There’s Wild, Then There’s You (The Wild Ones #3)(34)
Author: M. Leighton

When I hear the engine of his car come to a purring stop at the curb, I lock up and leave, walking to meet him before he can come to me. I smile shyly. He returns it in a casual and polite way before he opens the passenger door to help me into his car.

He doesn’t say much, so I’m forced to ask him, “So, where are we going?”

“To my mother’s house.”

I feel like doing a double take. “What?”

Jet looks over at me and grins. A real grin. And it makes me feel much better about things. Just like that. Just that easily. I didn’t realize how much I would’ve missed it if I’d never gotten to see it again.

But I would’ve. I would’ve missed it a lot. I would’ve missed him a lot.

“She called. Right out of the blue. She needs to go to Summerton and doesn’t want to leave the boys by themselves.”

“I thought the oldest was fourteen.”

“He is. She’s just crazy overprotective—thinks they’ll get into trouble if she leaves them alone for ten seconds. But I don’t really care what her reasons are. I’m just happy she called me. That she’ll trust me at least this much. It’s been a while since she would.”

I can feel his pleasure like a tangible thing, flavoring even the air in the car. And it makes my heart ache for him. “Then that’s good enough for me.”

We fall silent again. Part of me is hesitant to bring up last night, just in case it damages the fragile peace that we’ve struck for the moment. But it’s too important for me not to mention it.

“Jet, about last night . . .” I pause to gauge his reaction. I see his jaw flex as though he’s gritting his teeth, but it’s too late for me to stop now. “After thinking about it for quite a while, I realized that you were right. Well, at least partially.”

I see one dark brow arch. His voice is droll when he says, “Partially, huh?”

“Yes, partially. I think that I do view many people in my life as weak because of their weakness. And although I can appreciate that you do have some . . . issues to work through, I can honestly say that I’ve never once considered you or thought of you as weak.”

He says nothing, just nods.

I turn in my seat to more fully face him, desperate to make him see my view. “Jet, whatever kinds of habits or addictions you have, for whatever kinds of reasons you do what you do, there is nothing weak about you. You are strong. In every way. But even strong people have chinks in their armor. That doesn’t make you weak. It only makes you human.”

This time, Jet glances over at me, his eyes narrowing on mine, searching them. “And what makes you human?” he asks quietly.

Even I am surprised by the words that spill out. I’m surprised by the truth in them. “My aversion to weakness. I think that, in and of itself, makes me human. It’s like a phobia almost. I’ve seen it destroy the happy parts of so many of my loved ones that I despise it. I avoid it at all costs. But it’s for that reason that I think weakness is my weakness. Not wanting to feel it. Avoiding it. I’ve always considered it a strength, but I’m beginning to think I’ve hidden from it for so long, looked down on it for so long, that when I come across something that tempts me . . .” I can’t help but think of Jet as I speak. “It will turn my world upside down. And I won’t be prepared for that at all.”

“You mean when you find something else that tempts you.”

It takes me several puzzled seconds to figure out what Jet is referring to. Once again, I’m forced to acknowledge how little he knows of me. And how much of what he thinks he knows is a lie. He’s referring to my supposed sex addiction.

“Right. Something else.”

Even saying the words feels treacherous. Maintaining the lie, even though I’m trying to convince myself it’s for good reason—to help him, to help Tia—still feels . . . wretched.

“Well, if my opinion matters, I don’t see you as weak either. I think you’re probably one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. I guess that’s why I don’t want you thinking that I’m weak. I would hate to disappoint you.”

Jet turns his eyes back to the road. I see his brow wrinkle as though his own words hurt him, a testament to the veracity of them.

“I could never be disappointed in you,” I tell Jet softly.

He doesn’t look at me when he answers. “Don’t be too sure of that.”

Before I can think of the best way to respond, Jet is pulling into the driveway of a nice brick split-level house in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. Although it’s nice—far nicer than the one I grew up in—it’s a ghetto compared to where his father lives now. It’s already easy for me to sympathize with his mother’s bitterness.

Jet cuts the engine and comes around to open my door. He doesn’t hold my hand going up the walk. Not that he’s supposed to. Or that I expected him to. But I am certainly noticing (and missing) that he’s not. It seems he’s held it more often than not lately. Until today.

When we reach the front door, he surprises me by knocking. Within seconds, the door is wrenched open and an exuberant little boy is flinging himself into Jet’s arms.

I watch as Jet gently roughhouses with the boy, flinging him around like a rag doll, something both of them seem to enjoy. Then, with the child squealing and giggling, Jet announces “Back breaker!” and turns the kid belly-up and pretends to bend him over his knee.

Then, breathing heavily, Jet rights him and squats to introduce us. “Todd, this is my friend, Violet.”

Shyly, Todd looks up at me with eyes that are the exact shade as his older brother’s and says a short, “Hi.” And then he disappears back into the house.

When Jet glances over at me, his eyes are shiny and happy. I’m relieved and equally happy when he reaches for my hand and nods toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go get mauled.”

I don’t ask what he means by that. Because I don’t care. I’m game as long as I get to be with Jet.

TWENTY-SIX: Jet

The living room is empty when we walk in, so Violet and I follow Todd to the kitchen. Chad is sitting at the small table that’s pushed into one corner and Mom is standing by the stove, leaning against the counter. Her arms are crossed over her chest defensively and she’s facing the doorway like she was just waiting for me. To pounce.

Her eyes are sparkling and her chin is lifted, which makes me brace for a fight. That’s the look she gets when she’s ready to tear into somebody. Like me.