Page 32 of Powerless
But not anymore. Right now I’m sitting with those dark thoughts like they’re an old friend.
I push to sit, pads of my fingers sinking into the too-soft mattress. The house was quiet when we got here. Everyone hiding away in their own corners to deal with this in their own way.
Rhett has Summer.
Cade has Willa.
Violet has Cole.
It seems like every Eaton has someone to lean on. Except me. And Harvey. Which is why I’ve stayed here for so long. I can’t stomach the thought of leaving him all alone in this house after he made sure that I wasn’t all alone as a teenager.
Everyone I’ve cared about in life has left in me in some way or another—it’s part of my persona now. I can’t control who leaves, but I can control everything else to a point where my anxiety doesn’t cripple me.
But this? This is ravaging me and I can’t control shit.
“Fuck!” I roar, right as I turn and smash my fist into the wallpapered drywall beside me.
A low, sob sound lurches from my lungs as pain lances through my knuckles. I shake my hand and internally berate myself. How fucking old am I? Punching a wall like an angry little teenager.
My door flies open, and Sloane’s slender frame is a silhouette in the open doorway. “Jas?” She sounds panicked, a little breathless, like she ran here.
“I’m fine. The wall isn’t but I’ll patch it.”
“You hit the wall?”
I groan and shake my hand again. “Go to bed, Sloane.” I don’t feel like talking. And I’m tired of worrying. Right now Sloane is just one more thing I worry about.
Not only because she left her fiancé practically at the altar but that I’m deeply satisfied she did. Too satisfied. The last thing Sloane needs is me crossing that line.
She doesn’t make it easy though. Because she flat out ignores what I tell her to do and pads across my room, bare feet on smooth hardwood.
I wish she had ignored other assholes when they told her what to do. Marry some asshole to close a business deal. Leave her job—her passion—to plan a wedding.
It’s all such bullshit.
The wild girl I knew would’ve stuck her tongue out at them and carried on with her life. So I can’t help but be a little satisfied she walks to my en suite bathroom muttering something about “dumb boys” before returning with a warm, wet washcloth.
She comes back to stand right between my knees, still wearing my jersey.
My cock thickens at the sight. The silvery moonlight highlights the shimmer on the fabric, and my eyes snag on the hem that falls midthigh.
My fingers twitch like they’ve got a mind of their own. Like they’d enjoy exploring that hemline. Hike it up gently and see what’s beneath. Erasing and ruining years of friendship as they go.
Nonetheless, there’s the part of me who wants to erase everywhere that Woodcock asshole got to touch her. Got tohaveher.
He doesn’t deserve her.
“Hand out, Gervais.” Her voice is soft and soothing. Sleepy and resigned somehow. All it takes is one glance at the digital clock on my bedside table to know she just fell asleep.
If she fell asleep at all.
Jealousy and guilt swirl in my gut. “I’m fine. Go back to bed.”
She cocks a hip, making my jersey slip higher on that side. Really not helping my wandering eyes. My hand doesn’t even hurt anymore. All I can think about is reaching beneath the fabric and shaping the soft curve of her waist. Tracing the little dimple on either side of her spine just above her hips.
Every part of Sloane is toned and strong. Long and lean. She’s like a piece of pale marble that’s been sculpted to perfection for years.
“Hand. Now.”
