And that scares me.
A muscle in Jasper’s jaw pops, and the skin over his knuckles thins under the pressure of him squeezing the steering wheel. “Fucking Woodcock.”
I snort a laugh. Woodcock.
“So what are you going to do?” The tip of his tongue catches between his straight white teeth, as though he’s biting it to keep himself from saying anything more.
“What do you think I should do?”
His mouth twists. “Sunny, the last thing you need in your life is another man telling you what to do.”
I sigh and turn away to stare at the dark fields flashing past the passenger window. I’d kill to have Jasper Gervais tell me what to do. The fact he doesn’t think he should makes me want it even more.
I need someone to take charge but with my best interests in mind. Not a business. Not perception. Me. My needs.
“What would Beau do?” I murmur under my breath.
I don’t mean to say it loud enough that Jasper will hear me, which is why I start when Jasper responds with, “He’d get the fuck outta dodge and go do something for himself.”
9
Jasper
Cade: Why don’t you join us for dinner soon?
Rhett: Beers tomorrow?
Roman: If you need to talk, I’m always around. Take care of yourself.
I curl up in my childhood bed, huddled in a tight ball like I might if I had a hangover. Like if I just lie still and quiet, I won’t hurt.
But then I remember that my brother is missing and everything hurts.
I don’t even want to think about it. I want to push it into the same corner where I keep my sister Jenny. But it’s not working. My mental game is shit right now—something I’ve proven over and over on the ice lately.
Years of ongoing sports therapy to hone my mind to handle the pressure of my position and it all crumbles with one swift kick to the foundation. Those vine-like intrusive thoughts creep up and threaten to strangle me.
I tried to do the exercise that’s always worked for me. Four seconds is all I give myself to think dark thoughts. I soak in them but only for four seconds. After that I swap to envisioning myself kicking ass, playing my best, and making a highlight reel-worthy save. And then I think about something else entirely.
Just four seconds of fear or sadness or doubt. Four seconds of insanity. That’s all I’ll allow.
But not anymore. Right now I’m sitting with those dark thoughts like they’re an old friend.
I push to sit, pads of my fingers sinking into the too-soft mattress. The house was quiet when we got here. Everyone hiding away in their own corners to deal with this in their own way.
Rhett has Summer.
Cade has Willa.
Violet has Cole.
It seems like every Eaton has someone to lean on. Except me. And Harvey. Which is why I’ve stayed here for so long. I can’t stomach the thought of leaving him all alone in this house after he made sure that I wasn’t all alone as a teenager.
Everyone I’ve cared about in life has left in me in some way or another—it’s part of my persona now. I can’t control who leaves, but I can control everything else to a point where my anxiety doesn’t cripple me.
But this? This is ravaging me and I can’t control shit.
“Fuck!” I roar, right as I turn and smash my fist into the wallpapered drywall beside me.
A low, sob sound lurches from my lungs as pain lances through my knuckles. I shake my hand and internally berate myself. How fucking old am I? Punching a wall like an angry little teenager.
My door flies open, and Sloane’s slender frame is a silhouette in the open doorway. “Jas?” She sounds panicked, a little breathless, like she ran here.
“I’m fine. The wall isn’t but I’ll patch it.”
“You hit the wall?”
I groan and shake my hand again. “Go to bed, Sloane.” I don’t feel like talking. And I’m tired of worrying. Right now Sloane is just one more thing I worry about.
Not only because she left her fiancé practically at the altar but that I’m deeply satisfied she did. Too satisfied. The last thing Sloane needs is me crossing that line.
She doesn’t make it easy though. Because she flat out ignores what I tell her to do and pads across my room, bare feet on smooth hardwood.
I wish she had ignored other assholes when they told her what to do. Marry some asshole to close a business deal. Leave her job—her passion—to plan a wedding.
It’s all such bullshit.
The wild girl I knew would’ve stuck her tongue out at them and carried on with her life. So I can’t help but be a little satisfied she walks to my en suite bathroom muttering something about “dumb boys” before returning with a warm, wet washcloth.
She comes back to stand right between my knees, still wearing my jersey.
My cock thickens at the sight. The silvery moonlight highlights the shimmer on the fabric, and my eyes snag on the hem that falls midthigh.
My fingers twitch like they’ve got a mind of their own. Like they’d enjoy exploring that hemline. Hike it up gently and see what’s beneath. Erasing and ruining years of friendship as they go.
Nonetheless, there’s the part of me who wants to erase everywhere that Woodcock asshole got to touch her. Got to have her.
He doesn’t deserve her.
“Hand out, Gervais.” Her voice is soft and soothing. Sleepy and resigned somehow. All it takes is one glance at the digital clock on my bedside table to know she just fell asleep.
If she fell asleep at all.
Jealousy and guilt swirl in my gut. “I’m fine. Go back to bed.”
She cocks a hip, making my jersey slip higher on that side. Really not helping my wandering eyes. My hand doesn’t even hurt anymore. All I can think about is reaching beneath the fabric and shaping the soft curve of her waist. Tracing the little dimple on either side of her spine just above her hips.
Every part of Sloane is toned and strong. Long and lean. She’s like a piece of pale marble that’s been sculpted to perfection for years.
“Hand. Now.”
I blink, leaning back slightly. I’m too worked up, and neither of us is wearing nearly enough clothing for this interaction. But the expression on her face hedges no room for debate. Grinding my molars, I hold my right hand up to her and hiss when the wet cloth presses against my knuckles.
“Idiot,” she mutters, dabbing carefully over every ridge of each finger and holding my wrist with a tenderness that feels unfamiliar in so many ways.
Because, while I do have sex with women, I keep it very private. Separate from every other part of my life. Work and family never cross over. And it’s not . . . personal. I’ve ensured that it’s not. Because getting attached hurts, and finding someone to get attached to that I can trust at this point in my career seems downright impossible.
“Wow. Very soothing. You should have become a nurse.”
I see a sliver of a smile on her lips as a curtain of blonde hair tumbles down over her face. “No, you should have. You were terrific at tending to my feet.”
Her feet.
My eyes trail down her legs to the floor, and I remember those days. The blisters. The redness. The swelling.
I kept coming back to help her even when she didn’t ask me to. Even though I was told not to. In retrospect it was one of those nights when I first saw Sloane as a woman, and not the little blonde girl on the ranch. A cousin. A friend.