Page 34 of Won't Let Go
“Love you, punk.” I chuck his chin when he pulls back.
Hunter chuffs as if I’m making him uncomfortable and returns to his stool to munch as I finish the dishes. It shouldn’t feel so damn good that he sees me as his dad as much as I see him as my son. It’s also a little fucked up, given I’m not all that much older than him. Well, a decade, but still.
Mom puts herself to work, washing laundry and vacuuming, as I tackle everything else. Hunter pitches in, and before long, the house is cleaner than it has been in months, and it’s time for me to pick Jade up from work. Mom offers to drive Hunter back to the compound, and the day winds down to perfection once I have my woman wrapped around me on my bike, headed home for a night in, just the two of us.
12
JADE
I’m screwed.
I can’t stop thinking about the accidental conversation we had this morning about you-know-what. It doesn’t help that the house was spotless when I got home, and we cooked dinner together. Now we’re sitting in the living room, watching another movie. Josh is shirtless and wearing these ridiculously low-hanging cotton shorts. He’s also not wearing any underwear. Those hip V things are too-on-display for there to be boxers underneath. He’s also eating popcorn and licking the salt from his lips. I can’t stop sneaking peeks. His chest, those abs, and strong shoulders, and that sinful mouth that offered to do sinful things to me this morning, have me tied up in knots. I’ve never been this on edge.
My palms are sweaty.
Knees weak…
You know the Eminem song.
Only this is about Josh, not whatever he was rapping about.
My heart won’t stop pounding like a drum. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I was on the verge of a panic attack. But I’m not. For the first time in over a year, I managed to get through an entire day at work without dwelling on the past. Not once did I smell their breath or recall their vitriol. Not when all I can think about is Josh. Ever since I woke up this morning with him cupping methere, I’ve been a live wire. Skin buzzing. This funny sensation is whirling in my stomach. I can barely sit still.
Chewing my inner cheek, I face the television and try my hardest not to look at Josh, with his messy blond hair, his tattoos, or his feet, which are propped up on the coffee table, missing a pinkie nail. He lost it when Hunter dropped a dumbbell on his toe, and it never grew back.
There’s movement when he gets up, but I glue my eyeballs to John Travolta. I don’t ask him what he’s doing, as that’s none of my business, but I feel the air of him brush by when he exits the living room. My ears lock into his every move throughout the house. The creek of the floor. A cupboard opening, then closing. I sound like an insane person. All because of this morning. I’ve never had anyone offer to go down on me and sound excited to do so. Sure, men have tried to pick me up before. It happens. I have a vagina. It comes with the territory. But I’ve always shut it down, or Josh has been there to do it for me. Which is always a relief. So, what I really mean is I’ve never had the opportunity to be offered. Had it been anyone else but Josh, I wouldn’t have sat all day in my tattoo chair, inking some random person’s skin, with my brain locked on other things, things that had my panties soaked through. This has never ever, ever happened before, and I’d be lying if I wasn’t absolutely terrified by it. Which is silly, I know, because it’s Josh.
Ugh.
More movement has the hair on my arms standing on end. His footsteps draw closer, and I swear my heart detaches, growslimbs, and climbs up my throat like a face hugger inAlien. Something cool brushes the outside of my arm, and I jump. In humiliating slow motion, a plastic bowl full of popcorn launches into the air. Kernels make a break for it and rain all over me, my chair, and the floor.
“Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m so sorry.” Throwing my blanket off my lap, I launch into frantic cleanup mode. Dropping to my knees, I right the now-empty popcorn bucket and toss every piece into it. A slew of apologies pours like sap from my lips. I don’t even know what I’m saying, as I scramble to fix this—my stupid, stupid mistake.
Josh’s firm hands land on my shoulders, and I jump again. “Babe, stop. It’s okay. Let me get the vacuum.”
“No. No. I got it. This is my fault.” Launching to my feet, tears well in my eyes as I brush crushed popcorn off my bare knees.
Josh grabs me and hauls me against him before I can get away. Thick arms wrap my shoulders, and I plaster my cheek to his warm pec. “Calm down. It’s okay.” His fingers comb through the back of my hair.
But it’s not. None of this is okay. I was raped and ruined, and my son has had to deal with the shell of a mother for over a year. I tried to kill myself and forced my best friend to watch. Now I’m here. I’m broken. I’m…
The tears fall, coating Josh’s chest. I don’t even try to stop them. I shatter, overwhelmed, needy, and just so damn tired. And he holds me through it. Every broken piece that wrenches out of my throat, he takes. Every snotty blubber. It’s too much. Everything’s too much. I miss my sisters. I miss my son. I miss me. The me I used to be. Sure, she wasn’t perfect, but she was better than this. She was better than obsessing over a man, wondering what it might be like to have someone touch her sweetly down there and maybe like it.
When every ounce of pain drains from my soul, Josh pulls back and cups my face. Forcing me to look up at him, he swipes the mess from my damp cheeks with his thumbs. His expression is soft. Not judgmental. Just loving.
“I’ve got you,” he vows, and I believe him.
My bottom lip wobbles. “I’m sorry,” I blubber.
“There’s nothing to apologize for.” Cuffing his hand around the side of my neck, Josh presses a thumb under my chin and holds my gaze. He inhales deeply, filling his chest, and for some reason, I mimic him, drawing air into my lungs until my chest gets tight. When he exhales, I do too, releasing what’s left of my hot mess into the ether. “It’s just popcorn and you’re allowed to cry,” he adds.
“But the popcorn wouldn’t have happened had I been paying attention.”
“It’s okay.”
I shake my head. “It’s not. You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me, babe.”
