Four Score

Six

The roles reverse sharply—Jase is completely fucked, both physically and mentally. He hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor in hours. About an hour ago, I found a frozen pizza and shoved it into the oven, guessing it was cooked when the cheese started to bubble furiously on top. I gave it to him, and he ate it mechanically, until it was all gone. Then he resumed his listless staring into space.

Which brings us to now.

I’m lost. Up until now, I’ve always had a plan. A destination. People to fuck and people to kill. But now? I’m wandering around Jason’s apartment like a lost soul¸ wondering if I should go, or if I should stay. Finally, I decide to busy myself with cleaning up the glass from the vase and cell phone.

Three thoughts on repeat in my mind.

Dornan’s in a coma.

I just kicked Elliot out.

I think Jase hates me.

I crouch in front of Jase, who’s polished off half the bottle of vodka and all of the pizza I left for him. He’s still staring into space.

“Hey,” I say gently. “Earth to Jase? What’s going on in there?”

I’ve never seen him like this, and it’s freaking me out. Because I know I’m responsible for turning his life into a living hell. At least, today I’m responsible. Dornan brought him into hell with the rest of us the moment he killed Jase’s mother all those years ago.

He raises his watery brown eyes to meet my gaze and I have to force myself not to flinch underneath the weight of his stare. His jaw is clenched so hard I’m surprised his teeth haven’t started cracking. His fingers are curled around the neck of the vodka bottle like it’s a life raft and he’s afloat in an icy sea.

“What’s going on in here?” he echoes, tapping the side of his head. “You really don’t want to know.”

Probably not.

I kneel in front of him and rest one hand on his bended knee. “You should still tell me.”

He smirks, an expression I never want to see on his face. It makes him look like his father, which is a comparison I never, ever need to be reminded of. But he can’t help who his father is any more than I could help who my father was. Born into treachery, raised among darkness so vile, so toxic, our souls are unlike any others.

He might have escaped the first seventeen years of his life in blissful ignorance of the Gypsy Brothers’ life, but I’m pretty sure he’s all caught up and then some.

“I’m thinking about you and my father,” he says, and my heart sinks. “I’m thinking about all those times you were—” he struggles to get the next part out, “— with him, and it makes me want to kill you both.” He reaches up his spare hand and places it on my cheek. I don’t dare move, frozen to the spot, as he lets his hand trail down ever so gently to rest around my throat. He doesn’t squeeze, just lets it rest there as a not-so-subtle gesture.

“Let me guess,” I say, blood roaring in my ears as anger joins the shame already blanketing my being. Anger that we were ever put in this situation by our fucked-up families and the club that controlled us all. “You want to strangle me? Go ahead. I probably deserve it. Just promise me you’ll kill him as soon as you’re done with me.”

He drops the attitude and his hand from my throat; my skin burns where his hand rested, craving his touch once more. Which is all kinds of screwed up. But still. I’d much rather a threatening hand on my throat from Jase over a violently possessive lust-grip from his father.

Dornan. Why won’t you just die, motherfucker?

“I’ll never be done with you,” Jase mumbles, taking a fresh swig of vodka and grimacing as it no doubt burns his throat. “Even when you were dead, I wasn’t done with you. You haunted me for six fucking years. I’m still not sure you’re really here.”

I reach out my arm and trace the black circle under his uninjured eye. “When’s the last time you slept?” I ask, echoing the question he asked me a few days ago.

He shrugs.

“At least get off that floor and come sit on the sofa. I cleaned the glass off it.”

I stand and offer him my hand, which he takes, getting to his feet. He keeps ahold of his bottle of vodka but quickly drops my hand, reverting back into his own little universe. I frown, biting my lip.

“Do you want me to go?” I ask. There’s no malice in my tone, no hurt. If he needs his space, I’ll happily give it to him. There are a thousand fleabag motels in the greater Los Angeles area where I could hide out while I wait for Dornan to either wake up, or die.

God, I want him to die so badly.

Jase shakes his head. “No. Stay.” He doesn’t look at me, but his words are forceful enough that I believe he’s being genuine. I can forgive the dude for not being able to deal with all the shit I’ve stirred up in a very short time.

I wait in the hallway as he wanders around, robotically closing windows. At the wall just inside the front door, he punches a code into a small keypad, and a red light flashes. I remember the security system from when I used to come here before.

I remember a lot of things about before.

Memories of days long gone, of innocence and first love, curl around my mind like tendrils, whispering softly, making me hurt. Part of me wants to get lost inside them for a while, but as Jase slams the remaining window shut and stalks into the living room, I’m jolted back to the present.

I follow cautiously, unsure if my presence is wanted. I hover awkwardly as Jase kicks back onto the end of the sofa that has a chaise extension. He crosses his legs and stares at his bottle of vodka, forlorn. A vibrating sound buzzes from his jeans pocket and he pulls out his phone, closing one eye to read it.

His face falls.

“What?” I ask quietly.

He throws the phone down on the sofa beside him. “Someone found Jimmy.”

Jimmy. Of course. In the commotion of everything, I’d almost forgotten the dead man whose blood had covered me from head to toe only hours ago.

“Dead?”

He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Yes, dead. That’s generally what happens when you blow someone’s brains out.”

I almost say, That’s generally what happens when your motorcycle blows up, too, but I bite that back. It’s not helpful right now.

I think about Jimmy, and it bothers me. At first, I’m not sure why, but then I realize … It was the casual, instinctive way that Jase placed his gun to Jimmy’s temple and pulled the trigger. No hesitation.

“Why’d you need Jimmy’s gun?” I ask suddenly. It’s not the question I really want to ask, but it, too, has been bothering me. Why did we have all that fanfare with the guns and Jimmy being offered a ringside seat to the Juliette rape and murder show? Why didn’t Jase just use his own gun? I mean, the likelihood of his gun—of Dornan’s gun—being registered is almost zero. They’re bikers, not members of the NRA. Now that my brain is functioning again, all of these questions are burning a hole in my brain, but it’s the unspoken questions that hurt even more.

Why did you wait six years, and never do a damn thing to hurt your father?

Why didn’t you kill him?

Why is your body covered in Gypsy Brothers tattoos? In family patches and club insignia?

Why are you even here?

I can kill a man and watch him die, but I can’t ask these questions. Not now. I’m too afraid of what the answers might be. So, instead, I stick with the safer question.

Why’d you need Jimmy’s gun?

Jase eyes me for a moment before responding. “Dornan’s gun was damaged when his motorcycle blew up beneath him. I doubted it would fire. Imagine if I’d tried to shoot Jimmy with a gun that didn’t work.”

My stomach roils at that image. Yes. Imagine indeed.

“Imagine what they’d do to you and to me.”

“You’re smart,” I say, feeling stupid that the thought didn’t occur to me in the parking lot. I was careless, and if it weren’t for Jase’s quick thinking and excellent acting, we’d probably both be dead.

I’d definitely be dead.

“I’m a details guy,” Jase says, leaning his head back and closing his eyes for a moment. I take a deep breath and sit on the other end of the couch, my thoughts troubling me greatly.

Why is he still here?

Elliot’s words come back to haunt me, a stab in the gut. I told him to go. I’m a horrible person.

He’s Dornan’s son. His blood runs through his veins.

I steal a glance at Jase, and my troubled mood turns into a barely muffled laugh as I see that he’s fast asleep, passed out sitting up against the couch, one hand still wrapped firmly around the neck of the vodka bottle.

I can’t be mad at him now. He’s adorable when he sleeps. I push those disturbing questions away. They’ll still be there in the morning for me to ask.

I stand and tiptoe over to where Jase is lying, gently unfurling his fingers from the vodka bottle. I return it to the fridge, and then pad silently into his bedroom. I grab the duvet from his bed and carry it to the living room, lightly covering Jase with it. He’s out cold, and for a moment I just watch him sleep, the lines on his face gone in sleep.

He looks younger when he’s sleeping.

He looks like the Jase I left behind six years ago.

Blinking back tears, I head back to his bedroom. My entire body is tired and aching, and I figure I may as well get some sleep while Jase is unconscious.

I crawl under the sheets, hugging a pillow close to me. It smells like Jase. Earthy, like fresh dirt and sandalwood with a hint of something spicy. It’s delicious. That’s the last thing I think of before I shut my eyes, and sleep drags me down.