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I hang up without waiting for a response, tempted to sneak into her room and really drive my point home, but I decide to leave it. For tonight, at least.
I end up heading back to their house after driving around for a while. A couple of days ago, I called the number listed on the building permit posted in a yard a few streets over on a whim. Asked the dude if he needed a roofer, and without even wanting to meet me, he told me the house would be ready for the roof by tomorrow and to show up ready to work.
Fuck, I love my job. I don’t have to talk to anyone. I’m my own boss. I can work at my own pace, for the most part. I only take jobs when I feel like it, and if I don’t hire anyone to help me, I can bust a roof out in a few days and make a good chunk of money. That also means I’m not tied down to any one place for too long. Plus, I’ve found that when you’re hammering into shingles all day, you don’t have time to get lost in your head. And my head is not a pretty place to be.
I’m not exactly rich. Not compared to the people of Cactus Heights. But it’s sure as fuck more than I ever dreamed of making, and more than John ever made. We didn’t have money growing up, so I’m used to living modestly. Dare was the one who convinced me that I needed to spend a little to live a little, and I finally caved and bought my truck. It’s the first thing in my entire life that’s ever been mine and only mine. Besides Briar, I think, but she never really was mine.
As I’m dozing off, I remember to set my alarm and notice a text from the little devil herself.
Briar: Same goes to you. No more Whitley, or no deal.
Me: Easy enough.
I know she fell back asleep, judging by the silence when I came in, so I don’t wait for a response.
Chapter 5
Briar
Asher’s words have played on a loop in my head for the past couple of days.
“You and I were never just friends.”
Understatement of the century.
Our little agreement has me giddy, though I know better than to think it means anything other than Asher being territorial. Little does he know, I’ve already distanced myself from Jackson. It didn’t feel right, and I didn’t want to string him along. It hasn’t stopped him from texting me, though. His behavior has become slightly erratic, accusing me of being a tease for not responding to him one second, and then apologizing in the next breath. I chalk it up to him not being able to handle rejection. Guys like him never can. Pathetic.
But, after Ash’s cryptic comment about a list, I’ve wondered if there was something more sinister going on. So, against my better judgment, when he asked if he could come over to talk, I said yes. My brother and Adrian are both here—sleeping off hangovers, but they’re here—should anything go wrong. I doubt it will. I don’t think Jackson is dangerous, but I guess you never know.
I step out of the pool to get dressed before Jackson comes over. I’m bending over, grabbing my towel off the patio chair when I see him come waltzing through the sliding glass door.
“You’re early,” I say, not even having to check the time to know he’s at least forty-five minutes early. Not only that, but he let himself in. Jackson’s eyes zero in on my chest, and I look down to see that my top has slid over a little, exposing the two purple spots Asher left as souvenirs. My face burns with embarrassment as I wrap the towel around me.
“I’m going to get dressed. Stay here,” I instruct, and he nods, taking a seat on one of the cushioned lounge chairs. I run inside to throw on some skinny yoga pants and a plain white tee before meeting Jackson back outside. He’s wearing crisp, dark jeans and a baby blue polo shirt, his usual attire, but something in his eyes is off. His easy smile is gone, and he appears to be on edge.
“How are you, Jackson?” Small talk is the worst, but I don’t know what else to say. I want to ask him about the list, whatever it is, but I decide to ease into it.
“Same old, same old,” he says, bouncing his knee. “I wish you’d talk to me, though.”
I sigh, not wanting to go there right now.
“Jackson …” I start, but the words fail me. He stares, waiting for an explanation that I can’t give him. Nothing happened. At all. I just don’t feel that way about him. I tried to make myself want him, but it turns out the heart is a stubborn, fussy bitch. And mine has only ever wanted Asher.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I admit.
“Just tell me the truth. I thought things were going well, and then it was like you just…lost interest.” His eyebrows pull together, as if he’s genuinely never been rejected before and can’t begin to make sense of it.
“I just think we’d make b
etter friends.”
“It’s because of him, isn’t it?” he accuses, his eyes turning hard, and I know he’s referring to Asher. I consider telling him the truth, but I can’t risk other people finding out about us. And I don’t trust Jackson.
“No,” I say, taking a seat on the chair next to him. “But I do need to ask you something.”
“Anything,” he says casually, but his eyes scan me for clues. He knows I know something, but he doesn’t know what. I’m starting to realize that there might be more lurking beneath that pretty-boy charade.
“Am I on a list?”
