Stay (26 page)

“Yeah.” I coughed and ran my hands through my messy hair. “I haven’t felt hungry in days.”

“That’s a good sign. I’ll make breakfast,” he offered and strode to his dresser. He opened it, revealing a very small selection of neatly folded clothes. He handed me a white T-shirt and a blue pair of loose fitting exercise shorts. “I’m assuming you want to shower and change.”

I took the clothes from him and nervously eyed the attached bathroom. “I do.”

“There are towels in the cabinet under the sink. I’ll stay out until you’re done. Take your time,” he said before turning out of the room. He shut the door behind him. I heard the stairs creak as he descended them. My head was still foggy with sickness but not enough to make me leery of stripping down in Jackson’s room. What if Nate or Zane came home? Jackson was sure that they wouldn’t just yet, and I believed him.

I walked into the bathroom nonetheless. It was small and, like the rest of Jackson’s room, very neat and tidy. It was also void of paint and decorations. I turned the shower on and looked at myself in the mirror. Instantly, a small amount of embarrassment rose and caused my cheeks to flush. My hair was a ratty mess, old makeup clung to the skin around my eyes, and my nose was red with dry skin. I looked awful.

I raked my fingers through my hair while I went to the bathroom and was pleasantly surprised when I stepped into the shower. The water was warm. I stood there with my hands out, feeling the heat for several minutes. A hot shower was something I had taken for granted. It was something I knew I could always have, just a normal part of life. Having that taken away and being forced to wash my abused body in icy cold water was just another way Nate proved he had control over us. Each droplet of warm water that splashed down my skin was almost like I was taking something back.

I showered quickly and toweled off even quicker. I dressed in Jackson’s clothes and slowly cracked the door open. He hadn’t returned yet, and the bedroom door was still closed. I flipped my head upside down and rubbed at my hair, trying to dry it as much as possible before getting back into bed.
 

A few minutes, after I tucked the blankets around myself, Jackson opened the door carrying a very full tray of wonderful smelling food. His face lit up when his eyes met mine, and I felt a rush of something I hadn’t felt in a long time flash through my body.

“Do you like biscuits and gravy?” he asked. “I just assumed and made it. I can make you something else if you don’t like it,” he added quickly.

“I love it,” I said truthfully and lunged forward to grab a bowl. Even if I hadn’t liked it, eating something warm and fresh wasn’t something I was about to pass up. I stuck a spoonful in my mouth. “It’s delicious,” I praised. “You’re a good cook.”

Jackson sat at the foot of the bed, keeping a careful distance. I wanted to tell him he didn’t have to stay away, that I liked him being next to me. I didn’t, though. What if he didn’t like being close to me?
 

He raised an eyebrow incredulously. “I’ve never cooked for you before today.”

I shook my head. “You brought me barbeque chicken and mashed potatoes.”

“Oh, right. I forgot about that. Still, that’s only two things.”

I ate a few more spoonfuls before speaking. “I can always smell what you make.” I tore apart the biscuit. “And it always smells good.”

Jackson shrugged off the compliment. “Thanks. I like to cook. Everyone leaves me alone when I do.”

“You know how messed up that is?” I said with my mouthful.

Jackson raised his eyebrows and sighed. “I know how messed up everything around here is.” He tipped his head down and focused on his food.
 

I slowly chewed my last spoonful and stared at Jackson, madly trying to think of something to say. I hated seeing him looking so dejected.

“You have a lot of books,” I commented. My eyes darted to the cardboard box of books that sat in the corner by his closet.

He nodded and waited until he was finished chewing to answer. “Nate lets me read. It keeps me quiet, I guess.” He shook his head. “Reading is a good way to escape the hell we’re in.”

“I had just gotten an email from one of my favorite authors the day I was taken.”
 

Suddenly, my happy thoughts shifted. I had never gotten to reply to that email. I wondered what that author thought…or what anyone who followed my blog thought. Two other people ran the blog with me. Surely by now Lori and Lindsay knew I had been taken and wasn’t blowing them off. Had they written a post about my disappearance? Maybe Lynn or my sister took it upon themselves to email them.

“You okay?” Jackson asked.

“Yeah.” I blinked back the tears. “Memories,” I said shortly and pulled my lips over my teeth.
 

“What do—well,
did
you do for fun?” he asked after a few seconds, changing the subject

“Read, but you know that,” I answered. “I liked to train my dogs. Scarlet is certified to do therapy. In the summer, we’d go to nursing homes and this school by our house for disabled children. The kids love her. We used to do agility, but she’s too old for that now. I was going to start working with Rhett over the summer.” I paused and heavily exhaled. “And I like anything that has to do with the paranormal. Lynn, my best friend, and I go ‘exploring’ anywhere remotely creepy to try and find ghosts. I like to paint too, but I’m not very good at it. I
might
have an unhealthy obsession with
Dr. Who
. And sometimes I play video games.” It felt weird to think about the activities I used to do just for fun. “Saying it all out loud makes me sound like a nerd,” I added with a small smile.

“I don’t think so. It all sounds fun,” Jackson told me. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Really. I’ve never seen one.”

“Not yet,” I said with a smile. “Jackson?”

“Yeah?” he answered.

“How old are you?”
 

“Twenty-three.”
 

“What’s your last name?” I asked.

He paused, like it was difficult to recall. “Porter. My turn. What’s your favorite movie?”
 

“Hocus Pocus.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I smiled. “Well, some day we will watch it together.”

“I’d like that,” he said. Our eyes met and my heart skipped a beat. I looked down at the empty bowl and yawned. “Tired?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said.
 

“Me too,” he said and stood. He took my bowl and empty cup and set them back on the tray. “As creepy as this makes me sound, I stayed up to listen to your breathing. For a while it really sounded like you were struggling for air.”
 

The small smile returned to my face. “I felt like it. I kinda still do, but I think I coughed a lot of it up in the shower.”

“Nice,” he grimaced and moved to the other side of the bed, looking at his pillow on the floor. “Wake me up if you need anything, Addie.”

I nodded and pulled the blankets over me. “Jackson,” I started as he bent down to the floor. “There is enough room for both of us.” I eyed the bed. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

“Are you sure Addie?” he asked slowly.

“Positive,” I said with a cough. I scooted toward the edge and patted the mattress next to me. “It’s more comfortable than the floor.”

“That is true.” He shook his head, and his dark hair fell over his eyes in a way that I found oddly charming, despite the fact that it made him look completely disheveled.
 

“Hang on.” He hurried out of the room and returned with a long, skinny decorative pillow from the guest room. He put it between us as he sat down. “I won’t touch you,” he stated.

“I know you won’t,” I said with a small smile. Part of me was still nervous to be this close to a man. Jackson treated me like a human being, cared about me, and wanted me to be comfortable and well. Reminding myself of that eased some of the anxiety.
 

He smiled one of his rare, genuine smiles. “Good.”

I made myself as comfortable as possible and closed my eyes. Rain began to pitter against the window, and the slight breeze turned into wind. Mist blew across the room, dampening my face. I pulled the blankets up over my head, thinking that if it began raining any harder I’d have to get up and close the windows. Jackson beat me to it. He left them open only about an inch, just enough to keep the fresh air coming in and to allow the cleansing scent of rain into the room.

“Are you cold?” he asked me.

“Not yet,” I told him.

“Okay. I can close the windows if you get cold.”

“You don't have to. The fresh air feels good.”

“It does,” he agreed and settled back down.
 

“My mom used to get mad at me when I’d leave the windows open and it was cold. She would say I’d have to start paying the bill to run the heater.” I smiled at the thought of her face. Then unwelcome tears spilled down my cheeks.
 

As if he was able to sense my sadness, Jackson put his hand on the pillow in a gesture of comfort. Slowly, I stuck mine out from under the blanket and let my fingertips touch his.

Jackson curled his fingers around mine, his touch nothing but gentle. I pushed my hand forward until our fingers were linked. It hit me, just then, how lonely I’d been. I’d been around people, shoved onto mattresses, and manhandled since I got here. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t this
,
being close to someone purely for comfort. There was nothing sexual, nothing threatening or domineering about Jackson. He slowly moved his thumb into the palm of my hand, reading my face to make sure his touch was okay. Then he rubbed small circles onto my skin, relaxing me.
 

I liked the heat of his skin, his steady breathing, the way he smelled like soap and laundry detergent. I liked the way he was taking care of me, making sure I was comfortable and well. No, this was nothing like what I was used to. And I liked it.
 

“Jackson?” I whispered.

“Yeah?”

“How did you end up here?” I carefully asked. I opened my eyes and looked at him. Something dark crossed his face. His jaw tightened and he swallowed hard.

“It’s a long story.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” I said and gave his hand a squeeze.

“I do.” He squeezed my hand back. “My mom was sixteen when she had me,” he started. “In the beginning she tried. She married my biological father when she turned eighteen. I remember living in this shit-hole of an apartment with them. My mom used to tell me that we were happy back then, but it was never true. Dad drank and Mom smoked, and she didn’t limit herself to cigarettes. They fought, and the fights got physical. When my mom wasn’t around to beat up, my dad took out his anger on me. I was in first grade when child services got involved.
 

“My parents got divorced, and that was the last I ever saw of my dad. My mom became depressed and started doing more drugs and got herself arrested. That didn’t go too well for me, as you could have guessed, so I got taken away. I was in and out of foster homes for a year before my grandma, my Mom’s mom, legally adopted me. Like mother like daughter. She still smoked and drank and life was hell. She’d blow her money on drugs and booze and forget to buy me food. And clothes. And toys—forget it. I didn’t have anything the other kids in school had.”

He stopped and took a breath, his dark eyes fixed on the ceiling above us. “But I knew how to mix cocktails,” he said with a forced laugh. He shook his head, and I noticed his eyes were glossy. “I still don’t think she ever met Nate. It was one of those friend-of-a-friend kinds of deals. When I was twelve, she sold me to him.”

My chest tightened, but it wasn’t from being ill. I clenched my jaw and braced myself for the rest of Jackson’s story.

“Nate used me for a while, but the clients interested in males like them young. I was too old already,” he spat, anger and disgust heavy on his voice. “So he put me to work in other ways. It was simple stuff at first, like cleaning and yard work. When I looked old enough, he made me work in the club, mixing drinks, serving food, like I do now. I guess I was helpful enough to keep around, since I’m still here.”

His words cut into the air and hung there, the tragedy of it all weighing down on us. I opened my mouth but was at a loss for words. Even ‘I’m sorry’ didn’t seem to cut it. I wanted to hug him, embrace him, comfort him like he had comforted me. Just the thought of that much physical contact made me nervous.

I pulled my fingers out of his and pushed my hand across the pillow until it rested on his bicep. He hesitated for just a moment then put his hand on my arm. He took in a deep breath and sighed. I traced my fingers up his arm, running them over the bullet wound.

Everything I had felt that day, the day I thought Jackson had been murdered, ran through me. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and my heart swelled with sadness then relief. I moved the pillow that divided the bed in half and wrapped my arms around Jackson, pressing my face into his muscular chest. He held his arms out, unsure for a few seconds before pulling me into an embrace. He rested the side of his face against my hair and let out a heavy sigh.

So many things rushed through me in that moment. I was aware of every physical sensation: my breasts crushing against his chest, the pounding of both our hearts, the rise and fall of his breathing, the way our legs touched. He had one hand on the back of my shoulders and the other tightly secured around my waist. His biceps were stiff as he clung onto me, pulling me in as if I was the only thing keeping him together.

Feeling the exact same way, I closed my eyes and relaxed. Being physically close to Jackson was comforting. I felt safe wrapped in his arms.

I sat up so I could look into his eyes. I gave him a crooked smile and pushed his hair back, letting my fingers run through its length. He met my gaze, his eyes holding back a terrified desperation. I took a breath and moved my hand to his left arm. Slowly, I pushed up the sleeve. A thin scar ran down his bicep. A small, slightly sunken circle of pink skin was in the middle. I carefully touched the bullet wound. I swallowed hard, biting back tears.