Page 33 of Powerless
I blink, leaning back slightly. I’m too worked up, and neither of us is wearing nearly enough clothing for this interaction. But the expression on her face hedges no room for debate. Grinding my molars, I hold my right hand up to her and hiss when the wet cloth presses against my knuckles.
“Idiot,” she mutters, dabbing carefully over every ridge of each finger and holding my wrist with a tenderness that feels unfamiliar in so many ways.
Because, while I do have sex with women, I keep it very private. Separate from every other part of my life. Work and family never cross over. And it’s not . . . personal. I’ve ensured that it’s not. Because getting attachedhurts,and finding someone to get attached to that I can trust at this point in my career seems downright impossible.
“Wow. Very soothing. You should have become a nurse.”
I see a sliver of a smile on her lips as a curtain of blonde hair tumbles down over her face. “No, you should have. You were terrific at tending to my feet.”
Her feet.
My eyes trail down her legs to the floor, and I remember those days. The blisters. The redness. The swelling.
I kept coming back to help her even when she didn’t ask me to. Even though I was told not to. In retrospect it was one of those nights when I first saw Sloane as a woman, and not the little blonde girl on the ranch. A cousin. A friend.
It happened while I rubbed her sore feet and trailed a thumb up the arch of her foot. Her head fell back against the pillows on her plush, cream-colored couch, and the exposed column of her throat caught the warm glow of the floor lamp behind her in a way that transfixed me. Shadows played across her collarbones. Her cheeks turned a rosy shade.
The moan that spilled from her lips had me shifting uncomfortably in my jeans.
After that I stopped rubbing her feet.
I realized she wasn’t a little girl at all. And I wanted what I couldn’t have.
She was still young, though, and new to living on her own. She needed a friend. And before long, she had a boyfriend, and the ship had sailed. With our age difference, the close family relation, her dad . . . there were too many ties, too many complications.
Too much fear that I might lose her.
Not that I would have subjected her to me anyway. But now and then, I’d find myself dreaming. Or her face would pop into my mind while I showered, while my hand wrapped around—
“There. Now lie back and let it dry.”
Her palm lands in the middle of my chest and pushes me back into bed, her bare legs pressing against the inside of my knees as she does.
So many people eye me like I’m a Rubik’s cube they can’t solve. My colors are all jumbled and on the wrong sides, but Sloane doesn’t care that I’m messy. She’s never looked at me like I need fixing. She always looked like she does now. Tender and supportive.
When her eyes drop to my bare torso, tracing the outlines of my dark tattoos, the comfort of the moment turns intimate. Her exhale is harsh in the quiet room before her eyes snag on my boxers and drift to where her bare legs press against the inside of mine. My gaze latches onto her lips, watching them pop open in surprise. Like she was so busy tending to me she failed to notice our mutual state of undress.
I clear my throat, standing quickly and gently guiding her back away from me. Taking the damp rag and tossing across the room into the hamper. “Thank you.” My voice comes out all hoarse and strained. I wonder if she notices, but I can’t bring myself to look at her. Instead, I focus on the steady beat of my heart. Grappling blindly in the darkened drawer of my dresser.
“Goodnight.” My voice cracks like I’m a teenager, and I shake my head before I pull on a T-shirt and sit on the bed, as if a shirt and simple duvet will protect me from whatever that moment was we just shared.
I thump my sore fist into the pillow, making a show of getting it just right. It hurts but I ignore the pain. Or maybe I relish in it.
“Jas?” Her tone is soft and uncertain as she stands by watching me, and I hate the thought I might have made her feel uncomfortable with my gruff response.
I hit the pillow harder because I hate a lot of things right now.
“Jas? Talk to me. Tell me what’s in your head.”
I turn to her, all my restraint snapping under the weight of the night. “My head? My head, Sunny? My head is a fucking mess. I hate that Beau is missing and my family is hurting. I hate that my team is struggling and I’ve been sidelined. I especially hate that someone took advantage of you, that he hurt you. Belittled you.Yelledat you. You’re one of the most important people in my life, and he treated you like shit. And I really fuckinghatethat.”
I hiss the last words with venom. Once they’ve cleared my lips, I pant, breathless over the word vomit I just hurled all over my childhood bedroom at the girl who always listens.
The girl who’s always there for me.
The girl I almost lost.
I should be able to let this go, but her arranged relationship with Sterling hurts so intensely that it aches deep in my bones. And I’m not good at letting things go. Every corner of my mind is heavy with regret.
