Page 94 of The Last Good Man

The water drips for a few seconds before I turn it off, grab a towel, and slowly start moving it across my skin.

Twenty-four years old? Why? I know men in their early twenties. Family members. None of them look like him. None of them talk like him. None of them approach women like him.

Their girlfriends are women who look like girls.

They hold hands,take walks, go to the mall, and like to party together. Even when they get jobs, pay bills, do chores, and live together, they still look like flower-power children.

Adults recognize their ability to navigate life, but they’re all still very much kids. At least in my family, they are.

But Jax…

Ugh.

He fucks with me too much.

He brought me exactly where he wanted me to be, as if I was younger than him.

Sunk in thought, I slip my fluffy robe on and wrap it around me.

Why couldn’t Thomas be more driven like Jax? And the men before him?

Why have those men always tossed a little something in my direction, confusing me more than anything else before pulling away?

I’ve noticed this type of behaviorover and over again, and Aretha, sweet Aretha, has always said that’s how mature men play the field.

They fish in muddy waters, hiding behind their busy lives, always concealing some dirty secret.

Families, exes, or other girlfriends.

You never know with them, and we’ve both agreed on that, but focusing on people who are ten years younger has never been the topic of our conversations.

It made no sense.

I don’t have much to talk about with these men, and most of them are not even wired to notice me.

Jax London must be an exception, which makes somethingalready complicatedeven more complicated.

Who knows why he is so fascinated with me? And why in the world have I agreed to continue to talk to him?

The place is so quiet that I’m convinced he’s left.

Sucking in a long breath, I stroll to the bedroom.

The fire vigorously wraps around the logs as I enter the room. Only a few lit candles sit on the mantelpiece.

Next to the window, sprawled on the velvet sofa, his arm folded under his head, his eyes pinned on the wet view, and a lit cigarette dangling from his hand lies Jax London.

The cold air swishes through the open window, bringing in more smoke.

I take the cigarette crushed against the tray and toss it in the garbage.

I’ll need to settle this with Olivia tomorrow morning and maybe pay an extra fee for deep cleaning.

We have both misbehaved when it came to smoking.

The difference was that I wasn’t supposed to light or share one withhim.

The good he did to me.

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