Wrecked (Dirty Air 3)
I freeze, unsure of his confession. “Why?”
“Why do I feel nothing?”
“No. Why did you stare at the door?”
His eyes flash with a rare vulnerability I’m unaccustomed to seeing from him. “I was waiting for you. Because when you’re around, I feel something.”
“And what’s that?” My hoarse whisper fills the quiet. Based on how he acts lately, I can’t tell whether he has the good or bad kind toward me.
“I don’t know. And I really don’t want to find out.”
My chest squeezes to the point of discomfort. I can’t ask Jax what he means because he retreats to his room, shutting me out, leaving me to clean up his mess yet again.
My eyes open to the sun peeking through the curtains. I shut off my bedside lamp before stretching out in my bed. Like every morning, I grab my picture frame of my parents and say a quick prayer. I place it back on my nightstand and go through my morning routine of shutting off all the lights in my room.
I’m slightly ashamed to admit I still don’t sleep in the dark. I can’t stand the shadows creeping in at night, reminding me of memories I struggle to let go of. One day, I’ll sleep like a normal twenty-five-year-old. Until then, I’ll continue to sleep with the lights on because it keeps the nightmares away.
Opening the door to my room, I pummel straight into Jax’s body. I let out a squeak as I lose my footing. My hands grab onto his chest to steady myself from falling over. A very strong, tattooed, shirtless chest I wouldn’t mind exploring. The same chest belonging to a male who makes me angrier than a scorned woman on Jerry Springer.
“Oh, I was about to go check if you were still alive. What a shame. I almost thought you suffocated in your sleep, but I realize I’m not that fortunate.”
Somehow the two functioning brain cells working before my morning coffee assemble some words together as I remove my hands from his chest. “Good God. Do you take asshole pills every morning instead of vitamins?” My eyes run up and down his body before settling on his face.
Why was he waiting outside my door? Why is he shirtless? And why the hell does he have to look so damn good? No one should look like him at 7 a.m. It’s a disgrace.
His lip twitches. “Nope. This kind of attitude doesn’t require a supplement. I was about to wake you up because I don’t want us to be late for our flight.” He sucks in an audible breath as I reach out and brush my fingers across a tattoo of an unfamiliar constellation.
“Hmm.” I trace the individual stars, trying to make sense of the way my body responds to him. It’s a mystery I’ve yet to fully comprehend. I never liked confrontational assholes before, but here I am, intimately touching him. A lover’s caress when we’re anything but.
“I’m a Gemini.” He lets out a soft sigh, his skin pebbling where my fingers linger.
Interesting. Joy rushes through me at the idea of me having the same effect on him that he has on me. At least my attraction isn’t one-sided.
“That explains so much.”
“Do tell.” His vo
ice has a humorous tone to it.
“You’re hot and cold. Up and down. Kind of like that Katy Perry song.” My fingers impulsively run down a set of butterflies near his rib cage. His muscles contract at my touch. He may be all sharp edges with his words and attitude, but the delicate butterflies trailing his side tell a different story. A story I might never get to know, seeing as he resists any semblance of a friendship with me.
“And what’s your sign then? My turn to judge, especially when you’re feeling me up for free.”
I rush to remove my hands from his body, too embarrassed to pay attention to the way my fingers buzz from touching him. “Virgo. AKA the best one.”
“Spoken like someone who’s biased.” He grabs his phone from the pocket of his shorts and taps away. “Oh, look. Analytical, observant, sarcastic, judgmental. Ah, and they even mention Virgos in the bedroom. It says you like a heavy dose of petting before getting, and you might be one for many fetishes. I wonder what weird shit you enjoy?”
“Besides guys who actually treat me with respect? The horror.” I mockingly gasp.
He laughs, the sound soft and unlike his abrasive personality. “My guess is porcelain dolls watching you while you have mundane sex. You scream creepy doll addiction since they kind of look like you: vacant and small.”
I laugh to the point of wheezing. Unfortunately for me, I find him funny when he says something so ridiculous with a seriousness I admire. “Oh, God. You caught me. I thought my secret was safe, but here you go figuring me out in a few weeks. I keep a doll in my carry-on for those types of nights.”
“Hmm. I knew you were weird.” He continues scrolling. “Oh, see they say Virgos tend to suffer in silence.”
“So, we have something in common then?”
The glare he sends my way makes me feel as if someone dragged an ice cube across the base of my spine. “Suffering means I feel guilty. And if you’re trying to get me to admit I feel bad pissing you off, try again. Just because McCoy hired you doesn’t mean I need to make your time here any easier.”