Page 16 of True Abandon

“Not long enough,” he mumbles.

I cross my arms at his audacity—like he’d have anything to run away from home for. I uncurl my leg and catch his eyes as he watches my knee bounce up and down wildly.

He squints for a moment, possibly wondering if I’m really just a hallucination. “What are you doing in New York?”

“Work,” I say, and he doesn’t follow up with another question.

Instead, he lies there, looking at me, waiting for more of an explanation. Since I clearly have nowhere to go, I may as well entertain myself with conversation. “I’m an assistant at a production company.”

He shakes his head slightly; his brows furrow and eyes look down at his sheets. “What happened to being a reporter?”

I open my mouth in disbelief. “You kinda ruined that dream when you released a sex tape of me.”

Jax’s eyes pop up in surprise of my harsh words. Apparently, he didn’t expect me to address the elephant in the room.

He looks back at me, expressionless.

I hold his gaze and wait for him to say something profound. Maybe an apology. Perhaps an acceptance of the douchebaggery he was a part of.

Instead, he purses his lips and shrugs his shoulders. “It worked for Kim Kardashian.”

My jaw drops. I try to speak but stop because I have so many things to say I don’t know which one to release first.

“You selfish prick,” I finally blurt out. Tears build like the Berlin Wall behind my eyes and threaten to come crashing down with one whip of a sledgehammer. I fight to keep them up as my body quivers with each word. “Do you have any idea what I went through? I had to change schools. My family moved out of the state. My face and body still live on porn sites, and here you are making jokes? Is that all life has become for you? One big joke?”

The emotions and the feels—all the feels—come pouring out of me in four, short sentences. I’ve waited years to confront the man who destroyed me. I’ve rehearsed my speech; the most vindictive words so perfectly planned in my head. Yet, here I am, standing in front of him, and it’s just raw emotion coming through.

“I shouldn’t be surprised by what I’m looking at,” I continue. “A wannabe musician who gets piss-ass drunk and lands himself in a hospital where no one, not even his closest friends, wants to come see him. You messed with my life and faced zero consequences. I don’t know why I ever expected more from you.”

I begin to shiver, my wet clothing getting the better of me. I stand and spin myself around to face the door.

“Don’t leave.” The way his words sound like a plea make me halt in my step. My fingers itch to open the door yet my feet are planted firmly on the ground. “Why are you here?”

“I thought you were dying.”

He lets out a low rumble of a laugh. “Came to see me off?”

I turn and stare deep into his soulless eyes. “Something like that.”

His pupils dilate. His brow furrows as he tilts his head just slightly. A wary look of…regret, maybe, crosses his face. His lips part as he takes in a shallow breath. If he didn’t already have a bruise half the size of his face, I’d punch him square in the temple just for looking at me the way he is.

Our moment of contention is broken when a nurse—different than the one before—walks in.

“Mr. Davis, I’m here to take you for your scan.”

“He already had one,” I state.

“Doctor Abler called for one more,” she answers without looking at me. Her attention is solely focused on Jax. Another orderly comes in to assist the transport.

I step out into the hallway to give him privacy. I text Kelli to let her know I’m fine, Jax is alive, and that I’m waiting out the storm in the hospital. Then I do the usual newsfeed check on Instagram and Facebook. The storm is in full force. As much as I don’t want to be here anymore, I’m glad I stayed. Nothing is worth risking my life. Even spending the night with him.

The door to Jax’s room opens, and the nurse and orderly wheel him out. I don’t even glance their way as they roll his bed down the hall to God knows where.

Walking back into the room, I’m oddly startled at how big and empty it feels. Without the bed, it’s barren, sad even.

The recliner welcomes me, and I rest my head and run my hands along the arms of the chair. When I woke up this morning, this is the last place I ever thought I’d be.

There’s a plastic, drawstring bag on the windowsill filled with clothing and personal effects. Rising, I walk to the window and lift the bag assuming it was what he was wearing when the ambulance brought him in.