Page 35 of The Fix

Tears threaten to build when I think about the younger version of him and his loss and I can’t take the tightness that takes up space in my chest.

He blames himself for his dad’s death.

I fumble through unbuttoning my blouse with shaking fingers and yank it from the tuck I spent twenty minutes perfecting in the early morning light. I’m in jeans that hug my hips and a tank I thank myself for packing less than a minute later, the air chilled to my exposed skin as I scramble for the socks and sneakers.

Making it to town is not going to be easy in the snow that’s already fallen. But we’re going to need supplies before the storm hits.

“Jeffers!” I call, hoping he's not deep in sleep, my mind still partly on his morning breakdown.

Someone’s gotta help him.

The thought halts me. Wracks me right to my core.

It’s me, I’m the someone. Nobody else is here to help him.

Nibbling on my bottom lip, I shake my head.

It’s my job. It's going to have to be me.

“Jeffers!” I call again before cresting the end of the hallway and entering the living space. “You awake?”

Will he even remember this morning?

Part of me hopes that he doesn’t remember spilling his secrets to me and things can go on as normal.

But a bigger part of me really does want him to remember falling into a peaceful slumber on my shoulder.

Just so he can remember what peace feels like. That’s all.

“C’mon, we have to go into town,” I say, standing by his feet, hands on my hips. “There’s a storm coming.”

And I don’t trust you to be alone.

Not that taking a rock star to the grocery store is going to be any easier, but at least I know he’ll be alive the whole time.

He groans and throws an arm over his eyes. “Let me sleep, woman. Fuck.”

“Negative.” I ignore the way his sleep-deep voice sounds and fist the fabric over his shin to pull the comfort away. “Get up or I’ll break out the blender.”

“I share my secrets and you threaten me with blenders?” He half snarls, half chuckles, and I ignore the way my body responds. “Savage, Prune.”

Rolling my eyes, I ball the throw blanket. “So you do remember.”

“I don’t black out often. It’s called tolerance.”

“Right.” Pursing my lips, I nod more to myself than the guarded bassist who’s still hiding beneath his arm. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.”

“Then get up.”

He chuckles, the sound muffled by a grunt as he rolls to his side and hikes a leg that strains the shorts across his surprisingly toned buttock.

I flush as I scan his inked skin, my eyes wandering over his half-exposed body. Not what he needs, Anna.

“I can feel you watching me.”

Before I can retort, he’s up, shoving his hand into his hair, pushing it back from his deep brown gaze that goes wide when it lands on me. “Prune?” Toby’s jaw ticks, nostrils flare, his hand frozen in his hair.

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