It happened while I rubbed her sore feet and trailed a thumb up the arch of her foot. Her head fell back against the pillows on her plush, cream-colored couch, and the exposed column of her throat caught the warm glow of the floor lamp behind her in a way that transfixed me. Shadows played across her collarbones. Her cheeks turned a rosy shade.
The moan that spilled from her lips had me shifting uncomfortably in my jeans.
After that I stopped rubbing her feet.
I realized she wasn’t a little girl at all. And I wanted what I couldn’t have.
She was still young, though, and new to living on her own. She needed a friend. And before long, she had a boyfriend, and the ship had sailed. With our age difference, the close family relation, her dad . . . there were too many ties, too many complications.
Too much fear that I might lose her.
Not that I would have subjected her to me anyway. But now and then, I’d find myself dreaming. Or her face would pop into my mind while I showered, while my hand wrapped around—
“There. Now lie back and let it dry.”
Her palm lands in the middle of my chest and pushes me back into bed, her bare legs pressing against the inside of my knees as she does.
So many people eye me like I’m a Rubik’s cube they can’t solve. My colors are all jumbled and on the wrong sides, but Sloane doesn’t care that I’m messy. She’s never looked at me like I need fixing. She always looked like she does now. Tender and supportive.
When her eyes drop to my bare torso, tracing the outlines of my dark tattoos, the comfort of the moment turns intimate. Her exhale is harsh in the quiet room before her eyes snag on my boxers and drift to where her bare legs press against the inside of mine. My gaze latches onto her lips, watching them pop open in surprise. Like she was so busy tending to me she failed to notice our mutual state of undress.
I clear my throat, standing quickly and gently guiding her back away from me. Taking the damp rag and tossing across the room into the hamper. “Thank you.” My voice comes out all hoarse and strained. I wonder if she notices, but I can’t bring myself to look at her. Instead, I focus on the steady beat of my heart. Grappling blindly in the darkened drawer of my dresser.
“Goodnight.” My voice cracks like I’m a teenager, and I shake my head before I pull on a T-shirt and sit on the bed, as if a shirt and simple duvet will protect me from whatever that moment was we just shared.
I thump my sore fist into the pillow, making a show of getting it just right. It hurts but I ignore the pain. Or maybe I relish in it.
“Jas?” Her tone is soft and uncertain as she stands by watching me, and I hate the thought I might have made her feel uncomfortable with my gruff response.
I hit the pillow harder because I hate a lot of things right now.
“Jas? Talk to me. Tell me what’s in your head.”
I turn to her, all my restraint snapping under the weight of the night. “My head? My head, Sunny? My head is a fucking mess. I hate that Beau is missing and my family is hurting. I hate that my team is struggling and I’ve been sidelined. I especially hate that someone took advantage of you, that he hurt you. Belittled you. Yelled at you. You’re one of the most important people in my life, and he treated you like shit. And I really fucking hate that.”
I hiss the last words with venom. Once they’ve cleared my lips, I pant, breathless over the word vomit I just hurled all over my childhood bedroom at the girl who always listens.
The girl who’s always there for me.
The girl I almost lost.
I should be able to let this go, but her arranged relationship with Sterling hurts so intensely that it aches deep in my bones. And I’m not good at letting things go. Every corner of my mind is heavy with regret.
“Jasper, why are you so angry about this?” She looks confused. “I’m fine.”
“I’m angry because I want you happy and safe. You weren’t. I pulled away when I found out you were engaged.” What I don’t admit out loud is that my feelings were too jumbled and complicated to face in the wake of that announcement. It winded me in a way I never saw coming. “But you still needed my help, and I wasn’t there for you. You came so damn close to being trapped in a life that would have been miserable for you.”
This last week has put me into a state where I’m practically frothing at the mouth to protect her, to rescue her—to ensure she never ends up in that position again. And I’m realizing that what I’m feeling is a whole lot more than a brotherly sense of protection.
It’s envy. It’s possession.
“Jasper.” Her eyes are like saucers, her hands held wide as she lifts them and drops them back down in an exhausted shrug. She steps closer, eyes roaming my face. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m here. With you.” Her fingers slide over my hand still fisted on the pillow, and she locks in on my eyes. “It’s just you and me. Together. And I’m safe.”
I offer her a terse nod. It’s all I can manage right now. My limbs are seized up. Too many emotions. Her body too close.
“Move over.”
My head flicks in her direction. “What?”
“Move your ass over.”
“Why?”
Those pale blue irises roll back into her head with so much attitude. It reminds me of her as a teenager. “Because I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”
My body goes rigid. “Why?”
“Because I’m concerned for the safety of the walls in this room.” The voice she uses is light, but her eyes are just a bit pinched.
Sloane’s not worried about the walls. She’s worried about me. It’s why she used to come out on the roof with me too. She’s always been a little uncertain if I would take a turn in that direction.
If I’d hurt myself.
Sure, I’ve contemplated suicide. But mostly in the way everyone has. What it would take. If I could follow through. In the wake of Jenny’s death, I’d toed that ledge, but ever since the Eatons took me in, it was never an option.
I know how it feels to lose someone you love, and I couldn’t do that to these people who’ve become my family. I’ll suffer before ever making them do the same.
“Why?” I ask, wanting validation in a moment of weakness. Wanting to hear her say she worries about me or wants to comfort me. It’s insecure and I shouldn’t be hoping for something like that from a woman whose relationship dissolved mere days ago.
Her responding sigh is tired. “You’re glitching, Gervais. You sound like a scratched record. Move the fuck over.”
One cheek twitches at the fact that she resorted to swearing at me. There’s something satisfying about proper little Sloane having a sailor’s mouth. So I move over, not letting myself think too hard about whether it’s a good idea. We’re just friends.
My eyes flutter shut at the sound of the sheet rustling, the small mattress dipping under her weight.
Just friends.
A few strands of her hair tangle in the stubble on my cheek as she lays down facing me, but I leave them there, opting to breathe her in instead.
“Well, this bed is tiny.”
I chuckle. “It is.” The bed usually feels too small for my six-foot-three frame, never mind adding in another person.