Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(33)

“No.” I shake my head solemnly. “He’s too proud.”

“I think he only liked you because you took care of him. But that’s just my take,” Georgia says with a shrug.

“Well, your take would be correct.” I sigh. “I just wish I’d gotten out before it got . . . the way it did.”

“Violent? Honey, you can’t blame yourself for not anticipating violence. That’s crazy. That shit’s not normal. At least, not in my experience.”

We sit in silence for the rest of the car ride. Truthfully, I’m grateful she’s giving me the space to think.

I know I need to brace myself for the worst possible scenario. Jason could get angry and throw something, or worse, hurt one of us. And even though I don’t think that will happen, my stomach is still tied in knots.

Grant would freak out if he knew I was doing this.

I frown. Enough of that. I don’t need Grant’s permission, just like I never needed Jason’s permission. This is my life, and I’ll be damned if I don’t call the police next time I feel like someone’s threatening it.

Pulling up to our old brick building is surreal. It feels almost like an out-of-body experience as we trudge up the steps. I never had Georgia over in the past, so this will be her first and last time at my old place. So weird. Luckily, she doesn’t seem fazed by any of this. Instead, she steps confidently up to the front door and hits the buzzer for number 201. Despite the elements, the tiny card with our last names is still legible: KRESS/WALSH.

The door buzzes and Georgia pushes through, leading me upstairs. Walking down the hall gives me tunnel vision as memories of shattered glass and hollow screams ring in my ears.

The door to the apartment is cracked open. Georgia stops, turning back to me. I give her a weak smile when she reaches out to squeeze my hand. With my fingertips, I push the door the rest of the way open.

I almost don’t recognize Jason when I see him. He sits on the edge of the couch, looking skinnier than ever. His eyes have dark circles beneath them.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he croaks, his gaze flicking to Georgia, who stands like a prison guard at the door.

That’s kind of what this feels like . . . visitation.

“I didn’t want Georgia coming here alone,” I say, impressed with the strength of my voice. To be weak in front of this man again . . . well, let’s just agree that I’d rather die.

“Right.” He sighs before standing, and it takes everything in me not to flinch as he moves closer to me. “Let me help you with the boxes.”

There’s at least half a dozen, filled with clothes, books, pots and pans . . . all proof that I ever called this sad home my own. I want to object to his offer, but more hands means we can get through this quicker.

The three of us carry boxes down the stairs, carefully maneuvering around one another. Georgia only takes her eyes off of me to watch Jason when he gets too close.

But my instinct when I first opened the door is right. Jason is smaller now. Weaker. I wonder how much of that is the stress of his demotion, poor nutrition, regret . . . and how much of it is just my perception of him. He seemed so much bigger when he was throwing me against a wall.

I’m pulling the rear hatch of the Jeep down when I sense Jason nearing me. Georgia’s in the front seat, her eyes boring into us through the rearview mirror. I spin around. Jason is a foot away, and that’s too close. I take a step back.

“Can we talk for a sec?” he asks, but doesn’t try to move any closer.

Good.

“Okay,” I say with a nod.

There’s a silence, but I wait it out. If he wants to talk, he’ll have to do the talking.

Jason doesn’t even meet my eyes. Instead, he stares at my shoes. “I know I ruined things between us.”

“Yes.”

“I know. But . . . I just can’t go on living knowing that you hate me.”

“I don’t, Jason.” I sigh. This feels almost juvenile. It makes my skin crawl.

“It seems like you hate me . . .” He runs a hand through his hair and finally meets my eyes, his colored with sadness.

Ah, there’s the manipulator I knew and loved to a fault. I was wondering where he went.

“I don’t hate you. But I do think you need professional help.”

He scoffs. “Like therapy?”

“Yes.”

When he sees how serious I am, his expression softens.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Anyway . . .” He clears his throat. “I’m really sorry for . . . everything. You didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

“No, I didn’t. Get some help, Jason. Take care.”

And with that, I turn, walk around the Jeep, and let myself into the passenger side. In the side mirror, I watch Jason shuffle back into the building.

“Are you okay?”

The warmth of Georgia’s voice melts my icy defenses into a pathetic puddle. I scrunch my eyes closed as unexpected tears begin sliding down my cheeks. Smothering a hiccup with my hand, I shake my head. I’m not okay.

“Oh, Ana, I’m sorry. So sorry.” Georgia coos softly, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.

It’s an awkward hug, a car hug, but it’s perfect. I’m crying at this point, Georgia’s comforting words soothing me with the promise of acceptance and safety.