Stay with Me (Wait for You, #3)(76)

Breathing heavy, I nodded. Other than a little sore and scared out of my mind, I was okay. “Someone tried to run us over.”

“They tried and they failed,” he pointed out.

“But they tried.” And then it really hit me. That someone did try to run us over and Jax carried a gun because of Mona’s, or more likely because of Mona, and someone seriously tried to run us over.

My knees started to knock together. It made me feel weak, but in all my life, no matter how crazy or how crappy it got, I’d never had a knife held to my face and almost been run over in less than twenty-four hours. That was kind of scary.

“Shit,” Jax said, and then he tugged me forward, against his chest, and I went, clutching the sides of his stomach. “Honey . . .”

I closed my eyes, soaking up his warmth and his strength, and I held on.

There were no naps or afternoon orgasms after almost being run over. Which sucked for various reasons. Besides orgasms just being a great thing to experience, I could really have used a nap after the morning and afternoon I had.

Jax had called Reece the moment we got in his truck and got the hell out of there. We ended up filing a police report with a cop I’d never seen before, an older gentleman with dark skin and tired eyes, but a warm smile. His name was Detective Dornell Jackson, and he seemed to know what was going on, because he asked a lot of questions that had to do with my mom and Mack and even Isaiah. Then we’d met up with Reece, and Jax had filled him in. Reece did not look happy, especially when we got to Jax’s house and both guys noticed a few tiny—and by tiny, I mean harmless—scratches along my upper arm.

This discovery resulted in me being dragged into the half bath downstairs, peroxide being whipped out, and cotton balls being dabbed along my arm like there was a chance they’d get infected and my arm would fall off.

It was assumed that someone had been watching Ritchey’s place, most likely for Mona, and that’s how we ended up almost getting run down, but it didn’t explain why. If I was potentially vital in handing over my mom or luring her out, why try to turn Jax or me into roadkill?

No one had an answer for that.

Before the start of my shift, Jax had taken me back to the house so I could get ready. Instead of leaving, he hung out until it was time. At some point, he’d made the universal decision that I was riding with him to and from work.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I told him.

Jax dropped down on the couch, brows raised. “I want you safe, Calla. And obviously shit is going down. So you’re going to stay safe. Besides that, we literally work the same damn shift. You can save gas money.”

I really couldn’t argue with that.

“Pack up some clothes, too, you’re staying with me tonight,” he went on, and my mouth opened. “Calla, it goes back to keeping you safe. My place is better. No offense, but I have more than oodles and noodles in the cabinet and I have cable TV.”

Okay. Real food and cable TV were a bonus. “That’s a lot, Jax. I mean, staying with you is—”

“Good,” he cut in, grinning. “Fun. Better than staying in this house?”

I pressed my lips together as my eyes narrowed.

He leaned forward, resting his hands on his thighs as he sighed. “Calla, I just want to make sure you’re safe while we deal with this crap, and, honey, you know this house isn’t safe. No one is going to barge into my house, but this place? Anything goes.”

Hesitating at the doorway to the bedroom, I had to acknowledge that he had a point and he was right. This house wasn’t on the up-and-up. I would be safer at his place, but it was his place, and staying at his place meant something, and . . .

Damnit.

It did mean something. That was the third duh of the day. Jax wanted me at his place because it did mean something to him, to us—to our thing.

“I see it sinking in,” Jax remarked smugly.

I whipped around. “Shut up.”

He laughed as I all but pranced into the room. After changing into a pair of dark denim jeans that were on the tight side of things, I slipped on a pair of cute flats, a standard black tank top, and a loose thin shirt that had a tendency to slip off one shoulder, but didn’t expose my back. When I took my hair down, it had dried in waves from being in the bun, and then I reached for my purple makeup case.

My gaze darted to the mirror. I’d washed my face before I changed and it was all kinds of fresh and clean. I felt light, like I always did without the makeup slathered on.

Pressing my lips together, I glanced down at the tube of foundation. I’d gone all morning and most of the afternoon without a lick of makeup on, and no one, not even small, easily frightened children, had run screaming for the hills. No one had really stared. And I honestly didn’t really think about it. Meeting Ritchey and almost being run over might have something to do with that, but still.

My stomach jumped a little.

Most people wouldn’t understand, but it was a big deal for me to put that tube back in the pouch without putting it on. The makeup was like a shield and it was literally a mask.

There was a knot in my throat and my fingers trembled slightly as I picked up the other foundation I wore—some kind of BB cream that gave the face a dewy complexion but really didn’t do much for coverage. I put that on, smoothing it over the slightly raised scar. I had to blink a couple of times before I did my eyes, giving them a smoky, working the bar appropriate look. I put some lip gloss on and then I was done.