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Fuck. “My dad called.”
Jet’s breath is warm against my neck. “What did he want?”
“Nothing.”
“J…” Jet sighs, and I close my eyes.
Nothing.
And everything.
I don’t want to think about it. I don’t wanna remember what he said. His words are right there, under the surface of my thoughts, a thorn, a sting, a decision waiting to be acknowledged, a certainty I want to challenge, or to ignore.
So I ignore it, leaning into Jet’s body, letting him and Candy hold me, keep me together.
I’m not ready to poke that sore spot just yet.
***
As it turns out, I don’t have to poke it. Sleep does that without asking for my permission. Waking up for the second time in a cold sweat with angry words ringing in my ears and my dad’s scowling face flashing through my head, I decide, fuck it, and get up.
Noticing Jet isn’t in bed either, I make sure Candy is covered up and in a deep sleep before I slip out of the room.
I close the door behind me and shiver with the sharp shards of the dream—or perhaps a memory. Something my dad told me the last time we met. Something lurking in a corner of my mind, pouncing as I sleep.
He didn’t really say that… did he?
He did, and not for the first time, my memory helpfully informs me, and I shiver harder.
Goddammit.
Raking my hands through my hair, I stumble into the living room and find Jet sprawled on the sofa, drawing on one of his big pads with a charcoal pencil.
I lean over the backrest. He’s so absorbed in what he’s making, he only frowns harder at the design. It looks like a man holding a stick.
Or a long knife?
“Jet.”
He gasps and his pad clatters to the floor as he knocks his head back on the armrest. “The fuck?”
I wince. “Sorry.”
“Give a man a heart attack.” He sits up, blinking dazedly, his face white. “Jesus. What are you doing up?”
“Nightmare,” I tell him shortly and he throws his legs off the sofa, making me space. I shoot him a look as I sit down. “You?”
“Nah, mate,” he drawls, “I just felt like wandering the apartment in the dead of night for no reason.”
“Smartass.” I grab him in a headlock and ruffle his hair until he laughs and pushes me away.
“Asshole.”
“Whatcha drawing?” I bend over to grab his pad and he pushes me aside, sweeping the pad away and stashing it beside the sofa.
“None of your business.”
“Is it your dad?”
