“Who is Helen?”
He stills so suddenly and so utterly, it’s like he’s turned into stone. Only his lips move when he whispers, “What?”
“Helen. She gave you the leather bracelet you can’t do without, so she’s important to you. Who is she?”
He flinches, although he tries to hide it. It makes me all the more curious to know.
Okay, I’m socially inept, and even I realize I’ve gone too far and broken the moment. In fact, broken is too small a word for it—I’ve shattered it to billion tiny pieces with no hope of resurrecting it—but it’s too late to take back my words and my questions, and let’s face it: I’m interested in all that makes Jesse who he is.
He sits up and leans over to grab his T-shirt from the floor, his broad back rippling. A long, thin scar marks his lower back, white and old. His every side, his every facet is a puzzle I want to solve.
Though he doesn’t seem so thrilled about the prospect at the moment. It puts a lump of fear in my throat. Not fear of him, but fear of losing him.
As if I ever had him.
“The hell.” He bunches up the T-shirt in his hands and his jaw clenches. “Is this your second question, seriously? If I knew this was what you’d be asking me…”
Shit. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, JJ.”
“You didn’t fucking hurt me. Nothing can hurt me.” He’s spitting mad at me, I realize, his eyes flashing and his teeth gritting, his movements jerky as he pulls on the T-shirt, covering himself, and leaving me aware I’m still topless, sprawled on his bed, where he left me.
My face flaming, I cast around for my top and find it lying on the floor, a few feet away. “Is that so? You’re, what, superhuman? Nothing touches you?” I cover my breasts with my hands instead as I sit up.
“No.” He sneers, and it cuts through me like a knife. “More like subhuman. Didn’t you pay any attention back when I replied to your first question?”
“First question?” My brain’s still fuzzy from the best orgasm I’ve ever had, so sue me for not getting it immediately. “What do you mean?”
“I was a hooker, Embers. I sold my body for money on the streets. I had my regular customers, women who wanted to have some fun, and I also picked up any woman who seemed interested when times got rough. And they did get rough, more than once. My old ways—that’s what I meant. I’ve been whoring myself for a long, long time, and Helen…”
I watch, breathless as he battles some strong emotion. It wells up in his gaze, but it never spills out.
I’d prod him, prompt him to say more, but I’m afraid that if I speak, he’ll remember I’m there and stop. I don’t t
hink he’s seeing me right now. Don’t think he’s seeing anything, and although I’m still reeling a bit from what he said—I’d guessed it, but guessing and knowing are two different things when truth’s staring at you in the face—I’m worried about him.
A common state for me when I’m around him. Worried, or curious, or aroused… Always intrigued.
“Helen was there,” he says, tugging on the leather band circling his strong wrist, that faraway look still on his face. “Helen McRoy. When I was thirteen or so. She was fucking there with me, on the streets, and we had each other’s back. She was older than me, said she was nineteen. Think she was lying, she was fucking younger than that. But she knew the ropes and taught me about protection. Condoms and stuff, and what to be leery of.”
I shiver as the words sink in and the grim picture of his childhood emerges. If he was thirteen when he met Helen, when did he start living on the street? In how much danger was he? And if she was the one who told him about condoms…?
“Wait. You want me to believe that there are people who’d have sex with a kid? And that before meeting this Helen, you used no protection?”
“God, you’re naïve. Believe what you want.” The sneer is back, sharp and ugly. There’s a shimmer to his eyes that turns them into chips of hard, clear glass. “And don’t worry. I’ve been tested many times since. I’m clean as a whistle, so you won’t catch anything from kissing me, I promise.”
Holy crap. “Jesse…”
“I’m done with the stupid Q&A games,” he snaps. No pet names, no teasing gleam in his eyes as he gets to his feet and retrieves my top. He throws it on the bed, and I recoil as if he’s slapped me. “Go back to your pretty world and leave me in mine.”
“I didn’t mean…” My words catch on a strangled sob, and jeez, am I about to make an even bigger fool of myself with a boy who couldn’t care less about me and who thinks asking him about his past is an attack on his pride? “Fine.”
I grab my blouse and pull it on so fast I don’t even check whether or not I'm wearing it backward, hop off the bed and hunt for my purse. Through eyes blinded by tears which I refuse to let fall I find it by the foot of the bed and grab it.
Not another word passes my lips as I let myself out of his room, the last thing I hear before I run out of the apartment the slam of his door, so loud it makes my ears ring.
Running down the steps, with the voice of one of Jesse’s roommates chasing after me, asking me what happened, I put as much distance between us as possible.
I knew from the start this boy would make me cry—hey, I’m shy, not stupid—but I never thought it was going to be so soon, or that it would hurt so much.