Page 20 of Bulletproof Love

“What happened? You only craft when you’re ready to commit murder.”

I rummage through the open bin next to me, tossing random bits of ribbon and string onto the floor. A creak from behind makes me turn to find Jasper slowly rolling toward the door. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Nowhere. Just, uh, saying hi to my good buddy Blake.” He lets out a nervous laugh while fidgeting with the ski mask covering his face.

“Good, I have these metal studs somewhere that would be perfect.” My hands shake slightly as I dig deeper, scattering more supplies.

Blake grabs one of the kittens, stopping her from spreading even more rhinestones around the cluttered floor. “Maybe we should get ready for dinner?”

“I’m almost done.” The words snap like a rubber band. My fingers press another rhinestone into place so hard there will definitely be an indent in his forehead.

Deep breaths.

It’s Jasper and his presence. I should have crafted in peace and solitude instead of trying to torture him via hot glue gun.

I step back to examine my masterpiece and freeze. There, right in the center of his forehead, a crooked heart made of metal studs catches the light, surrounded by a scattering of broken rhinestones and splattered paint. A snort escapes before I can stop it. I double over, wiping tears from the corner of my eye.

“I swear I didn’t do anything,” Jasper mutters to Blake.

“Falin, sweetie… are you okay?” Blake places a comforting hand on my shoulder and I finally meet her gaze.

“Honestly… no.” I gesture to Jasper’s abomination of a mask covered in metal studs, rhinestones, and white fabric paint. “But this helps.”

“Glad I could be of service?” he says, voice lilting up like it’s a question. “I’m scared to look, but I should probably go put something on these hot glue welts. Blake, you have anything?”

“I think so. Let’s go check the bathroom,” Blake says.

Jasper eyes me tentatively while slowly raising himself from the chair. Am I really that scary that this giant grown man is afraid to get up? I mean, yes, I did threaten his manhood multiple times today. And yes, I scalded him with hot glue. And maybe I kind of, sort of, enjoyed it. But I’m not a monster.

“Go ahead,” I say, plopping on the edge of my bed. He jumps up and leaves the room before I even get the words out. Blake lingers for a moment, nibbling her lower lip. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“Okay. But this,” she waves at the craft explosion, “we’ll discuss later.”

She cradles Mayhem to her chest and backs out of my room slowly, leaving me sitting in a mess of glittery shame.

As I pick up the remains of my meltdown, my mind replays the afternoon at the bar. Jasper stopping me from hooking up with Jake. As frustrated as I am, I didn’t hate the way his voice dripped with dominance. I don’t see that in him often. Not since Blake’s birthday, when he stepped up to Ian. What ever happened to that guy? That night is fuzzy, but I remember how Jasper pressed me up against the side of our Uber, trapping me with his hard body. He wrapped my hair around his fist, tipping my face up to meet his lips.

Holy shit, I’m wet. Wet and thinking of Jasper.

Huffing, I slam the lid on the craft bin and shove it back under my bed. Time to get cleaned up for a night out, away from him.

CHAPTEREIGHT

JASPER

DoI want to leave Falin in the state she’s in? No, not at all. Especially not to freeze my jewels off in Brooklyn. But Blake’s right. We can’t put all our eggs in one basket. If this New Year’s party is a bust, putting all our eggs in that basket will leave us fucked.

I’m waiting outside for Damon to finish saying goodbye to Blake. It’s been five minutes already and I’m sure it’ll be five more. The cold breeze against my face helps to relieve the sting from where Falin burned me. Who knew a goddamn hot glue gun could get that hot? Certainly not me. I think the craftiest I’ve ever gotten was when I made a laughable phallic vase for my mom in high school ceramics class.

As I lean against the brick wall, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Curious, I pull it out, spotting a notification from Telegram.

You still want to meet up? I’ve got pinks.

It’s the same guy I was supposed to meet the other night. I pound my fist against the wall to keep myself from cursing in front of an old lady walking by. Once she passes, I push off from the wall and pace a few steps. It’s been a couple days, and the worst of it has subsided. The shakes, the nausea, the skin crawling edge. But if anything, the craving to be numb has grown. I don’t like feeling this raw. Like every word said, every second of me being powerless to help, burrows into my skin like a splinter that I can’t pull free.

Fuck it.

I type out a quick response, telling him to meet me on the corner near the deli in ten minutes. Then I text Damon.

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