Right Kind of Wrong(49)

I’m also a little afraid, for Jack, but I’m going to focus on the rage. Let it fester until Jack returns and I unleash my wrath.

I pause for a moment and frown.

Jack might have been right about my violent tendencies. I am rather quick to fury. But that’s neither here nor there. Focus on the anger, Jenna. A boy just stole your car while you were busy smelling his sheets. So really, this is your fault for being so pathetic that a guy’s bedding can completely undo you.

Goddammit, now I’m angry with myself.

Redirect, redirect.

Jack. I’m mad at Jack.

You’re also worried about him.

Shut up, you pathetic bed-sniffer.

And… that’s how the next twenty minutes go; with me scolding myself like a truly certifiable woman of wrath. But Jack still doesn’t return. I take a shower, more to clam my nerves than anything else, and wrap myself in a towel only to remember that all my luggage is locked away in my stolen vehicle. Fantastic.

I look at my discarded shirt and leggings and make a sour face. Putting dirty clothes on after I’ve scrubbed my body? In the words of Lilly Oliver, ick.

Padding my bare feet back into Jack’s bedroom, I start riffling through his drawers like a wet raccoon, searching for something that can pass as pajamas. I try on four pairs of basketball shorts and two shirts before finding items small enough to fit me without being obscene.

I’m not a small person—not at all. I’m average height, average weight. It’s just that Jack’s a giant who, apparently, wears size 100 in everything. Twisting the shirt around my middle so it hangs properly, I absently inhale and smile when I catch Jack’s scent.

What? No. Don’t smile about that, you idiot.

I unclench my fists from his shirt and smooth out the wrinkles I created clutching it to my nose. I’m not like a wet raccoon at all. I’m worse. Raccoons would be ashamed of me.

My inner dialogue—I’ve just accepted that I’m certifiable, at this point—comes to a halt when I hear an engine in the front yard. My first instinct is to run outside and smack him—you know, violent tendencies and all—but I regain my composure and choose a more mature tactic.

I stand perfectly still in the dark living room and wait for him with a scowl.

Through the window, where the yellow curtain didn’t fall back completely, I watch his dark figure stumble out of the car and slowly climb the steps all hunched over. What did he do, go get drunk? Awesome.

I cross my arms, scowl still poised to kill, and wait as he opens the front door and quietly steps inside. He flicks on the living room light and I ready myself for the shit storm I’m about to rain all over his ass. But my words, my anger, my bitter intentions fall away the instant I see his face.

“Jack.” It’s more a gasp than a word as it leaves my mouth and finds his ears.

He pulls his eyes from his hand, bloody and torn, and sets them on me, just now noticing I’m in the room.

“Jenna. What the hell?” Several emotions cross his eyes. Anger. Fear. Relief. Anger.

I pull a face. “Don’t ‘what the hell’ me. You’re the one who took my car and drove off into the night.”

He screws his face up. “So you waited up to yell at me?”

“Well…” I pause. Is that why I waited up? Well, crap. “Yeah,” I finally say, not particularly proud of my answer.

“Typical,” he mutters. “Listen. I’m not in the mood to bicker with you right now so if you don’t mind rescheduling this bitch-out for tomorrow, that would be great. Thanks.”

He marches past me and down the hall. That’s when I see the blood running down his back from a large gash between his shoulder blades and my heart stops.

“Jack?” I say, staring with wide eyes. “What’s wrong with your back?”

He looks over his shoulder and frowns. “Oh. That.” Turning back around, he continues striding down the hallway. “Knife wound.”





14


Jack


In a perfect world, Jenna would shrug the whole thing off and go back to bed without asking any questions. My world is the opposite of perfect.

“Knife wound?” Her voice is surprisingly steady for the amount of blood she’s probably still gawking at as she follows me into the bathroom.

“Yeah.” I avoid her eyes as I pull off my wrecked shirt and toss it in the trash.

“You got stabbed?” She circles around me, searching for my eyes as I concentrate on anything but the horror that’s surely on her face.

“It’s more like a slice.” Stretching my neck, I turn on the sink and pull out some bandages and first-aid supplies from the medicine cabinet.

Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time I’ve walked into this bathroom covered in blood. Hopefully it will be the last, though.