by W Winters
Jase has answers. The voice doesn’t shut up. I slam the glass down hard on the counter. Too hard for being this sober. Barely caring that the glass isn’t broken, I grab the bottle and pour the rest of it into the glass. It’s more than enough to help me pass out and to leave me with a hangover in the morning.
With both of my hands on the counter, I lean forward, stretching and going over every possibility.
If I stay, he’s either going to try to fuck me or kill me. And I must be insane, because I think it’s all worth it if I get answers.
I’m willing to risk it just to feel something else – something other than this debilitating pain. “I’ve lost my fucking mind.”
Just as the words leave me, I hear a ping from the living room and turn my head to stare down the narrow walkway of my kitchen.
My gaze moves from the threshold, to the fridge and I purse my lips before making my way to where the other bottles are hiding from me.
My bare feet pad on the floor and it’s the only sound I hear as I grab the next partially drunk bottle from the fridge, the glass from the counter, and move back to where my ass has made an indent in the sofa.
Pulling the blanket over my lap, I sit cross-legged and read the text. I’m trying to prepare myself for any number of things. The trepidation, the anxiety, both are ever constant, but dampened with yet another sip of the sweet wine.
It’s only Laura, though. Seeing her name brings a small bit of relief until I read what she wrote.
Where the hell are you?
Home. What’s wrong?
I went there yesterday. What happened to your door?
That sick feeling creeps up from the pit of my stomach and rises higher and higher until I’m forced to swallow it down with another gulp. This wine is colder, and it gives me a chill when I drink it.
Lie.
Just lie.
I know I should. I need to. I won’t bring her into this bullshit. It’s my problem, not hers.
You know I’m Italian, I answer her. Hoping the bit of humor mocking my hot-tempered heritage will lighten her mood.
You broke your door?
Italian and Irish, can’t help it. Even I smirk at my answer. My mom used to tell us we’re mutts, a mix of Italian and Irish, so people should know we’ll hit them first if they’re coming for us, and we won’t stop hitting until we hit the floor. She was a firecracker, my mom.
The memory of her, of us, stirs up a sadness I keep at bay by filling my glass again. Three glasses, in what, twenty minutes? Even I can admit that’s too much.
What happened? Laura asks.
Staring at the full glass, but not taking a sip, I settle with a half-truth. My boss told me I have to take time off.
Is it paid?
I get a little choked up thinking about how everyone chipped in to donate their PTO and debate on telling her the details, but hell, I can’t deal with all this shit right now. I’ve never felt so overwhelmed in every way in my entire life. So I keep it simple.
Yeah. It’s paid.
I miss you, she writes back. Thankfully, not continuing a subject that’s going to push me over the edge.
I’m teetering on the wrong side of tipsy, exhausted, mourning, angry and in denial of fear and loneliness. And being coerced into … probably sex, by a man I thought was going to kill me.
Fuck any kind of therapeutic conversation right now. Whether it’s with Laura or anyone else. I don’t have the emotional energy for it.
I miss you too.
We should go drunk shopping next weekend. Laura’s suggestion sounds like a good way to have a minor public breakdown and max out my credit card. Which is fine if I do decide to leave town on the bus to Jersey City.
We can start at the mall, hit the restaurant bars in between the department stores? she suggests. The best times I’ve had with Laura were on the edge of a barstool holding a bag in one hand and a drink in the other, all while laughing about old times.
Hell yes, I answer her, because that’s how I always answer her. Whether I’m going or not, I’ll let her think I am so she feels better.
I promised I’d make you go out, so boom. Look at me keeping my commitment. I can practically hear the laughter in her voice from that text.
Who would have thought drunk shopping was a commitment you could keep, I joke back.
Seriously though, we haven’t talked. How are you? Do you need me to come over? Laura’s message makes me pause. But I can’t hesitate for too long. She’s sent me that message before, do you need me to come over, when in reality she was five minutes away and already headed here. She’s notorious for just dropping in on people like that and thinks it’s cute. In all honesty, I’m glad she’s done it in the past, but I can’t tonight. I will break down and tell her everything.
Don’t come, I’m fine. I think I needed the time off, I admit to Laura after writing several messages and deleting them all.
If she came over… it would be disastrous.
Life moves too fast. It’s whirling around me, demanding, taking, and I don’t even have time to do an inventory of what’s left of me. I don’t know how to be okay, and I want someone to hurt for what happened to Jenny. I want someone who deserves it to be in this pain.
Someone other than me. It’s so easy to blame myself. I deserve some of it. I can admit it.
I don’t tell Laura any of that though. A small part of me knows she already knows I blame myself. No matter how many times she’s told me you can’t help someone who won’t help themselves. It doesn’t change the fact that Jenny was my sister. It doesn’t change the fact that I keep thinking if only I’d been with her, or if I’d followed her, if I’d pushed her more, maybe she’d still be with me.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until I feel the tears on my cheeks.
Angrily, I wipe them away and toss my phone across the coffee table. It makes the glass clatter against the table as I cover my face with my hand and force myself to calm down.
I just need to know what happened. I need to know.
Jase Cross will get me answers.
The very thought has my eyes opening, and the need to mourn subsiding.
My gaze wanders to the foyer. To the small table that sits right where it should, but was pushed to the side only hours ago. To the wall he pushed me against. The scene plays out in my head, complete with the bang of a gun and his husky voice whispering against the shell of my ear.
As I remember his words, shivers run down my shoulders. I’ll blame some of them on the wine.
He may not have hurt her, but he knows who did, or he knows someone who can find out. He knows something about the side of my sister I never fully knew.
I want it. I need it. I need to know.
As my phone pings with another text, there’s a knock at my door.
Fucking Laura. I love her, but I cannot deal with life right now. I don’t bother picking up the phone to see what she wrote this time.
Instead I’m focused on one glaring thought that won’t leave me alone as I stand up. I know nothing about the world my sister inhabited. I know nothing about the life she led.
All I know is this, my work, my small circle, and the daily patterns that haven’t changed in years.
But Jase Cross knows it all.
Making my way to the door, I come up with every excuse I can to make her go away; looking down past my baggy pajama shirt all the way to the stains on my old sweatpants, my very appearance is excuse enough. I need to pass the hell out and be alone.
I’m already telling her to go home when I open the door, wide and easily, not even considering for a second that it isn’t her.
“You aren’t touching my wine-” I start to joke with her, but then my jaw drops open and my heart stutters. My body heats with both fear and desire, making my grip on the doorknob slip as Jase stares down at me.
He’s taller than I remember; how is that even possible? His shoulders are wide and dominating as he stands in my doorway. A ribbed black
Henley under a thick wool coat and dark jeans are all he wears this time. For some reason, comparing the two sides of him, this casual man with an edge of seduction and the buttoned-up powerful man of control… it stirs a heat in my core.
“What do you want?” My words are rushed and I try desperately to hold on to what little sense I have.
“You look surprised.” His voice is smooth like velvet, caressing every one of my senses.
“What are you doing here?” I question him, feeling panic rise inside of me.
With a sexy smirk kicking up his lips, he runs the pad of his thumb down the sharp line of his jaw before telling me, “I’m here with your contract.”
Jase
She’s less than sober. The winestained lips tell me that.
She hasn’t slept, judging by her messy hair and the darkness under her eyes.
And I can tell by the response of her body when she looks into my eyes that she needs to be fucked. Hard and ruthlessly. Fucked into her mattress until she can’t do anything but sleep away everything that plagues her.
Good fucking timing for me. I’ve never given in to these desires. It’s only been a fantasy. I know she’s hurting and so am I. There is a certain kind of pleasure that can soothe such a deep pain. I fucking need it. Right now.
The thoughts run wild in my head as I wait for her to let me in.
The foyer is just how I remembered it. A classic ‘50s house with a mix of modern and antique furniture that give it a comfortable feel. She’s eclectic. Or at least her belongings are.
The chill of the winter air moves with me as I take a long stride inside, forcing Bethany to take a step back. Her stride is shorter though and she bumps her ass into the hall table, turning around as she startles, and I take the moment to close the door.
“I didn’t say you could come in.” She breathes out her words and stumbles at finding her anger and her strength to keep me away. I almost feel bad catching her off guard. But then again, that’s how she caught me yesterday.
“We got off on the wrong foot.” I ignore her statement, taking a step toward her but making sure to be as nonthreatening as I can. With my hands slipping into my front pockets I meet her questioning gaze, and each passing moment it heats with an anger she’s barely concealing.
“I apologize,” I offer, seeing that fight come and go inside of her. She has no idea what to do, and my apology gives her whiplash.
Her lips part, but no words come out. Her hands move behind her, gripping the small table and I swear I can hear her heartbeat loud and clear. As if it’s pounding inside of her just for me.
Still no words have come but her lips stay parted, and her gaze remains questioning.
“I shouldn’t have come in here like I did, making demands. I think we can come to terms in a civilized manner.”
A crease mars her forehead as Bethany brushes the hair from her cheek and tucks it behind her ear.
“You’re a criminal,” she speaks lowly to the floor, but her eyes rise to mine as she adds, “You think you can force your way into getting what you want and if that doesn’t work, charm will?” Although she poses the statement as a question, I know she believes what she said wholeheartedly.
She’s not wrong, but I won’t give her that satisfaction.
“I’ve never been called charming, Bethany,” I tell her, playing with the way I say her name. Softening it, letting it fall from my lips gently, as if simply whispering it allows it to hang in the air, hinting at all the things we’re leaving unspoken.
It takes her a moment to say anything at all. The force in her words is absent, and she doesn’t look me in the eyes.
“Apology accepted, please leave.”
“We have unfinished business.” My response is immediate.
I watch as she swallows, hating me but knowing I push more boundaries than just anger.
“I stand by what I said, you owe a debt.” Her gaze snaps to mine and her exhale is forceful. I continue before she can object. “I wrote up a contract I think you’ll find agreeable.”
She’s silent as I pull out the folded paper from my back pocket, along with the pen I lifted from her purse.
Her gaze narrows as she recognizes it. “You’ll need to sit down for this. Standing in the hallway isn’t how I conduct business.”
Silence.
Ever defiant.
I fucking love it. I relish standing here while she makes me wait, as if she could actually control what happens next. Our story is already written, and she knows it. She’ll give in. She knows that too.
Without saying a word, she stalks to her living room, her arms crossed over her chest until she sits.
Although I haven’t been in the living room, I’ve already seen it. And the kitchen and dining room. I’m prepared for what’s in every drawer. Seth took care of that for me.
There’s a heavily poured glass of wine on the table, and she pours it back into the bottle rather than downing it like I thought she was going to do when she grabbed it.
“You can sit wherever you want, intruder.”
“Intruder?” I question her and the only acknowledgement I get is a firm, singular nod in time with the glass being placed gently on the coffee table.
“All right then, attempted murderer,” I quip back and take a seat on the armchair beside the sofa.
Her mouth drops open and then slams shut, her jaw tense as she stares back at me as if I’ve said something offensive. “Just calling a spade a spade,” I say and hold her gaze as I raise my hands, palms toward her in defense.
She hesitates to respond and I know I see remorse in her eyes. I know what it looks like; I see it every fucking day.
“I would have done the same, just so you know,” I confide in her and her tense shoulders ease a bit. Only a fraction though. “I don’t blame you.”
She’s still silent for a moment, assessing me and everything she’s dealing with.
I’ll be gentle with her, I’ll give her what she needs. I can be that man for her. And she can be what I need.
“What do you want?” she asks after a moment. “What contract?”
Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my knees and lace my fingers together. “You have questions, needs, and so do I. You owe me a debt, whether you like it or not, and I can give you something you never knew you wanted.”
Her thighs tighten as she swallows thickly, tensing her neck. She pulls the blanket closer to her and asks, “Did you know my sister?”
“Not personally, but I know things she was doing. She got into some trouble.”
The reaction is immediate, her expression falling and for the first time I came in here, the pain shows, but she’s quick to hide it.
“I’ll answer your questions,” she says softly, gaining control of her composure before looking at me and finishing her negotiation. “And you’ll answer mine?”
A sorrowful smile plays at my lips. “That’s not how this works.” Her bottom lip wavers and her fingers dig into the comforter on her lap. “I want more.”
The tension thickens between us with every passing second of silence.
The paper crinkles in my hand as I unfold it and read it to her.
“For the payment of three hundred thousand dollars, not a penny will be paid in currency. The party agrees that sessions will take place, in which Bethany Fawn allows Jase Cross to question her as he sees fit, questions she will answer honestly to the full extent of her knowledge, and in a manner that will entail no physical harm whatsoever to Miss Fawn. The ability for Bethany to stop all proceedings whenever she wishes, verbally, will halt the session, allowing Miss Fawn to leave as she wishes.”
I watch her expression, noting how she squirms uncomfortably and pushes her hands into her lap and she then reads the last line.
“Every ten minutes is equivalent to one hundred dollars.”
“That’s thirty thousand minutes total, that’s five hundred hours,” Bethany says aloud with no indication in her tone as to what she mak
es of that sum.
“Correct.”
“I couldn’t possibly… that’s a full-time job for a quarter of the year. I won’t let this interfere with my job.”
“It won’t. We can add in a line if you’d like, stating that it will come second to your occupational needs.”
“I would be in debt to you for a year at least.”
“Yes,” I say, and there’s no negotiation in my tone.
“What about my questions?”
“They’re yours to ask, but not a part of this contract.”
“That’s-”
I cut her off. “Not necessary to be included in a contract regarding how you’ll be paying me back.” I lean forward, holding her gaze. “I choose to answer your questions as a gesture of goodwill.”
“And you’ll continue to?” she pushes.
“I don’t have a single problem answering every question you have. Tit for tat.” She gives a small nod of acknowledgement, but nothing else.
Time passes and Bethany chooses not to push for that to be in writing.
“How will you be questioning me?” she asks and a warmth flows through me, the tension lighting slowly, crackling between us like a smoldering fire.
“Sign first,” I answer, swallowing thickly as I pass the paper to her, followed by the pen. Her fingers brush against mine, gentle but hot. The sensation travels from my knuckle all the way up my arm, the nerve endings coming alive with heat.
My throat’s dry and my blood hot just thinking about her allowing me to show her.
“You realize I’ll never believe I owe you anything?” she questions me, a simple statement, so matter of fact.
“You owe me your life for that stupid shit you pulled. Whether you want to believe that or not.”
She picks at some indiscernible fuzz on the blanket before whispering, “I’m sorry.”
Remorse and conflict swirl in her gaze, but she’s quick to hide it from me.
“I like that you’re less angry.”
“That happens when I greet the bottom of a green glass bottle with a label that reads Cabernet.” Her tone is muted, but she gives a small huff of a laugh, and lets a smile kiss her lips for only a moment.
