Page 29 of What We Broke

Unable to stand there any longer, I side step the chair, tuck it in, and turn to walk to the front of the apartment.

As I’m about to open the door, I remember one last thing. I glance over my shoulder to find Deacon hot on my heels. Just as I open my mouth to ask, he nods. “Come back to work when you can.”

These people are too good to me.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

By the time I’m in the car, I’ve put the address Gio sent through into my GPS and am speeding to get there. It’s counterproductive and completely unhelpful, but I need to see him in the flesh.

When I arrive, Gio is waiting for me, leaning against his car, sucking on a cigarette for dear life.

“I thought you quit,” I say to him.

“He makes me want to do drugs,” he says matter-of-factly. “This is better than that.”

Snatching the stick off him, I take a drag and try to wrap my head around the fact that I am standing outside a police station, when it dawns on me. The saddest chuckle leaves my mouth. “I’m guessing you were his one phone call?”

CHAPTERSIX

leo

THEN

“I can’t believeyou’re cleaning up,” Jesse says.

We’ve moved past the first kiss and, much to his dismay, I’m now washing dishes in his sink.

“You just made a complete stranger a midnight breakfast, it’s the least I can do.” I place the last plate on the stainless steel rack and switch off the water. My eyes search the counters and, as if he can read my mind, Jesse offers me a dish towel.

“Thank you,” I say with a smile, taking it out of his hand.

“Can I at least get you something comfortable to wear?”

“I already told you,” I say. “If you want to get me into your bed, all you have to do is ask.”

“Oh, I’m going to get you into my bed alright.”

Catching me completely off guard, Jesse bends, wraps his arms around my waist, and throws me over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” I shout while laughing. “Put me down.”

He passes the living room, and I try to look over my shoulder to see where he’s taking us. I’m surprised when we walk into what I assume to be his bedroom.

He puts me down in the middle of the room and I take in the view.

It’s simple.

A king-sized bed with blue monochromatic bedding sits in between two walnut bedside tables adorned with a simple wrought iron lamp on either one.

There is a matching cube shelving unit across from the bed and a flat screen TV mounted on the wall above it.

“It’s like a man cave and a bedroom combined,” I observe.

“In case you couldn’t tell,” he says, pointing to the door. “Out there is clearly my daughter’s house and she allows me to share her space. Here”—he gestures around the room and walks toward a built-in wardrobe—“is the only thing that’s really mine.”

He pulls open the door, slides out the second drawer, grabs some clothes, and throws them on his bed.

“Wear them,” he orders.

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