I break eye contact first, becauseholy shitandwhat the fuck. I can't even begin to weed through what's going on right now. All I know is, I need to clean him up and get the hell out of here. If not…
No.Absolutely not. My stomach jumps at the thought of anything remotely inappropriate happening here, at all. WithJackson, no less.
Maybe I am still hammered.
I get to work, grabbing the bandages, some antibiotic ointment and a few other things. I work silently, the only thing heard between us is our breathing and the occasional clatter of supplies. As I work, I can feel his eyes on the top of my head as he watches my every movement. Its nerve wrecking, and it makes me self-conscious that I'm going to do something wrong. But more than that, my body temperature starts rising, and I'm not sure if it’s from the tension in the room or if it's literally so small, the both of us being in here kicked up the temperature a few degrees.
"There. Finished." I want to drop the shit and run out of here, but I don't want him to know how much he's affected me from just a few minutes of being together. How embarrassing would that be? And I'm sure he'd think I'm a horrible person for doing that to Logan, and then shit would be super awkward between us.
Yeah,no. I'll suffer a little bit longer.
I start putting the stuff back quietly and avoid his heavy stare. I can feel him still looking at me, and I don't know what he's thinking. I might have sobered up a bit, but I still feel very much intoxicated, and this last hour is confusing the fuck out of me.
Once everything is back in their proper spots, I close the mirror and look over at Jackson. "Yuck, this shirt needs to go in the garbage." I wrinkle my nose up at it. The blood has dripped down most of the right side. It's not a lot, but the shirt is probably stained and it's making it still smell like blood in here. "Give it to me. I'll throw it out on my way home."
He doesn't move. That, combined with him not saying one thing to me all night is really getting on my nerves. "Jackson! Take the fucking shirt off. What's wrong with you?"
I know. I'm a bitch. I don't need to be so rude, but when I get uncomfortable, I lash out.
He snarls at me and grabs his shirt behind his head and whips it over his head so fast I barely have time to blink. He tosses his shirt at me, and it lands on my face. Luckily, it’s the clean side. Instantly, I'm filled with the scent of Jackson. Not something I've ever really smelt before. It's a mixture of man and smoke. Jackson isn't the type of guy I could see spritzing himself with cologne. No, he's natural.
And his natural surprisingly smells good.
I frown at myself, upset for even thinking these thoughts. This is Jackson, Logan'sbest friend. Ugh, I'm terrible.
Thankfully, none of the bloody parts of the shirt got on me. As I peel his shirt off my face, I'm about to ream into him about throwing shit at me when I see a glimpse of his back.
Only a glimpse, but it was way too much.
I gasp. In shock. In horror. In anger. "Jackson! What happened to your back?" What looks to be like scars litter just the top corner of his back. I grab him by the shoulder and pull him around, revealing his entire back. My hand flies to my mouth as I gasp again. "Jackson!Oh my God!"
Scars. So many scars draw a picture along his back. Some a larger than others, and some were obviously deeper than others, but it doesn’t matter. Because they are all terrible.
And from the looks of it, they look like… “Are thosecigarette burns?” My eyes feel like they’re about to fall out of my head, and I don’t know whether to be angry or start sobbing for Jackson. Whatever happened to him, whatever he’s been through, I’ve never seen anything like it. I didn’t know this type of horror was even possible.
Jackson whips around, only giving me a few seconds to see his back before his face blocks my entire vision. He growls, getting so close to me that I can feel his breath fan across my face.
“What happened to you?” I whisper, tears of sorrow filling up my eyes. This poor guy. I know he’s never done anything to deserve that type of pain and torture. “Who did this to you?” Was it his dad? My blood boils at the thought. I’ve only ever shown him respect. The thought that he’s hurt his son like that makes me want to spit in his face.
Jackson doesn’t respond to me, only gets closer and his breathing picks up to an uneven pace.
“Jackson, what are you doing?” My tears dry up and apprehension takes its place. The look in his eyes is not something I’ve seen from him before. He looks furious. But beneath that furiousness is another emotion. Something that is almost… aroused?
What? No.
He reaches up and places his hand on each side of my head, up against the wall. I swallow down my nerves, hating the way my body starts to heat up from the smell of Jackson and my stupid, intoxicated hormones.
That’s it. Blame it on the alcohol.
“Why won’t you talk to me?” I whisper, barely moving my lips as I look up at him in the eyes. This is so bad. I know it’s wrong, and evil, but morals fly out the window as I stand here in this small bathroom.
As I stand here with this lonely, broken man who hides in the back because he doesn’t want to be seen.
I see him. Right now, I see him.
He moves one of his hands and places his pointer finger over my lips, essentially telling me to shut the hell up. That’s kind of hard, because I’m, well, me.
Instead, I press the acceleration on what I already know is about to happen. There’s no stopping it, and I need to do something before guilt starts creeping up on me.