Page 64 of Shamed
Slowly, I open the door again, my lips pulled to the side.
“You forgot these,” he tells me, holding out his hands.
I reach for the items, shaking my head. “Thanks.”
A small smile tugs at his lips, then his eyes drift to the side over my shoulder. “You have a leak in your roof or something?”
I follow his gaze to where the towel and bucket sit on the floor in my tiny kitchen. “Oh, yeah. The landlord, umm . . . he’s going to fix it soon. He owns and runs the store downstairs as well.”
He scans the rest of the tiny enclosure I call an apartment from where he’s standing in the doorway before settling his gaze back on me, nodding. “Think about coming to another lesson, okay?” With those parting words, he turns and walks down the stairs.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jennifer
The next two weeks follow a similar pattern of Mase walking me home in the early morning hours.
Sometimes we talk about mundane things, like the weather or work at the gym. Sometimes I’m too drained from the night to open my mouth. Sometimes I sit with him on the steps. Sometimes I resist thetemptation.
I’ve been tempted to invite him inside, but ultimately, I decide against it each time.
There’s a little buzz of anticipation fluttering in my belly at the end of each shift, wondering if I’ll see him standing there, looking alluring while leaning against the brick wall, shoulders wide, jaw defined, hair tousled.
I haven’t asked him again why he still insists on walking me home, but the question lingers, popping up every time I see him waiting.
Regardless of why, there’s a part of my weary soul that relaxes and takes comfort in his presence.
A seed of trust was planted the moment he apologized for grabbing my wrist that first night, and it has been growing with each of his altruistic acts.
Unfortunately, with each show of kindness, I hate myself a little more for allowing the comfort and companionship he gives. I hate myself for allowing that little bit of peace and warmth I’ve been feeling whenever I’m around him.
He would absolutely hate me if he knew the truth.
I can’t tell him.
He would definitely speak up, and Dylan would find out I talked, then my father would lose everything, and all those people would be out of a job. Everyone else would suffer while the person who should pay would walk away, whistling a cheery tune.
And so, I keep my mouth shut, torturing myself with each unsaid word.
Sometimes when I’m lying in bed, after Mase has finally left for the night, the memory of Jason’s death will pop up to haunt me, and my mind will try to claim it as my fault.
I now understand why Dylan harassed him so much. It was a deflection tactic to act so outraged on my behalf, all while hiding his despicable crime. I wonder if Mase endured the same level of harassment?
I ended up hiring the private investigator I stopped in to see the other day, and I talked to him yesterday. Bill is a burly man with a handlebar moustache and tattoos that crawl up his neck to the back of his skull.
He told me Jacob is being released in three weeks. If I hadn’t disappeared and changed my number and address, I would have automatically been informed as the date crept closer.
My stomach has been unsettled ever since. Not because I’m not relieved that he’ll be out—because I am—but because it means he’s served ten years in prison for something he didn’t do.
I asked Bill if he’d be able to keep me informed about where Jacob ends up living and any other information he can find for me.
I watch the steam rise from where my hair is wrapped around my curling iron, releasing the section from the wand when it’s been long enough.
I’ve been dreading today for the past few weeks—months, really—each day leading up to it like a countdown on a bomb.
It’s my night in the private rooms, and Chester has five people booked for me already, each for forty-five-minute sessions. Who knows how many people I’ll end up dancing for in there by the end of the night.
I can do this.
