Page 21 of Jet

“You okay, Quinn?” I want to be honest and tell him no, but then again I’d need to explain.

“I started with a migraine and I left my medicine at home. I should be fine in a minute or two.” That’s a lie. Sometimes they are debilitating and I need to lie down.

I’m nauseous when my door opens and Jet reaches inside. “What are you doing?” I slap at his hands as he unbuckles my seatbelt.

“You need me, so I’m driving you home so you can take your medicine. I’m fine, Quinn. Really.” He sighs and it sounds so damn loud. “Lucas didn’t want me to have my car because he was afraid I’d try to find that man at the shoot. End of.” I’m in too much pain to fight him, so when he slides his arm under and lifts me, I lean against him. Then everything turns to black.

13

JET

After she passed out,I buckled her in and drove her home. I made sure to unlock her door and then came back to carry her into her bedroom. Once she was on the bed, I closed all the shades so it was dark as night. I placed a cool cloth over her eyes, went to the fridge and grabbed water and her pills. Now, I’m waiting for her to wake.

Under different circumstances, I’d be freaking out, but my mom used to have terrible migraines and I took care of her. So, it’s not my first rodeo. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to bring her home. I didn’t want her driving and I’m really fine.

Quinn’s not my mother.

I’m confused, pissed, and anxious. I wanted to kill that fucker where he stood and I might have if it hadn’t been for my bandmates. The problem with men like him is they’re as lethal as cancer. They might lay dormant for years and when you least expect it they come back with a fucking vengeance. I’d bet my life that it’s only the calm before the storm.

She stirs when I take off her shoes. Damn, I wanted her to rest.

She’s not my mother.

Pulling off the cloth, she tries opening her eyes. “Hey, leave it on. I’ve got your meds and some water. Can you sit up a little?”

“Jet, I think s-so.” I grab the pill that I placed on the table and open the water bottle. Her attempt at sitting up is a fail.

“Here, let me help.” Very gently I slide my hand behind her back, lifting her enough to take a drink of water. Then I place the pill in her hand. “It’s your Imitrex that was on the kitchen counter.” With a shaky hand, she places it in her mouth, then takes a sip of water. Slowly, I rest her head back on the pillow, which I know feels hard as a rock. With a sigh, she falls back to sleep.

No way am I leaving until she’s capable of being on her own. Migraines are debilitating. It might be days before she feels like herself again.

She’s not my mother.

This is the first migraine she’s had since I’ve known her. I’m feeling guilty since I know for a fact that stress can trigger them. I’ve been the number one cause of her stress for quite some time now. That’s got to end right here and now. She doesn’t deserve my wrath when she’s been nothing but nice. Which is the problem. Quinn is everything I’m not. Knowledgeable, authentic, and decisive. I have an eighth-grade education and I’ve been hiding and lying my whole life.

When her cloth slips from her forehead, I grab it and walk into the bathroom. Running it under the cold water, I squeeze the excess water and then return to the bedroom. A part of me wants to relive the days on Palmer Street while I’m doing this, but I won’t let it. I’m not in Connecticut anymore. I live in New York and I’m a member ofThe Sinful Seven. I repeat this mantra as I once again place it on her forehead.

Not my mother.

There’s a comfortable chair in the corner of the room, so I sit down and pull out my phone. I see a few messages from Lucas and I ignore them. I hate that I’m pissed at myself for doing the right thing. But then another part of me is angry because what if it had been the only opportunity I ever had to kill that motherfucker. After what he’s done, he should be dead. By my hand.

“Jet—” In three long strides I’m sitting on the edge of Quinn’s bed.

Not my mother.

“How ya feeling?” With the cloth still in place, she reaches out to me.

“A little better. Thirsty.” I reach over and hand her the bottle. I’m not sure if she needs help when she leans on a trembling elbow, spilling some as her cloth falls off.

“Here, let me help.” Standing up, I slip my arm behind her back and let her lean against me. A few more sips and she’s ready to lie down again. She’s really weak and that bothers me.

Not my mother!

Once she’s back on the pillow, I go into the bathroom to grab a dry towel. When I return she’s sleeping again. Dammit. I don’t want her to stay in wet clothes. Should I risk undressing her, or leave her like that?

Quinn decides for me when she suddenly sits up and vomits all over herself and the bedding. Now I have no choice.

“Oh no.” When she tries getting out of bed I make a decision.

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