Page 116 of Shamed
Once we’ve arrived and parked, I unbuckle my seatbelt, but Mase stops me with a hand on my thigh. “I can get it for you; just text me the brand and type. I’ll leave the truck running to keep you warm.”
I blink at him a few times. “What? You really don’t have to do that. I don’t mind running in.”
With a squeeze of my thigh, he pushes his door open. “It’s okay. You just relax. I’ve got you, Jayne.” Mase gets out without another word and starts walking away, not giving me a choice.
I quickly text him what I need, then lean my head against the window, staring outside while I think about all the ways I’m a horrible person, and wait for him to return.
Ten minutes later, he comes back carrying a bag of supplies, handing it to me when he gets in. “I grabbed you a few extra things, just in case.”
I peek into the bag, finding pads and tampons, as well as chocolates, candy, painkillers, and a heating pad. My heart swells, the lump in my throat—that never truly left earlier—growing. “Mase . . . this is too much.” It comes out wobbly, and I’m sure he can hear it. Nobody has ever taken care of me like this.
“It was really nothing.”
I shake my head, holding the bag to my chest. “No, it was definitely something. You didn’t need to do that.”
After pulling out onto the street, he takes hold of my hand again, brushing his thumb across my skin as he looks ahead in thought. “I have thisneedto help women who have been abused—whether physically or sexually—to make up for my existence or something. I don’t know.”
Mase pauses for a moment but I know there is more coming; meanwhile, I struggle to swallow past the ache his words cause.
“I’ve always looked after my mother, because I love her of course, and because we only had each other, and she needed help with her sickness.” Another swipe of his thumb. “But mostly, it was because I felt like I owed her. I felt like I needed to help her to make things right.”
God, my chest feels like there’s a boulder sitting on top of it, and I wonder if it’s the same for him.
His gaze stays on the road, and he looks so calm, but I know there is pain underneath.
“It started out like that with you,” he admits, and the boulder grows in size. “But somewhere along the way, need turned to want.” He finally casts a quick glance my way, noticing the tears have returned, then squeezes my hand again. “Iwantto do things for you, Jayne. I want to help you. I like it.”
I shake my head because he’s just too good, and it’s eating me alive. Everything about this conversation makes me feel uncomfortable and cuts deep in my soul.
“I don’t know why you think I’m worth your effort.”
“I don’t know why you think you’re not,” he counters. It’s quiet for a moment before he speaks again. “Did something . . . did something else happen to make you think that way?”
Blood wooshes in my ears, and my skin itches with the need to lay everything out in front of him, just like he did for me.
Tell him. Tell him what you did. He should know.
But the second I open my mouth, nothing comes out.
Because Dylan’s threat seals it shut, and he’s not even here.
Instead, I tighten my hold on Mase’s hand, because I don’t want to let him go. “You see things in me that I don’t. It’s just hard for me to accept sometimes.”
He smiles a little sadly, because he knows there’s more that I’m not telling him. “I expected you to leave after I told you everything—history taught me to expect it, and especially after what happened to you. And . . . what I admitted to you”—he says the last part quietly—“the fact that you didn’t, proves you have a big heart and give people chances. I like that as well.”
“I would never hold something like that against you, Mase. Never.”
Mase is quiet for a moment, stroking the top of my hand with his thumb. Finally, he murmurs, “It makes me want to keep you close.”
When we arrive back at his apartment, Mase tells me to go get freshened up, and by the time I come out of the bathroom, he has a few snacks laid out on the coffee table.
“Sit.” He gestures to the couch, then goes back into the kitchen. “Do you need me to heat up the pad?”
Too good,my mind screams.
But I still do as he says and fold myself into the corner of the couch. “No, the cramps aren’tbad yet.”
When he returns, he places a mug of tea alongside the other items on the table, then joins me on the couch, bringing the throw blanket across our laps.
