Thick, horrible silence filled the space between us as Jamie drove back to the apartment. I hurried out of the car and felt him moving quickly to keep up with me. My skin burned as I rushed up the steps in front of him, feeling his eyes all over me.
I was trembling.
“Good night,” I said as I pulled my keys out of my clutch, not looking at him.
His apartment door slammed behind me before I’d even put my keys in the lock. I glanced over my shoulder at the apartment. Tears burned my eyes.
Even after all he’d done to me, I still cared.
If it had been him flirting and dancing with another woman in front of me all night, I would have hated every minute.
When I’d been dancing with Lincoln, it only got good when I’d imagined Jamie in his place.
Did Jamie even care?
I hated him.
I hated that there would always be a part of me that wanted him. That when I needed to be a strong, independent woman who demanded respect and kindness, I let myself down because of him.
He was an unforgivable weakness.
“Bastard,” I muttered under my breath, forcing back tears. He didn’t deserve them.
I let myself into my apartment. I’d left a few table lamps blazing because I hated returning to darkness. Sitting down on the sofa and unbuckling my strappy heels, I tried not to think about what I’d done tonight. My feet ached as I got up and wandered into my bedroom to put my shoes away.
Just as I was setting them on a shelf in my closet, I thought I heard a knock on the door.
Pulse racing, I ambled into the hall and halted, ears pricked.
The knock was louder this time. More demanding.
My stomach flipped as I hurried through the living area to the front door.
Peeking through the peephole, I saw Jamie standing outside, glowering ferociously at my door.
What now?
I unlocked the chain and the dead bolt, yanking the door open. Before I could even ask what the hell he wanted, he reached out for me as he stepped inside.
And crushed my mouth beneath his.
24
JAMIE
I’d barely stormed into my apartment when I felt the walls closing in on me.
There were days in prison when a feeling of claustrophobia was so powerful, it was like I was losing my mind. Trapped. Airless. Stress crushing my lungs. Even two years later, I hated being stuck in traffic. Not being able to maneuver my car away to freedom, being stuck inside it … I’d feel this pressure on my chest and become light-headed.
The same thing happened when I flew out to Boston to see Lorna after my release. It was so bad that when I decided to return to LA six months ago, I rented a car and drove back to California. Deciding to make the most of it, I took my sweet time. I arrived in LA fourteen days after I’d left Boston.
Now I’d do anything to avoid that feeling—like something was happening beyond my control.
Like I was coming out of my skin.
Like I needed air.
Seething, I turned around and stared at my door.
It was her fault.
No matter what she’d done to me, I couldn’t stop caring. I hated putting her in this position. I hated her flirting with Gaines. Breathing the same air as Ethan Wright.
Yet, it wasn’t until I returned from following Wright that my fury consumed everything. I no longer cared about Wright or Steadman, or anything else but the fact that Jane was rolling her hips against Gaines. That his hands were on her body.
She didn’t look at him. Her eyes were closed as they moved against each other, but I knew her expression. Jane was enjoying herself a little too much.
Seeing the sweaty dew on her skin made my mouth dry.
Or was that my jealousy?
I couldn’t watch any longer, so I’d sent her a text to end it.
The urge to pull over the entire way home and remind her that no one could satisfy her like I could was great. But I’d held it in check.
Until she was gone.
Until she was on the other side of the apartment door, a million miles away despite the short distance. And I couldn’t stand it.
I wanted Jane to feel what I felt.
I wanted to consume her like she consumed me.
Needing a release worse than the nights I’d laid in my cell missing her, I stopped thinking straight. All my blood traveled south, cutting off the supply to my brain.