Page 33 of The Fixer

“I’m sorry!”

“Hey, hey.” Jet caught me and hauled me to his chest. “What’s wrong?”

My body froze, though my head shook. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sleep in.” I tensed, waiting for a blow to the back of my head. Waiting for the tongue-lashing I knew was on its way. Jet’s body moved under mine, and I wanted to weep.

Except, instead of pushing me away from him or hitting me the way I expected, he… He rocked me. Cooed in my ear that everything was okay. Instead of the hard blow of a fist or the solid thwack of the back of a hand, Jet’s hands cradled me, rubbing little circles into the skin that was left bare by the too-wide neck of his shirt.

“You aren’t in any trouble,” he told me, voice soft against the side of my face. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

His lips touched my skin, lingering at my temple as if willing me to relax. Jet loosened his grip around me, letting me pull back. The silver of his eyes was dark, though not clouded with hate or disgust.

“Why did you let me sleep so long?” I hated that my voice shook, hated that I sounded so weak.

“You’ve had a rough couple of days,” he told me before his teeth bit into his lip. “I wanted you to get some rest. You must have needed it. And I did too.” He shrugged then dipped his head. “I fell asleep on the couch. I woke up and you still weren’t awake. I didn’t want you to sleep all day.”

Only half of it. Half of it was gone. Breakfast and coffee hadn’t been made. I needed to get dinner on the table, though it was sure to be a disaster the way it always was. It was the weekend. There was laundry. Dishes. A house to clean before Nathan came home from the club. And if I didn’t...

No. I shook my head. Nathan wasn’t here. I’d left him, left the life we’d built together, the life he expected me to live.

I was in Jet’s house. Jet’s bed.

Fire engulfed my cheeks and I clutched at the neckline of my shirt. I could barely bring myself to glance at the handsome man. A little hum echoed through his throat, and I forced myself to look up. At the bob of his Adam’s apple as it slid beneath his skin. At the way his tongue prodded the corner of his mouth, tempting me with things I’d only read about in books.

“I got you something.”

“What?” My attention snapped up. Jet stood, grabbing a handful of plastic and paper bags from the hall. He draped the hanger of a garment bag over the strange silver bar hanging on the wall, then lowered the other bags to the bed. I read the labels, fingering the plastic, the stiff paper and the silky ribbon handles.

Dolce & Gabbana. Kate Spade. Louis Vuitton. Chanel. The hanging bag said “Gucci”. I grabbed a bag that said “Versace” and found a variety of silk and lace.

“What is this?”

There was no emotion on his face when Jet responded. Just a blank slate, like he’d shown to Mateo the day before. “Your things, Eliza. Your apartment.”

It hit me then. Not a fist, not a hand, just the realization that everything was gone. The cops made me go through my apartment, insisting I tell them if anything had been stolen. But how could I tell that? When every breakable item was broken, every stitch of clothing slashed in two? My shampoo and conditioner had been cut open and spilled around the bathroom, the toothpaste container was split and blue paste was smeared across the floor.

My important things—the jewelry from my mother, all my personal papers—had been locked up inside my father’s safe. If anything was missing, it was hard to tell. Had the vandals stolen the cubic zirconia earrings I bought myself after I left Nathan, when I’d lost every last diamond that hadn’t been in my father’s care? Or had they simply been tossed about, hidden in the piles of shredded clothing and ripped up bags?

Jet reached for my hand. Took the silky panties from my grip and tossed them back in the bag. Before he could speak, I shook my head and stuttered, “You… You bought me this?”

Where emotion didn’t exist before, suddenly panic had set. Jet’s eyes widened, his mouth locked open as if he’d been frozen as he tried to speak. His grip on my hand tightened, its pinch making me smile.

He blinked when he saw it, the smile on my lips. Then his tongue came out and prodded once again. “Is that okay?” he asked, as if he were scared to know my answer. Then, he rushed on. “You didn’t have anything with you but the clothes on your back. I wanted you to have something. Of your own. That was yours.”

Subtle panic forced its way front and center, and I clutched at Jet’s hand. “You left me here? Alone?”

“What? No!” The man scooted closer, then froze. Inched back. The knuckle of his free hand rubbed at this forehead. “I sent someone to get them for you.”

“Santini?” I asked, raising a brow.

Jet huffed, a smile tipped his lips. “No. No, not Santini. It was… a woman. A friend.”

A woman. Was it one dressed in red silk and combat boots? Or was that a dream?

I lifted my hand and inched toward one of the bags. “And you expect them to fit? These”—I reached inside the D&G bag— “blue jeans?”

I hadn’t worn blue jeans since my first semester in college. I’d never worn anything distressed like these, buttery soft with holes already ripped in the legs. Nathan hadn’t allowed it. Told me it was for hookers and homeless people, not the woman he had on his arm. I huffed, and Jet grimaced.

“They should fit. I, uh, got sizes off some of your ruined clothes. If they don’t, I’ll get you something else. You name it, it’s yours.”