Page 82 of Enemies with Benefits
I hadn't taken a single blow, but I'd still managed to come out looking like I'd been through the ringer. A small laugh escaped as I realized I had a busted lip, matching those I'd left on the EMT and Kayden, and I was guessing there was going to be a bump on my forehead as well from the looks of it. I'd probably taken the hit while I was trying to get away from them, but I couldn't remember.
I knew I'd told Kayden...something, I'd promised him...something, but even that was distant and quiet in the back of my head, drifting away and disappearing in the storm still shredding through my mind. It must not have been all that important, and I let myself go back to the nothingness of my head as I felt my feet move. The sensation of my boots thumping against the concrete was more 'real' than anything else around me.
In fact, everything and everyone appeared to be moving as if behind thick, clouded glass, obscuring them and their noises from my senses. It had been years since something like that had happened, and in a fit of the kind of irony that only a cruel universe could muster, I could remember those quite clearly. Then again, when you lived in a home where every day was filled with the vibrating, heated potential for violence, retreating into your head where everything outside you made less sense just...made sense.
I was still vaguely aware of everything around me, at least enough to trust that my feet would stop at intersections and not lead me to bumping into people. I still wasn't sure where I was going, not even when I realized I'd stepped inside. Noises were coming from my right, and I drifted toward them, wincing at the sound of childish laughter. It was so free and innocent,something that little girl would never have again, and who knew how long ago it had been stolen from her.
My aching fingers were soothed by the feel of glass that my fingertips closed around. I tipped its contents back and appreciated the cool feeling of it sliding down my throat, and closed my eyes in appreciation as the coolness burst into flames once it reached my gut. I apparently enjoyed it so much that I found a way to get my hands on three more before something cool was shoved into my hand.
"No," I muttered as I took a sip and didn't find a trace of what had started the fire in my gut. My words were lost after that, but I could feel my irritation coming back as I was denied. "More."
Apparently, that wasn't going to be allowed, and I felt hot pain erupt from my hand and a clatter from behind me that might have been the chair I'd been sitting in. I heard a couple of shouts, one of which I faintly recognized. It could have been Moira, but it was hard to understand her, especially with the tone of shock and horror in her voice that I'd never heard before. It made her sound like a parody of herself, a recording that had been stretched and twisted by someone in an attempt to get through to me, even though I knew it wouldn't work.
Fight. That was all I really had left to do. I wasn't going to be allowed to drown in the blissfully fiery liquid, where there would be some form of peace, but I could havesomething. Fighting was good; it was beautiful. It took all the twisted, gnarled things inside me and gave them somewhere to go, somewhere to sink their claws and give me a moment's peace.
"Jace," a voice said next to me. It was spoken softly, that much I could tell, but it felt like someone blasted it through a bullhorn into my ear despite the gentle firmness. A warm hand closed around my wrist. “Stop. C'mon. Let's go."
I wasn't surprised that I wanted to lash out, to strike whatever was holding me, controlling me, but it fizzled out,getting lost in the hazy storm of my head. That voice, that command, was clear, the clearest thing…other than the burn. Clear and firm enough that I couldn't bring myself to deny it, and I allowed myself to get pulled away. Everything else was still fuzzy as I followed, except for the hand now on my forearm, and the soft voice coaxing me, telling me to come along, that I was being taken care of, that I was going somewhere quiet.
Not that there was anywhere that was ever quiet, but it was a lovely thought all the same. To think there was a place where I wouldn't hear the slurring rage of my father's voice, all too similar to the voice I'd bellowed out while driving my fists into that rapist. A place where little girls were allowed to stay little girls, and I didn't have to keep seeing flashes of blood on pale skin, forever burned into my memory, where I knew my dreams would pick them up and place them on a macabre stage.
I was sitting, I realized, and then I knew I'd been sitting for a little while, though not for how long. There was an ache in my right hand that hadn't been there before, or it was worse than it had been before. It wasn't the dull throb of my fists meeting a bony face, but something sharper, and far deeper.
Another jolt of pain made me suck in a breath, now I was aware of it, and I paused. When I breathed in, I took it slow, taking in the scent. I knew I had to be in a room, but there was no smell of industrial cleaner, but something else. It was a deep smell, built into the room in a way that a smell could only be when it existed, untouched, for a long time. There were no real words for it, but smelling it reminded me of the beach, walking along the rocky shore, especially when there was a storm brewing on the horizon. Even miles from the storm, you caught the smell of salty brine but also the crackling, indescribable smell of the lightning and stormy wind from a distance, a distant promise that it would come to shore.
"Mason," I said, my voice clear for the first time, and I picked my head up and looked around.
I found him sitting across from me in an armchair, a book in his hand, and now his eyes were on me as he stared back. "That's my name. Welcome back."
My senses had returned enough that I sensed no judgment or harshness in his voice, but that also meant I was more aware of everything that had happened from the moment I’d seen the blood.
The beating of that fucker.
The way I'd been pulled off and had fought like a wounded animal to go back.
Striking an unarmed, cuffed woman for her part in all that.
The almost drunken way I'd stumbled back to the hotel.
The repeated shots and my absolute fit at being denied more to drink.
Being led up here like a child in front of a crowd.
"Fuck," I said simply, the only thing that could even begin to cover how I was feeling. There was no other way to cover just how horrified I was at my behavior.
"That sounds about right," he said with a snort, closing the book, and while I didn't recognize the title, I caught a glimpse of a half-naked woman and man pushed against one another suggestively on the cover.
"Romance novel?" I wondered, pulled from my thoughts by the surprise of that discovery.
He glanced down at the book and shrugged, shoving a bookmark into it before setting it aside. "Even the chronically not romantic can appreciate some romance. Even if it's just from a book."
I searched and found I didn't have much to say to that. It was obvious he wasn't the romantic type, but it wasn't like I could fault him for that, as I knew I didn't have a romantic bone inmy body. Not even enough to seek out a romance book. It was a little weird to think of him seeking out that small bit of romance, even if it was just in the fictional sense, but it wasn't like I hadn't learned there was more to him than I expected or bothered to consider.
Probably because considering him in a broader scope, thinking of him with more depth and nuance than just a jackass who lived solely for himself...and to piss off other people, was dangerous. People always liked to say familiarity bred contempt, which I had obviously experienced firsthand with my parents, but it bred other things too. The kind of things that made it difficult to look at him with annoyance or dislike, the sort of things that made me peer around the room with open curiosity.
I had been to Moira's room years ago, and it hadn't occurred to me then that all the siblings probably still had their childhood rooms from when they'd grown up in the hotel. The living quarters for the family had been sectioned off from the rest of the hotel, with only the family having the keys to access it. They'd been the original hotel suites before being renovated. So that meant every room in this part of the building had its own living space, a small kitchenette, a bedroom, and a bathroom as well. I remembered Moira telling me once that she and Mason had once shared a two-bedroom suite, as had Milo and Dominic, but unlike the other two, she and Mason had eventually wanted one-bedroom suites of their own.
It had to be Mason's old space, though it didn't look untouched. If asked, I would have envisioned something flashy and probably tacky for Mason, and from the looks of it, I would have been completely off base. The couch I was on, the loveseat, and the armchair Mason sat in were all comfortable leather. There were a couple of small pillows, comfortable rather than showy. There were pictures on the wall around the entertainment system, which appeared to be musicians, DJs,and other performers. There were paintings too, and while it was totally on brand for him to have a few nudes, they were still...tasteful. One near the bedroom showed a dark-haired, very naked man sitting on a balcony overlooking a city whose lights resembled stars, the expression on his face made something in my chest squeeze, and I looked away before I thought too hard about it.
