Page 48 of The Jester and His Outlaw: Part One

My eye twitches, and I sigh inwardly. No doubt I’m going to regret this, but it’s not in me to turn away from someone who is having a bad day. I can’t do it, even if it is a jerk like Riggs. I’ll remember to watch my back around him.

“Are you okay?” I probe.

He gives me a slight twitch of his head, but not a full turn in my direction. I see the whites of his eyes before they disappear to face his joint once again. He stares down at it, discontent plain in the set of his features. The sadness he exudes is so painfully clear I can feel it leaking into me, seeping in to meet the pool of emotions I keep locked away. My chest tightens. Something urges me to go to his side, to talk to him. Something is telling me he needs this interaction.

He wraps his lips around the very end of the joint and tremors send it into chaos as he works to steady it and take a drag. When he pulls it from his lips, absorbing the smoke into his lungs, he runs the slender fingers of his opposite hand through his dark bronzed hair.

Why, Universe? Why me? Have I not suffered enough?

“Just peachy,” he responds finally and plumes of smoke exit his nose. As if that isn’t the universal term forhell, no, not okay.I should walk away. I’m the last person he wants to talk to, I’m sure. Just because he directly said he isn’t okay, doesn’t mean it’s an invitation to pry into his life. How he’s feeling is none of my business. We’re not friends.

Fuuuuccckkkk… Why can’t I walk away?I grip the door, willing myself to enter the library and not turn back. Nothing good can come out of dropping beside him and forcing him to talk.

Why do I even want to? This is absurd.

Because I don’t have it in me to see someone suffer. I’ve always been this way, but more so since I watched a girl crumble before my eyes by my own hands.

The rubber of my sneaker chirps off the polished black and gray marble step as I reluctantly turn, my body moving of its own volition.A glutton for punishment, I am,I muse in my best Yoda voice.

Riggs is only a couple of steps away. Steps I take with caution, waiting for him to pounce with his harshest words. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t acknowledge my existence, either, but he doesn’t rip me a new one. Does that mean he wants me to sit with him? Is this an invitation to have an adult conversation? Hell, I don’t mind sitting in complete silence with him while he finishes his joint, if that’s what he wants. Regardless, someone feeling as down as he looks shouldn’t be by themselves. I would know.

It isn’t often I can read anything on his face or that he even smiles when he’s around Jensen. For him to wear the depths of his feelings on his mask, raw and unfiltered right now, is sort of monumental.

Not sure why I care, but I do.

Without a word from either of us, I set my bookbag on the concrete, careful not to jostle my books around too much. I hate even for my textbooks to get messed up. Sitting close enough to him we can talk, but not close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, I descend.

The wind whispering around us has me wishing I had brought myself a jacket. I cross my arms over my chest with a concealed shiver.

“Why do you smoke weed?” He doesn’t respond right away, leaving me to wonder if he is considering my question. After a weighted moment of silence that has me worrying I’ve made a mistake, he takes another hit.

On his exhale, he says, “It helps.” It helps. Ithelps.That thought doesn’t sit right with me, however,I don’t pry. If he wants me to know more, he’ll tell me more. I still can’t ignore the distress filtering through his answer.

“What is it like? Getting high?” I don’t make eye contact with him, not even through my peripherals. I don’t want him to feel like a wounded animal backed into a corner or to have him regret talking to me.

“You’ve never been high.” It comes off as more of a statement, tinted with amusement.

“Nope. Mandy has, but not Charley.” That earns me a chuckle that is possibly the most sultry sound I’ve ever heard. I’m sure he didn’t mean for it to come off that way, but when you’re naturally a sexy person, everything you do is seductive.

I swallow tightly, ignoring what his laugh does to my body.

“Depending on your tolerance, and the bud you smoke, it feels like a buzz setting in. When you’re in that balance of almost being drunk but still in control and you just feel good, not a care in the world.” Just hearing the way he talks about it, I can tell Riggs is passionate about this, that it probably helps him in more ways than relief. It gives him something to focus on.

“That floaty point?” He shrugs his lips and nods his agreement.

“Yeah, floaty,” he drawls. Acting like he is looking at the sleeve of his hoodie, he sneaks a peek at me. I force my smile back. He doesn’t need to know that I’ve caught him looking. Judging from the new light in his eyes, the slow trail of his tongue over his bottom lip, he doesn’t hate what he sees. I don’t think he knows he’s doing it.

That does something to me, something akin to nerves? Do I want Riggs to like what he sees? I mean, he’s hot, I can’t refute that. Attention from someone as good looking as him is what every girl wants, right?

Slow down, girl. Just because he’s pretty doesn’t mean we go there.Snakes are pretty if someone doesn’t know what they’re looking at. I mean, I don’t think he’s a snake. He’s pretty straightforward with how he feels usually, at least in my experience with him, but I get the gist. He’s been decent a couple of times now, but doesn’t mean a damn thing.

“Do you want to try it?” I must seem nervous because when he seeks my response, he gives me a gentle, amiable smile. I search for the judgment or the sarcasm, but there isn’t any.

“Eh, I don’t know. That seems like something I would want to try somewhere less public, where I’m more comfortable.”

“That’s smart. Were you planning on smoking before your party?” He takes another hit and I watch his full lips caress the joint as if it’s a lover. His chest swells with his intake, and I have to look away to keep myself from drooling and wishing I was that joint. He doesn’t hold this hit in, only lets it out as if it’s relaxing to him. I imagine it is. Going through the motions of calming himself with his crutch.

“Yeah, Foxy and I were going to try it out tomorrow night. She’s sleeping over. Turns out she’s a veteran,” I explain.

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