Page 10 of Drive Me Wilde

"You're the last person I wanted to see." My voice is fading along with all the rational thoughts in my head.

His unearthly blue gaze sweeps down at me. "I know."

I rest my head against him, and something about the way he carries me lets me know it's over, the whole fucking ordeal is over. "This doesn't change anything. I still hate you." My voice is mostly breath now.

"Yeah, I know, Jones."

"You know I hate it when you call me Jones."

"Yep, I know."

five

. . .

Jameson

Indi is shivering badly as I place her on the couch. I'm reluctant to let her go, but I have no reason to keep her in my arms, a place I was always sure she belonged. She's so exhausted she can barely keep her eyes open, those same green eyes that used to skewer me from across the room or across the lunch area. She was always angry at me for both good and bad reasons. There is no reasonable explanation for why she's now curled up and trembling on my couch.

I hurry down the hallway to grab a warm blanket. I race back, worried that when I return the couch will be empty because I imagined the whole thing. I definitely dreamt about Indiana Nash more than once, but this wasn't a dream.

Her long auburn hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, her smooth cheeks are smudged with dirt, there are dark rings under her eyes, and she is as fucking gorgeous as ever. I tuck the blanket in around her.

She starts to push my hand away. "What are you doing?" she asks groggily. "Are you seriously trying to make a move on me?"

I laugh and step back. "Trust me, darlin', you'd know if I was making a move on you. I'm tucking a blanket around you, so you don't break those pretty white teeth with all that shivering."

She opens her eyes and stares up at me for a second. "Oh, sorry, old habits … and all that."

I finish tucking in the blanket. "I never made a move on you."

"Oh really? Uh, the sixth-grade dance? You tried to kiss me."

"I did? Nah, I think you imagined it—wishful thinking … and all that."

A laugh spurts from her mouth, then she winces and curls over with her arm pressed against her stomach.

I straighten. "What's wrong?"

She shakes her head. "It's nothing."

"Bullshit." I snatch the blanket back. She reaches for it and winces again. "See, that's not nothing. In fact, I've made those same faces before when I broke my ribs."

I reach for the end of her shirt. She pushes my hand away, and we are in a silly hand-slapping comic routine until she finally relents. She rests back with a moan. "I'm too tired and hungry to care anymore. Look all you want."

I push up the edge of her T-shirt. A black and blue bruise starts at the bottom of her bra and ends just past her rib cage. "Holy shit." Instantly, my fists curl and my jaw tightens. "Who did this?" As I'm asking it, I'm imagining pounding the guy's face to pulp.

"It's nothing. It was an accident. I fell against a kitchen counter." She pulls the shirt out of my grasp and yanks it down. "I would kill for a glass of water and?—"

"And food?"

"Oh my god, do you have some?"

"No, we don't keep food in the house," I say as I head to the kitchen.

"You always were such a sarcastic asshole," she says weakly.

"I wear the label with pride," I call back to her. We haven't seen each other in over a decade, but even with Indi obviously far from her usual self, we drop right back to our high schoolyears where we knew each other well, and I lived with the constant source of heartbreak knowing the one person who meant anything to me in the world, hated me. I dealt with the constant heartache with anger, sarcasm and turning off my feelings. Being lovesick couldn't break me if I just didn't feel. And then the final straw happened. It assured me that Indiana would hate me forever.

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