Recovery by Nicole Dykes (best time to read books .txt) 📗

I’ve barely known him for a month, and I can’t stop my thoughts from drifting to him. I crave his touch.

In the back of my mind, I know it’s just a distraction. It keeps me from thinking too hard about the past, about painful, haunting memories. But when I’m lying in his arms, when we’re both satiated and our breathing steadies, it feels real.

The roommates all know, and surprisingly, they don’t give us that much of a hard time. It’s a rare night when we’re all home. Apparently, one Sunday a month, Logan and Quinn close both the shop and the bar.

It’s nice. All five of us, huddled around the TV in the living room, popcorn on our laps. Well, my ass is on Jase’s lap, but we share my bowl of popcorn. I hate how familiar this feels, how easy it all is.

I’ve never had easy in my life, and I’m just waiting for it all to be smashed to pieces. Because I know it will.

“The fucking news? Really?” Finn whines.

“It’s good to keep up with current events, Finn,” James, who’s holding the remote, shoots back.

“Not when it’s fucking depressing,” Jase argues, his big arm around me, holding my body to him.

A story flashes, the red ribbon alerting us to breaking news. The headline reads “Slain Child.”

No.

My body stiffens, and Jase feels it. His eyes darken as he turns to James. “Turn it.”

James nods, trying to find the buttons on the remote, but I stop him. “No. It’s okay.” I try to slow my rapid breaths, try to stop my palms from sweating as I listen to the reporter live on the scene.

It’s dark outside, but the street is lit up with red and blue flashing lights. The reporter with perfect makeup and styled hair, stands with a microphone in her hand. Her voice sounds sympathetic, but I’ve always wonder if that’s practiced grief. Do they really care?

“The eight-year-old was sleeping when a stray bullet went through the family’s home.”

A tear escapes my eye when a picture of a young Black kid appears on the screen, his bright white smile shining with happiness.

“James,” Jase barks out, but I’m already off his lap and heading toward my room.

I barely make it to my window before Jase’s large body is behind mine.

A tear slides down my cheek, and I brush it away quickly.

“Mya . . .”

I shake my head, unable to look at him. “Don’t.”

“Talk to me.”

My chest constricts, and I feel like I can’t suck in any air. I press my hand over my heart and shake my head again. “No.”

“That’s it? Just no?”

I keep my voice low, hating every single memory coming to my mind, seeing blood when I close my eyes. His blood.

It’s barely a croak when I turn to face Jase, determination in my bones. “Yes. Just. No.”

He’s pissed-off, but not enough to yell. I know his anger comes from how damn much he cares about me which will undoubtably be his downfall. This beautiful, caring man. “Mya, I want to help you.”

“You can’t help me.”

“Not if you won’t let me in.”

I fold my arms over my stomach that’s aching. “I’ve let you in.”

“Your body,” I quirk an eyebrow, and he huffs, “which is great, but I want more.”

“I told you not to get attached to me. That’s not what this is.” I drop my arms and square my shoulders. “You know what this is.”

“Right. Just fucking,” he growls.

I nod. “And friendship.”

“Friends talk to each other, Mya.”

“Not about this, they don’t.” I don’t want him to hate me. I don’t want him angry with me, but I can’t talk about that day. I can’t talk about the past.

“I told you every fucking thing. And none of that shit was easy.” I want to tell him that I didn’t make him, but that’s not true. I forced him to talk, he was just easier to crack. His heart is too damn good.

“I needed to make sure you weren’t like my mother.”

“And still, you push me away.”

“This is temporary.” I brace my hands on his broad shoulders and look into those hazel eyes I love. “You know that.”

His arm curls around my waist, pulling me tighter to him. “I don’t know that. I told you I make no promises.”

“And I told you, I’m leaving as soon as I can.”

The thought doesn’t sound as pleasant anymore. The thought of leaving him behind actually guts me, which makes fear course through my body. I can’t need anyone.

“So, talk to me while you’re here. Tell me what happened to your brother.”

A choked sob comes from my throat, and I push on his chest, but he doesn’t let me go. “No.”

“Tell me, Mya.”

“You already know.” I give up on pushing him away, his arms are too fucking strong, and I don’t really want to get away. “He’s dead.”

“I know.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “But I don’t know how.”

“Details don’t matter.”

His big hand rests against my cheek, and I lean into the touch. “They do. It matters. Tell me what happened to him, Mya.”

I shake my head again, leaning against his hard body, no longer fighting his touch but accepting it, praying for it. “I can’t.”

I hate how broken my voice sounds. My whole life, I’ve stood tall, tried my best to appear strong no matter what I was going through. People always perceived me as a bitch, and I preferred it that way. But with Jase . . . it’s like I can’t hold back.

My voice quivers, my body shakes, my eyes shed tears I’ve never let anyone else see.

But I don’t want to be weak.

Not even for him.

She’s pulling away from me. I can feel it. She won’t talk about what happened to her little brother. And ever since she saw that fucking news piece two nights ago, she’s barely talked to me. She’s used my body but been distant.

“What’s wrong with you?”

I tun my head to look at Spence, who actually looks concerned. “What do you