Page 76 of Fighting Jacob

Think, Jacob, think.

Five seconds later, a light bulb switches on in my head. Ryan wrote his cell number on the business card he gave me when I was arrested. He said if Callum tried to contact me, I should call him.

Ignoring the tremors making the floor beneath my feet shudder, I yank my wallet out of my pocket to dig through the business cards stored there. A sigh spills from my lips when I locate Ryan’s tattered card a few seconds later. While bolting to the airport’s short-term parking lot, I dial his number. He answers on the very first ring.

“Ryan Carter.”

“Ryan, it’s Jacob. Is Lola okay?” The fear in my voice is undeniable. I'm beyond petrified that Callum has hurt her again.

“Lola is fine.”

My sprint slows to a jog. My heart is still fitfully beating, but knowing Lola is uninjured is a relief.

My gratitude doesn’t linger for long. “It’s Noah. He isn’t good.”

I start running all over again.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Lola

With a huff, I glance at my alarm clock for the tenth time the past hour. I’ve barely slept a wink the past three days. Insomnia drives me nuts in general, but this latest case could have been avoided if I’d just listen to one of the many pleas my heart has been issuing since Jacob stormed out of my apartment.

Alas, Jacob doesn’t call me a hellion for no reason. My brain could be getting sucked out by a zombie, but I’d still deny that we’re in an acropolis because I don’t believe in zombies. That’s how stubborn I am.

Rolling over, I shift my view from faded painted walls to a water-stained roof. My apartment is anything but glamorous, but it's mine. I saved enough of my wages the past two years to put down a reasonable deposit on my own little place. It’s nothing flashy, but it’s a start, and you’ve got to start somewhere, right?

When my head lolls to the side, my brain screams at me: Don’t do it, Lola. You’ll only get hurt, but with my heart as rebellious as its smarter counterpart, I don’t listen.

Lifting my pillow, I mash it into my face. I’m not trying to suffocate myself—much to the dismay of every local in this town—I’m breathing in Jacob’s aftershave. We had a handful of nighttime sleepovers the past three months, so his Hugo Boss aftershave is embedded in the pillowcase. Even changing my sheets didn’t fix the injustice. I can smell him on every surface of my apartment. On my sofa. In my bed.

On my skin.

This kills me to admit, but I miss him more than I thought possible. I miss his laugh, his smell, and the way he looks at me like I'm clever, even when I'm being stupid. He taught me how to play poker here after he set up the two-seater dining table I brought for us to eat at, and he fixed the busted pipe under my sink before showing me a much more effective way to get wet in the bathroom. This apartment was supposed to be my humble abode, but so much of the space reflects Jacob. He even has his silly vinyl records stacked up in the corner of my room. He says they’re some of his most valued possessions, yet here they are, dumped on my bedroom floor.

Ugh! Maybe I should just call him and tell him what happened with Flynn? That doesn’t mean I forgive him for questioning me, but it might help me get some sleep...and perhaps help us move past this little glitch. I don't like this. I hate relying on anyone, but it also sucks not being anyone's crutch.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I snatch my cell phone off the bedside table. My plan to right the wrongs I made flies out the window when I realize it’s only five AM. I can’t call him at this time, no matter how desperate I am to hear his voice.

After dropping my cell on my table, I wiggle down the mattress until the duvet is covering every inch of me. Now matters are worse. Jacob’s scent is stronger down here. It’s so rich, if I close my eyes, I can imagine the grin he gives me every morning when I wake up to discover him watching me. It’s that stupid lopsided grin he does just before he causes trouble. It’s super cute, nearly as handsome as him.

Groaning at the lovesick idiot I’m becoming, I throw off the bedding and make my way to my small, outdated kitchen. Coffee has always been my savior, and today won’t be any different.

Once I have a strong cup of brew in my hands, I flop onto the springless chair in my living room. A ghost of a smile cracks onto my lips. I joke that my sofa is springless, but in reality, its springs worked perfectly fine before Jacob and I broke them. We also broke my bed—three times.

Enjoy this, because I doubt it will happen again anytime soon, but my first impressions of Jacob were wrong. He knows how to fuck. Not once have I left unsatisfied.

There, I said it, I was wrong...mostly.

Just because he fucks well doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to make love. He just does whatever makes me happy. Fucking makes me happy.

This, though, the dreary TV shows on at this time of the morning... they’re nothing but a mood killer. No wonder birthrates are on the decline. Who wants to stay up watching this crap while feeding a baby who didn’t quit crying all night long? Not me.

After turning off the TV, I scurry into my room to grab my phone. Facebook is full of people pretending to have a perfect life, but it’s a good diversion for boredom.

Like a perfectly timed skit, the first image that pops up on my wall is Jenni breastfeeding baby Jasper. She looks tired, but I can admit she also looks happy. She’s smiling and giving the peace sign to the camera. I like her photo before I continue scrolling. I scan through multiple posts from “friends” who were devastated that yesterday was Monday. Most of my real-life friends went to college before getting desk jobs they all hate. I’ve never understood how that’s considered living. If you hate what you do every day, why continue doing it? My bartender job isn’t flashy, but I enjoy it, and I’d rather be underpaid than turn up to a job I hate every day.

As I’m about to put down my phone, Facebook notifies me that there are new posts in my feed. When I click the link, it takes me to some photos Noah tagged Jacob in. The first couple of images look innocent, but that becomes null and void when I open the entire album. Jacob is tucking dollar bills into a stripper’s panties. That can be expected; he was at a bachelor party, but it’s the pictures where he isn’t front and center that are the most concerning.

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