Page 22 of Unleashing Chaos

“What’s the condition?”

“You watch Star Wars with us. I can’t have a girlfriend, even a fake one, who doesn’t know about Jedi mind tricks. You’ll be too susceptible to the dark side.”

I laugh and shake my head. “Okay, okay,” I say, holding my hand up in surrender. “I’ll watch Star Wars with you.” We both stand and I leave my book on the mattress, pulling a hoodie over my head.

Before we leave my room, I say, “Jace?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for including me. It means a lot.”

He gives a curt nod. “You’re welcome, Desideria.”

Besides Cannon and Jace’s constant back and forth and the references I don’t seem to understand, the movie isn’t bad. The guys make me a deal that I can choose the next movie once we’ve finished the series. What I don’t learn until later is that I have eight more movies to go. I’ve already decided that I’m picking the sappiest, most romantic movie I can find, and those two will endure my torture.

Seven

JACE

My eyes spring open as a shout pierces the quiet. I snap up in bed, straining to see what made the noise. There’s no one hiding in the corners or creeping through my closet. All I find are the remnants of a recurring nightmare floating around in my head.

I clap my mouth shut and fall back on the mattress. Laying my palms flat on the sheets, I focus on my breathing and count through each inhale and exhale.

It’s been a while since I had the dream. Through the practice of mindfulness, Dr. Holloman has helped me work through the memories that plague me. We designed a routine of healthy eating, exercise, and daily planning that helps me feel secure. He also taught me how to divert my negative energy and thoughts into my art. It took some time for the new habits to calm what sometimes feels like a constant raging storm inside me. And then I had to throw everything off balance by inviting strangers into my home.

They say you have to sacrifice for your dream, and I’m offering up my mental health to make it a reality. Not that everything is terrible with Cannon and Desi around. Living alone had a downside—the smallest sounds, like the freezer dropping a batch of ice, used to set my heart racing. I was talking to myself more than I was to actual people. Now I have two people to eat dinner and watch movies with. I didn’t realize how lonely I was until I wasn’t anymore.

I turn to my side and tuck my comforter under my arm. Staring out the window, I watch as the sun peeks over the rooftops. The sky glows in shades of orange and pink. Clouds streak through the colors, and I can’t help feeling like they represent me—thousands of shades of gray in a world alive with vibrant colors. I’ve existed in monochrome for so long, playing it safe in the neutral tones. That is, until recently.

My attention drifts to the window directly across from mine. Desi lies curled on her side, her fingers gripping the edge of her blanket. I have a bad habit of letting my eyes wander in her direction. I should turn over and let her have her privacy, but she makes it too easy to admire her while she’s sleeping. She only pulls her curtains closed when she’s dressing. As soon as she’s ready to crawl into bed, she opens them again. I’m always up for the day before her, and I wonder if she takes the same precautions in the morning. No doubt her freckled skin would look amazing in this light. And her hair . . . those wild red waves would look like fire. I bet her skin is soft and warm when she wakes up. It would be tempting to glide my hand under those blankets and find out if I were lying next to her. I could wake her up with a kiss on her shoulder, her neck, her lips. She seems like the type of woman who would moan her consent. But I’d want to hear the words, just a quiet touch me, and my hands would be all over her.

My hand slides down my stomach until my fingers graze my hard cock through my underwear. I press my hips forward into my palm, and an image of Desi’s elegant fingers wrapping around me plays in my head.

I jerk my hand back and shake my head. No! I’m not doing this. Desi is my roommate and I’m not crossing that line. A very creepy line I might add, watching her while she sleeps and jerking off. I need to let off some steam, and this is not how I’m going to do it.

Throwing the covers back, I jump out of bed and march to my bathroom. I spend less than five minutes throwing on a pair of joggers and a hoodie. After brushing my teeth and tying my running shoes, I head out.

Every morning I go for at least a two-mile run, but this morning I opt for four of my usual laps through the neighborhood to double my time out of the house. There’s no way I want to go back too soon and end up running into Desi in the kitchen still sporting a goddamn semi.

I do have to admit, though, it is a bit of a relief to know that I can still get it up like that first thing in the morning for an actual woman, and not just the idea of one. At twenty-nine, I’m in my prime. I should get it and take it whenever and however I can. It’s what most guys my age do. But after everything that happened, I have no desire to take that route again.

I’ve spent my fair share of time acting like the biggest jackass when it came to the opposite sex. I was going out with a different woman every other night, sleeping with her, and never calling her back because I was too busy on a date with the next. The carnage of broken hearts I left behind was a mess. I was careless in an effort to dull my pain. When I realized what I was doing, the guilt ate at me.

I’m better off on my own.

But this morning, seeing Desi in her bed, so peaceful, beautiful . . . it woke something up in me. I wanted to touch and be touched, to experience the high that comes with bringing someone the most blissed-out feeling.

Until I remembered that underneath that gorgeous face and fiery personality she has the capability to crush me from the inside out. And I’m not the kind of man she’s searching for. The only thing I’m committed to is my business and working through everything in my life that left me fucked up.

When I finally get back to the house, I’m a sweaty, disgusting mess, and all I need is a hot shower. I’m walking up the stairs when my phone rings. I dig it out of my pocket and when I see Matt’s name on the screen, my mood lifts. He must want to talk about the proposal I’d emailed him.

“Hey, Matt,” I answer, pulling my shirt up by the hem and wiping my face. “How’s it going?”

“Jace, I’m good. And you?”

“I’m all right, just finished up my morning run.”

“Damn, talented and in shape. Not fair,” he quips, and I just shake my head as he continues. “I wanted to see that design you talked about in your email. Can you send it over?”

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