Page 22 of Painkiller (Sin Records #3)

T he club door slams behind me, and cold air bites my skin. I drag in a breath, sharp and metallic.

What does it say about the air inside that Manhattan smog tastes clean?

My aching feet beg me to take a cab or the subway, but cab fare is more out of the question than usual thanks to whoever stole the money from my account.

I don’t understand how someone could just clean out my account like that.

It makes no sense at all, and the bank had no answers.

They only offered to check into it deeper tomorrow.

And the subway…it’s only a mile to my apartment. It takes the same amount of time to walk as it does to ride the train, but I won’t fall asleep walking.

It’s warmer tonight. It’s still far too cold for my liking, but at least I can feel my toes in my knock-off Uggs.

Shoving my icy fingers into my pockets, I turn right toward Broadway and huff, preparing myself for the walk.

My mind is in a hazy fog from sleep deprivation.

Exhaustion wracks my body from nonstop moving.

Whoever thought being twenty-two meant we’re made for long hours and endless physical work is out of their mind.

I don’t feel twenty-two right now. I’m almost certain my body has aged fifty years in a few days.

Even my brain, which is usually going through my budget, trying to figure out where the night’s earnings leave me, is exhausted and blank.

Well, almost.

Jade green eyes punch their way through the numbness.

He shocked me today, and I’m at a point where I didn’t think I could still be shocked.

It wasn’t the waiting for me outside the rehearsal studio.

While I didn’t expect him, it seems on par with his personality to swing by if he’s close, especially if he’s trying to get into that person’s pants.

No matter what I said, or even if he agreed, Jagger’s intentions, even if not conscious, are obvious.

Offering to drive me home and to the club is his thing. Nearly every encounter we’ve had ends with him volunteering his services.

I wasn’t even surprised that he offered to help me. Well…maybe a little. He didn’t offer to solve my problem. He offered to figure it out. But don’t heroes fix everything?

And that is your damn problem, Poppy. He’s not your fucking hero.

He’s not anyone’s hero. He said so himself.

But damn, I think I might need a hero.

No, it was none of that. What shocked and confused me was the emotions I felt when he dropped me off at the club. I was sad he didn’t stay. Then I began picturing him going to the upper level of the club or some other place to pick up a girl for the night.

And the green poison that ran through my veins at the thought of him with someone else?

Yeah, that threatened to knock me over. It was the same volatile feeling that I choked down this morning when he stumbled out of those girls’ apartment.

I’ve never been jealous a day in my life.

Not of another girl over a guy, anyway. And I have no right now.

Even if we had hooked up, he would still be free to be with whomever he wanted.

It’s the rule of one-night stands and hookups. No commitments, no expectations.

And no jealousy or possessiveness.

Exhaustion and exasperation breathe past my lips as I shake my head. I make it to the corner of the building when a deep, raspy voice calls out. “Need a ride?”

An annoyed scoff whispers from my lips as I shake my head, unsurprised to hear the broody bad boy’s voice coming from the shadows, but curiosity makes me ask, “What are you doing here?”

White teeth glint in the darkness as his lips spread across his face with a smirk. “Haven’t we seen this episode already? Why don’t we skip to the next one?”

I swivel on my tired feet to face him with my arms crossed over my chest. “Couldn’t find a willing participant to suck your dick?”

Nope, that doesn’t sound jealous at all.

Do you see my eyes rolling?

If I thought he’d be affected by the question, I would be disappointed. His dark hair brushes his shoulders as he shakes his head and pushes off the wall. “Can’t say that’s ever been a problem.”

“Because you’re so irresistible, right?” I sound like a cliché bitter ex, but I can’t control the resentment coming out of my mouth.

“Jealousy looks good on you.” He grips my coat between his nimble fingers and walks me backward.

“I am not jealous, ” I insist as I try to stop, turn…anything to get away from him, but I fail miserably, nearly tripping over my own feet in my futile attempts.

“If you say so.” Smirking, he reaches behind me, and I’m tumbling into the soft leather seats. He bends, his breath hitting my ear. “Don’t worry. I wanted to strangle Tom this morning.”

I reel, shock slamming like a dancer’s fall off the stage. Hard. Headfirst. Then, just as quickly, I shove it away. I don’t have the mental capacity to work that one out.

He shuts the door, leaving me to compose myself before he gets in.

Sitting in this seat, my entire body slumps, and the exhaustion becomes overwhelming. I’m not sure I’ll make it to my apartment before I pass out.

When his door shutting jars my almost unconscious mind awake, I realize I’m like a toddler, not even making it out of the driveway, so I decide to keep myself busy by being nosy. “Do you really keep handcuffs in here?”

“Don’t open that,” he yells, but not fast enough. I flip open the center console before he can stop me.

Light spills out.

My breath vanishes.

My stomach drops.

My eyes dart to the lit interior and up to him, wide and shocked, though my gut says I shouldn’t be. That I am suggests I was looking through rose-colored glasses. “I-is that…”

He shuts the console, eyes emotionless and cold, ignoring my freak out, and reaches across from me to the glove box. Clicking the button, the latch releases, and a pair of shiny, silver handcuffs. “That answer your question?”

“Are we just going to pretend I didn’t see what I think I saw?”

“I know what’s in there.” He turns to face me. His body language is aloof, expression ambivalent, but his eyes…I can’t decipher what I see there, but it’s not the unaffected aura he’s trying to project. “You can pretend you didn’t see it or not. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Is that always in there? Has it been there every time I’ve been in this car?”

All the scenarios run through my mind. The consequences of getting caught with freaking drugs would be harsh, and I can’t afford anything else in my life right now.

“Calm down, Halfpint. It’s nothing you need to stress out over. Even if I got caught, I wouldn’t let you suffer.”

“D-did you…Is that…Casey said you and Phoebe partied. Is that what she meant?”

“Do you really want me to paint that picture?” He gets quieter. “I don’t think you do.”

I don’t need him to say it to know. My imagination is conjuring plenty of images on its own.

God, why didn’t it occur to me when I already know my sister has a substance problem?

She has since she was a teenager. It was one of many things we argued about when we were younger.

I hated who they turned her into. They made her volatile and irrational.

I deserve most of the anger and resentment she has for me, but the drugs made her much more cruel than when she was sober.

“Is it going to be a problem?”

My mouth drops that he’d even ask that question. “What do you think?” I snap, and my jaw clenches until pain erupts. “I fucking despise that shit.”

The urge to throw myself from his car takes over. I fight against the need to be away from him, from the thing that turned my sister into someone I don’t recognize anymore. It presses down on my chest as anger, resentment, and desperation mix with every minute that passes.

The desperate desire is made more confusing by my continued attraction to Jagger. I should be repulsed by him. But my skin tingles just being next to him. The new information doesn’t lessen it at all, and that’s fueling the intrusive thoughts. I should hate him, not want him.

Yet…

I press my head against the glass, squeezing my eyes shut, and beg the curiosity about what drives him to drugs to go away.

It doesn’t matter why he does them. There couldn’t possibly be a valid reason for someone like him to turn to drugs except rebellion or just because he can.

His life is charmed, right? Money, charisma, success…

Then why does everything scream at me to look deeper? Why does my mind circle back to the fight the other night? To the pain and anger that flashed in his brilliant jade pools with every punch he threw?

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

You can’t have him, Poppy. You don’t even want him. It’s just that deeply buried instinct all women feel to take care of someone. To fix them.

The car stops, and I look around, recognizing my building, wondering if he has magical powers because I could swear I only just closed my eyes. My door opens, and I look through tired, angry eyes at a concerned expression. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“That’s supposed to make it okay?” I spit, letting my anger at this entire situation roll off my tongue.

“No. I suppose it doesn’t.” His fingers thread through his hair. Guilt dances in his eyes, regret twists his mouth. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

I take his extended hand but drop it as soon as I’m out of the car. “I can get myself in.” I step around him, ignoring the clench of his jaw, the internal battle etched across his face. “Thanks for the ride.”

My mind is conflicted as I enter my building, and it doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t bother me or matter to me what Jagger does. Walking away from him shouldn’t have made my chest ache.

He’s not my problem, and I don’t have the bandwidth for more complications in my life. The decision was made the moment I laid eyes on him. He’s off-limits for too many reasons.

But God-fucking-dammit, I want to turn around, find out what’s hiding in those green eyes, and heal him, knowing good and damn well it’s not possible because people can’t be fixed.

He’s not your problem, Poppy. It’s not a concern, it’s self-serving lust.

By the time I reach my apartment, I feel like I’m losing my mind. Hands shaking, I enter the code on my door. The tumblers rumble, and the light turns green.

Then I open the door.

Turns out Jagger Davis isn’t my biggest problem after all .