“I-I have to get ready for work.” She smiled with childlike innocence as she wiped her fingers along her shorts, kissed him on the cheek like she didn’t just dig a garden into his back, then slipped out the side access door. “I go for a run every night at ten if you care to join me,” she called two seconds before the wind slammed the door shut behind her.
*
Jillian Knight brought one thing with her that used to belong to Jessica Day—killer sales skills. The Lascivio consultant that “trained” Jillian at the bachelorette party found herself being schooled in the sales department. Jillian spent the whole night number crunching and making up statistics about nipple clamps and breast cancer prevention, vibrators and decreased yeast infections, and strap-on penises and longevity.
Her mentoring consultant sulked with guilt that she’d allowed Jillian to sell the products under such false pretense, until Jillian made a quick calculation of the commission that the party brought in: over twelve-hundred dollars.
“Hey, working girl! Did you bring home the bacon?” Jackson grinned as he finished playing a familiar Bach piece.
Jillian loved listening to him play. Part of it was envy because she didn’t inherit an ounce of musical talent, but most of it was honest adoration for his insane ability.
“Tempeh bacon, and no I didn’t bring it home, but Sara, the Lascivio consultant that ‘trained’ me, her family is celebrating bacon fest, thanks to yours truly.”
Jackson whistled.
Jillian shrugged, gulping down a glass of water. “Sex sells.”
“You, my dear sis, could sell purity rings and abstinence to pimps and call girls.”
“Speaking of call girls … what are you doing here anyway? Have you gotten laid since we arrived?”
Jackson closed the lid. “I think this Jackson guy is going to keep his virginity for a while.”
“Excuse me?”
“How many people get the chance to start over from scratch? Very few. So I’m saving myself. Maybe I’ll find some nice girl who’s not a virgin and would be willing to teach me about sex and intimacy.”
“You fucked half the West Coast!”
“I don’t know what guy to whom you’re referring.”
Jillian shook her head while unbuttoning her white blouse. “I’m going to change. I need a run and an escape from this impostor who claims to be my brother.”
“No sparring tonight?”
“Maybe when I get back.”
“You’re just upset that I’m making a change for the better, a true fresh start.”
Jillian stopped in the hallway. His words, even if not intentional, were a jab to her gut. “Here’s the thing … I had it as good as it gets. I have nowhere to go but worse.” She shrugged off her shirt and tossed it onto her bed.
“Let’s talk about it.” Jackson stood at her door while she changed in her closet.
“I can’t talk about it with you.”
Jackson chuckled. “I’m the only person with whom you can talk about it.”
Lilith. She couldn’t wait to be with her again because she was the one person Jillian could tell about her past without putting her safety in jeopardy and without judgement.
“If I tell you how painfully hollow I feel inside because I miss Luke and Jones, then you’re going to rationalize everything, reminding me that we had no choice. If we wanted to live we had to leave. Then you’re going to pour on the guilt about how I have you and how our bond is stronger than anything.”
Jillian came out of the closet with the posture of a rag doll as she sat on the edge of the bed to tie her running shoes. Truth—every breath was a silent whisper of gratitude to her brother. She knew she was alive because he saved her time and time again.
“But right now I don’t want to be rational and, I don’t want to feel guilty. I just want to wallow in my misery of missing them.” She sighed with defeat etched in lines across her face. “Strength acknowledges weakness, it doesn’t ignore it.” She stood, looking up at her brother, no longer trying to hide the agony in her eyes. “For now I’m going to acknowledge it and later I will be stronger for it. Okay?”
Jackson nodded then pulled her into his arms. “Fin de journée.”
“I know—fin de journée.”
*
Jillian slipped in one earbud; she still couldn’t do both at night. Surrendering to the unknown wasn’t possible yet, maybe ever. The pulsing music opposite the quiet darkness of abandoned streets and sleeping dogs was a needed escape from the cacophony of morning chaos that Jackson preferred when he jogged.
The cooler evening breeze, the grinding beat, her past, and the nagging fascination of a certain uniformed neighbor fed the surging energy inside her, propelling her legs to the point of exhaustion. Her lungs stretched to capacity, a simmering burn in her chest. The only thing that moved faster than Jillian’s legs was her mind. It was an endless loop of the last ten years of her life playing in a roller coaster highlight reel: the drizzle of mist from the fog rolling in over the bay, the doctor, the dog. She missed it all.