More Than Enough (Pelican Bay 4)

In that moment, a small part of me hated Jett.

I didn't really expect Maddox to answer, so I didn’t press him. A soft rustling behind us had us both turning to see Isaac and a clearly upset Newt standing at the bottom of the path. It was clear that the pair had witnessed the entire altercation between Jett and Maddox. I knew in that instant that whatever “roughness” Isaac had referred to had to do with Jett and not Maddox.

"He meant it was my fault that he's in that chair," Maddox murmured as he kept his eyes on Isaac.

"I don't believe that," I responded. For the briefest of moments, Maddox’s gaze shifted to me and there was no doubting the hurt he was experiencing.

Maddox placed a hand on my shoulder as he said, "Believe it, it's true."

With that, he stepped past me and went to the welcoming arms of the man who'd changed him, the one who’d ultimately saved him.

As Maddox picked Newt up and then wrapped his free arm around Isaac, I was left to wonder about the mysterious Jett who clearly needed some saving himself.

CHAPTER TWO

JETT

I hated the smell of blood almost more than actually seeing it.

Always had.

When I’d been a kid, my mother would always inevitably laugh halfway through her lecture on the importance of being more careful when I was riding my bike or skateboard or climbing the big oak tree in our front yard because I’d be squeezing my eyes closed and holding my nose at the same time. Then, as soon as the last bandage was in place, I was off and running, determined to master whatever had knocked me on my ass in the first place. Didn’t matter how many times I fell off my skateboard while jumping some inanimate object or how high I climbed on that tree… fear had never been my problem.

It was the same when I’d joined the army. Nearly every person who’d known me growing up had scoffed at the idea of a wannabe soldier who got sick at the sight and smell of blood. My father had been the exception. When I’d told him at the age of six that I was going to be just like the little green army men my grandparents had gifted me with for my birthday, he’d patted my shoulder and simply said, “Yes you will, son.” His faith in me had never wavered.

Fuck, I missed that man. My mom too.

There’d been blood that night too. The night when one asshole had decided “just a few more beers” were more important than the nameless, faceless strangers he’d plow his truck into.

I closed my eyes because just looking out the window at the pretty little grove of trees made me want to put my fist through the glass. I focused instead on the sensation of the blood running down the back of my neck as well as my temple. Strange that my phobia would ultimately be one of the things I now used as a coping mechanism. Even though it made me sick to my stomach, it accomplished two things.

One, it gave me something else to think about instead of the shitstorm that was my life, and two, it was one of the few things I still had control over.

Good job, Jett. Your ass is stuck in a chair for the rest of your days and you’ve got no say in what happens to you but you are able to keep from puking at the sight and stink of your blood. You’re right on track.

As the little voice in my head gave me a visual of two thumbs up, I mentally flipped the fucker the bird and shook my head. The asshole was right—I really did have some fucked-up reasoning going on upstairs.

Despite the lunacy of it all, I kept my eyes closed and breathed through the nausea floating around my belly. Losing my shit wouldn’t get me anywhere. Maddox had played all the right cards in getting me to this hellhole. If I wanted out of this place, the first thing I needed to do was calm my raging brain and then get a plan put together.

“Jett?”

Shit, I knew that voice. The sexy, almost lyrical voice that had managed to pull me up from the darkness as the memories of the day I’d lost my legs had come for me yet again.

Humiliation washed through me as the guy said my name again. I could still feel his weight on top of me as his slightly calloused fingers grazed over my skin.

“I knocked,” I heard the man murmur as his footsteps got closer. “But you didn’t answer.”

“And yet you still came in,” I found myself saying even though I hadn’t meant to respond at all.

“Oh, um, yeah, well…”

I ignored the man’s obvious discomfort and added, “Of course, since my jailers stuck me in a room without a lock, I guess privacy is too much for this gimp to ask for.”