Letting Go (Thatch #1)(10)
A FEW HOURS later, we’d successfully moved all of my furniture into the farthest room in the back and set up all of his things in the front room and bedroom. I also had a newfound hatred for the stairs that led up to the loft. I wasn’t built to help carry mattresses and dressers up two flights of stairs.
“Are you alive?” Jagger asked as he came down the stairs.
“No,” I groaned from where I lay sprawled out on the floor.
“Do you regret coming with me now?”
“So much. So much regret in my arms and legs at the moment.” He barked out a laugh, and I ran my palms across the smooth, glossy floor before saying, “I fully approve of your decision to keep the floor like this. It’s really cold and it feels amazing.”
“Well, I’m glad I got your approval now that it’s been done for months.”
He leaned over me, a lopsided smirk on his face. He looked like the past three hours hadn’t happened. Jagger wasn’t skinny by any means; not to say he was ripped either, he’d always just looked naturally well built. But I knew for a fact that working out wasn’t in his vocabulary, and seeing as I spent most of my time running to clear my mind, it bugged me that he was somehow still in good enough shape to make moving two apartments’ worth of furniture look effortless.
“I need to drop off the moving truck, do you want to come with me? We can get lunch after, and then I’ll take you home.”
“I can’t move!” I complained. “How do you expect me to feed myself, let alone climb up into that truck?”
“So dramatic,” he drawled, and reached an arm out toward me.
I grabbed it and groaned as obnoxiously as I could when he pulled me up.
He snorted and pushed me back, laughing when I almost fell back down. “I was gonna go easy on you and let you follow me in my car, but since you apparently can’t function anymore, I guess I’ll just have to hook my car back up to the truck and make fun of you while you try to climb—”
“No! I’ll drive your car,” I offered quickly, cutting him off as we walked to the door. Anything to avoid getting back in that truck.
“That’s what I . . . thought . . .” His words trailed off, his voice dropping so low I barely heard his mumbled curse before I smacked into his back.
Jagger was holding the door open, but from the way his arm flexed around the handle, I knew he would’ve shut it if we hadn’t been blocking the doorway.
“What—hey, Mrs. Easton,” I said awkwardly, and shot Jagger a look as I moved out from under his arm to give his mom a hug.
“Hi, sweetie! I’m so glad you kids are back in town for good. I hated having you all gone.”
I glanced past her for a second, looking for Jagger’s sister and toddler brother, before asking, “Where are Charlie and Keith?”
“Keith’s napping. Charlie’s at home with him while I run some errands.”
“Oh. Well, we were just going to get—”
“When did you get here?” Jagger asked over me and moved so he was standing between his mom and me.
His mom gave me a look and scoffed playfully before looking up at Jagger. “Just a minute ago.”
“Why—” He cut off and looked back at me. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he pulled out his keys and handed them over to me. “Go start up the car, Grey, we’ll be leaving in a second.”
My eyes widened, but I didn’t say anything to him. “Bye, Mrs. Easton.”
“Bye, honey. See you soon.”
I walked to Jagger’s car, and when I turned to slide in, I found them both looking at me. Jagger looked like he was trying and failing to conceal his anger, and I didn’t understand it. It took a lot to piss Jagger off, and even then, he usually just gave an edgy laugh before walking away from whomever he was mad at. He’d never mentioned anything about his mom that would make him respond to her in this way anyway. I had only seen her a few times since we’d all left for college, but it’d only been in passing, and I’d never been with Jagger at those times.
Mrs. Easton looked the same as every other time I’d ever seen her. Absolutely stunning, free, and with an easy smile that never ended. Other than going through husbands and hobbies like they were underwear, she always seemed to carry an air about her like nothing could touch her, like no sadness had—or ever would—mar her world. She was definitely her own kind of person. She’d refused to change her last name even with husband number one, but had a love for changing her first name. “Today I want to be called Flower . . . Jade . . . Infinite . . . Mother Love . . . Dolphin.” The list was never ending and always changing, and she refused to answer to her given name, Cindy, so I’d never called her anything other than Mrs. Easton.
She was forty going on twenty-one, and it wasn’t hard to see where Jagger and Charlie got their looks. They both had her full lips and bone structure most people would kill for. Charlie had her blue eyes, but had naturally blond hair compared to Jagger’s and their mom’s black hair, and a lean body compared to her mom’s hourglass-figured one. I hadn’t seen the youngest sibling since last summer when he was about six months old, but I had no doubt when Keith got older, he’d be just as beautiful as the rest of the family.
Even with the minor differences in appearance, their personalities were what completely separated them. Where their mom was the free spirit, Charlie was the brain of the family and shy to a fault. And Jagger . . . well, Jagger was just Jagger. He’d always been such a contradiction. He had been the fun one, the one who was always getting Ben and me into trouble with his insane ideas—not that that ever stopped us from following up on his next idea—and yet Jagger had a protective side in him that went much deeper than just being there for those he cared for. Given how flighty his mom had always been, he’d acted like a parent to Charlie, and had been the type of friend who always pushed Ben and me to be better at everything. And even though Jagger was covered in tattoos and looked terrifying if you didn’t know him, and had a wild side we all knew well, there was a part of him that was incredibly calm, artistic, passionate, and in tune with others’ emotions . . . something I’d come to understand well over the past two years.