Page 31 of True Abandon

“As you recall, I was injured.” He holds up his arm that was once broken and now bears a red scar splicing down the skin below his elbow. “Plus, I had to finish up some things with work.”

“You have a job?” I ask rather rudely.

“False Accusations is a legitimate band. I couldn’t leave them high and dry.”

I cross my arms and lean my head to the side. “Like they left you the night of your accident?”

“Trish,” he warns.

“Jax,” I challenge. It’s the most brazen I’ve felt since walking through the door tonight. “So, what now? You’re on hiatus?”

“I quit. Thought you’d be happy.”

“Why would I care?”

“No reason.” He purses his lips and looks back at me. His chin rises again and appraises me.

This chess game he’s playing will easily be lost.

By me.

I throw my arms up in the air, “Whatever reason you’re here for, it’s been noted, and you can leave now.”

His hand skims along the glass of a nearby table. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I drop my arms in exasperation. “Why the hell not?”

His fingers stop moving. “I’ve sinned, and I’m ready to repent.”

Repent? Oh, for the love of God. “And what am I supposed to do? Forgive you? You show up after all these years, and I say ‘It’s okay, Jax. You were just an idiot kid who didn’t know what he was doing.’”

“I want you to get to know me, now, as a man.”

I hold a finger up to him. “No.”

“Yes.”

Shaking my head, I state, “You can’t force me to spend time with you.”

“Yes, I can,” he retorts with a wink and flicks a gaze around the room. The fourteen-hundred-square-foot Pele suite with a king-size, master bedroom, living room, lanai looking on to the Pacific Ocean, and…

Realization strikes.

“Oh no.” I put both hands up in the air and start to back away. “No, no, no, no, no.”

He smiles.

“You’re sick,” I state.

He strides toward me, each step more purposeful than the last. “Seven days and seven nights of personal concierge service.”

I continue to back up. “You’re insane.”

“Sit back and relax at our five-star, luxury retreat while your every need is met,” he recites the words from the hotel’s website.

My heels continue to move back. “I don’t know what you think this service includes, but it’s not—” My back hits the wall.

“Not what?” His palms are pressed flat against the wall by my head, his body pinning me in.