High Risk Love (12 page)

All it would take was one more touch and I’d be his; I knew this down to a primal level. That fear drove me into a frenzy of action. I flung my clothes into my one suitcase, not bothering to separate them into clean and dirty piles. I crammed them in, and then ran for the bathroom, grabbed my toothbrush and lotions, and threw them on top of my clothes. The zipper stuck, twice, as I yanked on it, frantic to get it closed and leave before Jet would show up.

Because without a doubt, I knew he would. He wouldn’t let me go easy. No, not him.

With a jerk, I got the zipper moving, but it wasn’t going the way I wanted it to. The stupid metal tab broke off in my fingers in perfect timing with the knock on my door. Not fast enough.

“Jasmin. Please let me in. I need to know you’re okay.”

I closed my eyes. Maybe if I was quiet he’d go, he’d think I wasn’t here.

“You can either open the door, or I can go around the outside and climb up to your balcony. Your choice.”

My stomach rolled with the idea of him hanging seven stories up.

Suppressing a shiver, I walked to the door, but didn’t open it. “I’m packing. I’ve got enough pictures of you.”

There was shuffle and a thump as what sounded like his head hit the door. “But you don’t know everything about me. Isn’t that what you wanted for the magazine?”

I pulled my bottom lip into my mouth and held it with my teeth for a moment before answering.

“I think what I have is enough,” I put my hand on the door where I thought his head might be. “Besides, it isn’t an exposè. Just a silly magazine article.”

Another shuffle. “I’ll make you a trade. My story, for yours.” There was a hitch in his voice, as if he didn’t want to say what he had, but did anyway.

I looked up at the ceiling, trying to find the words to send him away, to say I didn’t care, the words that would make him go back to the set and forget about me.

I opened the door. His eyes met mine and the sorrow and grief there were too much.

He lifted his hand and trailed it along the edge of my jaw. Had it only been three days since I’d met him on the stairwell, grabbed his ear and sent him on his way?

“Can I come in?”

“Why don’t we walk? I . . . I think that’s better,” I said, not wanting to tell him the real reason. If we stayed in my room, there was no doubt in my mind we’d end up in bed and all my plans of keeping him out of my panties would go flying out the window, along with what was left of my better senses.

Jet held his hand out to me, lacing our fingers. Why did that simple thing have to feel so good, so fitting? I reached back for my camera.

“No, leave it. Please.”

I paused. My camera was why I was here. But maybe just this once I could leave it behind.

“I know a place that we can go, sit and talk,” Jet said, his voice uncharacteristically solemn.

He led the way, his thumb rubbing along the edge of my hand as we wove between people on the sidewalk. There was an air of expectation between us, and fear. What was in his past that he had to be afraid of? The scars on his body, something with his brother. I could guess, but didn’t want to.

As we walked, he glanced over his shoulder several times, scowling.

“What?” I asked, thinking of Elise, turning to see if there was a blonde head following us. Maybe she’d escaped from the hospital already. Somehow it wouldn’t surprise me if she had.

“Ah, some high school kid has been following me around. Taking pictures of me.” He gave me a smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll lose him.”

I looked back, caught the glint of sun off a camera lens and saw a scrawny figure dart behind a rolling burrito cart. As if I couldn’t see him. He continued to take pictures from that distance, but then seemed to give up, spinning and running back the way he’d come.

“He’s probably just star struck,” I said, giving Jet’s hand a squeeze. “Looks like he’s gone now anyway.”

We didn’t talk much while Jet took me wherever it was we were headed. At least it wasn’t a hotel, or a bedroom, or anything that could be conceived as romantic. Our feet went from walking on pavement, to kicking up dirt, and then we were on white sand as he led me along the beach. The water lapped against the shoreline, the shush of sand being pulled into the ocean with each wave of water. Near the end of the beach Jet veered left, and within moments we were surrounded by trees and foliage that seemed so at odds with the dusty poverty just a few miles away.

“Jet, where are we going?” I asked, reaching out to touch a purple flower, wishing I had my camera. This was beautiful. How would I remember it without my pictures?

“It’s not too far now. I found it the last time I was here,” he said.

We stepped off the beaten path and Jet pushed his way through a thick bundle of hanging vines. He held the way open for me. The sound of rushing water, a waterfall maybe, competed with the birds singing in the trees. Everything around us felt surreal. Like a fairytale. Maybe I was dreaming?

“Trust me, Jazzy.” His eyes pleaded as the words tumbled from his lips.

“I trust you,” I whispered, feeling my heart tangle up with emotion. He was doing this to me, this feeling of belonging with him was dangerous. Bad. He’d break me without even trying to. Jet tugged me forward and we stepped out onto a path that curled down a slope to a crystal clear pool of water being fed by a thin spraying waterfall. The air was misty and cool, droplets of water floating on the updraft of the waterfall to land on my skin. Like a fine fog, the mist swirled up blurring the edges of reality, only enhancing the surreal quality making me wonder if I was dreaming. Maybe that was it. I was back in the hotel room asleep, dreaming of this place, of being here with Jet.

I looked at him, his profile, took in the shape of his jaw and cut of his shoulders. No, I was most definitely here with him, of that I had no more doubts.

All around the pool were large flat rocks, some in sunshine that stole through the high canopy of trees, creating a tiny oasis of heat, others in the shade, damp with moisture and moss. Flowers of every color bloomed around the edges, pinks and blues, purple, yellow and red, like nothing I’d ever seen.

“I wish I had my camera.” I said. “This is stunning. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“We can always come back.” Jet started down the slope following a thin goat trail that switch backed all the way to the pool. Not once did Jet let me go, his hand not loosening on mine for a second. We made our way down to a flat rock that sat a ways back and wasn’t as damp as the others, but it wasn’t in the sun either. Already I knew that whatever words we spoke weren’t meant for sunshine and smiling, but for quiet dark moments in the shadows, things that had broken us. Things that should stay in the dark of the past. I sank to my knees then shifted to sit cross-legged. Jet lowered himself, crouching, and then sat so his legs dangled off the edge.

There wasn’t a moment of silence, a question of who would start. Jet didn’t waste any time with preliminaries, but dove into the darkness, as I’d seen him do with everything else. There were no caution signs, no warnings, just full speed ahead.

“My father beat the shit out of me as a kid. I don’t mean spanking, I don’t mean a smack now and then. Broken bones, skin ripped from my body, knife wounds, busted teeth, black eyes, a punctured lung, bruised kidneys.”

I said nothing, my heart thumping hard with a mixture of fear and hurt, hurt for him, fear for what he was going to say. Because already, I knew it was going to be bad, worse than a beating he’d taken as a child. I tightened my grip on his hand when he moved to pull it away from me.

His eyes lifted to mine, and then darted away, staring at nothing as he spoke. “When I was four, my mother ran away with me and Jap. He, our father, hunted us down and she disappeared. The next ten years I spent learning how to take a hit, how to not let the pain override me. He taught me about pain, and how far I could push my body and still survive, still function as if I had never been hit.”

With my free hand I reached to the back of his neck and traced the scars I knew were there. He closed his eyes.

“Those are from the last beating. He tried to kill me . . . I think.”

I didn’t ask questions, my heart breaking at the thought of Jet as a little boy, golden eyes and golden hair, a sweet charming smile . . . how could anyone lift a hand, let along beat their baby till they scarred? Till they bled in front of them, black and blue with blows from hands that should have loved, not hurt their child?

“Jet,” I said softly, and he lifted shame-filled eyes to me. “Are you sure you want to go on?” I felt like a heel asking him about his past now, seeing the pain and old fear in his eyes, seeing the shame that bled out through the gold.

“A trade is a trade,” he said.

His shoulders hunched and he closed his eyes and spoke, almost as if I wasn’t there. “I thought I was protecting Jasper, he never got more than a smack up the backside of his head. He was younger than me by three years. Protecting him, that was my job, the last thing my mother asked me to do . . . and I failed him. The abuse was worse for him, so much worse . . . and I didn’t even know.” He took a deep shuddering breath. I scooted forward and wrapped my arms around his wide shoulders. How long had he carried this by himself? Maybe his whole life? By himself, believing he’d failed his little brother. But the scars on his body said otherwise; they showed a loyalty that ran so deep, so true.

He leaned into me for a split second, a soft breath of air escaping him before he pulled away, straightening his back. Lacing his fingers behind his head he traced the scars once more. If he were a poker player, I’d say it was a tell, a show of nerves.

“I don’t know if I can say the rest.”

I took a deep breath, knowing that the rest would come when he was ready, if he was ever ready. Now it was my turn. “My parents died three years ago, in a car accident.”

The tension in him receded; he turned to look at me, his hand finding mine as I started to shake.

Grief, heavy and suffocating, clawed at my throat, begging me to let out the sobs I’d never succumbed to, had fought to keep at bay in order to keep moving forward. To act like I was okay. “The accident happened in front of our house. The other driver had been drinking; he was committing what the police called vehicular suicide. He hit them head on, on purpose.”

Jet’s eyes softened further and I closed mine not wanting to see my grief reflected in him. “I haven’t talked to anyone about this.”

“That makes two of us,” he said, arms stealing around my waist, pulling me sideways onto his lap. I put my chin on his shoulder and stared at the waterfall behind us. “Ryan and I were home; we heard the crash and ran out. We were the first ones on the scene. My mom was still alive, but my dad—” The memories flickered in my head, so much blood, Dad’s eyes glazed over, the light snuffed out in a second of someone else’s recklessness; someone else’s desire to die had killed three people, not one. The sound of mom still breathing, wet and irregular, and then it had just stopped.

Jet’s hands stroked my back, slid along my neck and shoulders. I took a breath and plunged on. “I gave my mom mouth to mouth, Ryan did the compressions. I can still taste her blood if I let myself think about it for too long. We weren’t enough though, we couldn’t save her. She died on the way to the hospital.” A sob caught at my throat and I bit down on my lower lip.

“Let it go,” Jet whispered.

I shook my head. “There’s more, and if I don’t get it out now, I don’t know if I ever can.”

He didn’t push me away, didn’t tell me to get over it or that it had been three years and I should just be glad they died quickly. All the things people say to make it sound like they care, like you will be all right, but they don’t know. They don’t know the hurt of losing everyone you’ve ever loved.

“Ryan was diagnosed with cancer a year ago. He fought it hard and there was a point the doctors thought maybe he could pull through, that he was strong enough. They were wrong; he wasn’t strong enough. I watched him die, felt his breath leave his body, begged him to stay with me, to not leave me alone, but—” Jet’s arms tightened around me, and I couldn’t fight the emotions any more. Big deep sobs spilled out of me and I clung to him, distantly aware that he was crying too.

We held each other, our pasts so different and yet, filled with the same things. Guilt, shame, grief and pain, mingling into a quagmire that had sucked us both down so deep. That darkness, though, seemed to recede with the words that spilled out of me, giving me, for a moment, the chance to see what life could be if I let it. Something better, something whole.

Shaking with the intensity of my grief, I slowly came back to myself. Aware that I’d monopolized the whole sharing business. With a man I’d barely known for three days.

“I’m sorry,” I said, brushing tears from my face. “I didn’t mean to cry like that.”

When I moved as if to shift off his lap arms tightened further, stopping me. Jet put his chin on my shoulder, his face buried in my hair whispering the pain he couldn’t speak.

“Our stepmother abused him . . . while our father beat me. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

His fingers dug into me, and I held him as tight as I could, crying fresh for the little boys they had been, for the horrors they’d had foisted on them. His body shook, his breathing ragged with pain, and there was nothing I could do to make it better. Like being with Ryan in the hospital again, I could do nothing to ease this except hold him, and pray. Stroke his back, whisper that the darkness would pass, the pain would ease. That I would stay, I wouldn’t leave him alone to face this.

How long we sat like that . . . it could have been hours. More maybe. The light faded slowly, the sunlight shifting from rock to rock, but never lighting on us. The world moved on, as if our pain was nothing. But I already knew that; that was the way of the world.

“Why did you look so sad when I called you Jazzy?” His lips were right below my ear and I leaned my head into him so mine were right below his.

“That was Ryan’s nickname for me. He was the only one who ever called me that.”