Barely Breathing (The Breathing #2)(50)

"Please, Jonathan," I begged, reaching for his arm in desperation. His muscles eased up at my touch, and he slowly let the man go, backing away.

"Get in the car," Jonathan ordered gruffly. He opened the passenger door and I crawled in. He slammed it behind me, not taking his eyes off the guy, who was smoothing the crinkles out of his jacket with a malevolent grin. I watched the silent showdown as Jonathan crept around the car, prepared to attack if the stubbly faced man made a move for my door. My heart was pounding so hard, my chest was about to explode.

"If she weren't here … " Jonathan began as he opened the driver's door.

"Then we wouldn't even be talking, now would we?" the man interrupted. "Don't come back unless you're willing to back that up."

Jonathan slid in and shut the door. His eyes were hard coals, fixated on the man standing at the front of the car, who was focused on me. He moved his lips to form a kiss and then challenged Jonathan with a snarky grin. My whole body convulsed in disgust.

"Let's just go," I repeated urgently. Jonathan gripped the steering wheel so tightly his tendons stood out along his forearms. He backed out of the space with such speed I had to grab the handle above the door with both hands. The tires squealed when they made contact with the road. A cloud of dust blew up behind us as we tore out of the parking lot.

Except for my hands that were shaking on my lap, I couldn't move. A few miles down the road, Jonathan finally slowed and darted his eyes in my direction. Released from the rage that had possessed them, his dark eyes were soft again. I let out a quivering breath and blinked away the tears clouding my vision.

"I'm sorry about that," he offered softly, darting sideways glances in my direction while he drove. I stared out the window, trying not to cry. "Emma."

I slowly faced him, swallowing against the tightness in the back of my throat.

"Are you okay?"

I could only nod. His eyes searched mine. I pulled away from his probing, too vulnerable to let him see how shaken I truly was.

My mother groaned, deflecting his attention to the backseat.

"What's going on?" she mumbled, blinking around but unable to sit up.

"We're taking you home," Jonathan answered, pulling the car back onto the road.

"Jonathan?" she rasped.

"Yes."

"I called you," she whimpered. "I called you," she repeated in a slur.

"I know," he pacified, staring at the road.

I turned toward her, and she tried to focus on me.

"Emily?" she asked as if uncertain. "Oh, you're not supposed to be here." She sounded so sad, I had to turn away.

I followed Jonathan up the stairs when he carried my mother to bed. After removing her shoes and covering her with a blanket, I looked down at her calm face with a broken sigh. I left the room and collapsed on the couch in the dark living room, drained. My hands were still shaking, and my chest ached.

"You should get some sleep," Jonathan said from the opening of the room. I looked up at him, dazed.

"I don't think I could if I tried."

He came over and sat next to me on the couch. We listened to the silence, letting the stillness settle in around us. My mind searched for understanding, unable to find solace amongst my thoughts.



       
         
       
        

"I don't know what to do," I uttered in defeat. "I really wanted it to be different."

"This is my fault. I should have called her back."

I knew his need for space had triggered this catastrophe, but this was how my mother handled things when she was upset. Unfortunately, that hadn't changed as much as I'd hoped.

"It's not your fault," I assured him. I thought of my mother in her bed and wanted to believe this was just something she was going through, that she'd adjust and get over it. I wasn't certain how far hoping would get me.

"What are you thinking?" he asked when I was quiet for too long.

"What was she even doing there? That place was awful."

"I don't know," he replied, just as confused.

The night replayed itself in my head: the phone call, the sketchy bar, the confrontation with the creepiest guy on earth.

"Were you―" I began, just as Jonathan asked, "What did―"

We both stopped and he encouraged, "Go ahead."

"Were you really going to hit that guy?"

Jonathan pressed his lips together, like he was considering his words carefully. "You mean, if you hadn't stopped me?"

I nodded.

"Definitely." He answered without hesitation. My eyes widened at his bluntness. He looked down and rubbed his hands together. "It's a part of my past that I don't like to talk about." He raised his head. "But that's never happened before."