Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
“Jesus.” Jax rubs his face and gives a weak laugh. “I forgot how hard you hit.”
I flex my fingers. “I didn’t know I was going to do that.”
“I did.” He grunts and slowly rises to his feet, waving off my offer of help. Jax touches his lip where a bead of blood wells. “You feel better?”
“No.” I head to the kitchen to get some ice. “My hand fucking hurts.”
“Yeah, sorry my face got in the way.” He catches the ice pack I toss him. “You gonna ice that hand?”
I want the pain. “I didn’t hit you that hard.”
Jax snorts and heads over to an old fashioned sidebar. His mini fridge is stocked with bottled waters and juices. A big change from the beer and vodka that used to fill it. “Want something?”
“A cranapple.”
We drink our juice like good little boys until I can’t take it any more. “It was the worst fucking moment of my life. Finding you.” I swallow hard and stare down at my reddened knuckles. “I get that it was worse for you. Doesn’t help. I…you scared the fuck out of me.”
“I know.” His expression is hollow, the ice pack lying limp in his hands. That day, his green eyes had been bloodshot and dull. They’re glossy now, and he blinks, looking off. “I wasn’t thinking about you. Or anyone.”
“I was your best friend. And you just… You could have come to me.”
He huffs, trying to smile but failing. “You would have tried to make it better.”
“Damn fucking right I would.” I push off the chair I’ve been leaning on and pace to a window half-obscured by red silk curtains.
“I didn’t want to be fixed,” he says. “Not then.”
I can’t even answer.
Jax sighs. “If I’d been in my right mind, I would have done things differently. But that’s the problem; I wasn’t.”
My fingers dig into the silk. “You gonna do it again?”
It takes too long for him to answer. And when he does, his voice isn’t strong. “I don’t intend to.”
I snort, anger racing hot through my veins. “That’s comforting.”
“I’m being honest. I’m getting help. That’s all I can do.”
Turning to face him is worse. He looks calm, composed, while I’m ready to jump out of my skin. “I don’t know if I can do this again,” I tell him. “If it’s touring, the life, that set you off, I don’t want to do it. I’ll be worrying that I’ll find you again, drowning in your own vomit.”
A vivid image flashes in my mind. But it isn’t of Jax. It’s of me, of Libby hosing me down, putting me into a bed and ordering me not to mess it up. Guilt and loathing snake down my insides.
Jax glares at me. “I deserve that. But let’s get one thing straight: You, Killian fucking James, aren’t God. You can’t fix everything or protect us all.”
“The fuck?”
“Don’t give me that. You’ve always been like this, taking all our shit on as your own. Thinking you can fix everyone’s life and make it better. You can’t. Just yours.” He stands and slaps the ice pack on the table. “What I did was fucked up and shitty. I’m getting help. That’s all I can say. Either you can deal with that or you can’t. Your call.”
He heads for the small studio he has in the apartment, not looking back.
Left alone, I turn back to the window. Far below, traffic is a constant stream, people darting around on the sidewalks. Always trying to fix people’s lives and make them better? Is there anything wrong with that?
I think of Liberty being here with me, what she would say right now. But she’s silent in my head. Instead, I see the fear and frustration in her eyes when I tried to get her to agree to perform with me.
“Fuck,” I whisper. Pulling out my phone, I text her. Her replies are stilted. Mine are too. Each exchange falls like a stone in my gut. I’ve damaged something between us. My thumb caresses the screen. I want to go to her. But I’ve got work to do here too.
Tucking the phone in my pocket, I grab my guitar and go to play with Jax.
Libby
He’s gone. And it’s as if the sun has died. My orbit is off, everything dark and silent. It hurts to breathe, hurts to move. I knew he’d eventually go; I knew it would hurt. But I still wasn’t ready for this. Nothing is right anymore.
I try to work. I have the creativity of wet cardboard. I kind of just sit, limp and staring. I finish up my projects—I won’t be surprised if my clients complain about the uninspired work I’ve sent them—and turn away new jobs. I have enough money saved to take a vacation of my own.
Only what I’m really doing is walking from window to window, jumping at every little sound and catching my breath whenever a car drives along the road, which isn’t often. Because I live in Nowhereville.