Page 68 of Full Tilt
Jenna’s sofa bed is the modern world’s answer to medieval torture; I’m convinced of it.
And speaking of medieval, so is her skillet. I’ve wasted three pancakes since the nonstick is basically nonexistent.
This girl has zero interest in domestic tasks, and that was only evidenced further when I snuck out of her bedroom after she immediately fell asleep and figured out that the sofa actually doubled as a bed, only to find a red thong shoved down the back of one of the cushions.
That’s … not how I pictured seeing Jenna’s underwear again, although at least they were clean.
When I finally have four passable pancakes and a partially crystallized tube of maple syrup, I snag the two mugs of black coffee I brewed a few minutes earlier and head for Jenna’s bedroom door.
It’s still closed with no sign of movement on the other side.
Depressing the handle with my elbow since I don’t have any free hands, I’m surprised to find Jenna sitting up in bed, scrolling on her phone.
She’s still dressed in the white Blades T-shirt I handed to her last night. The partially ripped collar hangs over one of her shoulders, and her hair is a disheveled mess. She hasn’t bothered to remove the makeup she was wearing last night, and I’m thankful that my hands are full right now, or I’d be tempted to wipe the black mascara smeared under her left eye.
I’ll be completely honest; I can count on a single hand the number of times I’ve been scared in my life. Once when I was eleven, and a group of friends and I decided to play a game of chicken with cars on our street. Another time when I went cliff diving with the same group of friends a couple of years later on a school trip. The final time was when my dad kicked me out of his apartment and I realized that I was, in fact, alone in the world.
Last night though? I think that was the first time I was genuinely scared on behalf of someone else. Sure, Mom has had her fair share of asshole boyfriends, who I wanted to beat to a pulp when they broke her heart or left her for another woman. But Ethan? He was another brand of dangerous, and Jenna was at the top of his hit list. When I pulled back her duvet and helped her into bed, I could tell she was more sober than when she’d walked out of the elevator, pinned in that sick bastard’s grasp. But that was only because she’d just had the wake-up call of her life. I’m painfully aware—unfortunately for me—that Jenna isn’t shy to go home with guys, and honestly, when I was mad at her in the past, it wasn’t because I was judging her choices. She has every right to do what she wants. With whom she wants to do it.
It just sucks to think of her willingly giving herself to someone other than me, and that’s a bittersweet pill to swallow.
Last night was anything but consensual though, and if I hadn’t showed up at her apartment and waited for her to comehome when she didn’t answer the door, then … I don’t even want to think about what could’ve happened to her.
And the really fucking weird thing about all of this? When my knuckles connected with Ethan’s nose, all I could see was her goddamn brother and his face in the final second before I punched him.
In that moment, when Holt had fallen back into the table behind him, I knew I’d overstepped, even if I didn’t—and wouldn’t—admit it to myself. Holt had shown no sign of assaulting me, and he had every right to defend his sister when I gave her shit and told her she looked like it too.
At the time, it felt like the most important hit of my life—defending my honor and ego against a girl who’d humiliated me and told all her fucking friends how she blew off my advances.
That punch had been anythingbutsignificant, along with the words that left my mouth that night.
To be honest, none of my punches before last night had really carried any meaning. They were superficial and a projection of the man I—and the rest of the universe—is determined to see.
“Are you going to stand in the doorway all day and stare at me, or actually hand over those pancakes?”
Jenna sets her phone down on the white duvet, and she sits up taller in bed, resting her head against the dark green headboard behind her.
I begin walking toward her, smiling the whole way over to her bedside. “Generally speaking, people are a little more grateful when someone brings them breakfast in bed.”
As I set the plate of pancakes in front of her, along with a cup of coffee on her nightstand, she looks up at me with her blue eyes and takes the maple syrup from my hand.
“Did you … sleep in my bed last night?”
I’m wearing only my black jeans and nothing on top, and I’m sure she can see my skin as it pebbles at the thought of sharing a bed with this girl.
Hate sex is one thing. Climbing under her duvet and spending the night is an entirely different concept. Something I never ever do.
“You mean, did we fuck?” I ask, taking a seat at the end of her bed. “My name isn’t Ethan.”
Jenna drops her eyes to the pancakes in her lap, shame coloring her features.
Yeah, I don’t fucking like that.
“Hey …” I reach across and hook my pointer finger under her chin. Her glassy eyes connect with mine. “You’d best not be thinking what I think you are right now.”
“Are you trying to control my thoughts now as well, Tommy?” Jenna’s voice doesn’t match her words. It bears no malice or resentment, only uncertainty and a vulnerability, which makes me even more thankful that I waited for her to return home last night.
“Don’t be a fucking brat, Hellion.” I shake my head at her, lips curling into a cocky grin. “You’re hungover to shit and wasting four perfectly good pancakes I just had to fight with your crappy skillet to make. You’re in no position to give me back talk.”
