he rustles, letting out a little whimper for a moment before falling back into his dream.
I hover over his bed for a moment, too afraid to move a muscle. When I feel like the coast is clear, I back up slowly, holding my breath until I walk through the doorway, closing the door but leaving in cracked open just in case.
I walk over to the kitchen counter, grabbing the baby monitor and powering it on moments before headlights appear through my front windows. The rumble of the loud engine tells me it’s Jackson, and massive butterflies start flapping their wings in my stomach.
Glancing down at myself, I cringe as I wish I would’ve put something a little sexier on. I didn’t know if Wesley would be asleep though, and I think Jackson would’ve wondered what the hell I was doing if I was waltzing around with Wesley in a short shorts and a tube top. No, this new mom is all about comfort in her sweats and tee sets.
But at least I got half ready. I put on one of my more revealing tank tops today instead of a t-shirt, and these black shorts might not be the sexiest pair ever, but they’re more like spanx and make my ass look fan-fucking-tastic.
When I hear the whirr of Jackson’s chair making it up the ramp, I walk over to the door and open it up for him. “Hi, that took a whi—holy fucking shit.” I slap my hand to my mouth and back away from him.
Covered in head to toe—and I mean that literally—is Jackson. Blank-faced Jackson, staring at me with his dead, soulless eyes. He looks like Carrie after she had blood spilled over the top of her head at the dance.
Completely covered.
“What happened?” My voice trembles uncontrollably along with my body. I’ve never seen so much blood, and I know without a doubt that person is very, very dead.
He shakes his head, closing the door behind him.
“Whose blood is that? Is everyone okay?” The thought that anyone that I know or care about being hurt makes my stomach flop. An instant ache forms in my chest and I have to bring my palm up to rub it away.
He sighs, already irritated with my questions. That’s too fucking bad, because coming home like that is not fucking okay.
“Jackson, answer me.” My voice is sharp as a whip as it lashes out and curls around him. His upper body tenses as he looks over at me.
“My father’s.”
I trip over my own feet as I walk backwards and land on the couch behind me. “R-R-Randall? I t-t-thought he was d-dead.”
He looks down at his hands, flipping them over from front to back. “He is.” He says, absolutely no remorse in his tone. Void of sadness or grief that he took his own father’s life. He doesn’t even see happy of the fact. He just… is.
“But, what—” On the tip of my tongue are about a million questions that need answering, but apparently Jackson wants none of it.
“I’m not talking about it. Not now, not ever. So, drop it and don’t think about bringing it up again. Got it?” He narrows his eyes at me, no negotiations or discussions available with this one.
I nod my head.
“I need help… washing off. Can you help me please?” He seems disgusted with the words as they fall off his tongue. He tries his best to not ask for help with anything, always wanting to figure out a way to do it himself. If I help him, I have to make it be in a way that doesn’t really seem like I’m helping him.
He wants a bowl of cereal? Oh, I was actually just coming to get a bowl for myself.
He dropped the remote and it’s too far for him to pick up? Well, shit, I’m clumsy and just dropped something too.
Yeah, he knows I’m full of shit, but I think we’re content playing make believe in this invisible bubble. I’d rather pretend to drop something to help him instead of having him bitch at me for being overbearing.
So, him asking me to help him is very unexpected.
“Yeah.” I stand up and follow him into the bathroom. When he glances at himself in the mirror, his eyebrows lift in shock. No soon after he blanks his face, schooling his features and lifting his shirt to rip it over his head. He tosses it into the sink, and it lands with a loud slap that nearly makes me