“Three,” he says.
I lift my brow. “Wow. This thing with Drew must be serious.”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
His shoulders tense with his casual words, giving him away, and worry trickles through my veins. If he’s worried, I’m worried. That’s just how it always is with me when it comes to Jack.
I watch his big fingers, loosely wrapped around the steering wheel, and follow the curves of his scarred knuckles. Jack has lots of scars. Not so many that it’s alarming, but enough to elicit questions from anyone who might study his skin for longer than a few seconds. I’ve studied his skin before. All of it. Questions sat on my tongue, but I never asked them.
My eyes trail over the lines of dark ink that lick out from his sleeves of tattoos, barely reaching the backside of his hands. The licks tangle up into more intricate patterns of design on his thick forearms, shifting with his muscles when he grips the steering wheel or makes a turn. But his large forearms are nothing compared to his even larger biceps, which are nothing compared to his great shoulders. The designs twist into even more detailed images as they climb up his arm and disappear under the sleeve of his black shirt, but I know underneath are dozens more tattoos that probably tell stories about Jack that no one has ever heard.
That’s what tattoos are: storytellers. Not always, but most of the time. Some stories we tell with our tongues, in words and kisses and sometimes even the food we make for others. Other stories are just for ourselves and are told in tattoos and scars and the shields we erect around our hearts.
Jack has many stories. Maybe even more than me.
We stop for lunch somewhere in the middle of Texas and eat in silence at a run-down café. After lunch, we switch places and I take over the steering wheel while Jack sleeps in the passenger seat. At least, I think he’s sleeping. He pulled a hat from his bag and set it over his face so I can’t see his eyes, which is just as well.
My stomach is in knots and my heart unsettled. I feel like I’m at war with myself and losing on both sides. The heavier my soul gets the more I want to be home.
Somewhere around four p.m., Jack pulls his hat off and sits up. We manage to have a civil conversation about where to stay for the night and how best to get there. I stop for gas and Jack pays. We look at each other twice when we’re back on the road, but otherwise we keep our eyes out the windows.
The knots in my stomach loosen a bit and soon my soul feels less heavy. I’m not sure why. Maybe just because we’re not snapping at each other. But then sexual tension dawns with the setting sun and suddenly the car feels small and cramped.
Nothing happened or changed to bring my dark desires to life. It’s just the idea that the bright light of day will soon be gone again and the soft light of night will wrap around us that has me thinking and wanting naughty things.
Jack has me pull over so he can drive, and after we switch places, I try to do what he did—pretend to sleep. I can hear him breathing. I can hear the sound of his rough hands sliding over the steering wheel. I can hear all the pieces of Jack, alive and awake next to me, and I know sleep will be impossible.
* * *
Looking up at the San Antonio motel I directed us to, Jack frowns. “This place is a dump.”
He’s right. It’s not gross and horrible, but it’s certainly no more than a two-star place to sleep. Paint is peeling off the building, the lit-up vacancy sign is missing two letters, and the roof is sagging in the center.
Grabbing my luggage, I straighten my shoulders and inhale. “Yeah, well. The only way my driving to New Orleans instead of flying makes any sense is if I stay at cheap—very, very cheap—motels along the way. You’re welcome to go check yourself in at the nearest Ritz Carlton if this isn’t up to par for your highbrow taste.”
He shrugs his shoulders and heads for the lobby. “If you’re staying here, I’m staying here.”
I roll one of my suitcases behind me as I follow, leaving the other two in the car since I only need the one for tonight. Jack pulls the lobby door open and a loud chime sounds as he holds it open for me. I step inside and approach the front desk where I’m greeted by a bubbly middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and thick eyeglasses.
“Good evening!” She waves at us even though we’re standing right in front of her. “Welcome to San Antonio. Looking for a place to stay for the night?”
I nod. “Two rooms, please.”
Her cheery smile falters. “I’m sorry. We only have one room available at the moment. Will that be okay?”
Not even a little.
I sigh. “No. We’ll just keeping looking. Thanks, though.”
As I turn to leave, the woman says, “I’m afraid you might have trouble finding a room in this area tonight.” I look back at her and she bites her lip apologetically. “It’s the big art festival this week, you see. So most of the nearby hotels are completely booked.”
Fantastic.
I rub a hand down my face, too exhausted and annoyed to reply in a civil manner.
“Should I book the one room then?” the woman asks.
“Yes, please,” Jack says.
I shoot my eyes to him. “What?”
“You said you needed to save money to make this trip worthwhile,” he says, lifting a shoulder. “What better way to save money than to share the cost of a room with me? And besides, I’m exhausted and don’t feel like driving around searching for a better option.”
The smug grin on his face aggravates me, but the fact that he has a good point aggravates me even more.
I turn back to the woman at the desk. “I guess we’ll take the one room, then.”
The happy woman gets us a room key and we shuffle back out the chiming door and down the cracked sidewalk to our motel room. Jack inserts the key and opens the door to reveal a small bathroom and, much to my relief—or maybe my disappointment, I’m not sure—two double beds.
“See?” he says, shutting the door behind us and locking it. “Two beds. You were stressing out for no reason. And this is really just the same scenario we had last night in New Mexico, but at half the price.”
I sigh. “You’re right. It’s fine.” I toss my suitcase on the bed farthest from the door. “You want to take a shower first or what?”
He checks his phone with a frown then looks up. “You go ahead. I’ve got to make some calls.” Tapping the screen a few times, he slips outside and holds the phone to his ear. Before the door latches shut, I hear him say, “Hey, Samson. How bad is it now?… Fuck… No, I haven’t had contact with anyone…”
The door cuts off the rest of his sentence and I stare at the empty motel room as a wave of unease washes over me. He’s really stressed-out.
Grabbing my stuff from my suitcase, I head into the bathroom and turn the shower on. Even though driving all day with the air conditioner on isn’t filthy or sweltering, I still feel like I’m coated in grime and sweat as I peel off my clothes and step under the spray.
The water washes away the day’s drive but doesn’t rinse the worry from my gut. Next to Pixie, Jack’s the closest thing I have to a true friend. And I’d bet I’m pretty damn close to being one of his good friends too. So you’d think I’d know exactly what was going on with him and his family. But our real shit, the deep stuff that makes up who we are and where we come from, isn’t something Jack and I talk about.
Though now I’m starting to wish it were. Everything inside me wants to assure Jack, or support him in some way. But I can’t do that when I’m in the dark about whatever he’s dealing with.
Finished with my shower, I turn off the water. The room is still empty when I exit the bathroom so I peek outside. But Jack’s nowhere to be found. Huh.
I take my time straightening my hair and getting dressed. I make my obligatory call to my cousins so they know I’m not chopped up in a trunk somewhere. I call Jack and listen to his husky voice as it goes straight to voice mail. I pace the room a few times. I paint my toenails neon purple.
&nb
sp; When Jack’s still not back after all this, my worry begins to spread like the mutant roots of a giant tree, stretching into my limbs and wrapping around my chest. Just when I’m about to slip on my shoes and go hunt for him, Jack pushes into the room with his arms full of bags.
“Hey,” he says casually. Like he hasn’t been gone for an hour and a half. Like he hasn’t had me panicking over his whereabouts and whether or not he’s chopped up in pieces in somebody’s trunk.
“ ‘Hey’?” I put a hand on my hip. “Where the hell have you been?”
He sets the bags on a small table by the door and cocks his head with an almost smile. “Why, did you miss me?”
“I’m not kidding, Jack.” I thrust an angry hand in his direction. “You just took off without telling me and I had no idea where you went or when you would be back. And then I tried calling you but it went straight to voice mail—”
“Hey.” He gently wraps his hands around the tops of my arms. “My phone died and I didn’t have a way to charge it, and honestly I didn’t think I was going to be gone as long as I was. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out—”
“You didn’t freak me out,” I snap, pulling out of his grasp. “I just didn’t know where you were.”
He eyes me carefully then steps over to the bags. “I was out getting us dinner since this town is crawling with tourists for that art thing and I didn’t feel like fighting traffic and waiting lists for a meal.” He pulls out a few takeout boxes and sets them on the table with some utensils. He doesn’t look at me. “Thai food. I got you that curry shit you like and some spring rolls.”
The fury and fear that lit my veins just moments ago instantly dissolves as the smell of chicken curry meets my nose.
“You hate curry,” I say, walking up beside him.
He nods. “Yeah, but I love pulled pork. At first I went to this barbeque place to get us dinner”—he pulls a container stuffed with a pulled pork sandwich and French fries out of another bag—“but then I saw the Thai place next door and thought you might appreciate that a little more so I went there after, which is why it took longer than I expected to get back here.” He sets a box of spring rolls in front of me.
Of course he went out of his way to get food that I like. Must he always be so good to me? Even when he’s being a dickhead, he’s always so damn good to me.
I look up at his gray eyes apologetically. “I’m sorry I snapped. Thanks for getting us food.”
He grins. “Thanks for freaking out about me.”
I roll my eyes and sit down. “I was not freaking out.”
He sits down across from me. “Sure you weren’t.”
We eat in comfortable silence, both of us clearly starving, until all our food has pretty much vanished and we’re both in better moods.
“What time are you planning on waking up tomorrow?” he asks as he cleans up the empty boxes and bags. “Or do you plan to wake with the afternoon sun?”
“Ha. Ha.” I stab the last bite of chicken on my plate. “I was actually thinking about setting an alarm, believe it or not.”
He scoffs. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“I’m being serious.” I swallow the last bite and clean up my mess as well. “I want to get an early start so we’ll be in Louisiana by sunset.”
I feel his eyes on me as I haul the rest of the bags and napkins to the small trash bin. “I guess you’re pretty excited to be going home, then.”
I shrug. “It’ll be nice to see my mom. And my grandma, of course.” Seeing a rare opportunity of having Jack in both a good mood and in a willing conversation about “home,” I go fishing a little.
“What about you?” I ask innocently. “Are you excited about being home tomorrow?”
He leans back in one of the small dining chairs and his big body dwarfs the seat like he’s a giant and we’re in a miniature land. “Not really.”
I tuck my feet underneath me and cross my legs on my own chair, which looks just my size. “Because of things with Drew?”
He nods. “Yep.”
I drift my eyes to the to-go cup of iced tea he brought for me and pick at the lid as I carefully ask, “So what’s going on with him?”
Silence.
“He’s just in some trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Jenna.”
I look up and find his eyes zeroed in on me like a hawk facing off a predator. “What?”
“Why are you prying?” he asks.
I lift a brow. “Why are you being so secretive?”
“Because my family shit doesn’t concern you.” He doesn’t say it in a mean way, but his words still sting.
“But it concerns you,” I say, then quietly add, “And you concern me.”
He scans my face. “Do I?”
A thick warmth has suddenly entered the room and I shift in my chair to accommodate it as it licks around my body.
“Yes,” I say with a single nod. “I care about you. A lot.”
Too much.
His eyes are still studying me so I look away with a short exhale.
“Whatever’s going on with your brother is obviously weighing on you and stressing you out.” I shrug. “Maybe if you told me what it was you wouldn’t feel so… heavy.”
He shakes his head. “Trust me, you don’t want any part of what I’m dealing with.”
I harden my features. “And if I did want some kind of part in… whatever it is you’re dealing with?”
His eyes darken. “I would do everything in my power to keep you out of it.”
We stare at one another for several seconds, confusion and frustration pouring from my side of the table. What in the hell has him so angry and fierce?
“I need a smoke,” he says, abruptly standing from the table.
He slips out the door without looking back and I stare at my to-go cup of iced tea, the knots in my stomach returning with more fervor than before.
Jack only smokes when he feels out of control. He only smokes when he’s unsure, or doesn’t trust himself.
He only smokes when he feels like he’s failing.
And here I am, feeling like I’ve disappointed him so greatly that I’ve now forfeited my rights to care about him, and I can’t help but feel like a failure as well.
10
Jack
Three cigarettes later, I return to our room and quietly step inside. Every light is off except the small lamp on the table and Jenna’s shadow seems to be sleeping in the next bed over.
“How was your smoke?” Jenna says into the darkness, clearly not asleep.
I sigh, emptying my pockets on the lit table. “Don’t start.”
Jenna’s never been a fan of smoking, or smokers, and has made that clear to me on several occasions. And while I’ve pretty much quit, with a few rare exceptions, she still sneers when I light up.
I hear her sheets rustle and chance a glance in her direction. The glow from the lamp is enough to cast the lines of her pretty face in a soft yellow light.
“I don’t give a damn if you smoke,” she says, running her cat eyes over my face.
I unzip my bag and pull out a clean shirt before meeting her eyes. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”
She tilts her head. “Because I’m worried.”
I scoff and head for the bathroom. “I would have guessed worrying about others went against your plan.”
I don’t know why I’m poking at her. Jenna’s not the one I’m mad at right now. I’m angry with myself. With the situation back home that I can’t control. With all the wrong decisions I’ve made in my life. Not the pretty girl in the motel bed who refuses to love me out loud.
Turning on the sink, I pull off my smoky shirt and toss it on the counter before bending down to rinse my face. The cold water feels good against my skin. Clean. Fresh. When I straighten back up, Jenna’s standing right beside me with a hand on her hip and a mean scowl on her face.
“You don’t have to be
an asshole,” she says.
“About your plan?” I blink. “Yes, I do.” My pulse rises like I’m preparing for a fight.
“Why?” She huffs.
“Because that fucking plan of yours is the reason you won’t admit that what happened between us wasn’t just sex.”
She steps back and lifts her hands. “I can’t do this with you right now.”
“Fine by me,” I say, going back to the sink. “You never can, anyway.”
God, I really am an asshole. But even so, the fact that she can’t engage in an honest conversation about us offends me.
I hear her scoff before she climbs back into her bed and pretends to fall asleep.
Jenna’s ridiculous, yet predictable reaction to being asked about us plays on repeat in my mind and I inwardly sigh. I thought if I played it cool for a few months and didn’t push the subject, Jenna would come back around, and we could eventually have a grown-up conversation about things. I knew it wouldn’t be fast or easy—nothing with Jenna is—but I didn’t foresee how painful it would be to sit idly by in the meantime, watching her hook up with other guys and stick to her “plan.”
She’s doesn’t do relationships. I get that. She doesn’t ever want to be tied down to a guy. I get that too. But treating me like I’m an interchangeable piece in her chess game of a life and her big master plan isn’t fair. Because I know that she cares about me in a way that scares the shit out of her. And that means something.
She’s crazy about me, and I’m crazy about her, which makes this whole thing that much more infuriating. If Jenna would just accept that we have a good thing together I’d back off. I truly would. But the girl is stubborn and obsessed with control. And while I admire her boldness and hardheadedness, it also really pisses me off sometimes. Like right now.
* * *
“Ooh! Ooh!” Jenna jerks the car to the right and pulls over.
“What now?” I say groggily.
I didn’t sleep well last night—surprise, surprise—so the moment we left the motel I shut my eyes and hoped for a nap. No such luck.