JACK: Las Vegas Bad Boys(19)
I hear people screaming in one unit, and the strong scents of cat urine and cigarettes wafts down the hall. I see two men passing bags of weed to one another, and I drop my head, not wanting them to recognize me. Not here, not now.
Right now, all I care about is Tess.
Seeing her.
Making sure she’s okay.
After knocking on the door of her unit, I stuff my hands in my pockets to stop from fidgeting. I can’t think of the last time I felt so jumpy—but hell, I feel like shit for bringing Tess into my world when she so clearly told me she didn’t want me to.
“Jack,” she says, opening the door and moving to let me inside. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” She shuts the door, locks it.
She’s in sweats and a hoodie, and looks rumpled in a way that I find incredibly attractive. Most of the time Tess is trying to look put together, but here, now, I see more of who she really is. A girl, carving a life for herself.
Emmy and Claire are sitting here in this tiny studio, and a rush of embarrassment floods my veins as I think about my place, where I brought her last night. Thirty of her apartments would fit inside my ten-million-dollar loft.
Emmy jumps up from the bed. “Tess, actually, Claire and I are going to get out of your hair.”
“Don’t go. Tell me what you heard,” Tess says.
Emmy smirks, looking between Tess and me. “If Jack’s showing up at your place, I think what I read is true.”
Tess’s brows furrow, and confusion flashes over her face.
Claire stands from her chair. “You better not mess with our girl,” she says, while shooting me an evil eye.
Why does everyone think I’m gonna mess with Tess? First the guys, now these girls. Hell, since when did I get the reputation of being an asshole?
“I just can’t believe Ashley is so vindictive,” Emmy says, throwing her purse over her shoulder. “I mean, obviously she’s jealous of Tess, but who calls the paparazzi? That’s just lame.”
“You think it was Ashley?” I ask.
Claire and Emmy both snort. “Uh, you don’t?” Claire asks. “That girl is always looking for attention. Why else would the press be literally everywhere you go?”
“Your theory is pretty cold,” I tell Claire, watching as she kisses Tess goodbye.
“Well, Ashley was pretty icy,” Emmy says, shrugging. “Honestly, I never got your relationship. I always pictured you with someone warm, gentle. Someone less calculating.”
All three of us turn to look at Tess, and the innuendo is clear: Tess is all the things Ashley is not.
“Okay, well … Tess, call us later, okay? We love you.” Emmy gives her friend a hug, and then she and Claire leave.
With the door shut, I watch as Tess locks the deadbolt again. Once it’s secure, she leans against it, arms crossed. Eyes on the ground.
The Tess I’ve met—when we’ve been out socially—is bubbly, enthusiastic, and overly engaged. But the girl I see right now is withdrawn, a shell of the girl I was with last night.
She must know about the online stories.
“You okay, Tess?” I ask, not knowing if I should even be here.
As I wait for an answer I look around her place. A tiny stove and mini-fridge make up the kitchen. A desk in the corner is stacked with books, and a bedside table has a pile of magazines and notebooks. It isn’t messy, or even cramped. There’s a place for everything in the tidy room, and her bed is covered in a heap of pillows and a quilt.
“Can I get you something?” I ask. “Or would you rather I go, too?”
At that she looks up. “I don’t want you to go.”
“You saw the story?”
“No,” she says, resting her head against the door. “I don’t have a computer.”
“Oh. Right.” I run my hand over my jaw, feeling like a fucking pretentious prick. “It was online, a story about you at my house, photos of you coming back here this morning. They had your name, but the reporter said, ‘The full story on Jack Harris’s new girl is to follow.’”
“What site was it on?” she asks.
“Glamour.com.”
“Is that site popular, you think?”
“My publicist said they have like ten million visitors a month.”
Her face goes completely white. “Shit,” she whispers.
“Look, I know you said you didn’t want the press to see you, but this sort of thing always blows over. Honestly. No one will get a story on you, and no one will care in a few days.”
“Easy for you to say.” She walks over to the kitchen and fills a teakettle with water. “You want tea?”
“Uh, sure?” I can’t think of the last time I was offered a cup of tea.