Page 40 of Loving at 40

“I was shot.”

Jenna’s hesitant fingers reach forward again. Her hand lands just below the puckered wound. She scoots closer to me on the bed, so the stretch isn’t as far. Slowly, her thumb and forefinger spread, almost as if cupping the spot. Her fingertips travel around the crooked circle before her entire hand flattens over the scar. The heat of her palm is like a soothing balm over a silent ache, and I close my eyes.

“I’m certain the aim was for my dick, but the bullet hit my upper thigh instead. It nearly knicked the femoral artery. If the bullet had been in a slightly different position, I wouldn’t be sitting here.” Doc said I’d been lucky. If the main arterial supply to my thigh had been hit, I could have bled out within minutes. I don’t need to explain the particulars to Jenna. Her husband died from something similar. “I have femoral nerve damage instead.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes. It’s like a constant burn just under my skin.”

The numbness in the front and inside of my left thigh is a constant ache I’ve learned to live with. I have to remind myself I’m alive when I should have been dead. If the aim had been better, if the bullet lodged deeper, if, if, if . . . The firm fact is I’d been shot and lived to tell about it. To meet this beautiful woman who doesn’t seem afraid of a little scar tissue.

Jenna’s fingertips move, smoothing over the skin as if spreading an ointment, a salve to help me heal. My chest tightens. My eyes remain closed as I melt into the tenderness of her touch.

Doctors warned me I could also have a tingling sensation in my groin area and loss of genital function. Jenna’s soft strokes prove my dick still works. Her tender touch is making me hard. My cock hasn’t been half as alert in eight months as it’s been in the last week with this woman.

“Sometimes my knee gives out when I move too fast from up and down, but it all depends.” I speak to distract myself. Now isn’t the time to be aroused, but I can’t help my body’s reaction to Jenna’s affection. She’s still circling, and tracing, and softly touching my damaged skin.

“It’s why I can’t dance.” I laugh a little, hoping the subject is now closed, but I should have known better. Once I opened the lid a little, Jenna’s going to want the entire jar.

“Who did this?” she asks next, her voice even lower.

“Hard topic,” I whisper back because I don’t want to talk about Viviana tonight. It’s safer for Jenna if she doesn’t know. I also don’t want to bring Vi into this bed with Jenna beside me. I’m already cursing myself for even showing her this wound when all I wanted to do was hold her again. And maybe kiss her. More kissing would be nice.

It’s been so long since my mouth merged with another, since I’ve enjoyed the pleasure. Hell, even remembered the desire to kiss someone. I didn’t kiss Vi. There was something about the way she kissed that turned me off, or maybe it was knowing why our mouths met. Maybe it felt too much like a commitment, like I’d be part of her family forever. I was only so good as an actor.

And I didn’t want to be one of them.

They made certain I wouldn’t.

“Are you in trouble?” Her voice is wary, and that tightening in my chest loosens a little at the genuine concern in her question. “Are you in a gang?”

I softly chuckle as my eyes open, and I turn my head in her direction again. Reaching around her propped elbow, I play with the ends of her hair, which dangle over her shoulder and down her back. Her fingers continue to stroke around the scar.

“Why would you say that?”

“The tattoos.”

“Not every person with ink is in a gang, babe.”

Jenna nods once. “I know, but my friend’s husband is a former gang member, and you have something similar to his tattoos on your back.”

My fingers in her hair still, and I pull back my head to get a better look at her. “Who are you hanging out with?” I chortle then hold my breath on her answer. I don’t want to go into an explanation about how some tattoos can look similar to the untrained eye, but minor details set one crown apart from another. It’s about angles and curves, points and stars, color and even texture, not to mention placement. I plan to get mine removed as soon as I can.

“Tricia Ramirez is one of my best friends.” Her eyes narrow, and her fingertips still. A protectiveness fills her voice. “She’s one of the best people I know, and Leon is . . . He worships the ground she walks on. She was his second chance, and he’s hers. He had a rough life, but he’s different, he says. And I believe him. And she had a few rough years and deserves the love he gives her.”

Her defense of her friends is admirable. She obviously idolizes her friend’s relationship, and it has me wondering if she could love a man like me? Could she love a man who’s done bad things but had decent intentions? Just as quickly as the questions cross my mind, I erase the thought.

No woman will love you like I did. The female voice negates the possibility. I didn’t need that brand of love anyway.

“I’m not in a gang, ’Locks.” My fingers return to toying with those soft raven strands. “I’m one of the good guys.”

But was I?

You’re a despicable human. Viviana’s voice returns. The glare in her beady eyes. The sneer on her face. She had no idea. I hated myself for what I’d done, but I hated her more.

“What does that mean?” Jenna asks, and my thoughts return to the present. Can I tell her? Can I trust her? Her innocent eyes beg me for answers, and I decide to give her a little more of me.

“I work for the DEA.”