Jaden Page 12

  “Drop the fucking weapon!” I bark again.

  The man I know from Jill’s swaggers toward me.

  Laughing.

  “Is that you, Senna?”

  “Stay the fuck away,” I snarl as he edges closer.

  “Senna baby, this night gets better by the minute. Truly, I couldn’t have asked for more. I’ve been dreaming about pounding that sweet pussy of yours for weeks now,” he sneers at me, his words a distant buzz in my head as I keep my eyes on the man with the gun.

  He flicks his hand in my direction, and I pull the trigger.

  The sound splits the air, the echo floating above us as the man’s gun bites the dust. He bends at his waist, screaming in pain, his hand tucked between his knees.

  “Fucking bitch!”

  The one with a big mouth halts, finally taking notice.

  “Senna, baby, calm down.”

  “I’m not your fucking baby.”

  He clicks his tongue, mockingly disappointed, and then he shakes his head.

  His hands grip his hips, his chin flicking toward the ground.

  “Are you here because of him?” he asks, pointing at Jaden, not sparing me the disdain he has for him.

  I stay silent.

  “Is he the man you fuck?” he throws at me again. “If he is, you have no idea into how much trouble you’ve got. No dick is worth that kind of headache,” he says.

  I quietly laugh. A crazy, cold chuckle.

  “No need to worry, dickhead. I got myself in big trouble a long time ago. This shit means nothing to me. I’ve seen dicks like you all my life. You think you have balls if you cruise around with these jerks in tow and harass women, or fuck up outnumbered men? That’s manhood to you? You’re nothing but a fucking piece of shit. Let him go,” I order.

  He doesn’t move.

  “Let him fucking go!!” I snarl, the echo of my voice vibrating in the air for a few good moments.

  “You’ll regret this,” he tosses at me, no longer smiling or in a mood to fuck with me.

  “I regret my whole damn life, jerk, and there’s nothing I can do about it, is it? Now take your fucking men and leave.”

  He turns around and motions to the injured man who’s still groaning with his hand between his knees. The man shuffles to the car and crawls in, while big mouth picks up the third man from the ground. He shoves him into the car before he climbs in as well. I wait until they close the doors and pull away, my gun aimed at their SUV.

  A few minutes slip by before the lights and noise fade away. I spin around, take a few steps, and kneel and bend over Jaden.

  A big stain of blood soaks the flank of his T-shirt.

  “Jaden?”

  He groans, barely moving his head.

  I curl my fingers around the hemline of his T-shirt, tear it open, and inspect his body. It looks like a knife wound. The blade must’ve glided over the ribs, missing the vital organs.

  His arm is covered in blood.

  “Can you walk?” I ask, sliding my arm under his shoulder.

  He softly nods, rolling slowly to his side, trying to push up as I pull.

  I manage to bring him to a standing position.

  “Lean on me,” I say as he struggles to maintain his balance.

  He limps, groaning with each step. Somehow, we make it to the car, and he climbs in. He leans back in his seat as I brush his hair away from his face, blood and dirt sticking to my fingers.

  I pull my phone out.

  “No hospital...” he mutters, his bloodied hand sliding onto mine. “Please,” he groans.

  “I’ll pay for it.”

  “No,” he says firmly, hoarseness exploding in his voice. “I can’t go to the hospital... I can’t go home either,” he says quietly this time.

  I toss the phone to the side and stare at him for a moment. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, wincing in pain.

  I shove the keys into the ignition and turn the engine on.

  We make the trip to my home in perfect silence.

  One hour later, we roll through the gates and enter my driveway. I bring the car to a stop in front of the entrance and help him out.

  Slowly, we shuffle inside.

  “Wait here,” I say, propping him against the kitchen counter.

  I pull my jacket off, at the same time kicking my boots off, and then I run to the bathroom and grab a pair of gloves.

  I put them on and rush back.

  “Okay, now let's go slowly,” I say and walk him to the bathroom.

  I turn the shower on, peel his jacket off, and cut the rest of the blood-drenched T-shirt off his torso before I remove his jeans and boxer shorts.

  Thoroughly, I inspect his body and wounds, looking for foreign objects, shards of glass, rocks, and dirt. Anything stuck to skin or buried in his wounds.

  “You need stitches,” I say as I pull a suture kit from a cabinet.

  He nods.

  “It will hurt a little,” I say.

  He tips his chin down again.

  Gently, I start to clean his skin and wounds. It’s a long, meticulous process, which often makes him tense his muscles, and clench his jaw.

  As I get closer to the deeper cuts, he closes his eyes, hardening his muscles even more. I carefully disinfect them before I suture them. As I finish up, I start applying the sterile dressings. I bring him a clean robe.

  Leaning on me, we walk into the bedroom.

  “Thank you,” he murmurs as he slowly lowers himself on the bed.

  Slowly, he sprawls on his back and closes his eyes.

  A moment later, I walk into the living room, pull my laptop open and place an order.

  12

  SENNA

  The doorbell rings, drilling a hole in my brain.

  Awareness kicks in rapidly. I jerk upright and glance at the kitchen’s clock.

  Shit. It’s really late.

  I jump off the couch, and dash out the door, running my hand over my eyes and raking my fingers through my hair.

  The carrier greets me and hands me a box. I sign for it, and he quickly pulls away.

  I bring the box inside the house, set it on the table, and open it. I pull out the clothing, remove the packaging and take it to the bedroom. The water runs in the bathroom.

  I lay the clothes on the bed and wait.

  “Hey.”

  His soft voice echoes behind me.

  I spin around.

  “Hey.”

  A towel wraps around his waist, hugging his muscular thighs. His body is now a board of scars, tattoos, wounds covered by dressings, scratches, and bruises.

  “I need to check them,” I say, motioning to his torso.

  He lowers himself on the bed while I pull a pair of gloves on. Quietly, he observes me as I examine his wounds and change his dressings.

  “Why did you drop out of school?” he asks after a few more moments.

  I glance at him.

  His blue-gray eyes study me, curious. I shift my focus back to his chest.

  “You would’ve made a good doctor,” he says.

  I breathe out a soft chuckle.

  “I’m good with you. Normally, I have a hard time dealing with people. Besides, I have a bad temper. I can inflict pain as quickly as I can heal someone,” I say, humor tracing in my voice.

  I raise my eyes again.

  “Why are you good with me?” he asks.

  “Because I like you.”

  Pain flashes through his eyes as I touch a sensitive area of his skin.

  He tenses and closes his eyes, and for a moment, my gaze lingers on his features, so attractive, despite the ache expressed on his face.

  His lips part slightly, and my eyes get snagged by the sight as my hands keep working.

  “Why would you like someone like me?” he finally mutters, observing me with half-shut eyes.

  I peel my gaze away from his face and shrug.

  “I don’t know. I don’t like many people, but I like you,” I say.

  A
few moments of silence stretch between us.

  I feel the heat of his stare on my face, yet I keep working without lifting my gaze.

  “I don’t think you’re as bad as you want me to believe,” he murmurs.

  “Maybe I’m not, but I am not that good either,” I say, smiling bittersweet.

  A soft exhale falls from his lips.

  “You’re not worse than other people,” he says as we connect eyes again.

  His gaze warms me up, the heat rolling from my nipples to my toes.

  A soft smile curls his lips.

  “I’m not so sure you know what being bad really means,” he says, wincing in pain again.

  I study him for a moment. He evades my eyes this time.

  “What would’ve happened to you, had I not come?” I ask.

  He shrugs and lifts his gaze. His deeply buried sadness resonates in my chest.

  “Whatever was meant to happen,” he says, somewhat disconnected from that grim outcome.

  His ruefulness makes me ache.

  My hands stop for a moment as I suck in a gulp of air.

  “What?”

  “They would’ve probably killed you,” I say, focusing on my task again.

  “Most likely not,” he says, calm.

  I flick my eyes up from his chest, shaking my head disapprovingly.

  Bitter, he smiles.

  “Well, there was that possibility,” he concedes.

  “Why would you go with them? You knew they were up to no good.”

  His eyes meet mine again. Cold and reserved this time, and I quickly realize I stepped into a different territory. It’s not my business after all. At least it shouldn’t be. I’m sure that’s what he thinks.

  I keep my mouth shut and let the silence grow.

  “I had no choice,” he says after a while. “They wanted me, and that was the only way to stop them,” he says and pauses, unwilling to elaborate.

  A few moments tick by.

  “So... About the school. There must’ve been more than one reason why you didn’t want to finish it,” he says.

  “It was more than the school itself,” I say, straightening my back and peeling off the gloves. “It was that whole lifestyle that came with it. And the people. You met some of them at the party. I’m not one of them,” I say, cleaning up the bed. “That kind of life would’ve killed me. Hungry?” I toss at him, keen to pull away from the topic.

  “Yes.”

  I motion to him. He follows me into the living room.

  “I ordered food. It should be here any minute,” I say.

  “You shouldn’t have. I can fix food.”

  “Today you won’t,” I say, registering the grimace on his face. “Hurts?”

  “Yeah... It does.”

  He glances at the state of the art kitchen.

  Almost as big as the living room, the kitchen is well-equipped for a gourmet experience. Stainless steel appliances line the wall, pots, and pans dangling from the ceiling.

  He shifts his gaze to me.

  “It came with the house. I don’t know how to cook,” I say.

  “Good thing you know to handle a gun...” he mutters.

  “I like guns,” I say, barely stifling my grin.

  He takes a seat on the couch and swivels his head, his eyes scanning the living room.

  “Where’s my jacket?”

  “At the cleaners.”

  He tries to push up on his legs, shuddering in pain.

  “Don’t move,” I say. “Why do you need it?”

  “Have you emptied my pockets?”

  “Yes.”

  I walk to the kitchen counter and sift through the content of a box.

  “What are you looking for?” I ask, taking inventory of a wallet, keys, a pack of cigarettes, a small roll wrapped in plastic and condoms.

  I flick my gaze to him.

  “Are you, um... back at work?” I ask, finding it difficult to voice the question.

  He slowly shakes his head.

  “There’s, um....” I mumble, gearing my eyes toward the condoms. “Never mind. It’s not my business,” I say, lifting my gaze.

  I find no emotion on his face. He narrows his eyes and throws me a cold gaze, guarding himself.

  “There’s a piece of paper in the wallet with an address scribbled on it,” he says evenly.

  I flip his wallet open and pull the piece of paper out.

  “I need you to do something for me,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  “Are you easy to be found?”

  I shift my eyes to him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your phone number, name, and address. Are they public?”

  A small smile flutters across my lips.

  “No, not really. Why?”

  “The men from last night. They know who you are.”

  “They’ve seen me a couple of times, and know my first name, but they have no idea who I am. No one knows. I’ve worked diligently to hide my business and personal affairs from my family and everybody else. So no, I can’t be easily tracked down. Nobody knows where I live. And except for staff members, one of my employees, and now you, nobody has ever come to my house. Rest assured, they can’t find you.”

  “It’s not about me... I don’t care if they find me,” he says deadpan.

  He motions to the box.

  “I need you to take that stash of cash to the address on the paper.”

  “What’s this?” I ask, wrapping my fingers around the roll of cash.

  “The money you gave me.”

  I glance at him.

  “Whom do I give it to?” I ask, intrigued at first, then suddenly grappling with a bad feeling.

  “Her name is...”

  He pauses, shifts his position and winces again, and for some reason, I suspect he’s buying some time while gauging my reaction.

  His eyes stay on me a little longer.

  ”Her name is Sara,” he finally says, sadness darkening his eyes.

  Something hurts inside me, too new and unexplainable. All I can say, it feels like grief.

  Slowly, he turns his head and glances at the Christmas tree.

  “If it’s not too much... Can you buy a Christmas present for a little girl? With money from that stash.”

  A hole carves in my chest, and I’m about to fall in it.

  “Sure,” I say, my voice unraveling.

  “What do you want me to buy?” I ask, evading his eyes and making myself busy with the stuff on the counter, trying to hide my trembling hands.

  “Whatever you think a three-old would like. Her name is Emma.”

  His voice shakes a little as he utters her name, and my knees are about to give in.

  I whip my gaze at him.

  His eyes glint with emotion this time, veiled by the mist of tears. A lump forms in my throat.

  I look away again, grappling with my own emotions when the doorbell rings. Just in time. I dart to the door and bring the food inside.

  I set it on the coffee table.

  “You can start eating. I have to change my clothes first, and then I’ll leave,” I say, rushed.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes,” I say, averting my eyes.

  “Okay,” he says softly. “Make sure nobody follows you. It’s really important,” he adds.

  “Don’t worry. I will. Is there anything you want me to tell them?” I ask, through a sheer miracle managing to keep my voice even.

  “Tell Sara to take the money and leave town for a couple of weeks. Tell her I’m okay. I’ll call her as soon as I can.”

  “Why can’t you tell her yourself?” I ask a bit abruptly.

  His eyes finally meet mine.

  I hold his gaze.

  “She, um...”

  He stops, weighing his words for a few moments.

  “She doesn’t know what I’m doing, and I want to keep it that way. I don’t want to pull her into my mess. If she knows something bad happened to me, she won’t
leave without me. And it’s really important that she and Emma get out of town. The men who hurt me are after them as well.”

  “I see,” I mutter with a faint voice.

  “Also tell them that... I love them,” he says, visibly affected.

  More pain claws at my chest.

  Swiftly, he pulls his gaze away, and I dash out of the living room, a complete mess.

  The door cracks open, and a young woman fills my view.

  Surprise reads on her face while a small smile tilts her lips. It’s only a brief moment before concern slides over her eyes.

  She’s tall and slender, about my height, her face framed by blonde locks. Her eyes and lovely features speak of classic, timeless beauty.

  A sleeveless dress hugs her silhouette, a blue sweater casually draped over her shoulders. Mascara brings out her blue eyes, the nude gloss setting off her lips.

  “Yes?” she asks.

  “Jaden... Jaden...”

  The sound of a crystalline voice lifts off the floor and swirls into the air.

  “Who is this?” I ask, bending at my waist as the little girl crawls up and hides behind her mom’s skirt.

  “This is Emma,” the woman says, lifting her up.

  Emma gives me a sweet smile, her adorable face, a carbon copy of Jaden’s. His eyes, his nose, the pout. I take a long breath and stretch my hand out to her mom, my heart leaping to my throat.

  “I’m Senna. Jaden sent me.”

  She studies me for a moment, intrigued.

  Her hand meets mine. Hesitantly.

  “Sara... Please, come in,” she says politely.

  I enter the foyer.

  She shows me to the living room and sets Emma on her feet, the little girl gripping her mom’s skirt while looking up at me.

  The house is small but cozy, crammed with toys, plants, and a few pieces of furniture. The living room opens to the kitchen. The place is spotless. Pots and pans sit on the stove, filled with freshly cooked food. The smell tickles my nostrils.

  Study guides and a small laptop sit on the kitchen table.

  “Going to school?”

  “I’m trying. It’s not that easy,” she says, smiling as Emma brings her small hands to a bookshelf and tugs at a big book.

  Sara sweeps her off her feet and puts her on a blanket in the middle of the floor.

  “Do you want something to drink? Coffee? Tea.”