9
jasper
Cade: Why don’t you join us for dinner soon?
Rhett: Beers tomorrow?
Roman: If you need to talk, I’m always around. Take care of yourself.
I curl up in my childhood bed, curled up like I’m hungover. As if if I stayed still and quiet, it wouldn’t hurt.
But then I remember that my brother is missing and everything hurts.
I don’t even want to think about it. I want to push him into the same corner where I have my sister Jenny. But it does not work. My mental game is shit right now, something I’ve proven time and time again on the ice lately.
Years of continuous sports therapy to perfect my mind to be able to withstand the pressure of my position and everything falls apart with a kick to the foundation. Those intrusive, vine-like thoughts appear and threaten to strangle me.
I tried doing the exercise that has always worked for me. Four seconds is all I give myself to think dark thoughts. I immerse myself in them, but only for four seconds. Then I start imagining myself kicking ass, playing my best, and making a save worthy of a best picture. And then I think of something totally different.
Just four seconds of fear, sadness or doubt. Four seconds of madness. That’s all I’ll allow. But not anymore. Right now I’m sitting with those dark thoughts like they’re an old friend.
I push to sit up, my fingertips digging into the too-soft mattress. The house was silent when we arrived. Everyone was hiding in their 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. That’s why I’ve stayed here so long. I can’t stand the thought of leaving him alone in this house after he made sure I wasn’t alone when I was a teenager.
All the people that have mattered to me in life have left me in one way or another; Now it’s part of my person. I can’t control who leaves, but I can control everything else to a point where my anxiety doesn’t paralyze me.
But this? This is devastating me and I can’t control shit.
-Fuck! I roar, just as I turn around and slam my fist into the papered drywall next to me.
A sob leaves my lungs as pain shoots through my knuckles. I shake my hand and internally scold myself. How old am I, damn? Punching a wall like an angry teenager.
My door swings open, and Sloane’s slender body is a silhouette in the open doorway.
“Jas?” “She sounds scared, a little out of breath, like she came running.
-I’m fine. Not the wall, but I’ll patch it.
“Did you hit the wall?”
I groan and shake my hand again.
“Go to bed, Sloane. -I do not feel like talking. And I’m tired of worrying. Right now Sloane is just one more thing I worry about.
Not only because she practically left her fiance at the altar, but because I am deeply pleased that she did. Too satisfied. The last thing Sloane needs is for me to cross that line.
But it doesn’t make it easy for me. Because she ignores what I tell her and runs around my room, barefoot on the smooth wood.
If only he had ignored other assholes when they told him what to do. Marry an idiot to close a deal. Leaving your job, your passion, to plan a wedding.
It’s all bullshit.
The wild girl I knew would have stuck her tongue out at them and moved on with her life. So I can’t help but feel a little satisfied that he heads into my bathroom muttering something about ‘dumb boys’ before returning with a hot, wet washcloth.
He places himself right between my knees again, still wearing my sweater.
My cock thickens when I see it. The silver moonlight highlights the shine of the fabric, and my eyes fall on the hem that falls to mid-thigh.
My fingers move as if they have a mind of their own. As if they wanted to explore that hem. Gently lift it up and see what’s underneath. Erasing and ruining years of friendship in its wake.
However, there is a part of me that wants to erase everything that idiot Woodcock ever touched.
He managed to have it .
He doesn’t deserve it.
Distribute, Gervais. -His voice is soft and reassuring. Sleepy and resigned in a way. Just a glance at the digital clock on my bedside table tells me he had just fallen asleep.
If he had fallen asleep.
Jealousy and guilt swirl in my gut.
-I’m fine. Go back to bed.
He moves one hip, making my sweater ride up more on that side. Doesn’t really help my wandering eyes. My hand doesn’t even hurt anymore. All I can think about is reaching under the fabric and molding the soft curve of her waist. Trace the small dimple on each side of your spine, just above your hips.
Every part of Sloane is toned and strong. Long and thin. She is like a piece of pale marble that has been sculpted to perfection over years.
-Hand. Now.
I blink and lean back slightly. I’m too nervous and neither of us are wearing enough clothes for this interaction. But the expression on his face leaves no room for doubt. I clench my molars, raise my right hand toward it, and hiss as the damp cloth squeezes my knuckles.
“Idiot,” he murmurs, carefully running his fingers along each ridge and holding my wrist with a tenderness that is unknown to me in many ways.
Because even though I have sex with women, I keep it very private. Separated from any other part of my life. Work and family never intersect. And it’s not… personal. I have made sure it is not. Because getting attached hurts, and finding someone to trust at this point in my career seems impossible.
-Oh. Very relaxing. You should have become a nurse.