All these years I’ve thought that keeping the worst to myself would be the best way to preserve the relationships with those around me. But has it worked? I can feel the unspoken tension between the guys and I. Plus I fucking well know what my inability to share has done to Jane.
I’m living a lie.
I stormed over to her house that night, thinking she needed a hero: someone to fight her battles, someone to save her. But really, all she’s ever needed was support. All Jane has ever needed was a person to stand behind her and catch her when she fell, climbing out of that dark fuckin’ hole she was in.
Yet, all I’ve done to her is leave her in there on her own, and turn my back on what she needs while I try to lead the way.
I need to step back. I need to let her take the lead.
Rocco moves from the door, and returns to the bedroom. I watch him go, and laugh at how fucking odd it is to think that I need to be more like him. He’s her constant, and why? Because he offers her unconditional love and support. The total opposite to what I’ve laid on the table.
I rise, and follow him through to where Jane still lies, sound asleep. She murmurs as I slide my hands beneath her and shift her around so she lies the right way up the bed. I shirk my shorts, and slip in beside her.
My chest feels heavy, and pity settles in at the fact it took me losing a good friend to realize what has been in front of me all along.
To realize that I’m not the one who’s right here.
I never have been.
THE BED shudders with his silent sobs, and I have no idea what to do. He didn’t wake me, so do I say anything? Do I offer support, compassion, and understanding? Or do I give him his space and pretend to sleep?
Rocco clears the situation up by trotting to Malice’s side of the bed, and making snuffling sounds. I can’t see what the mutt is doing, but he’s done it enough to me that I can imagine Rocco’s licking his face. Malice tries to laugh, but his chuckle sticks in his throat, and he ends up spluttering out a cough. I take the opportunity to fake waking, and roll over to look at him.
His complexion is drained, and he lies with an arm thrown over his face. Rocco rests his big head in the crook of his armpit. Brave dog. I reach out, and rest my hand on his chest.
He stiffens, and removes the arm from his eyes. “How long have you been awake?”
“I woke up to you coughing,” I lie. “What’s the matter?” I lift myself up, and prop my head on my hand.
“I feel like such an asshole, you know?” He puts his arm over his eyes again. “The last time we talked, I punched him.”
Tigger. “You hit him?”
“Yeah, for talking to you how he did the other night when the guys were here.”
I pale at the confession. As much as I feel good knowing Malice chose to defend me, I feel twice as shit for being the reason they argued. “I’m sorry.”
Rocco moves from the bed, and chooses a safe distance in the corner of the room at the sound of my words. Old habits.
Malice drops his arm, and rolls to mirror me. “Jane, I mean it when I say I don’t want to hear that from you.”
“But if I hadn’t—”
His fingers press to my lips. “Shut it. You couldn’t have known what was going to happen. None of us could.”
“Then why are you beating yourself up over it?” I challenge.
He stares at me while the thought processes. “I guess you have a point.” Malice flops back onto the bed. “I still feel like an asshole though.”
“Look, you haven’t told me what happened, and I don’t expect you to, but I’m assuming you went out last night to help him. What do you think he made of that? I’m sure he knew how you felt.”
“I hope so.”
“Was he close with his family?” I wonder how the others got on, having to place that call.
“Yes, and no. His Mom and sister live a fair way away, so he didn’t exactly see them every week.”
“But they talked often?”
“I think so.” He sighs, and his tone drops. “I don’t know.”
“I hope Ty and Bronx are okay.” I sit up, and cross my legs.
“They’ll be okay. We’ve been through worse.”
The two guys in the picture.
We sit in amiable silence for a while, lost in our heads. Everything the guys said last night runs through my mind, and I wonder if and when I’ll ever know the full story. Do I have a right to the full story? How serious is this ‘thing’ between Malice and I?
“I’m a bounty hunter, Jane.”
It takes me a moment to register what he’s said. “A what?”
“A bounty hunter. I get paid to go out, and bring in people who owe money, or need to face the consequences—that kind of thing.”