“They’re hot is what they are,” Stephanie said, stepping into her heels.
Carter felt like none of this was gossip he was supposed to be hearing, but the persistent numbness kept him from forming an opinion on the sexual habits of their resident assassins – who was he to talk, after all?
“Thanks for coming, ladies,” Jazz said, and they all laughed when they realized the double entendre. “I’ll walk you out.”
Carter finished his wine and stared unseeing at the empty threshold, listening to their voices fade down the hall toward the front door. He tried and failed to define how he felt about what had just happened – only knew that it had been both too much and not enough at the same time.
Jazz returned a moment later, leaned a shoulder in the doorjamb and tipped her head, offered him a quiet smile. Concern marked her brow. “You doing alright, baby boy?”
He nodded.
Her smile widened, close-lipped, tinged with sadness. “No, you’re not.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but instead, to his horrified shame, his eyes filled with tears, and his throat closed up.
He blinked them away fast. Cleared his throat. He didn’t cry.
But she’d seen. “Honey,” she murmured, and came to sit beside him. He tipped his head back, his eyes shut, but she wasn’t deterred; stroked his hair, petting it, tracing along his scalp. She knew all the best places to scratch, and he felt the tension slowly melting from his neck. Let out a much-needed deep breath. She was silent. Waited.
When he could, he opened his eyes and rolled his head toward her, just a fraction, so he wouldn’t dislodge her hand. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he murmured, his voice rough. “I don’t – there’s nothingwrong. Nothing bad happened to me.”
“Baby, that’s not true.”
He swallowed. “So I didn’t go pro. Big deal. Most people don’t. I knew that was a long shot even before I got hurt.”
She gave him another soft, sympathetic smile, and he was really starting to hate those, the way they made him feel pitied – though Jazz was the last one to pity anyone. That was another thing about her he loved: she didn’t look down on anybody, and hoped you wouldn’t look down on her in turn.
“But it still hurt,” she reasoned. “Even if you thought you’d never make it in the NFL, you still wanted it. It hurts to want something and not get it.” She sounded almost wistful.
“I’m being a brat,” he said.
“You’re being a sweet baby boy who got dealt a shit hand. And who put up with it without complaining for a long time. And it’s hitting you all at once right now, sweetie. That happens sometimes. It happened with Kev.”
He breathed a humorless laugh. “The shit that happened to Kev makes my shit even lamer.”
“No. Don’t go comparing scars. If we all did that, we’d fall apart.”
“Is that what this is?” he asked, fear stealing through him; he heard it touch his voice, a little shiver. “Am I falling apart?”
“I dunno,” she said, honestly. “But I don’t think so. I hope it’s not. But I think you’re unhappy, and I think you need to start thinking about what would make you happy.”
“Youmake me happy.”
Her hand stilled at his nape. She leaned in and kissed him, sweetly, lingeringly. Pulled back a fraction, even when he tried to chase her lips. “This, being with you, has been some of the most fun I’ve ever had. But, honey, you’re miserable.”
“Jazz–”
“Now, don’t worry, I’m not blaming myself.” He was helpless but to return the smile she offered. “I’ve got no doubts in my ability to please.” Then she grew serious. “But I don’t want to watch another baby boy go down a dark road. I won’t do it. We can have all the fun you want – four girls next time. Five. We can ask those freaky assassin boys if they wanna join in and we’ll have ourselves a real orgy. But don’t go getting lost in your head and keep quiet about it. If you need help, then ask for it, and we’ll get it for you, whatever that looks like.”
Her words threatened to bring all his thorny, unexamined emotions boiling up to the surface. He closed his eyes again, and rested his forehead against hers. He couldn’t find words of his own, too overwhelmed and shaky.
But, in typical Jazz fashion, she didn’t seem to need them. She stroked the back of his neck. “You’ll always have me,” she whispered, fiercely. “No matter what.”
Five
Carter showered, dressed, and headed back for his dorm at the clubhouse. It was late – after three in the morning by the time he’d had coffee and the sandwich Jazz insisted on making him – but he hadn’t wanted to sleep over. Her sheets reeked of sex and, despite being bolstered by her care and support, he felt a little unmoored. He needed quiet; needed his own bed and a chance to gather his thoughts.
The lights were off in the clubhouse save the few that were always left burning at night to keep people from stumbling into the furniture.
