Fake Boyfriend - Miley Maine Page 0,59

and then I fucking escaped. I escaped, just like you taught me. But that’s not good enough for you, right?”

“Of course it’s good enough. I'm proud of you, and impressed.”

“But not enough to tell me the truth.”

He didn’t answer.

“People in a relationship need more than a command. They need a discussion.”

“Loren.” He glanced over at me, then put his eyes back on the road. “We’re not in a relationship. This is fake.”

Crushed would be too light of a word to describe how I felt in that moment. Lower than dirt. My heart, already a little battered, broke into pieces.

I didn’t have a reply for that. There was no snappy retort that would patch up that wound. As my throat burned with shame, and my stomach clenched up tight, I realized that I was in love with Jackson.

Great. I was in love with a hot, sexy asshole, who was controlling and domineering, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

The rest of the ride to Jackon’s cabin was silent. I had no idea what to say, or what to do. I was on my way to this man’s dream getaway, and I would have rather been anywhere else in the world.

I was certain he felt the same way. He’d wanted to come to Alaska for some peace and quiet, and I wanted to strike out on my own, establish my independence and start a business.

Neither of us was doing so well with our goals, but we were both alive, which was just about the only positive thing I could currently find.

Well and the cabin. As we pulled up, dawn was breaking, and I had to admit that the cabin was a definite positive. It was made from real wooden logs, and it had a wrap-around front porch. It was set about a hundred feet from a stream, and a gravel path led right to the cabin’s doorstep.

Alpine trees framed the lake, and little yellow flowers lined the path. I wished for my camera. I rubbed my face. I didn’t even know where my camera was. One of the first kidnappers had mentioned it, but I hadn’t had the time to look for it. Maybe someone would get it back to me one day. At this point I was sure it would be bagged as evidence.

Once again I didn’t have any luggage, or any belongings, not even a toothbrush, but Jackson managed one, still in plastic, as well as some old t-shirts I could wear as pajamas that night.

“Let me take care of your wrists,” Jackson said, holding up the first aid kit.

I lifted my arms. I had forgotten about my wrists. I sat at the kitchen table and let him rinse them off with a distilled bottle of water.

His wrists were barely scratched. “How’d you keep yours from getting bloody?”

“Years of practice,” he said.

He washed the deep scrapes with peroxide and then wrapped a gauze bandage around each one. Having his hands on me for something so intimate, especially after our conversation in the car, really sucked.

I was in love with him, and that was a fact. It was good that I was honest with myself about it. Half of me wanted to never speak to him again. The other half wanted to pull him in his bedroom and rip off all his clothes.

It was one thing to sleep with a guy when you were having fun. It was another thing altogether to sleep with a guy when you were in love with him — and he didn’t love you back.

Even though the magic was over between me and Jackson, the cabin was so picturesque that I was determined to enjoy it as much as possible. I walked the path near the lake, I skipped stones in the water, and I even took one of his kayaks out for a quick spin. All of that only took a few hours.

Exhausted, both physically and mentally, I finally broke the silence. “I know it’s morning, but I’m ready to go to bed.”

“The cabin only has one bedroom,” Jackson said. “But I’d feel better if you slept on the couch where I can see you, in case you have a reaction to the drugs.”

“It’s been hours. Probably at least twelve hours. I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know what they used, but it was strong. It knocked me out cold too, and I’ve got a pretty high tolerance for a lot of stuff.”

“Fine,” I said.

Jackson didn’t comment, but gathered up a pillow and