Deeply Bitten
I spend the rest of the morning lying around, waiting for Jaxon to text whenever he can. Which is so not a badass feminist move, but I’ve given up controlling my brain when it comes to this boy. Plus, it’s not like there’s anything else to do. I’ve read everything on my Kindle, and I can’t watch any more episodes of Legacies without Macy. Add in my bum ankle and the fact that I can’t go anywhere and that leaves…
Jaxon: What’s your favorite movie?
Me: Atm? To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before Me: Of all time? Some Kind of Wonderful Me: Yours
Jaxon: Die Hard
Me: Seriously?
Jaxon: What’s wrong with Die Hard?
Me: Nothing
Jaxon: Jk. It’s Rogue One
Me: The Star Wars movie where everybody dies????
Jaxon: The Star Wars movie where people sacrifice themselves to save their galaxy
Jaxon: There are worse ways to die
It’s not the answer I’m expecting, but now that he’s said it,
I can totally see how that movie would appeal to this guy who has gone out of his way to rescue me over and over again. Even Die Hard makes sense when I put it in that light. A main character who’s willing to die if it means keeping other people safe.
There’s a lot more to Jaxon than the person I met at the bottom of the stairs my first day here. I mean, he’s still the jerk who told me not to let the door hit me on my way out. That’s not something I’m likely to forget any time soon. But he’s also the guy who saved me from Marc and Quinn. And the guy who carried me all the way back to my dorm room last night. That has to count for something, right?
Plus, I can’t believe how different he is when there’s no one else around. When it’s just the two of us texting and he’s not so busy trying to convince me that he wants nothing to do with me…and, more, that I should want nothing to do with him.
I wish I could ask the real Jaxon Vega to please stand up, but the truth is, I’m kind of hoping he’s the guy who’s been texting me for the last two hours. And if he’s not…well, I guess I don’t want to know that yet.
Me: Favorite ice cream flavor?
Jaxon: Don’t have one
Me: Because you like them all???
Me: Which, btw, is the only acceptable answer to not having a favorite
Jaxon: I think we both know there are a million different reasons I’m unacceptable and ice cream choice barely makes the list
That line shouldn’t make me swoon. It shouldn’t,
especially when it’s so obviously a warning. But how can it not when it’s delivered by the same boy who said Rogue One is his favorite movie?
It’s pretty obvious Jaxon is the villain of his own story. I just wish I knew why.
Jaxon: Favorite song?
Me: OMG, I can’t choose
Jaxon: What if I said you had to? Me: I can’t. There are too many Me: You?
Jaxon: I asked you first
Me: Ugh. You suck
Jaxon: You have no idea how much
Me: Okay, fine
Me: Atm, Niall Horan’s Put a Little Love on Me and anything by Maggie Rogers
Me: Of all time? Take Me to Church by Hozier or Umbrella from Rihanna
Me: You?
Jaxon: Savage Garden Truly, Madly, Deeply
Jaxon: Anything by Childish Gambino or Beethoven
Jaxon: Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl” is my new favorite, though
I drop my phone because…what do I say to that? How am I not supposed to swoon over this boy? Like, seriously? How am I not supposed to swoon? It’s impossible.
I pick my phone back up with shaking hands. He hasn’t texted anything else, but to be honest, I don’t expect him to for a while. That was…a lot.
Instead, I swipe open my Spotify app. And play “Brown-
Eyed Girl”…on repeat.
I’m still listening to it when Macy stops by around noon to check on me. “What are you listening to?” she queries, nose wrinkled.
“It’s a long story.”
She eyes me speculatively. “I bet. You should tell me all about—” She breaks off when she sees the remains of my very big breakfast. “Where did you get the waffle?” she demands, crossing the room so she can scoop a little of the leftover whipped cream out of its bowl and suck it off her finger. “It’s not Thursday.”
I stare at her, baffled. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means the cafeteria only makes waffles on Thursdays. And we only get whipped cream on special occasions.” She dives back into the whipped-cream bowl, holds up a finger covered in the sweet, fluffy stuff. “Today is not a special occasion.”
“Apparently, it is,” I answer with a shrug, and I try to ignore the way her words warm me up all over. “At least for me.”
Not going to lie, it feels like a special occasion. How can it
not when I have texts on my phone from Jaxon right now telling me this is his favorite song?
“I can’t believe my dad had them make you—” My face must give it away, because she breaks off mid-sentence. “This breakfast didn’t come from my dad, did it?”
I don’t know how to answer that. I mean, if I try to pretend it’s from Uncle Finn, she’ll just ask him about it and find out the truth. If I tell her it’s from someone else, she’s going to
want to know who sent it, and I’m not sure I’m ready to tell her. I kind of like the idea of this Jaxon—the one who tells me vampire jokes and sends me waffles with fresh whipped cream—as my secret. At least for a little while.
But the look on Macy’s face says she’s not about to be put off. And that she’s got a pretty good idea of where the food came from, even though I haven’t answered her yet.
Which leaves me with only one option, really. A downplayed version of the truth. “It’s really no big deal, okay? My ankle’s bothering me, and he was trying to help.”
“Flint?” she asks, eyes wide. “Or Jaxon?” She says the last in a whisper.
“Does it matter?” I ask.
“Oh my God! It was Jaxon! He talked Chef Janie into making you waffles. I didn’t even know that was possible— she’s really tough. Then again, if anyone could do it, Jaxon could. I mean, the boy is terrifyingly efficient. And he always gets what he wants.” She grins. “And I’m pretty sure what he wants right now is you.”
A knock sounds from behind her, and I’ve never been more relieved to have someone come to my door in my life. “Can you get that? My ankle still hurts.”
“Of course! I want first crack at interrogating Jaxon anyway.”
“It’s not going to be Jaxon,” I tell her, but just the idea that it could be has my palms sweating a little. I sit up straighter, try desperately to fix the mess that is currently my hair as Macy opens the door.
Looks like the panic was for nothing, though, because it isn’t Jaxon. It’s a woman, carrying a large yellow envelope.
I tell myself I’m not disappointed, even as the sudden butterflies in my stomach kind of fall back down with a thud. At least until the woman, who Macy calls Roni, hands her the package. “I’m supposed to deliver this to Grace.”
Macy whips her head around to look at me even as she takes the large envelope being thrust into her hands. Her eyes are huge, but I can’t blame her. I’m sure mine are just as big.
I don’t know what else Macy says to Roni to get her out of our room, because every ounce of my attention is focused on the envelope in her hands. And my name written on the front of it in the same bold scrawl that was on the earlier note.
“Give me!” I practically beg as I push myself to my feet.
My ankle still hurts, but for this, I’m willing to suffer.
Except Macy is in full mother-hen mode, apparently. “Sit back down!” she squawks as she shoos me back to bed.
“Give me the envelope!” I make grabby hands at it.
“I’ll give it to you as soon as you’re back in bed with your ankle on that pillow.”
And then she glares at me, standing just out of reach, until I do what she says.
But the second I’m settled, the stern look goes away and the stars come back to her eyes. She thrusts the envelope at me and practically yells, “Open it, open it, open it!”
“That’s what I’m doing!” I tell her as I tear at the seal. It’s one of those plastic Bubble Wrap ones, so it’s harder than it should be, but eventually I get it open.
And out falls a large black library book.
“What is it?” Macy climbs on the bed next to me in an
effort to get a better look.
“I don’t know,” I answer. But then I turn it over and…it’s totally the last book I ever would have expected him to send.
“Twilight? He sent me a copy of Twilight?” I turn to Macy in
confusion.
Macy gasps as she stares from the book to me. And then she starts to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.
And I guess it’s kind of funny…the idea that a guy like Jaxon would send a girl a paranormal romance, but I don’t think it’s nearly as amusing as Macy is making it out to be. Plus, I’ve always kind of wanted to read it, to see what all the fuss was about all those years ago.
“I like it,” I tell her a little defiantly. Because I do—almost as much as I like the fact that Jaxon took the time to pick it out for me.
“I do, too,” Macy says around another fit of giggles. “I swear. It’s super…charming, actually.”
“I agree.” I open the front cover, and my heart stutters as I see the small Post-it note stuck to the cover page. In the scrawl I’m rapidly coming to recognize as Jaxon’s is this quote from the novel: “I said it would be better if we weren’t friends, not that I didn’t want to be.”
“Oooooooh!” Macy clutches her hands to her chest and pretends to swoon. “If you don’t kiss that boy soon, I’m going to disown you. Or I’m going to kiss him myself.”
“I’m sure Cam would appreciate that.” I trace my finger over the individual letters of every word he wrote, one after the other, even knowing it makes me look as starry-eyed as I feel.
“Hey, Cam’s always talking about doing things for the greater good. Here’s his chance to put his money where his mouth is.”
“You kissing Jaxon is for the greater good?” I open the book to the first page.
“Me kissing Jaxon as your proxy is definitely for the greater good. Put you both out of your misery.” She bats her eyelashes. “Though it definitely wouldn’t be a sacrifice.”
“How about we make a pact? You keep your lips off Jaxon and I’ll keep mine off Cam?”
“Wooo!” Macy shouts so loud, it makes me jump. “I knew last night you were into him, with your babbling and your I- we-he stuff.”
“I didn’t say I was into him.” But it’s kind of hard not to fall for him at least a little after a morning like this one.
“You didn’t say you weren’t, either.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t you have a class to go to?”
“Trying to get rid of me?” But she climbs off my bed, starts straightening her hair in the mirror over the dresser.
“I am, yes.” I hold up the book. “I want to start reading.”
“I bet you do.” She makes kissy faces at me. “Oh, Edward, I love you so much! Whoops, I mean Jaxon.”
I throw a pillow at her, but she just laughs and grabs her backpack. Then she gives me a quick wave before heading out the door.
The second Macy’s gone, I sink back onto the bed and hold Twilight to my chest. Jaxon sent me a love story. I mean, yeah, it’s about a vampire, but it’s still a love story. And that quote… I didn’t want to show it in front of my cousin, but swooooooooon.
I grab my phone and fire off a text to Jaxon.
Me: Swoon emoji
Jaxon: Don’t get too starry-eyed Jaxon: It’s supposed to be a warning Jaxon: Winky kiss emoji
Me: Of what?
Jaxon: Things that go bump in the night Jaxon: You never can be too careful Me: I like scary stories
Jaxon: But do you like the monsters in them? Me: I guess it depends on the monster Jaxon: I guess we’ll see, then, won’t we?
Me: I don’t know what that means
I start to text more—his mood is so different than it was earlier, and I want to get to the bottom of the change—but there’s yet another knock on my door.
Me: Hey, did you send me something else???????? Jaxon: Why don’t you open the door and find out? Me: That sounds like a yes
Me: You don’t have to do this, you know Me: I mean, I appreciate it so much Me: But it’s not necessary
Jaxon: Grace
Jaxon: Open the door
I start making my way across the room to the door, thrilled that since the Advil kicked in, walking doesn’t hurt as much, and my limp is a lot less pronounced. Then, right before I open the door, I text:
Me: How do you know I haven’t already opened the door? “Because I think I would have noticed,” he answers from
where he’s standing on the other side of the beaded curtain. “Jaxon!” I squeak out his name, my free hand going to my hair automatically in an effort to smooth down the mess.
“You’re here.”
He lifts a brow. “You want me to go?”
“No, of course not! Come on in.” I hold the door open as I step back.
“Thanks.” He jerks a little as he steps over the threshold and Macy’s beads brush against him.
“I don’t know why Macy insists on keeping those up when they shock people on the regular,” I say, swatting the annoying things out of the way so I can close the door. “Are you okay?”
“I have no idea.” His eyes meet mine for the first time, and the happiness bubbling inside me dies down as I realize the blankness is back.
“Oh, well.” I duck my head, suddenly way self-conscious around this guy who I’ve had no trouble talking to all day. “Thanks for the book.”
He shakes his head, but at least he’s smiling when he answers. “I thought it might give you something to do while you’re resting your ankle.” He looks at me pointedly.
“Hey, I was in bed. You’re the one who knocked on my door.”
His eyes widen a little at my mention of being in bed, and then we both do the only thing we can do in the situation— stare awkwardly at my rumpled hot-pink sheets and comforter.
“Do you, um—” I clear my suddenly clogged throat. “Do you want to sit down?”
He makes a face, then moves in a negative motion but seconds later does the opposite and plops down at the end of my bed. All the way in the corner, like he’s afraid I’m going to bite him—or jump him.
It’s such an un-Jaxon-like move that for a second, I just kind of stare at him. And then decide, screw it. I’m not going to spend the next hour feeling awkward. I’m just not. So I flop down on the bed next to him and ask, “What did one bone say to the other bone?”
He eyes me warily, but his shoulders relax—and so does the rest of him. “I don’t think I want to know.”
I ignore him. “We have to stop meeting at this joint.” He groans. “That was…”
“Fabulous?” I tease.
He shakes his head. “Really, really awful.” But he’s smirking, and finally I can see something in the depths of his eyes—something real, instead of that terrible blankness.
Determined to keep it that way, I tell him, “It’s kind of a specialty of mine.”
“Bad jokes?”
“Terrible jokes. I inherited the talent from my mother.” He lifts a brow. “So terrible jokes run in the DNA?”
“Oh, it’s totally a gene,” I agree. “Right next to the ones for curly hair and long eyelashes.” I bat my eyes at him to make a point, much the way Macy did to me a little while ago.
“Are you sure you didn’t get it from both sides?” he asks, face totally innocent.
I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Just that your jokes are really terrible.”
“Hey! You said you liked my octopus joke.”
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” He reaches for my leg, drapes my foot and ankle over his lap. “It seemed rude to kick you when you were down and out.”
“Hey! I may be down, but I’m not out.” I try to pull my foot back, but Jaxon holds me in place, his long, elegant fingers instinctively finding the spots that hurt the most and massaging them.
I moan a little because the massage feels really good. And
so does having his hands on me. “How are you so good at that?” I ask when I can finally speak again.
He shrugs, shoots me a little smirk. “Maybe I inherited it.”
It’s the first time he’s mentioned any family except his one cryptic comment about his brother yesterday, and I jump on it. “Did you?”
He stops for a second—his hand, his breath, everything— and just looks at me with those eyes I try so hard to find emotion in. And then he says, “No.”
His fingers start back on their massage like they never even stopped.
It frustrates me, but not enough to push when he has No Trespassing signs posted all over himself in huge black letters. Which says a lot more about him than he could possibly imagine.
We spend the next couple of minutes in silence as he massages my foot until the ache is almost completely gone. Only then, when his fingers finally still for good, does he say, “My eyes.”
My gaze darts to his. “What do you mean?” “That’s what I got from my mother. My eyes.”
“Oh.” I lean forward until I can once again see the silver flecks against the darkness of his irises. “They’re beautiful eyes.” Especially when he’s looking at me the way he is now
—a little bemused, a little intrigued, a lot surprised. “Did you inherit anything else from your mother?” I ask softly.
“I hope not.” His words are low, unguarded, and it’s the first time he’s ever been so open with me.
I search for something to say that won’t break the mood, but it’s too late. The second he registers what he said, Jaxon’s entire face closes up.
“I need to go,” he tells me, setting my foot gently on the bed before getting to his feet.
“Please don’t.” It’s barely more than a whisper, but the sentiment comes from deep inside me. I feel like I’m seeing the real Jaxon for the first time up close and personal, and I don’t want to lose that.
He pauses, and for a moment, I think he might actually listen to me. But then he’s reaching inside the pocket of his designer jacket and pulling out a rolled-up piece of paper that’s been fastened with a black satin ribbon.
He holds it out to me.
I take it with hands that I have to will to stay steady. “You didn’t have to—”
“It made me think of you.” He reaches up, takes a gentle hold of one of my curls, as has become his habit. But this time, he doesn’t stretch it out and let it boing back into place. Instead, he simply worries it between his fingers.
Our eyes meet, and suddenly the room feels about twenty
degrees hotter. My breath catches in my throat, and I bite my lower lip in an effort to keep myself from saying—or doing—something we’re not ready for.
Except Jaxon looks like he might be ready for all kinds of things, with his gaze fastened on my mouth and his body swaying toward me just a little.
And then he’s reaching out, pressing his thumb against my lip until I get the hint and stop biting it.
“Jaxon.” I reach for him, but he’s already across the room, his hand on the doorknob.
“Rest that ankle,” he tells me as he opens the door. “If it feels better tomorrow, I’ll take you to my favorite place.”
“Which is?”
He quirks a brow, tilts his head. And doesn’t say another word as he slips into the hall and closes the door behind him.
I stare after him, the scrolled-up piece of paper he gave me still in my hand. And wonder how on earth I’m going to keep this beautiful, broken boy from cracking my already battered heart wide open.
