Jersey Six(26)

They followed Max to the elevators.

“There’s room for you on one of the buses, after the concert tonight. Are you good with that or are you two …” Max’s gaze bounced between Jersey and Chris as the elevator descended to the lobby.

Chris ignored Jersey when she turned to him for an answer.

“No. I’m not fucking Jersey. Look at me for Christ’s sake. Only a blind woman would have sex with me, and even then … only if I paid her. The bus is fine.”

Jersey drew her head back and winced as his words pulled a bitter smile from her. Her gaze dropped to her feet until they reached the lobby. She liked Chris, finding comfort in his friendship. Not caring about his skin. She didn’t think of him like anything more than a brother. And she wanted to believe it wasn’t based on his injuries. Just like she wanted to believe the flutter in her tummy around Ian wasn’t because he looked like a god.

Was she that superficial?

She pushed that thought away. No … she wasn’t that person. Jersey knew what it felt like to be judged based on looks or life’s circumstances. Chris brought his own brand of crazy into her life. That was the unattractive part, not his skin.

And Ian … well, he looked at her like he understood her, even though there was no way he had an inkling what her life was really like. He felt like the day to her night and a promise on the distant horizon. The last time she felt so alive and filled with hope was during her six months with the Russells.

“The bus it is.” Max tucked her chin, focusing on her phone—or maybe hiding behind her long bangs.

Chris gave everyone the silent treatment on the way to the airport. He boarded the private jet without one look back at Jersey. Was he angry about Ian? Angry about riding the bus, or not having sex with Jersey? She didn’t know.

“Coming?” Max peered over her shoulder, paused halfway up the stairs of the jet.

Jersey stood idle at the bottom of the stairs, cracking her knuckles while swallowing hard. Then she chewed the inside of her cheek.

“First time flying?”

A nod.

“It’s fun. Safer than driving. And this is a short flight down to Charlottesville. A blink.”

Another nod, but no other movement on Jersey’s part.

Shane appeared at the top of the stairs. “I can carry her.”

Max held up her hand and gave him a subtle headshake before retreating back down the stairs. “You roughed up two guys twice your size last night. Get on the plane while you’re still my idol.”

Jersey rolled her shoulders, stilling her darting gaze on Max’s face and the mildly arrogant smirk tugging at her lips.

One step.

Two steps.

She swallowed her fear. It wasn’t the plane crashing. Jersey feared letting go of control, the familiar, a short train ride from the only place she’d ever known. After a brief stare off with the cheery blonde just inside the door to the plane, Jersey relinquished her heavy bag and followed Max around the corner.

Ian sat to the left, chin tipped to his phone with an empty leather seat facing him. Max took the seat on the right, facing Shane. Behind Shane there was a sofa and two more seats facing each other on one side, a grumpy Chris taking up one of them. Jersey ignored everyone else as she made her way to the seat by Chris. He lifted his feet, claiming the empty seat—giving her the proverbial middle finger without looking up from the magazine in his hands.

Jersey scowled. “You’re being a dick,” she mumbled while turning around. Instead of sitting on the couch so he’d be forced to look at her, she retreated to the nicer people on the plane. She couldn’t wait for him to go on the bus later that night. They needed a break from each other.

Ian glanced up at her when she plopped down into the seat facing him. His brow wrinkled, and he glanced over his shoulder at Chris, who ignored everyone and everything but the demons polluting his mind and the gossip magazine in his hands.

“Everything okay?” Ian asked, returning his attention to Jersey.

“Yup.” She stared out the window.

“Please fasten your seat belt, miss.” The blonde in black pants and a white blouse smiled.

Jersey fumbled for the two pieces to her seat belt. The metal clicked and scraped together, and her shaky hands made repeated failed attempts at fastening it. Her stomach churned and chest tingled as her breaths accelerated. Then she froze, ceasing to breathe as Ian unbuckled and kneeled in front of her, resting his hands on her armrests without physically touching any part of her body.

He leaned in so his face hovered a few inches from her face. Ian smelled fresh. It was the most accurate description she could find to describe him. That fresh smell probably had some fancy soap or cologne name and scent to go with it. But to the girl who recently took her first real shower in years, the only word that came to mind was fresh. Intoxicatingly fresh—and minty. Ian had minty breath, not the dragon breath Chris had when he exhaled in her face every morning in the musty, damp corner of Marley’s back room.

What a difference twenty-four hours made in Jersey’s life.

“Hi.” Ian smiled.

Jersey stared at his mouth. Did her breath smell like his? Did Max buy her the same potent mint toothpaste that Ian used? She hoped so.

“You’re in my space,” she whispered in an unfamiliar, breathy voice.

“You’re in my plane. We need to take off. I’m going to fasten your seat belt for you. You’re going to let me without feeling the need to do any sort of physical harm to me. Okay?” Ian’s gaze dropped to Jersey’s mouth.