Stay(77)

“I do.” He squeezed my hand back. “My mom was sixteen when she had me,” he started. “In the beginning she tried. She married my biological father when she turned eighteen. I remember living in this shit-hole of an apartment with them. My mom used to tell me that we were happy back then, but it was never true. Dad drank and Mom smoked, and she didn’t limit herself to cigarettes. They fought, and the fights got physical. When my mom wasn’t around to beat up, my dad took out his anger on me. I was in first grade when child services got involved.

“My parents got divorced, and that was the last I ever saw of my dad. My mom became depressed and started doing more drugs and got herself arrested. That didn’t go too well for me, as you could have guessed, so I got taken away. I was in and out of foster homes for a year before my grandma, my Mom’s mom, legally adopted me. Like mother like daughter. She still smoked and drank and life was hell. She’d blow her money on drugs and booze and forget to buy me food. And clothes. And toys—forget it. I didn’t have anything the other kids in school had.”

He stopped and took a breath, his dark eyes fixed on the ceiling above us. “But I knew how to mix cocktails,” he said with a forced laugh. He shook his head, and I noticed his eyes were glossy. “I still don’t think she ever met Nate. It was one of those friend-of-a-friend kinds of deals. When I was twelve, she sold me to him.”

My chest tightened, but it wasn’t from being ill. I clenched my jaw and braced myself for the rest of Jackson’s story.

“Nate used me for a while, but the clients interested in males like them young. I was too old already,” he spat, anger and disgust heavy on his voice. “So he put me to work in other ways. It was simple stuff at first, like cleaning and yard work. When I looked old enough, he made me work in the club, mixing drinks, serving food, like I do now. I guess I was helpful enough to keep around, since I’m still here.”

His words cut into the air and hung there, the tragedy of it all weighing down on us. I opened my mouth but was at a loss for words. Even ‘I’m sorry’ didn’t seem to cut it. I wanted to hug him, embrace him, comfort him like he had comforted me. Just the thought of that much physical contact made me nervous.

I pulled my fingers out of his and pushed my hand across the pillow until it rested on his bicep. He hesitated for just a moment then put his hand on my arm. He took in a deep breath and sighed. I traced my fingers up his arm, running them over the bullet wound.#p#分页标题#e#

Everything I had felt that day, the day I thought Jackson had been murdered, ran through me. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and my heart swelled with sadness then relief. I moved the pillow that divided the bed in half and wrapped my arms around Jackson, pressing my face into his muscular chest. He held his arms out, unsure for a few seconds before pulling me into an embrace. He rested the side of his face against my hair and let out a heavy sigh.

So many things rushed through me in that moment. I was aware of every physical sensation: my breasts crushing against his chest, the pounding of both our hearts, the rise and fall of his breathing, the way our legs touched. He had one hand on the back of my shoulders and the other tightly secured around my waist. His biceps were stiff as he clung onto me, pulling me in as if I was the only thing keeping him together.

Feeling the exact same way, I closed my eyes and relaxed. Being physically close to Jackson was comforting. I felt safe wrapped in his arms.

I sat up so I could look into his eyes. I gave him a crooked smile and pushed his hair back, letting my fingers run through its length. He met my gaze, his eyes holding back a terrified desperation. I took a breath and moved my hand to his left arm. Slowly, I pushed up the sleeve. A thin scar ran down his bicep. A small, slightly sunken circle of pink skin was in the middle. I carefully touched the bullet wound. I swallowed hard, biting back tears.

Then it hit me just how much I cared about Jackson. I blinked, causing the salty water to spill down my cheeks. Jackson leaned forward and gently wiped them away.

“Don’t cry, Addie,” he whispered, looking like he was fighting back his own emotions.

The gentleness in his voice only made it worse. I shook my head and closed my eyes, tears streaming down my cheeks.

He gently wiped them away. “It’s okay,” he soothed. “Somehow, it’ll be okay.”

I nodded and suppressed a cough, my body going rigid as I did so. Jackson sat up, resituating my pillow so I could lay down.

“Here,” he said and handed me the box of tissues and the water bottle.