“Neither are you,” I repeat. “Neither is Osc?—”
“I don’t give a fuck about Oscar’s dick.”
The inference is he gives a fuck about mine. But it’s not that literal. He’s worried about me and the effect not shagging around is having on me. And the effect it’s having onhim, clearly.
I can’t drink anymore tragic disappointment. I’m too tired to swallow gritty lies and my mug finds its way to the coffee table.
Jack sets it aside and sits down, facing me, his legs caging me in. “Did you stop because you’re too busy looking after me?”
“What? No.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me.”
He speaks without much inflection. Without anger. But he doesn’t seem all that confused either. As if the spark in his green eyes is nothing but curiosity and friendly concern for the sorry state of my sex life.
I feel pinned to the couch. Unable to move a muscle or limb without shattering into a thousand pieces. “Jack, I don’t care about sex.”
“Why not? You used to.”
“That was before?—”
My jaw jams.Idiot.
Jack leans forward as if he scents the secret burning holes in my chest. “Before what?”
Before you put your hands and mouth on me like you meant it. Before you stepped in front of mortar fire and blew that night and everything it could’ve been into dust I’ve choked on ever since.
I’m choking now.
But I’m saved by a door opening down the hall. At least I think I am, until Mal appears, and walks straight past us, as if Jack’s communicating with him in ways I can’t see, and he knowsnot to give me an out.
Mal goes to the kitchen and rummages in the fridge. He departs with a protein shake and a bottle of electrolytes and his bedroom door shuts like a tomb a few seconds later.
Jesus, Mally. Throw me a life jacket here.
Silence is all I get for my unspoken plea. And Jack’s stare, boring into me so steadily I almost convince myself last night didn’t happen. But it did happen. And it matters more than the blue balls I’ll carry to the grave.Jackmatters more.
I find a breath from the pits of hell and force it into my lungs. “I’m not lying to you. I really don’t care about sex anymore. On my list of ways to slowly kill myself, it’s at the fucking bottom.”
I don’t curse that often. I like words too much to use the same ones over and over again. I’m usually stressed out of my mind when it happens. Or drunk as hell.
I’m not drunk now.
Neither is Jack.
Gods, how I miss those beer and rum-fuelled nights we spent together. How I missthatnight. How I wish and wish and wish he remembered it.
Christ, Sol. You’re all I think about. Why’s it taken me this long to figure out why?
A wretched sound coils in my throat.
I cover my mouth with my hand.
Jack snaps his fingers around my wrist, ripping my hand away. “You don’t care about sex because you never have time to want anything for yourself.”
“That right?”
“Aye, I think so. Unless you can look me in the face and tell me different.”