He rubs a hand over his mouth. “You’re safe, I promise. And my mom and Samson are safe too. I know you have a ton of questions and I want to answer them—I really do. I just… I need to figure some stuff out tonight and then you and I can talk in the morning.”
I purse my lips. “You think I’m going to be able to sleep with all this flying around my head?”
He takes my face in his hands—an act he’s only done a few times before—and looks deep into my eyes. “I think you need to trust me.” He searches my face and I suddenly want to fall into him and tuck myself in his warmth where everything is familiar and sure; where nothing can hurt us. “I would never let anything happen to you.”
I swallow heavily and slowly pull out of his hands. “It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s you, wanting to run off in the middle of the night to visit friends. You’re not telling me the whole truth.”
“You’re right.” He looks at me sternly. “I’m not.”
Lilly suddenly returns to the kitchen, still muttering about Samson, and Jack and I lean away from one another.
“I’m sleepy,” she says with a yawn.
Unlike her lying little boy’s, Lilly’s yawn is authentic and reminds me that this poor woman probably has a real life to attend to in the morning and my penchant for late-night whiskey should probably come to a close.
I quickly finish my drink. “Thanks, Mrs. Oliver.”
“Call me Lilly,” she reminds me then looks at Jack. “Are you two sleeping in your room tonight or should I…”
She trails off, probably in the hope that one of us will jump right in and prevent any kind of uncomfortable silence from falling over the room like a wet blanket, but alas we do not, so the three of us stand in the soggy awkwardness for a good three seconds before Jack finally says, “Jenna can sleep in my room. I’ll take whatever drool-free couch you have left.”
Lilly brandishes a smile as fake as Jack’s recent yawn. “Perfect. I’ll get some fresh sheets and towels.”
Ten minutes later, I’m ready for bed. Not wanting to haul in all my luggage, I decide to sleep in the long T-shirt I have on over my leggings. Tomorrow, in the light of day when I’m feeling rested and cheerier, I’ll unload some belongings and shower and all that. But tonight, I just want to crash.
“We’ll talk in the morning. I promise. Night,” Jack says halfheartedly from his bedroom door after I’m all snuggled into his bed.
“Night,” I say.
He shuts the door behind him. The latch makes a loud click as it closes and the sound echoes in my ears. I don’t know how he expects me to wait until morning to get some answers from him about everything I’ve seen and heard tonight. I’m not a patient person and he knows it.
A nagging feeling scratches away at me but I can’t put a finger on it. Something about tonight. Something about Jack.
I burrow into the clean navy sheets of Jack’s bed and inhale. It doesn’t smell like him, which disappoints me in a way I’d rather not explore, but the room itself feels like him. Not just the him that currently lives in Arizona, or the dark him that used to live here, but a combination of the two.
A helmet propped on the simple dresser reminds me that Jack is a motorcycle guy. Whenever I see him on his bike back in Arizona, it always seems strange to me—like he’s pretending to be a bad boy—because his personality is always so light and upbeat. But staring at the black helmet in the room, I realize the tortured soul I’ve seen glimpses of these past few days is the real Jack—or at least the Jack he’s trying to outrun. My stomach twists, once again unsure how to feel about this other Jack. But then again, it would just be weird to see Jack driving anything other than a motorcycle. Even these last few days, it’s been bizarre seeing him drive my car.
The nagging feeling claws at me again and breaks the surface. I sit straight up. My car! Jack drove us here tonight but never gave me back my keys. And when I said no to him borrowing my car he hardly put up a fight, which is so not like him and—
I hear an engine come to life outside and my heart beats almost as fast as my legs jump from the bed and carry me down the hall.
Son of a bitch.
If he took my car, I’m going to be so pissed.
Reaching the living room, I sweep back the yellow curtains on the front window just in time to see the taillights of my little red Charger fade into the night as Jack speeds away from the house.
I drop the curtain with a muttered curse and spin around to glower at the living room furniture.
Well it’s official. I’m pissed.