wits and start moving, he's already inside the elevator, riding down.

I brace my arm on the doorframe, feeling so damn defeated. I press a hand to the cut on my neck. "How the fuck am I supposed to look after you, brother, if you never listen?" I whisper. "How am I supposed to help you? And what will I tell your mom?"



"How is she today?" I ask the receptionist, Macy. She's taken a liking to me and lets me in at weird times, which works, as I keep weird hours.

"Oh you know, the usual." She gives me a quick smile. Lately I've noticed her cheeks turn pink when she talks to me. "She had a couple of bad days. Seemed more focused today, though."

"Thanks." That's good news, right? "I'll just pop in and say hi."

"Go ahead," she says, smiling. "Just don't be long. You're way past visiting hours."

"I know. Thanks."

"What happened to your face?" Still giving me looks from under lowered lashes.