Scared of Beautiful (Scared #1)(53)
First attempt goes to voicemail. I dial again, and Jade’s voice fills my ears, the sweetest sound I’ve heard all week. “Hey, babe!” Jade answers with enthusiasm.
“Hi,” I say casually, “I’m glad you answered.” The sadness of Jade’s distance is eating at me.
“You sound awful, Maia. I’d ask if everything is okay, but since Jackson is back in Atlanta, I’m gonna go ahead and assume that you aren’t,” Jade replies sympathetically.
“I’m fine,” I say. I’m doing a shit job of convincing myself of that, and anyone with half a brain for psychology knows that I’m fine translates to everything could not be any more f*cked up.
Jade’s voice develops a worried edge. “You need to do something about this. Jackson is quite literally going off the rails. Again. I haven’t seen him behave so destructively since, well, since Shana left. But this time it’s much worse. And whatever Emmanuel has him doing…” Jade’s voice tapers off, small and desperate. “I’m worried Maia, he’s barely at home. Every time I do see him, he has a glass in his hand, and not with water in it, either. Just ask him to come back, before he ends up in jail, or worse.”
“Jade, he made himself very clear,” I reply, my eyes filling with unshed tears. “He doesn’t want to have anything to do with me, that’s what he said.”
“And everything is that black and white, is it? You really believe that?” Jade replies, frustrated. “He’s not perfect, but he was damn close for you. He was trying. And you wanna tell me you believed that shit!” Her voice is accusatory, angry.
I should never have made this call. Wallowing in self-pity would have been the better option. “I should go,” I say quietly.
“Maia, just…please wait,” Jade says softly. “I didn’t mean to put that on you, but I’m really worried about him.”
“I know,” I say, tears now streaming down my face, “but I can’t help.” I press the end button on the phone. How the f-uck was I going to be helpful or of any use to anyone, when I was still so desperately trying to figure out how to f-ucking help myself?
The day rolls on with its miserable weather, much like the few before it. As the evening approaches, I find myself getting anxious about meeting Blake for dinner. I send him a text, cancelling. There’s no point dragging someone else into this miserable world I’ve managed to carve out for myself.
Tomorrow then? The reply is so short, yet hope pours through the reply. Poor bastard. If only he knew what a tortured soul he was dealing with.
I don’t feel like going out, I’m sorry. I press send and hope that he gets the hint. I’m wrong.
We discussed that food is necessary for you to live. At least let me bring you some if you’d rather not go anywhere. I sigh with annoyance. Persistence can be a sweet thing, but right now, it’s the thing that makes me want to scream and break this damn phone.
Knowing that my efforts to dodge Blake are futile, I agree. Fine, I’m on the top floor apartment. Tomorrow, 7pm. A smiley face reply is all that he sends back. Good, now I have a full 24 hours to figure out how to get out of it. With that handled I return to my bed and pull the covers over my head in an attempt to escape somehow. Blissful slumber is the only thing that pushes the thoughts of Jackson from my mind, and as I drift off, I hope and pray that he’s not waiting for me in my dreams.
Chapter 30
Jackson
The last few days have been such a f-ucking blur. I struggle to recall where I’ve been and with who. There is something to be said for never allowing your body to sober up. I now get why Maia refused to feel anything; the numbness is very close to heaven. But the minute her name pops into my head, the drunken stupor I’m in sends me spiraling downwards. I’ve already had words with Emmanuel. Apparently. one must be sober to participate in major criminal activity. Who the f-uck knew, right? So, I have promised to stop drinking today, in order to be a model criminal tonight. I lay in my bed, remembering what Maia and I did here. My dick rises to attention of its own volition. Figures. Every time I have even attempted to speak to a woman since my encounter with the bartender, my brain forces me to get the f-uck away. It feels too much like I’m stepping out on Maia. My dick is angry about this. It just wants to act a fool.
At nine that night, Emmanuel pulls up at my house in a stolen Toyota, the license plates purposely muddied. I jump in the passenger seat as we make our way over to the underpass, to meet the hijacked armored van.
“Are you good?” Emmanuel asks me over the rap music, the bass thumping annoyingly strong. I nod once unconvincingly. Stupid question. I’m so sober, but there’s no way I’m f-ucking good. Not about this. Not about anything right now. We have at least an hour wait until the van arrives, so we settle in the car to do just that, wait. For once, Emmanuel doesn’t immediately light up a joint; he opts for a cigarette instead.
“You have to know how much I appreciate this, man,” Emmanuel says, trying to start a conversation.
“Appreciate it?” I scoff. “You f-ucking blackmailed me, man. You know I don’t want to be here.”
“Don’t matter how you got here, I needed someone I can trust,” he says blowing a plume of smoke through the cracked window.
“It matters to me,” I say dismissively, “so can you just drop it. Let’s run through this one more time so that none of us end up locked up.”