Page 28 of Call It What You Want
“If I were there, I wouldn’t have,” he answers quietly. “But you never listen, anyway.”
Opening my eyes, I see Jackson kneeling beside me, his perfectly symmetrical face staring back at me. Goddamn, he’s beautiful.
“You look like a Greek statue,” I mumble, my brain foggy.
His hand falls away, and his brows pinch together. “What?”
I’m so tired.
I lift my hand and press it to his chest. Heat radiates through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, his pec a solid slab of stone beneath my palm. Right then, it occurs to me that he could snap me in two with very little effort if he wanted to. “Should I be afraid of you?”
“No,” he snaps.
I purse my lips. “I’ve seen what you’re capable of.”
He stares at me for a second before asking, “Are you afraid of me, Ava?”
That’s such a complicated question. It should be an easy one to answer, but then again, nothing about Jackson has ever been simple. When we first met, I knew he was dangerous. There’d been rumors. And I knew he’d be no good for me. I mean, seriously, with a face-card like his, breaking hearts isn’t just a possibility, it’s a guarantee.
“I don’t know—” I lift my head, and immediately regret it. The room spins like a tilt-a-whirl. “Maybe, I am.”
But not in the way he thinks. Not in the way he’s asking. I know he’s capable of some serious, bone-crushing violence. I’ve witnessed it more than once. But he’s never hurtmephysically, and God knows, he’s had plenty of opportunity.
“Good,” he says, reaching out to brush a stray hair away from my face. “I’m not a nice guy, and I never will be. You should remember that.”
I snort softly. “Don’t worry, I don’t think anyone is accusing you of being a nice guy.”
He hooks a finger under my chin and tilts my face up. “How do you feel?”
I swallow back a fresh wave of nausea. “Like I’m dying.”
“Come on,” he says, picking me up. “Straight to bed.”
“I might throw up again,” I moan, and with all the jostling as he walks me back into the bedroom, might is becoming more and more definite.
“You can’t stay in the bathroom,” he says, placing me gently on the mattress. Then he disappears for a second and comes back with a small, empty trash can. “If you feel sick, you can use this.”
“I’m never drinkingeveragain,” I whimper, rolling onto my side and curling up into a tight ball. This position seems to help with the nausea a little.
My eyes drift closed, and I can hear him rustling around in the background. A few seconds later, the mattress dips under his weight, and I feel cold plastic pressed against my cheek. “You need to drink this,” he says.
When I open my eyes, he’s stretched out next to me on the bed, looking sexy-as-fuck. He has a sports drink in his hand, the cap already removed.
“If I drink that, it’s going to come right back up.” I know my body, and my stomach has always been extra sensitive, especially when I’m sick.
“You need the electrolytes,” he says. “So you either drink it willingly, or I’ll make you do it. Up to you.”
With a scoff, I sit up and drink three small sips, just to satisfy him. And if it comes back up, I’ll deliberately aim for him. “There. Happy?”
He sets the bottle down on the nightstand. “For now.”
The drink settles in my stomach, and I wait for it to come back up, but it doesn’t.Ugh.I hate it when he’s right.
“You’re so damn bossy,” I say. “Do you know that about yourself?”
“I have to be,” he says, settling against the pillows, arm tucked behind his head. Meanwhile, I can’t even lift my head without the room swaying like the deck of a ship.
“Why do you have to be?” I ask.
