by K. Ryan
Jack swallows hard and his hands twist tightly around his steering wheel. When he glances at me, his eyes soften and he lifts a hand. It drifts toward my shoulder, hanging in the air like a string has suspended it in the air, and just like that, it falls onto the center console between us.
"Sean and I talked to him today just like we planned," he tells me. "We told him everything and then I filled him in on everything we've found together on the ride back."
Despite everything, my heart flips at the word together. Stupid heart.
"And," Jack sighs. "When we got back to my apartment, he took off. I'm sorry, Rae. I tried to stop him. I really did, but he wouldn't—"
"It's okay," I cut in quietly and keep my eyes on the passing street. "It's a lot to take in all at once. We shouldn't have pushed everything on him all at once."
He shakes his head and his knuckles squeeze the wheel. "It was my idea. I should've known better, but I guess I was just hoping he'd surprise me. You shouldn't have to pay for that, Rae."
Jack has predictably taken all the blame—not that I can really blame Brennan either and Jack doesn't need to tell me the main hang-up. I sent our brother to prison. I did that. And I can't blame Brennan if he holds it against me. I'd hold it against me too. In retrospect, it's really my fault. I never should've pushed. I never should've hoped that both my brothers would accept me, given the situation. Maybe, with time...but I'm just getting ahead of myself again.
"It was stupid to let myself hope," I murmur, helpless to stop the words. "I've learned a long time ago that hoping doesn't do anything but get your hopes up."
Jack's eyes slide to me and his lips twist mournfully, regretfully. Sure, he could delve into the details, but I don't need them.
"So," he tells me carefully. "I was thinkin'...if you didn't get a chance to eat anything yet, I could order a pizza or something like that at my place. Whatever you want."
Everything stills for a moment as the words slide in and out of my mind. At my place. Whatever you want. Is it wrong that my mind automatically goes somewhere else? Yes, it's wrong. Very, very wrong. Especially when he's being so nice. And accommodating. And thoughtful. And almost sweet.
I hate myself a little right now.
"Um, sure," God, I sound like an idiot, "that sounds okay."
He nods tightly, but not before shooting me a quick grin and my stomach still hasn't settled by the time he pulls into his apartment's parking lot. The complex, given the part of town he lives in, looks well-cared for and quiet. I know it's the Back Bay girl in me talking—it's hard to be in Southie and not compare its lived-in and well-worn mentality to the modern and affluent atmosphere I grew up in. Not like growing up in Back Bay really helped me all that much anyway.
But when Jack opens his front door and ushers me in, once again placing his hand on the small of my back to guide me inside, I have to blink a few times just to take it all in. Heat flushes my cheeks and spreads down my arms because being in his space is something I never quite prepared myself for.
It's small, but clean. Furniture and decor are spare, but what he does have is tasteful and suits him. Neutral colors and an assortment of Sox and Pats memorabilia color the apartment and I kind of want to just slide down on to that cozy-looking camel leather couch to just sit there for the rest of the day. Maybe I'll find the comfort there that I haven't been able to find anywhere else. I'll curl up with that navy and red Sox blanket on the couch, too. It looks soft and worn and it's the next best option to the comfort I know I just can't have.
"Yeah, uh," Jack's hoarse voice calls out to me and when I turn around, I find him rubbing the back of his neck anxiously with a grimace on his face. "It's not much, but it's home, you know?"
"I like it," I tell him from over my shoulder and a quick smile forms on my lips before I turn around again.
He huffs out a laugh and starts rummaging through his fridge while I stand there awkwardly shifting from side to side until he pulls out a bottle of Clamato and sets it on the counter.
The shock must be unmistakable on my face because he jumps to fill in the blanks. "Figured I'd be prepared for anything today."
My lips part, but the words just won't come. Instead, I have to watch him shuffle around his compact kitchen as he puts his bartending skills to work for, mixing some celery salt, a little Tabasco, a few drops of lime juice, and Clamato in a glass for me. When he hands it over, he shoves his hands deep inside his front pockets, watching my movements with a measured intensity that roots me right to the floor.
Finally, I remember what he wants me to do and I take a drink.
"Better?" he asks quietly, his lips turning up a little at the sides.
I nod and take another drink just to make sure he knows how much I appreciate the gesture. How much I need to hide the tidal wave crashing through me. One wrong move and I'll fall head-first off that precipice. It just can't happen.
It just can't.
"Thank you," I murmur and set my glass down on the counter. "Thank you for everything."
"You know you can hang out here as long as you want, right?"
"Sure."
"I just mean," he starts rubbing the back of his neck again. "I...uh, I came to your store because I didn't want you to show up here thinking things were gonna turn out differently. I tried calling, but...anyway, I figured you might not want to be alone right now."
I get it and now I feel bad that I was too wrapped up in talking to Lucy to notice I had any missed calls. Once again, he seems to know what I need before I even know myself. Despite the fact that we haven't really known each other all that long, there's both an ease and a tension in his presence. The hard and the soft—it's been there since the night we met.
"Thanks," I exhale. "We can order pizza. I'll stay for awhile."
He nods just once, a tight, jab downward, and then we stand there in his kitchen just like that for the next few moments. Jack watches me with a coiled expression, unfathomable and impenetrable, as he leans both hands on the counter.
I blow out a deep breath. The best course of action right now is take myself out of this situation. So, I turn on my heel and head over to his couch. Once that Sox blanket is pulled over my legs, my armor is in place and I'm ready to handle whatever happens next. Luckily enough, we pass some time in relative comfort—we watch some highlights from yesterday's Sox game and then he even lets me watch an episode of House Hunters.
When he flips past a boxing match, I sit forward and shake my head. "Hey, you can leave that on. I don't mind."
He cocks an eyebrow at me. "Really?"
"Sure," I shrug. "It's kinda what you do, isn't it?"
"Huh," he laughs and runs a hand over his scruff. As if I'd forgotten about it.
"I just have one condition though."
"What's that?"
His wariness makes me smile and I have half a mind to lean into him until I can rest my head on his shoulder. "You have to talk me through it—I have no idea what I'm watching and I've never been to a fight before, so if we're going to watch it, I should probably understand what's going on."
"Hmm," he mulls it over, his eyes narrowing playfully as his right arm swings out to rest on top of the couch, right behind my shoulders. "Alright. I guess that's fair."
"Totally fair."
We watch in silence for a few moments before he points to the fighter in emerald-green shorts. "You see that guy? McDougal? I hate to say it, but he's gonna lose."
His regret, of course, is most likely because of the fighter's obvious Irish heritage and I have to bite down on my bottom lip to keep from laughing right in his face.
"Why?"
Jack shrugs easily like this something he could do in his sleep. "It's all in the legs. The stance. He's too stiff. Too tight. You gotta be loose and ready for anything. He's too wound-up to think clearly and anticipate what Tanner's gonna throw his way."
Sure enough, the other fighter in the blue shorts, Tanner, swings his fist around and connects right with Mc
Dougal's jaw, sending him flying against the ropes and down for the count.
"All fights are different," he goes on, his eyes lighting up as he speaks. "Everybody makes mistakes inside the ring, too. There's no way around that. You can train, but you can't really prepare for that moment when the bell rings and you're at the mercy of your instincts."
"So how do you win every single time if you're always at the mercy of your instincts?"
His lips curl up good-naturedly and it's all I can do to stay on my side of the couch. "Well, first of all, I only agree to fights I know I can win."
"Ah," I nod knowingly. "You're playing the system. Very shrewd."
"And I know I can win them all, so there's that."
"Okay," I laugh. "So confidence is obviously a factor."
"It's gotta be," he nods with a grin and I'm acutely aware that his arm is still draped behind my head. "If it's not, you're sunk. It all comes down to opportunity. You have to know what your opponent's weaknesses are before you ever step inside the ring and then you have to use those weaknesses against him. Wait for the right moment. A hesitation. An opening. Something. Whatever you have to do to outsmart him. Use your instinct and your intuition to anticipate his next move before he even knows what it is himself."
"And you then swoop in and knock his ass out."
He flashes me a cocky grin. "That's right."
"Is that your plan for this next fight? Assuming you think you can win?"
I know it's not just about that. It's one thing to take the meetings with the Gianottis. It's a whole other ballgame to actually agree to the fight. Part of me expects Jack to agree to it simply so he can shove it in their faces that he beat their shiny-new prized fighter in the very first fight in their shiny-new boxing arena. The other part of me hopes he's smarter than that.
"We'll see what happens," Jack shrugs a little too easily. "See what they think they have that I want."
If they make him an offer he can't refuse, I think ruefully.
"Maybe I'll be able to ID someone," I try to offer helpfully. It doesn't work.
Jack's eyes darken and the hand resting on his thigh balls up into a tight fist. The next meeting with the Gianottis is in a few days, which is why bringing Brennan into the fold was so necessary, and assuming they really do make him an offer he can't refuse, the fight will probably happen next Sunday.
I don't know how I feel about that. Jack fighting—for any reason—is just something I don't think I'll be able to watch, regardless of the outcome. And I know better than to ask if I can be there if it happens. I know him well enough by now to know he'll hand me over to the Gianottis himself before he lets me anywhere near that fight.
Suddenly, I feel like I need to put some space between us and slip the Sox blanket off my legs.
"I'll be right back," I tell him as I pad toward the bathroom. I can feel his eyes following my every move and that doesn't help.
Unfortunately, the moment the door closes behind me is the moment I break. The dam keeping everything at bay—all the secrets, all the pressure, all the pain, all the tragedy, and all the heartbreak is just too heavy and my sturdy barriers are just no match for it all at once. It starts slow, a sting and a quick, biting burn, until it builds, catching fire and spreading down my throat, into my chest, and finally dropping down into the pit of my stomach.
My legs give out underneath me and I sink down onto the top of the toilet as my face drops into my hands.
I don't know how much more of this I can take. How much more suffering I can witness and endure before I finally crumble altogether into a pile of vomit and booze on the floor. Brennan's rejection today was really just the straw that broke the camel's back—I've withstood enough rejections and disappointments in my life to fill up Massachusetts Bay. I told myself things were finally starting to turn around, but I shouldn't have expected anything other than what happened today. No one to blame but myself.
That doesn't make the tears burn any less. Or the ache in my chest any less twisted.
So I sob into my hands until there's nothing left on my face but red splotches and trails of salt.
At some point, Jack has to know what was really going on in his bathroom. At some point, he might decide to check on me, so I splash some water on my face and call it good. I don't really have any other options, especially since the only makeup I have in my purse is lip gloss.
There's no way I can hide what I've been doing when I sink back down onto my spot on the couch. It doesn't help, of course, that Jack's eyes have been on me as soon as I opened the door. I dare a glance his way and paint a smile in a vain attempt at putting on a brave face. Naturally, he sees right through it.
But he does exactly what I need him to do. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me to his chest.
"It's gonna be okay," he murmurs in my hair as his hands find my head to draw me in closer.
The second my face touches the soft cotton covering his chest, there's no escaping the tears again in the protection of his arms.
I cry because my parents were doomed from the start. I cry because my mom fell in love with a man who changed his mind. I cry because I've had to live my whole life not knowing. I cry because I've wasted so many years and so much of my health on self-medication. I cry because other than Bennett, my sister, and Sean, I have nobody else I can call family. I cry because I want to feel Jack's arms around me all the time. I cry because I know Jack shouldn't be touching me right now, shouldn't even be sitting on the couch with me like this. I cry because I can't tell my sister what I know and how I really feel.
I cry because I put my brother in prison.
And I cry because my other brother hates me for it.
I DON'T KNOW how much time has passed when my eyes flutter open again. I just know my cheek is planted firmly on hard planes of muscle and soft, cozy cotton. Hands are in my hair, soothing me, calming me. Strong arms enfold me, protecting me, shielding me.
When I lift my head off his chest, I find Jack observing me quietly with soft eyes and his lips quirk up a little when our eyes meet.
"Hey."
"Hi," I smile. "Sorry I fell asleep. I didn't mean to hold you hostage here."
"It wasn't a problem," he murmurs roughly.
Our faces are too close right now and his words warm my senses, rendering any logic pointless. I should pull away. I should put as much distance between us as possible, even if the reasons why are getting murkier and murkier the more time I spend with him. I shouldn't want this, but I do anyway.
Jack doesn't move. His arms tighten around me to hold me in place and I tilt my chin up just enough before I can stop myself. Our lips brush, tasting, tempting. I give in first and let my lips part for him to deepen the kiss, to pull him in when I know I should be pushing him away. He follows my lead and takes it one step further by tangling a hand in my hair. The other hand drifts down my back before it settles right on the edge of my hip, close but not quite far enough.
Everything else falls to the side, slipping and sliding along the edges of the couch before they land forgotten on the floor. Right now, I just need his hands. His strength. His presence. His kiss. It feels so good. I knew it would—I just never let myself think about it for too long because I knew this would happen if I did.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against my lips.
It's really too bad that his actions completely contradict his words because his hands are painting a different picture. Both of them latch onto my hips, squeezing just enough to pull them flush against him.
I don't want him to stop.
That seems to be answer enough because he shifts our weight until he flips around and slips right in between my legs like that was always where he was meant to be. I can't even process all my thoughts at once. Hell, I can barely keep my head above water. The sensation of wrapping my legs around his waist is just too heady and too sweet to let go.
When I whimper against his lips, I give him permission to let his hands slide up the sid
e of my shirt and burn a trail through my skin. My fingers move on instinct, trailing down the hard muscles in his back before I finally let myself explore what I never thought I'd get to have.
Even though it's happened so quickly, we're taking our time now. Kissing and touching, experimenting with how far we can let ourselves go, how much we can let ourselves take. I don't know where my boundaries are. I just know I'll let him push me as far as I can go.
My fingers slip all the way up his back and then I tug his shirt up and over his head. He doesn't protest, easing his shoulders back to help me out. When he pushes back on his hands to hover over me, there's too much sensory overload to sift through all at once. Too much glossy ink. Too much sinewy skin.
I still don't want to stop.
So I haul his lips back down to mine and linger toward oblivion once more.
Real life, literally, comes knocking only a moment later.
Jack groans against my lips and presses his forehead against mine. "Shit. Do I have to get it?"
As if I wasn't torn enough, his hips tilt downward just enough to make my eyes roll back into my head. No, don't move. Stay just like this.
The knocking doesn't cease. It just keeps going and going until Jack sighs and pushes himself up on his elbows to maneuver off the couch. He swipes his forgotten shirt off the floor as he moves toward the front door and yanks it over his head, but not before shooting me a wolfish grin from over his shoulder.
That little gesture is all I need to send another flush of heat through my entire body. Everything might have just changed between us, but we're still okay.
It isn't until I hear deep, familiar voices from the door that I know everything isn't, in fact, okay. Suddenly, my cheeks flush hotly again, but not because of Jack's lips or his hands. And because I'm a glutton for punishment, I slide off the couch and move to meet Jack's guest at the door.
Brennan is standing just a few feet away as Jack hovers in front of the doorway, bracing both hands on the frame to keep Brennan from looking too deeply inside.
"I should've handled my shit better," Brennan is telling Jack as I approach. "I know I was a complete douche, especially after I got home and talked to Shannon. I just—"
