Rising (Blue Phoenix, #4)(53)

“Stay with me,” he says into my hair. “I know you don’t want protecting, but until this shit is sorted with Dan, stay safe.”

I place a hand on Jem’s chest and his heart thumps against my palm. With Jem, we can be in a safe place together; we don’t have to be alone in the world if we share the good in ourselves. Together, now, we’re wrapped on the edge of this place we belong, the shattered pieces of our lives surrounding us. With the secrets we shared came the understanding that not everything is broken forever.

“I don’t want to save you, Ruby. I want to mean something to you, because for the first time in forever, someone means something to me.”

I listen to the steady beat of his heart, as I’m encompassed by the confusing, frustrating Jem who just laid himself open to me. For the first time too, I believe Ruby means something to someone else, and for the right reasons.





Chapter Twenty-Three



Ruby



I wake confused by where I am and what the time is, my head pounding. There’s light shining across the bed from the open curtains and my phone reads four p.m.

Jem’s house.

The stress of the last day caught up and after our embrace, Jem hovered around uncomfortably until I told him I wouldn’t get pissed off with him if he walked away again. Following my outpouring over Quinn and Dan, I wanted time alone to compose myself too. Our shared understanding that this isn’t rejection; but dealing with our own headspace is another indication of how similar we are.

My body aches and I examine my face in a small pocket mirror. My lip isn’t as swollen but the bruising around my eye and cheek has darkened. Add to that the grazes to my face and I’m a delight. I pull out the thick foundation and set about painting away Dan.

I haven’t eaten since last night and the dizzying hunger forces me into the kitchen. My instant noodles I left behind last time I lived here are tucked in the back of the cupboard, so I pull them out and break them into a bowl.

Jem appears as I’m pouring boiling water onto the noodles. We eye each other warily; but I’m relieved to see a calmer Jem, one whose face has lost some of the strain from earlier. The loose white shirt he’s wearing is unbuttoned far enough to see his ink underneath. One hug and my body and imagination firing to life at the sight of him isn’t good.

“Please don’t tell me you’re eating that crap again,” he says.

“I’m hungry and there’s nothing else.”

“What do you mean? There’s a shitload of stuff in the fridge.”

“Your food.”

“So?”

“Don’t you remember your housemate agreement? I’m not allowed to touch your stuff.”

Jem flicks his tongue against his teeth and then realises what I mean. “Oh. That. You’re a guest.”

I turn back and rip open the packet of powder loosely described as flavouring. One embrace and suddenly the space between us feels smaller than it once did. Also, not good.

“Leave that. I’ll order us some proper food. I’m hungry too.” He crosses and rests against the counter next to me. “You put make-up on.”

“Yeah. I’m sure nobody else likes looking at the mess; I know I don’t.”

He looks at me with concern. “Doesn’t it hurt putting that crap over a cut?”

I shrug.

“I prefer you without make-up. I can see your eyes properly.” Jem touches the skin under my uninjured eye, wiping at the kohl with his thumb. At his touch, I shiver and the softness in the way he studies my face grips me. People don’t look at me like this. “You shouldn’t hide.”

I turn my face away. “Like I said, covering up.”

Jem remains next to me and the physical desire I’ve fought against since he walked into the kitchen – since I met him - has intensified. He laces his fingers through mine and I look up in surprise.

“Are you staying? I know I upset you before.”

I’m unaware of much, apart from how natural my hand in his feels. “Yes. If you want me to.”

“Good.” Jem takes his hand away and indicates the drawer I’m standing in front of. “Grab the menus from there. What do you want? Chinese? Thai?”

When he does his ‘Jem thing’ of breaking away the moment he’s too close, my stomach knots. I shouldn’t crave his attention let alone expect him to hold and kiss me.

Half an hour later and we sit in the lounge, boxes of noodles and rice spread across his low glass coffee table. I’m impressed by Jem’s ability with chopsticks, instant noodles never called for such sophistication.

“I can show you, if you like?” suggests Jem, passing me a pair.

“It’s okay. I’ll use a fork. I’m too hungry to mess around with those.”

We’re on the floor and I rest against the sofa, holding a box in my hands as I eat. Jem sits in his favourite armchair opposite.

“What do you want to listen to?” he asks. “I can’t sit in silence.” He heads to his laptop that’s hooked up to the sound system and the large plasma TV. “Pick a decade.”

“Nineties?”

“Okay, who?”

“How about Smashing Pumpkins?”

Jem rubs his cheek. “Nah. Chili Peppers?”