The rain has settled on our drive home—thank God. We’re almost to the Blue Beech town lines—where our reality awaits—when I finally ask the question that’s been on my mind since I woke up this morning.
“How wrong is what we did?”
Conversation between Jax and me has been limited since we left the motel. We stopped for a much-needed coffee and breakfast, but this is the first time us having sex has surfaced.
I know what we did would be considered wrong in anyone’s eyes. People would shake their heads in disapproval and call us choice words if they found out what Jax and I did in that motel room.
But I’m not ridden with as much shame as I should be. Because for the first time since Christopher’s death—and maybe even before his death—I enjoyed a good night’s sleep. I didn’t wake up fatigued, drained, and feeling as if I hadn’t slept in weeks. In that rickety bed, in that seedy motel, post-orgasm with Jax was where I slept like a baby.
“On a scale from one to ten, probably a ten,” Jax answers without paying me a glance. “Which is why we don’t have to talk about it. We gave each other something we’d both needed. We can accept it and move on.”
I fold my hands on my lap, unclear on how I feel about his response, and stare out the window. “Just our little secret.”
Jax clears his throat. “We seem to be racking those secrets up, huh?”
“Sure seems like it,” I grumble.
“Do you want to keep it a secret, Amelia?”
My gaze darts in his direction. “What?”
His eyes are sincere as they meet mine. “Chris is no longer here, so who are we keeping it a secret from?”
My stomach tightens at his words, my breakfast threatening to make its way up.
“Would it be that bad?” His question sends chills up my spine.
“Maybe not as bad for you, but people would tear me apart.” I motion toward him. “You’d just be the best friend who did something wrong. I’d be the whore.”
“Fuck anyone who would call you that,” Jax hisses. “They don’t know shit.”
“There’s Amelia, the girl who made her fiancé commit suicide and is now sleeping with his best friend. The best friend who blamed her for his death, who called her names for years, and who competed with everything she did.” I shake my head. “Dumb whore, that Amelia.”
“Don’t call yourself that.”
“Why not?” I half-shrug. “You’ve called me a whore before.”
Jax holds up a finger. “A.) I’ve never called you a whore.” He flips another finger up. “B.) It’s easier to be a dick to your best friend’s girl than to admit you want her.”
“Do you want me to drop you off at home?” Jax asks as we drive into town.
“My car is at the brewery,” I reply.
“You can get it later.”
That’s a predicament I didn’t think of until now.
The first issue was the road trip with Jax and then us having sex, and we still haven’t figured out what to do with the whole will we keep it a secret uncertainty.
My car is at the brewery.
The brewery truck is gone.
Toby and Nolan know Jax and I left in it together a day ago.
Please don’t let them be gossipers.
Toby? I don’t see him opening his mouth.
Nolan? I don’t know him well enough. He’s young, and sometimes, young guys can have stupid mouths.
“Don’t worry about them,” Jax says, as if he’d read my mind. “I’ll drop you off at home, take the truck back, and then you can take the day off to get some rest.”
“I don’t rest at my house.” I sigh. “So, sitting at home isn’t exactly relaxing.”
It’s no party, hanging out in your laundry room, let me tell ya.
“Do you want to rest at my apartment?”
I bite into my lower lip and refuse to look at Jax.
His tone turns stern. “Do you want to go there, Amelia?”
I do, but I’m scared.
“Amelia.” His voice is more demanding.
“I don’t know,” I rush out, throwing my arm in the air. “But what I do know is, I don’t want to be alone in my house right now. And there’s nowhere I’d rather be—nothing that would help me sleep, or relax, or whatever—than with you.”
I slam my hand over my mouth, wishing I hadn’t said all that.
Sure, Jax and I have said things to each other lately that shouldn’t have been shared. But never like this. It’s during moments of weakness—when he’s been drinking, when we’re alone in a motel room, or when we’re kissing when we shouldn’t be.
Jax makes a U-turn. “My place it is then.”
The short drive is quiet, and he helps me out of the truck when we reach his apartment. When we walk in, I follow Jax into his bedroom. From the way Jax walks, to the way his voice has a slight drag to it, to the dark circles under his eyes, it’s clear he didn’t sleep as well as I did last night. I guess only one of us sleeps well with guilt.
He opens a drawer, tosses me clean clothes, and points to the bathroom. “Do you want to shower?”
I nod.
“It’s all yours. I’ll go next.”
“Thank you.” My cheeks blush, and I shyly tip my head down before scurrying to the bathroom.
He doesn’t ask to join me.
I don’t ask him to either.
We need a minute to process last night and what it means for us.
When I climb into the shower, my legs are sore.
But the good kind of sore.
The Jax gave me all the pleasure I needed type of sore.
I tremble as I run my hand along my thighs, remembering Jax’s tongue and touch. I wash my stomach, wash away the evidence of Jax being there, and tip my head back, allowing the water to rain over me.
And for what seems like the first time in a long time, I smile.
I smile, and some of my loneliness drains along with the water.