“I understand perfectly,” he says in a measured tone. “I understand that you’re out of your goddamn mind.”
I swallow thickly. I want to respond but my brain suddenly feels like mushy soup. My leg is positively humming, and although I’m accustomed to pain, this feeling that quickly spreads over my body is something else entirely. My nerves are shot, hissing and screaming every time I take a ragged breath. I can feel sweat gathering on my forehead and I’m feeling kind of dizzy.
I open my mouth to say something, but I’m confused and no words come out. I close it again. I’m thirsty. I reach out to grab the glass of water that has miraculously materialized in front of me. It’s in my grasp for all of two seconds before it slides out of my fingers and shatters on the floor, water and shards of glass sloshing around my feet. I just stare. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. Everything feels murky and thick, as if I’m trying to walk along the bottom of a muddy river.
Jase is talking to me but I can’t hear him above the angry buzzing in my ears. I need to close my eyes, just for a moment, and then I’ll be okay.
Then everything will be okay.
Eleven
This time, when I wake up, I’m in Jase’s bed again, but everything is different. I look down to see that my black dress is gone and I’m wearing a large black T-shirt and a pair of boxers. My cheeks burn as I realize someone had to undress me to redress me.
I see movement to my left and turn to see Jase, sitting in a chair he’s pulled into the bedroom, watching me intently. It is then I notice I’ve got an IV nestled in the crook of my arm, a clear plastic tube carrying blood from a bag into my vein.
I sit up with a start and fiddle with the cannula impaled snugly in my flesh, a piece of tape securing it.
“Hey,” Jase says, peeling my fingers off the cannula. “It’s a blood transfusion. The doctor just left.”
I stop fiddling for a moment. “A doctor?” I repeat. “How long was I out?”
Jase shrugs. “It’s almost seven.”
I think back to the morning. “But I woke up at seven,” I protest, confused and feeling pathetic and vulnerable.
“At night,” he clarifies.
“I slept for the whole day?” I ask, throwing the sheets off me.
“Yes,” he says slowly, as if I’m stupid.
“Why do I feel like I just injected a bunch of heroin?” I ask, too tired to get out of his bed. Instead, I slouch back against the soft pillows.
“The doctor gave you some morphine,” he said.
“What?” I’m struggling to remember the pain. It was bad, but it wasn’t that bad. Parts of my tattoo hurt more than the stab to my thigh. “Why?”
Jase raises his eyebrows and I can see him fighting off a smile. “I told him what a hero you were trying to be this morning. How you can’t stop, even for a minute. So he gave you something to let you get some rest.”
Now I’m the one who is angry. “You let someone drug me?” I ask incredulously. “Sedate me? What am I, a dog?”
“That’s how he treats you,” Jase mutters under his breath.
I sit up again and swing my legs out of the bed. I glance at the almost empty bag of blood sitting on the top of the mahogany bedhead above me, gravity ensuring a steady stream of the stuff into my veins. I reach my hand over to pull the IV out and Jase’s hand darts out, covering the cannula.
“Stop,” he says. “Just let the rest of it go in. You lost a lot of blood.”
I take my hand away reluctantly.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “I’m just trying to help. You said no hospitals, so I got my dad’s doctor to check you out.”
I stiffen, wondering if the doctor undressed me. I look down at the boxer shorts and T-shirt, panicking. The tattoo is good, Elliot did an amazing job, but if the light is right…if someone was looking hard enough…the scars still remain.
“There was blood and glass all over you,” Jase says. “I didn’t look, I swear.”
I relax a little, detecting no animosity or suspicion in his voice. Then I hear a knock at the door and jump to my feet, the room whirling instantly around me. I grab the bedhead to steady myself, looking down at what I’m wearing. If Dornan sees me in his son’s underwear…
“Is that him?” I ask worriedly.
Jase sighs. “Sammi, for God’s sake, lay down, okay? It’s just the pizza guy bringing some dinner. Dornan’ll be back in a couple hours.” He points at the bed and waits for me to lie down again before he leaves the room. I smooth the covers over my lap as I wait, fiddling with a single loose thread of cotton. A whole day with Jase, and no Dornan. The thought makes me feel anxious, and delighted, and exhausted all at once..
He comes back in a few moments later, balancing boxes of pizza in one hand and a handful of dollar bills with the other. He shoves the money in his jeans pocket and brings the pizzas over to the bed, arranging the boxes on the empty side next to where I lay. The smell of tomato sauce and garlic invades my nostrils and I can feel my mouth watering.
“Pepperoni or cheese?” he asks me.
“Pepperoni, please,” I respond, and he hands me a napkin with a large slice of the best looking pizza I’ve ever laid eyes on resting on top. I take a massive bite and struggle to chew it, my mouth is so full. It tastes divine.
Jase eats slowly; he’s clearly eaten since breakfast. We don’t speak until I have downed four slices and am considering a fifth. Jase has finished and is sitting patiently in the chair beside me. I can feel him watching, waiting to broach something with me.
“What?” I ask him.
“What, what?” he responds, a look of amusement on his face. I smile, feeling a lot better after eating.
“You look like you have a burning question for me,” I say, looking around for some water.
“I have lots of burning questions for you,” Jase says, slouching down in his seat, his feet resting on the edge of the bed frame. “I just don’t think you’ll like any of them.”
I am feeling talkative, despite my secrets. “Go ahead. Ask me something.”
Ask me if my name is Juliette and I might say yes. Ask me to kiss you again and I’ll do it. Ask me to run away with you and I just might.
“Where are your family?” he asks, sitting up in the chair.
Predictable. “Dead,” I reply. Technically, it’s not a lie. Dad is dead. Mom might as well be.
“How?”
The easiest answer. “Car accident.”
He nods. “I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “Why? You didn’t kill them.”
He rolls his eyes. “I meant I’m sorry for your loss. My mother was killed as well.”
“Was killed,” I echo, even though I already know what happened. “Like, on purpose?”
His eyes cloud over and for a moment he’s somewhere else. Then, he blinks, and the cloud lifts. He nods. “On purpose.”
I eye him warily. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I say.
He shrugs. “I’m sure my dad will tell you eventually. When she found out she was pregnant with me, she left the club and went back to her family in Colorado. Somehow, Dornan found out about me when I was fifteen. I came home from school one day and she was dead in the bathtub.” He seems detached from his story as he is telling me, and I can only assume it is because he is numb after all of the horror of the past years. I can’t help but remember the shy, angry boy who showed up with the title of Dornan’s long-lost seventh son when I was thirteen and stole my heart.
I study his face, chewing on my lip as he surveys me wearily.