Page 91 of The Jester and His Outlaw: Part One

The apartment is small,one bedroom, and spotless. I’ve never been to Jensen’s house, although I grew up in the same neighborhood as him. Their place is clean because let’s be honest, the elite have people for that. But I guess for a guy, I never expected his apartment to be this nice.

Like Mama T’s, the apartment itself isn’t bad. Not the best, but okay. It certainly isn’t run down and sort of dingy like Riggs’ building or anything remotely resembling our estates. I have to say, I’m glad Mr. Tucker tries to keep his buildings in decent condition. Most landlords in places like this don’t give a shit, though I doubt he is the one doing any of the work. He probably has no clue what they look like. Not one to get his hands dirty, I’d bet he bought it sight unseen. Just working off of the advice of his agent.

“I’ve only been here once. Jensen keeps telling me that when Gramma dies, he’s going to move all my shit in here when I’m at work. Give me the apartment,” Riggs comments, and I’m not sure how he feels. He doesn’t seem happy about it or eager like some would be. Judging from his harsh words that day I tried to buy him lunch, he doesn’t like help from the outside world much. That’s going to be a big thing between us. I help too much most of the time and rarely get where the boundaries are.

“And? Are you going to let him?”

Without hesitation, he says, “No. I would never do that. I can’t afford rent at this place.”

“Jensen likes to take care of you, doesn’t he?” Riggs’ gaze is distant as he glances at me before his face crumples into annoyance.

“Yeah, he does and I have no idea why.” God, his insecurities are heartbreaking. Seeing him… that’s what I would have become had my parents not adopted me. They may be overbearing and annoying as all get out, but they are loving and remind me I’m loved.

Riggs has had his Gramma, sure, but he’s had more loss in his life than anyone should bear. He’s taken care of her just as much as she has cared for him. Deep down, we are similar. Our need to help people runs deep, to be good genuine souls. My soul has been nurtured by many: my brother, my parents, their family, my best friend. Riggs has no support.

“Because you’re a good person, Riggs. Don’t you see that? Jensen isn’t one to waste time on people he doesn’t care for, no matter how popular he is. You are his best friend, two peas in a pod and, honestly, it’s adorable. You have to let him help you.” He doesn’t shy away from the conversation like I expect him to. Instead, he takes a moment to consider my words.

“I mean, I don’thaveto,” he finally says.

My glare is dry. “No, you don’thaveto, but you should. You deserve some help. Everyone does. It doesn’t mean you’re any less of a person or any less capable of taking care of yourself. It just means you recognize when to ask for help.” I bring myself closer to him, needing to touch him, needing his hands on me. He’s too broken. I can’t take it any longer.

“I don’t want to rely on anyone,” he states simply, looking straight into my eyes. He caresses my cheek and backs me up a step.

“Why, because they always leave?”

“Yeah, I mean, I expect them too. How can someone love me when my own parents, the people who made me, can’t love me?” I furrow my brow, unsure how to answer that. Riggs may seem fragile, but he really isn’t. He’s hardened to the world around him because the very people that gave him life let him down in such a colossal way. I wonder if having a sibling that was stronger than me, that took care of me, is what made the difference. When my parents couldn’t love me, Kai did. He showed me I was worthy of life, of love.

We’re not here for talking and while I want more of what happened in the parking lot, I really want more of his story. For Riggs to tell more about him.

Searching his eyes for a sign that this is the time for this conversation, I turn into his touch. His eyes flutter shut, stealing the ice storm that was swirling before me. When he opens them, there is real, raw, unfiltered pain. Not the masked pain that resides there normally. No, this is true. The truth is toying with the surface.

“You said your father was the one that abused you.” At first, it seems he is going to shut me down, but then he holds me tighter with the arm he has around my waist, pulling our bodies flush together. His breathing grows harsher, as if he is forcing himself to remember to take the next one. His touch is soft as he traces the lines of my face, around my lips, across my cheekbones, down the slope of my nose. It continues up over my brows, circles my eyes, and stretches out around my hairline. By the time he speaks again, goosebumps are tingling on the surface of my flesh.

“It was just my father. He didn’t reserve his terror only for me. He liked to mess with my mother as well. Never directly in front of me, but I knew he was doing it.” He pauses, swallows. He swallows so hard I wonder if he is pushing back emotion. I hate that he feels he needs to. With me, there is no need to hide anything. I’m almost positive he knows that, but I don’t want to push him too far, so I say nothing.

His palm is flat against my cheek, warm, light.

I will every positive vibe in my body to travel through our touch and into him. Pointless, probably, but I’d like to hope it helps. “I loved my mother, I did, Outlaw. She was kind and loving—caring. When he wasn’t home and it was the two of us, we had so much fun together. She could be my mother. But a part of me blames her. She let it happen, let it continue, never once tried to intervene because it would only make it worse. But that doesn’t help. I depended on her. I was just a kid—”

He draws in a shaky breath, and his fingers curl into my cheek. His entire body is trembling.

Placing one hand over his, I bring the other to his chest, right above his heart. It’s pounding insanely hard, like it’s determined to break a rib.

My breathing is constricted and tears prick my eyes to see someone so lost, so broken, alone and abandoned. I remember those feelings, but also what it’s like to have someone, to let someone in. I want to be that person for him.

Closing the gap, I mold our bodies together and kiss the dip between his pecs. He shudders, gasping, and when I look up, there are tears brimming. He cups the back of my head and holds me close.

“It’s okay to view your mother that way, Riggs,” I say against his chest. He peers down at me, his lips tight, his body tense, eyes hard.

“I killed them.”

I stiffen and my eyes go wide before I get a chance to reel them in. There has to be more to this. There is no way… what? No. There is no way he is a killer.

I had this discussion with myself. It’s not in him. A person like Riggs doesn’t kill people.

This is what he meant…He’s so damaged because he killed someone that he expects me to leave. That if everyone finds out the truth about him, they’ll cast him aside.

I don’t see Jensen being friends with a cold-blooded killer. There has to be more to the story than justI killed them.Jensen knows the truth. It had to have been self defense or a freak accident.

---