Page 12 of Holiday Scars
“You’re impossible,” he huffs and walks ahead.
Inside the pool hall, the air smells like heating oil and chalk. Dirk and Hana claim one table, and I rack the balls at another.
“You breaking?” Jett asks, tossing his jacket on a nearby stool like he’s Fast Eddie, Paul Newman’s character inThe Hustler.
“Go for it,” I say.
Jett leans forward, shoulders tightening as he lines up the shot. The crack echoes, and the balls scatter, gleaming flashes across the felt. Two drop into the far-left pocket fast.
“Why do you hit them so hard?” I ask Jett, figuring out my shot.
“I picture the guys who hurt me when I was a kid.”
I want to say something, anything, but he doesn’t look like he wants a follow-up about his childhood trauma right now. I don’t need details. I’ve seen enough in Jett’s eyes to know his time in the foster care system was worse than he’s ever admitted to over a few too many whiskeys.
The weight of his confession settles under my skin in a way it never has before. It’s one thing to stand up for a friend. Another for someone you...
Gasp...Love.
I want to reach for Jett, but I don’t. Not here. Not with Dirk across the room, not with Jett so tightly wound he’d shatter if I pushed him.
So I just say, “Do you picture their faces at Shane’s gun range?”
“No.” Jett rounds the table and sinks another double. “That’s too dangerous when I have a gun in my hand.”
My steps falter, and I almost miss my next shot. That’s Jett. Always intense, even when he’s supposed to be relaxed.
We play a few rounds of eight ball, and it starts to feel normal between us again. He doesn’t miss one shot, every ball sinks. Fucking impressive.
Near midnight, Hana calls out that they are heading back, and Jett sinks yet another triple shot without looking at me.
The drive home is quiet, but charged. The headlights cut through the darkness, and I can see the road is slick with frost. In the backseat, my hand brushes Jett’s cold fingers. I let it linger, just barely, like I don’t notice.
He moves his hand away. Not angrily. Just careful. Like he’s afraid of what might happen if he lets me in. Like I might detonate with lust, and he won’t be able to stop me.
At the cabin, Dirk and Hana vanish into his bedroom before the front door even shuts. The sounds of their happiness start almost immediately. There’s a bite of laughter and a muffled thud of discarded shoes. It’s the telltale rhythm of two people who waited all through dinner and games of pool to be alone.
I motion toward the couch. “I’ll crash here, if you want.”
“We all know how uncomfortable that thing is. And besides, it’s freezing out here without the fire roaring,” Jett says from behind me, his voice tired. “Just stay in my room.”
He grabs some water from the kitchen and then saunters down the hall. For a second, I wonder if I imagined him moaning my name in the shower.
I follow him, and once inside, I lean my back against the closed door. He’s standing at the foot of the bed. The room feels smaller than before. Probably because I’m about to fill it with a tractor-trailer’s worth of tension.
Time to talk.
I swallow hard and blurt, “Jett, you didn’t send that text to Dirk. You sent that text tome.”
His face goes absolutely still. The armor he wore tonight fucking melts off his body. I can’t tell if he’s relieved or furious.
But all I know is after tonight, nothing between us will ever be the same again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jett
The words hang in the air like thick smoke from a gunshot. That’s what it feels like. A shot through the heart.
