Page 74 of The Souls We Claim

He squeezes my hip. I can see the outline of his features as he looks at me. “I guess here in the dark I can admit I was thinking about you too.”

I place my hand over his, and we interlock our fingers.

“The wildest thing happened tonight,” he says. “Caused me to think about some shit.”

I tuck my bent arm beneath my head. “Tell me.”

He shakes his head, but the smile he offers is fake. “I’m fine, Ari.”

“Please don’t pretend you’re okay. Not tonight. I want to know when something bothers you, Jackson.”

I use his real name, drawing him away from the biker and back to the man he is.

“Like the way my name sounds on your lips.” He brushes his thumb over them. “There were these brothers. Two of them. Too fucking young to be caught up in what they were. But they didn’t have any other options. Said they were there for a roof over their heads. And the older brother, he said he was there just to make sure his younger brother was looked out for.”

“Feeling like you have no options is the worst.”

“The kid’s name was Jax, Ari. Just like me. Both of us without parents. My dad is dead because he was careless. My mom left because she couldn’t deal with Dad’s behavior, but she left me behind with him like I was dirt. Like I’d ruin her new life or some shit.”

“Oh, Jackson,” I say as I lift myself up and throw my arms around his neck. “You aren’t dirt. Far from it. You’re like…” I grasp for any kind of comparison. “You’re carbon. Isn’t that what becomes a diamond under pressure?”

Jax buries his head against my neck. My poor lost child.

“I miss my parents, Ari.”

Grief isn’t a continuum. It doesn’t just get better and better until you’re fixed. Does it shift from being all-consuming? Certainly. But one day you’re fine again, living your life, and the next the scent of a familiar perfume sends you spiraling to a level of despair you can barely comprehend.

Even capable men like Jackson.

I stroke his back and slide my hand into his hair. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t shake.

He just holds me close.

Intimately.

And lets me soothe him.

The mood shifts between us. There’s a dance between comfort and need. The thin cotton of my pajamas and his T-shirt separates us, but I can feel the heat of his chest.

His breath tickles the side of my neck, his hands slide beneath the hem of my T-shirt to tug me closer.

Finally, he lifts his head, and I move to kiss him, but he stops me. “Fucking futile to think I’d be able to keep my hands off you tonight, but not while I’ve got the stench of death on me. At least let me shower first.”

I wiggle out of the sheets. “I have an idea,” I say as I climb out of bed and offer him my hand.

He takes it and lets me lead him to his half-finished new bathroom. “The shower in this one doesn’t work.”

“I know.” I turn the light on. “We need the bath. Stay there.” I leave him with his back to the boxes that I guess are going to become the vanity.

The bathtub is a gorgeous contemporary white tub. Sleek lines and silver fittings. I set the tap to pour at the right temperature, then hurry to the other bathroom and grab the bubble bath we use for Lola. It’s a sleep-inducing one with lavender that I hope will work as well on Jax as it does on her. I grab clean towels and some other supplies I need on my way out the door.

Jax. Jackson. I think I prefer his real name in intimate moments like this. When it’s just the two of us.

He hasn’t moved. His arms are folded, and he’s looking down at the floor. I tip some of the bubble bath into the tub and place the bottle on the side.

I put the towels and the other things I grabbed next to the tub.