Читать книгу The Closer You Come - Gena Showalter - Страница 11
ОглавлениеJASE REVERENTLY LAID Brook Lynn on one side of his bed while Beck just sort of plopped Jessie Kay on the other. Both girls were passed out, though for different reasons. Brook Lynn was exhausted. Jessie Kay was trashed.
The lamp on the nightstand cast soft beams of light over Brook Lynn, and Jase found himself standing there, unable to move, staring like a creeper. He’d never expected to meet the real Sleeping Beauty. Silky blond hair spilled around a face as delicate as an antique cameo. Her lashes were so long they curled at the ends. Her heart-shaped lips were red, plumped...begging for a kiss.
A muscle flexed deep in his gut.
“Jessie Kay?” she muttered, the girl clearly never far from her mind.
“She’s fine. She’s right next to you,” he said quietly, not wanting to yank her from that sweet place between sleep and wakefulness. “Beck is tucking her into bed right now.”
Her eyes remained closed as she burrowed deeper into the covers. “Home?”
“My home. You slept through most of the search.”
“Have to tell her...we...fired.”
She and her sister had been fired...from Two Farms? Surely. It was the only job they worked together.
Her earlier tears suddenly made sense. That muscle in his gut flexed all over again.
He’d learned a lot about Brook Lynn tonight, and he’d liked every detail. She was dedicated. Loyal. Kind. Caring. Determined. Sweet.
Too sweet for me.
Only a fool would fire her. And knowing her situation? The fool had to be a major asshole. Somehow she had become a mother to her older sister, and she was a damn good one.
“Jase?” Beck’s voice whispered through the room.
He glanced up. His friend now stood in the doorway, waving him out. Though he hated to leave, he dragged his feet into the hall, shutting the girls inside.
In the kitchen, West gripped a beer in each hand. His eyes were darker than usual, reflecting the shadows underneath.
Beck cursed under his breath. “Seriously?”
“No need for a hissy, Becklina. These aren’t for me.” West handed a beer to each of them. “You’ve both earned a drink. And don’t even think about refusing.”
In unison, they claimed a spot at the table.
Jase clinked his bottle against Beck’s. “Congratulations. You got twelve numbers during tonight’s mission. It’s a new record.”
“Yeah. An all-time low. I must have been off my game somehow,” the guy said with a slight pout.
West rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Beck’s lack of success is not tonight’s top story. This just in—Jase has feelings for Brook Lynn.” He waved his hand around the center of the table. “Discuss.”
Feelings? Him? He slammed the bottle on the table with more force than he’d intended. “You’re wrong. I barely know her, but even if I did feel something—which I don’t and never will—I won’t go after her. That delicate Southern flower would cut and run the moment she learned the truth about me.”
West frowned at him. Beck patted his shoulder. Both radiated the ever-present guilt and sorrow he hated so much, as if they were to blame for even this.
He loved them, but sometimes he couldn’t stand to be in the same room with them. It hurt too much.
“Besides, if I wanted Brook Lynn, why would I be thinking about finding Daphne?” he asked. “Tell me that.”
“Daphne?” Beck shook his head, hanks of hair falling over his forehead. “Why the hell are you thinking about her? She left you when you needed her most.”
“Maybe I left her,” he said. He might have blamed her for their split at first, but then he’d gotten over himself and reviewed the situation through her eyes. His actions had presented her with a clear-cut choice: a life of misery with him or a chance at happiness without him. It wasn’t brain surgery.
West scowled at him. “You were forced to leave her.”
“No. No, I wasn’t. I chose to do what I did, and the decision cost me.”
Silence descended, tense, oppressive. Jase looked away from his friends, his gaze skipping over the room. Have got to finish repairing this place. It was time. They were settled in, and they weren’t going to move. Not again.
The yellowed wallpaper had what looked to be strawberries scattered in every direction. He’d already replaced the chipped and stained laminate counters with marble and the parquet floor with stone, only to stop. Some part of him recognized the house had become a metaphor for his life. Bits and pieces fixed up, the rest a crumbling wreck.
While a little manual labor would change the house, nothing would ever change him.
“Jase,” West said. “Forget about Daphne. We need to talk about the reason you won’t admit you’re developing feelings for Brook Lynn.”
Seriously. When had these two become such pusses? “I have no feelings,” he insisted. “I’m too screwed up.”
“We’re all screwed up,” Beck said. “But that doesn’t stop me from trying.”
“Boy-o, you haven’t been trying,” West said. “You’ve been plowing, sowing the proverbial wild oats.”
If people were clay, then the past was the pair of hands on the spinning wheel, shaping...shaping...misshaping. They’d each been dried and hardened damaged. The only way to change them now was to break them. But Jase had been broken before and had tried to glue the pieces of himself back together. Had suffered in ways he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. He was different now—worse.
He would not break again.
“Forget about me. You’re avoiding the heart of the issue, Jase,” Beck said softly, leaning back in his chair. “We all are, and it’s not doing us any good. So I’m just going to say it. Because despite the fact that we all did what we did together, we’ve never spoken the words aloud.”
A stilted pause as Jase shook his head. They hadn’t spoken the words aloud because he couldn’t bear to hear them.
“Nine years ago,” Beck continued, “we committed a terrible crime. The three of us. Together.”
Not ready to do this. Jase drained his beer then drained Beck’s. “Enough.”
The color faded from West’s face, but still he said, “We killed someone.”
Jase went still. Why were they doing this to him? As if he would ever forget.
West, looking haunted, said, “They deemed it voluntary manslaughter.”
“You refused to name names and testify against us to reduce your sentence,” Beck added, “so you were given the maximum penalty.”
“I know. I know all of this,” Jase snarled, his rough voice echoing off the walls. “Enough!”
Damn it, the girls.
He twisted in his chair to watch the door in the hallway. A minute passed...two...three... To his immense relief, it never opened.
He released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He never wanted Brook Lynn to discover he was an ex-con. A murderer. That he’d committed the crime not in self-defense but in white-hot rage.
“I expected the purging of the poison to make me feel better,” Beck said, slumping in his chair. “Instead I only feel worse.”
“Yeah,” West said, just as despondent. “That kind of sucked.”
Jase’s mind drifted to the hours before his entire world had come tumbling down...when he and the boys had been so hungover they’d slept the day away. Tessa had come barreling into the apartment, tears streaming down her cheeks, waking them. It had taken a while, but West had finally gotten the story out of her. She’d gone to a party with her girlfriends and one of the guys there—Pax Gillis—had followed her when she left and raped her in her car.
Even now, bile burned his stomach at the thought.
They’d gone after the guy and beaten him bloody, and it should have stopped there. But even after Pax passed out, their rage hadn’t cooled. They’d continued to whale...and whale...until finally stopping no longer mattered. The damage was done.
Even though Jase had paid for the crime—again and again—guilt had plagued him ever since, almost as bad as prison. Almost. Books and movies often tried to depict the horrors of life behind bars, but they weren’t even close to the reality. There was no privacy. Few privileges. Food he wouldn’t serve to dogs. Hour after hour spent with nothing but memories—and other inmates. Constant threats of violence...rape. Carving weapons in secret simply in an effort to protect yourself, all while living with the knowledge that years would be added to your sentence if you were ever caught. But what else could you do? Let someone shank you?
Been there, done that. And he had the scars to prove it.
Jase would rather die than go back.
“I know you.” Beck returned to subject one. “You prefer commitment. Need it. But ever since your release—”
Speaking over him, Jase said, “The boy locked behind bars was not the man who emerged. I’ve changed.”
“The core of you hasn’t.” Beck pegged him with a hard stare. “You’ve been settling for randoms, and I don’t know why. I mean, I know why I do it. Panties melt off whenever I enter a room, and it’d be criminal not to do something about it. But that’s not the reason you do it.”
“I know why,” West said softly. “You don’t think you’re good enough. You don’t think you deserve better.”
He pushed to his feet. “This is the last time I’m going to say it. Enough.” A familiar rage brewed, dark and hungry.
Calm. Control.
His friends only wanted the best for him. He knew that. Just as he knew they thought they owed him for letting him take the fall for them, not realizing they’d long ago paid their debt in full. And not just for the money and the house. They were the only visitors he’d had his entire time behind bars, showing up at least twice a week. They’d offered ears to listen and, as puss as this sounded, hearts to care. Not that he’d ever shared the worst of his experiences.
They didn’t know he would never trust anyone else and would always assume the worst of everyone around him. That he would never stop looking over his shoulder, expecting to be attacked. No woman would ever be able to put up with that for long. If one even wanted to be with an ex-con.
Brook Lynn was the one who deserved better.
So was Daphne. Hell, so was Jessie Kay.
Damn it! He’d come to Strawberry Valley desperate for a clean canvas, but all he’d done was paint it black.
“I’m going for a walk,” he said. Have to get out of here. There was a pond deep in the heart of their land where the fish practically jumped into his hands. The little slice of tranquillity might be just what he needed.
Beck glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s 2:00 a.m.”
“I think I can handle the dark,” he said, trying for a dry tone. Deep down, he knew his words weren’t exactly true. There was darkness in his mind, in his soul, and he’d never handled them. Would he ever?
