Page 73 of Queen Of WildCards

HereIwas, so fucking close toBlackJack—

Jonah.Hisfucking name wasJonah.

Heshook his head, withdrawing already. "Justforget about it; it was a stupid idea—"

"No!"Idamn near shouted, my hands falling atop his in his lap.Iclutched them tightly, demanding he meet my gaze, holding tight until he did.Thetherapist in me cringed at this forced contact, but sometimes you couldn't put on the kid gloves, and he was a fucking criminal; not like he wasn't used to being uncomfortable. "No,I-I. . .Iwant to help.I'mjust—IguessIjust don't understand why."

Heblinked slowly, his gaze never wavering as those full lips that graced his stubbled face parted, his tongue darting out between them to wet their surface.

FuckIwanted to kiss those lips again.

Iknew how they felt against my own, butIwanted more.Iwas greedy, and maybe it was because he was the only one who didn't openly rile me up, covet me, or treat me like an object, butthis manIcould see myself with.Maybein another world, on another planet, we could have been normal together, he andI.

"It'snot a pretty story," he hedged, running a hand through his short black hair.Therewasn't much there to tousle, but his long fingers drew noticeable lines through the mop of unruly strands present and made me ache to do the same.

Ismiled at his attempt to avoid the door he'd opened himself. "AndI'ma therapist.Ananonymous, online therapist who people turn to when they can't bring themselves to face one in person.You'dbe surprised by the grizzly storiesI'veheard."

Ipulled back my hands to make things a little easier, and his eyes noted its absence with a raised brow. "Youmight wanna get comfortable, then, doc.It'sa long story."

Istretched out on his bed, belatedly realizingIwas wearing a shirt that wasn't my own, and no pants.Myfingers picked at the soft cotton, my hair falling over my shoulder asIstared down at it, unable to let go of the confusion. "Notto get sidetracked, but whose shirt is this?"

"Mine," he growled, his eyes flashing with a familiar emotion thatIwas well-versed in.

Fuck, why was that so hot?

"We'llrevisit that later,"Inearly whimpered, feeling much more exposed asIgrabbed a pillow from behind him and got comfortable at the foot of his bed, my back against the wall, legs stretched across the bed, tangled in damp sheetsIdidn't want to ask him about right now.

Iwas pretty sure he brought me here and put me in his bed, soaking wet, with no regard for anything but taking care of me, and that thought made me feel immensely fucking vulnerable.

Iwaved my arm, signaling that he should proceed, and smiled when he let out a little chuckle and settled into the pillows at the head of the bed.

"Well,Iguess to start,I'ma foster kid.Orrather,Iwas."Hishands twisted in the sheets at his side, but he gave no other indication that the topic aggravated him. "Myfather had a heavy hand, and it found my face quite often, so the state would swoop in every now and then and take me away, give him some bullshit anger management courses, and send me back.UntilIstarted running away from the foster homes.Then, he had to track me down when he needed me.

"Isay needed like it's a good thing, but it wasn't.Itnever was."

Thereit was again, that urge to reach out and grab his hand, the simple touch reassuring for most people, but not him.Myfingers twitched, and my lips twisted in a scowl—but of course he fucking noticed, and his own lips curled in a small half-smile, his brow quirked at the funny jerking my fingers were doing.

Andthen he got serious again, the momentary humor in his gaze turning hard.

"WhenIhit a certain age, he tried to sell me into the sex trade.I—"Hestumbled over his words, his memories, andIphysically ached to comfort him, but touch was my love language, not his.Ididn't know what to do, how to help.SoIjust waited.

"Iwas thirteen."

Icouldn't bite back the gasp of shock that escaped me."Fuck,Jonah.Thirteen?"

Hisnod was slow and solemn. "Yeah.ButImanaged to get out of there before anything bad happened."

Iwasn't sure whether it was appropriate to be relieved yet or not.

"Youescaped?"

Anothersubdued nod. "Fora little while, at least.Thenmy father tracked me down on the streets again, and his heavy-handedness turned into something far more sinister than a beating."Heshuddered, remembering something he didn't want to vocalize, perhaps couldn't. "Iwould have preferred the beatings."

Hisgaze turned to the window, where thick, dark curtains hid much of the room away, blocking out the sun like he feared it might burn him.Whenhe turned back, some of the shadows of his past had been subdued, but not all of them.

Afew of them still lingered in his hazel eyes.

"Touchwas kind of a sore spot for me after that period of my life, and whenImanaged to go back on the run,Iran into someoneIknew from the streets—Joker.Hekept me alive, nursed me back to health, made sureIwas safe.Andthen he taught me to survive on the streets.Bysixteen, we were thicker than thieves—and we were that, too.Butthough he mended my body, nobody could mend my soul, erase the trauma.Icouldn't seem to shove the memories back long enough to say two words, soIjust stopped talking somewhere along the road."

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