Page 26

JACKSON

I wander into the kitchen, a mindless fog of barely-contained fury, teetering on the edge of mania. I need to busy myself or get the fuck out of here—far away from Ricky .

Reaching into a top cupboard, I grab two boxes of angel hair pasta and toss them on the counter.

I don’t care if he has a boyfriend. He and Aurora are too close, and I’m about to lose my damn mind. Okay, I’ve lost my mind. The next step in my downward spiral is lashing out and destroying shit.

Like his brute face.

He’s not Ethan. He doesn’t want Aurora and me together. He hates me—I see it in his loathing blue eyes.

And seriously, blond hair and blue eyes? Tattoos and a bad attitude? Protective? What is this purgatory?

I hope he’s illiterate and has flesh-colored facial hair.

The cutting board thumps onto the island, followed by the knife and vegetables. Aurora better have a blender; she hates chunky sauce.

I bet Ethan calls spaghetti sauce gravy. I bet he’d put a stop to their hugging.

Honestly, what kind of name is Ricky? He doesn’t look like a Ricky. What’s that, his gang title? His MC outlaw alias?

No. He doesn’t wear motorcycle boots. I wear motorcycle boots. He wears black combat-style boots—basic standard issue.

My brain is a familiar battlefield of intrusive thoughts, his words on repeat in the background.

While you were off getting high and fucking whoever, I was here taking care of your girlfriend… She collapsed into my arms.

The butcher knife slices through a tomato, cutting it in half with ease.

“In his arms,” I mock, my face twisting in annoyance.

Fuck him. I’ll slice his throat.

No, I won’t. That’ll make a mess, and Aurora will be pissed. The visual is nice, though.

I toss the tomatoes, garlic, peppers, and herbs into the blender. I stare at it all becoming a deep-red liquid, wishing it were Ricky’s heart ripped from his chest.

Now would be a great time to lose myself in the oblivion of a bottle of what-the-fuck-ever I can get my hands on.

Instead, I’ll make Aurora’s favorite meal and pray for a food coma.

I might poison him.

My mother should’ve poisoned Kyle. She loved to cook and had plenty of opportunities.

It’s never-ending negative thoughts on a loop, my insecurities adding their own bullshit. I’m warring with feelings of guilt and shame and anger and hopelessness. Jealousy . A toxic combination that has me ready to explode like a ticking time bomb.

I remind myself Aurora loves me—deep down, I know that—but here’s the thing: it only amplifies my regret. She doesn’t deserve to be burdened with my chaos.

But I don’t want to be this way. If I had the choice, I wouldn’t choose this damaged brain. I’ll always be broken. I’ll always be the harbinger of Kyle’s manipulative games.

Unless he overdoses on the drugs he loves so much.

“Jackson?”

“Hm?”

“Are you making soup?”

Oh, shit. The blender. I take my finger off the puree button. “No.”

She eyes me with suspicion. “Do you need a break? I can cook.”

No, she can’t. She’s gorgeous and sweet, but wow, she’s a terrible cook. Aurora is the only person I know who prefers raw foods over prepared meals. Of course, the only people I associate with are hockey players, and we eat a fuck ton of food.

I push aside the cutting board and lift her onto the kitchen counter, positioning myself between her knees and enclosing her with my arms. “I got it.”

“Okay,” she says in that gentle voice, running her hands over my neck and weaving her fingers into my hair.

She touches me, and my dick pulses—yup, definitely on the manic side—my breath quickening in anticipation of the pleasure only she can give.

Not that she’ll give me any. The fact she’s touching me is a miracle.

“Did your friends leave?” Nope, that doesn’t sound bitter at all.

Our gazes meet, and I struggle to hide the darkness emanating from my thoughts.

“Yes. You can stop being jealous now.”

I don’t want to ruin this. I don’t… “Where were you when you fell into his arms?”

She cocks her head, confused.

“The night I relapsed.”

Her eyes narrow. “Are we doing this?”

“Tell me.”

“It was four or five in the morning. I was in bed.”

Adrenaline shoots through my veins. “With him?”

“He came into my room after my phone kept ringing.” Her expression turns exasperated. “This isn’t an argument you want.”

Aurora

Jackson leans in, our faces inches apart, a war raging behind his green eyes. “Ricky touches you more than his boyfriend. He doesn’t look at you like a friend. He gazes at you in awe, as if you shit fucking rainbows.”

Anticipation and fear pound in my chest. “You’re getting worked up.”

“You think?” he asks sarcastically.

“Jax—”

“Him or me? Who do you choose?” His eyes search mine, vulnerable but cold.

My impulse is to choose him, a rambled apology on the tip of my tongue, ready to prevent an escalation.

But I refuse to tolerate this behavior any longer.

“What’s happening right now? Is this truly about Ricky? Or us?”

“Choose.” His features and tone become harsher. “It’s playing with my mind, watching you two, knowing he was here when I wasn’t.”

I shake my head and glance away, trying to avoid the outburst I sense is coming. “No. I’m not choosing.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Or are you hiding shit from me?” His nostrils flare and his chest heaves. He’s on the verge of crashing. “I’m here. You don’t need a bodyguard. You don’t even need to work. We should be home with Ethan.”

I push his shoulder, wanting to escape, but he doesn’t budge. His arms cage me in, fingers gripping the edge of the granite, biceps bulging.

“Let me go,” I say, steady and firm. “I’m not hiding anything. Maybe you believe that because it’s who you are, but I’ve done nothing wrong. I tried to give you everything?—”

His hand moves swiftly, and I flinch. That fist has smashed through walls beside my head. This time, he’s only gesturing angrily. Still, it’s intimidating.

“You don’t think I know that? You think I wanted this?” He releases a shuddering breath, and his raised voice softens. “I’m sorry. I’ll take it down a notch. Are we together? Can you give me that at least?”

With Jackson, it’s all or nothing, and nothing isn’t an option. Still, I’m not sure I’m emotionally ready. I’m hesitant to slap that boyfriend sticker on someone who was just photographed with other women.

Boyfriend . That’s…not right. The word is weak, utter bullshit. We’re ingrained in each other, despite my best efforts and the lies I tell myself. That’s why it hurts so much, and perhaps he’s feeling it too, with Ricky, although it’s unwarranted.

“Ricky has a partner, and we’re only friends. I understand what you’re going through better than anyone.” I stare pointedly into his troubled eyes. “When you disappear, when you hide our relationship?—”

“That was before?—”

“When you relapse, when you’re with other women, it kills a part of me, a part of us we can’t get back.”

“I wasn’t. With. Other. Women.” Teeth clenched, he swallows hard, his throat clicking.

“Stop saying that.” His voice vibrates with raw emotion.

“You wouldn’t if you knew what I’ve been through.

” His eyes well up, and his jaw ticks. “Sex is warped inside my head.” He taps a finger against his temple.

“Except with you. I’m not attracted to random people, no matter how drunk or high I am.

I don’t even like anyone other than you.

How could I possibly touch someone else? ”

Dread washes over me, as if icy flames scorch my skin. A bone-chilling horror coils tight in my stomach, leaving me jittery.

Only weeks ago, he told me he didn’t ghost me, that he overdosed after hurting me. It took months and another argument for him to admit that.

His mother’s death. Kyle’s torment. I realize how little I know of his struggles, of what’s buried underneath the anger and addiction.

One thing’s for sure: he’s trapped inside his head.

I cup his face with trembling hands and run my thumbs over his cheekbones.

“You’re okay. We’re okay.” A painful tightness grips my throat, my voice barely a rasp.

“Even when I’m too afraid to say it…I love you.

I will always love you. Ricky has a partner.

He’s not interested in me. No one is taking me from you— you’re in control of losing me. ”

His defenses crumble, and his shoulders slump. He shuts his eyes and presses his forehead to mine. “I’m depressed. My thoughts are racing. I got a taste of you again, and I don’t want to go back to starving. I don’t want to lose the only thing I have.”

His words hang heavy in the air, but they’re not true. Ethan cares about him, possibly as much as he does me.

“We can work through this, but you can’t yell or intimidate me. Our life will be more complicated with a baby. Think about it, Jax. Think about a child peering up at you.”

A tear rolls down his cheek, and I hold on to the hope we’ve reached a place that’ll allow us to heal, that’ll allow him to heal, and this night won’t lead to self-destruction.