Irritation prickles. “I’m really not up to talking about this shit now, Jax. Perhaps you should discuss your concerns with Jem.”
Jax rubs his eyebrow, the way I recognise he does when Jax is about to ask something he’s not sure he should. I can guess what. “Did you…you know. The other night after the studio when he took you home? Is that why you couldn’t face him?”
“Did I fuck him? Just come straight out with it.”
Jax wrinkles his nose. “Yeah.”
“No, I didn’t, and I have no intention to.”
“So why avoid him?”
“He kissed me.”
Jax laughs. “A kiss? And that was enough to screw around with your head?”
At this moment, I feel like screaming at Jax but his words resonate. Why did a kiss from Jem then rejection have such a big impact? I could explain to Jax that to me there’s an intimacy in a kiss greater than sex, that kissing Jem was like opening myself up and letting him across the void between me and the world. How can a kiss be that? I don’t know, but it was and that’s why it fucked with my head.
“Shut the hell up, Jax,” I growl, “I’m not in the mood.”
Jax brow creases with concern. “I really don’t think staying here is a good idea if that’s how you feel.”
“And I really don’t want you interfering.” I gesture at the door. “Let’s go. Get this over with.”
“Ah, Ruby…” As he approaches, Jax touches my hand and laces his fingers through mine. “I’m here if you need me. Please be sensible.”
Physical contact with Jax isn’t unusual and, despite his words outside the hotel room the night on tour, there’s nothing between us. No spark of something unknown hovers or any intense desire to keep his skin on mine. He’s Jax, a mate, and nothing else. If I mean any more to Jax, he’s hiding well.
* * *
Jem
Jax taking Rubyto the station is good for two reasons. Firstly, Jem Jones at a police station would have the media and Steve down on me like a ton of bricks. The other reason: distance. If I’m the one to take Ruby, I can’t keep the distance between us that I still fool myself exists.
The whole time Ruby and Jax are away from the house I attempt to channel my nervous energy into something constructive and end up on the treadmill. Music and exercise are the only things that drown out the onslaught of memories – from last night and the ones from earlier in my life.
The pair aren’t back by lunchtime so I text Jax. No response.
Keep out of it.
I call the studio manager and attempt to shift around the booking. He’s pissed off but I don’t know why, he’s getting paid still. I hang up after a terse conversation and the phone rings again immediately.
“What the fuck, Jem?”
“Wow, Steve. Hello to you, too.” Shit. I wanted to avoid talking to my manager.
“What the hell did you do? Were you high?”
“Stop shouting and tell me what you mean?”
“The chick from the band. Y’know, the one the media likes to hold up as Jem’s latest fuck buddy,” he seethes.
My scalp prickles. “Don’t call her that.”
“Not my words. I’m surprised you’re not at the police station, too.”
“She didn’t want me to go,” I grit out.
“I bet she fucking didn’t!”