A look of concern crossed Gumby’s handsome face and he began to rise. “Jazz, you okay?” he asked but his question was overshadowed by Toni’s huff.
“Jazz, just put the goddammed shirt on. I can’t believe you’re giving me a hard time about this.” Toni threw up her hands, then planted them on her hips.
The walls of the diner began to close in on her as the three of them stared. This was so out of character for her, this blatant refusal to help her boss without any kind of explanation, but what could she say?
I have horrifying scars all over my body.
No, she’d rather die than admit the truth. They could never see her shame. Never discover what had been done by her own family member. What her parents hadn’t prevented. What she hadn’t been strong enough to stop.
“I’m not putting it on.”
“I don’t—”
“Toni…” Screw circled Toni’s wrist with his hand, halting her tirade. When she turned toward him, he whispered something to her that had her frowning for a different reason. She turned back, assessing Jazz and the expression of concern grew.
“Jazz, you’re shaking. What’s wrong?” Toni took one step forward, but Screw prevented her from drawing closer.
She needed to run, but her damn feet just wouldn’t move.
He slipped out of the booth and slowly walked her way, Gumby hot on his heels.
“Jazzy?” Screw said. “You really are shaking. And you’re sweating. Why don’t you sit down, babe?” He reached for her and the second his fingertips made contact with her arm, she yanked it back with such force, she stumbled and would have fallen if it weren’t for the counter behind her.
“I’m fine,” she said, working to play it off though her heart jack hammered in her chest and her skin itched as if those bugs from moments ago had bitten her in a hundred spots.
“Why don’t I drive you home?” Gumby asked, holding up her keys.
“Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you people?” She suddenly screamed, completely aware she was melting down in spectacular fashion, but unable to stop the train wreck. With a shake of her head, she snatched her keys from Gumby’s grasp and marched toward the door. “I said I didn’t want to wear the goddammed shirt, not that I was dying. Back the fuck off. I’ll get myself home.”
Then, with that stunning display of freak-out, she ran to her car.
The drive home was made with tears streaming down her face. God, what must her friends think of her? Words like raving lunatic or psycho bitch were the first that came to mind. Before she knew it, she was pulling into her driveway, having driven the last few miles completely on autopilot. As if screaming at her friends wasn’t bad enough, now she was risking lives by driving while far beyond distracted.
She killed the engine then flopped back against the leather seat. It was then she realized she wasn’t just crying, she was full on sobbing, complete with choking gasps, snot, and gallons of tears. A knock on her window had her jumping so hard her hand whacked the steering wheel.
Shit.
Jeremy stood on the other side of her window, jiggling her door handle. “Unlock the door, babe,” he said.
Great, another witness to her humiliation. All she wanted was to crawl under her covers and sleep until the memory of this day faded into oblivion. Maybe following a few glasses of whiskey.
Instead, she lifted a trembling hand to the panel on her door, hitting the unlock button. Jeremy opened the door, and immediately pulled her out into his arms. His touch only intensified the creepy-crawly feeling on her skin, but before she could pull away, another voice rang out.
“I’ll take it from here, man,” Screw said, all but ramming Jeremy out of the way with his shoulder.
He scooped her up into his arms and tromped straight toward her front door, leaving her neighbor in the driveway, jaw hanging open. Somewhere inside, Jazz knew she should protest. Should demand he put her down. Later, being carried like some sort of damsel in distress because she was too zoned out to get into the house herself would only amp up the mortification. Not to mention leaving Jeremy in her driveway without any kind of explanation after he’d only tried to help hit new levels of rudeness.
But for the first time since holding up the tank top, Jazz didn’t have the urge to claw her flesh off. Instead, held protectively against Screw’s chest, she felt nothing but warmth against her skin. With that warmth came a sense of safety she hadn’t felt in too many years to count.
He carried her into the house, and had she been thinking straight, she’d have wondered how he got in without the key. As it was, her brain was clouded with a mix of embarrassment, vile memories, and regret.