Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Frankie slowly nods, a million miles away. She stands, shuffling her feet toward him the way someone might approach a deadly animal injured on the side of the road.
He waits for her to make eye contact, but she keeps her gaze glued to his torso, confusion wrinkling the skin around her eyes. He wants to take her pain, but he knows nothing will ever be able to take away the pain she feels. That vast hole of nothingness takes on its own life with a pulse—each beat feels like a knife to the chest.
Jackson remains statuesque when her fingers touch his skin, tracing the intertwined lines of ink, one tattoo overlapping another. He can’t hide the part of his body aroused by her touch, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too busy skating the tip of her finger along his flesh like she’s deciphering a treasure map from his chest to his abs … back … shoulders … arms. She makes a slow circle around him.
Jackson waits, frozen, every muscle tense in anticipation of her descent. His tattoos stretch down his body, but she must remove his towel to follow them.
Frankie lifts his arm. He holds it up for her, cupping the back of his head. Her touch leaves goosebumps along his skin, and he expects her to notice, to acknowledge her effect on him, but she doesn’t. Her touch fades, hands falling limp at her sides while she cocks her head, eyes squinted at his torso beneath his armpit.
Then her gaze lifts to his. “Jude,” she says. “Your name is Jude.” Her finger presses to his skin again, tracing the nearly indistinguishable lettering.
Jackson drops his arm. “No.”
“No?” Frankie eyes him.
He tightens the towel around his waist and grabs clothes from the pile by his bag. “Jude died.”
“When?”
“Many years ago.” He tosses the towel aside and gets dressed.
“Who was he?”
Jackson buttons and zips his jeans. “We’re not going to talk about this. Understood?”
“No. I don’t understand.”
“How was your date last night?” Jackson pauses his motions, arms threaded through his T-shirt. He berates himself for asking the question. It’s irrelevant. He needs Francesca Holter to be irrelevant too.
“Did you…” she squints “…follow me?”
“No.” It’s not a lie. Jackson pulls his shirt over his head.
Frankie hugs herself as the room’s mood, even the temperature, changes. She averts her gaze and digs her nails into her arms. His wife used to do that when he asked her about her abusive ex-husband.
Jackson peels Frankie’s fingers away from her skin, and she inspects the indents in her arms as if unaware of how they got there.
“He said Molly burned down my family’s house. Only … he doesn’t know I’m Steven’s aunt. He doesn’t know I could have been in the house.”
Jackson slides his phone into his pocket with a hard sigh.
“Sorry. Am I boring you with tales of arson?”
“Frankie, you don’t bore me, but your confession doesn’t surprise me.”
“Because I should know the Sanfords are awful humans? I should know they can literally get away with murder?”
“Something like that.”
“How do you know that? Are you from this area? Are you hiding from your family when they’re blocks away? Is that what you do all day? Spy on your family to see if they’re okay without you?”
Her words don’t phase him. Jackson’s life has been built on secrets and lies. He envies anyone who has the luxury of demanding honesty and truth. “What…” he crosses his arms, “…can I do for you?”
“You can answer me.”
“Fine. No, I’m not from this area, nor is my family. I’m not spying on my family. And they’re okay without me for now.”
Frankie’s gaze drops to her feet, and she whispers, “Are you sick?”
“Mentally or physically?”
Her nose wrinkles. “Either.”
“No.”
“Why won’t you tell me why you live in this garage?”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I can’t answer your whys. What else can I do for you?”
Frankie blinks and brushes past him, circling the garage's perimeter as if she hasn’t done it multiple times before today. “Have you ever done something so morally gray that you know you’ll never be the same? You know that selling your soul is not just a saying but a real possibility?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation.
Frankie eyes him, maybe to gauge his honesty. “Last night, I lost a piece of my soul. And I know I’ll never get it back.” She feathers her fingers over the hood of his car.
Jackson’s mesmerized by this woman’s touch … even when she’s not touching him. Her delicate fingers. Her innocence. Some people should never sell their souls—Frankie’s one of them.
“You fucked Molly’s dad.”
She slowly shakes her head, focusing on a tiny chip in the paint. “I couldn’t. Not yet.”
“Why?” He eases his hands into his pockets so she doesn’t see him pumping his fists.
Frankie’s blue-eyed gaze finds his. “I haven’t completely worked it out in my head.” She shrugs. “I imagine Steven and Lynn went through the steps of working things out in their heads. When you know something is forever, that it can never be undone, there are steps that you take to reconcile it in your mind. A plus B equals C. You have to accept that it will always equal C. For the rest of time.”