Rising (Blue Phoenix, #4)(68)

Jem sinks onto me, kissing my mouth hard, before switching to soft kisses as he strokes damp hair from my face.

He bumps his nose against mine. “And that, Ruby Tuesday, is why you don’t tease me.”

The position is awkward but we lie together for a moment, caught in the afterglow as our sticky skin cools in the breeze. Never in my life have I trusted someone so completely with my body as I do Jem. Now all I need to do is trust him with my heart.



****



I busy myself cutting up fresh watermelon and strawberries and add to the bowl of breakfast fruit salad before setting it on the large wooden table. Jem watches me running a tongue along his teeth.

“Didn’t you listen to me last night?” he asks.

“Which bit?”

“You’re in a t-shirt and panties again.”

“No, this is a bikini.” I lift up my t-shirt to show him the plain black two-piece.

“Huh. I never thought I’d see you in a bikini.”

“Never thought or don’t want to? How else am I supposed to swim in the pool?” Do I look that weird?

“The sexy as f-uck thing is still happening, don’t worry about that.” He runs an appreciative gaze along my almost naked body. “So, you can swim?”

I throw watermelon peel at his head. “Cheeky! Yeah, we had to learn at school in a bloody freezing pool.”

“I couldn’t swim until a few years ago.”

“Really?” I sit opposite and pour the coffee.

“Nobody ever taught me.” He focuses on the coffee pouring into his cup. “And I was umm… away from school for swimming lessons. Or too sick to swim.”

Setting the pot down, I’m aware of the harder tone, the one Jem uses when he gets lost in his past. “Too sick or too many bruises?”

He looks up sharply. “How can you know that?”

“I’m guessing. You said something about shit parents when I told you about my past. Did your mum…”

“No!” He clears his throat. “Not her. The dickhead she lived with. The one she left with.”

My throat tightens and I drink the coffee, attempting to moisten my mouth. Wasn’t I the one saying yesterday doesn’t matter? “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought this up.”

Jem sits back in his chair and pulls his long curls away from his face. “Don’t be. I always promised I’d tell you after you explained about Dan, but you’ve probably guessed most of it.”

“Abusive childhood.” I reach out and place a hand over Jem’s, rubbing the back.

“Oh, yeah, temporarily from mum’s procession of boyfriends who came and went. Not mum though, I guess people have to be around to abuse you and I was on my own a lot. Eventually my mum f*cked off for good with her boyfriend and that was it. Just me on my own.”

“How old were you when she left you?”

“The last time, I was twelve.”

I refuse to hide my disgust. “Your mum left you to live on your own when you were twelve? What the hell? What happened to you?”

“I managed to keep it hidden for a few weeks; she left and came back all the time and I guess I was hoping that’s what would happen. She didn’t. They tried putting me in foster care, but I kept running away in case she came home and I wasn’t there. When I was fourteen, I got pissed off with the constant merry-go-round and finally accepted Mum was gone for good. I agreed to stay with a family. They were okay, had a house full of foster kids nobody wanted, so I could blend in and avoid any attempt to fix me. I was never around much, spent most of my time at Dylan’s or Liam’s house. Then Blue Phoenix happened and I left St Davids.”

I picture Jem as a little boy, hurting and alone. “She left you more than once?”

“All the time,” he says, not looking at me. “I could never figure out what I did wrong, why she kept going.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. She’s the one in the wrong. You don’t piss off and leave a little kid to look after himself.”

Jem’s disappearing, retreating into his mind as his shoulders stiffen. “As an eight year old, how else would I see it? I guess at least she used to come back to start off with.”

“f-ucking hell, Jem!” I half-shout. “Eight? Is that how old you were the first time she left you alone?”

And he’s gone, staring at the table and mouth turned down by the memories he buries deep.

I push my chair back and cross to sit on his lap. Jem blinks in surprise and I pull his head against my chest, desperate to take away some of the pain surfacing. Somebody should have held him back then, told him this wasn’t his fault, and loved him. No wonder Jem’s so f*cked up. He’s spent years convincing himself he’s unlovable. Shit, I went through those childlike rationalisations when my mum left, but my brother was there. Quinn held me through the tears, filling the emptiness with his love, and the gentle explanations that her behaviour wasn’t my fault.

Jem had nobody.

Any words I have right now would never express the intense anger and despair adequately. If only I could go back to the twelve-year-old Jem and tell him it’s not his fault. Jem wraps his arms around my waist and crushes me, resting his cheek against my side. I hold him, rubbing his back.

“If my own mother didn’t think I was worth her time, who else would?” he says. “I lived with that thought until one day everybody wanted me. The whole f-ucking world loved me, but I was still empty. The past hung over me so I kept people at a distance by behaving like a selfish dickhead. It worked.”