Jaded, p.5
Jaded, page 5
Next thing I know, she’s ushering me through the door to her loft and gesturing toward the couch. The cushions sink under me, soft and overstuffed, smothered in mismatched blankets and pillows. It’s not at all what I expected.
The condo itself is modest, with polished concrete floors and gleaming stone countertops that are functional without being too sterile. It’s not cluttered, but it hums with life.
Houseplants spill green across ledges below large windows, and the walls are peppered with crayon drawings and finger-painted flowers hung with strips of clear tape. The industrial touch of exposed pipes and air ducts somehow makes it feel even cozier. Every corner of this home speaks of routine, comfort, and a family trying to carve out something brighter.
A reality show plays on the TV. Teen mothers sobbing into the camera while their boyfriends prove they’re allergic to responsibility. It feels absurdly on-brand for this place. Arden and Lexi must eat it up.
Scanning the space, I realize Lexi is nowhere in sight. I figure she’s keeping her daughter away from me, and I can’t say I blame her. I wouldn’t trust me either. At least one of them has some sense.
When she finally appears, she’s glaring. Unnaturally bright orange hair that fades to blonde at the ends is wrapped in a large bun on her head.
“Locke.” I offer her a hand as I rise from the couch and head in her direction. She doesn’t take it.
“I know who you are. I’m sure you already know my name, too.” It makes sense that she and Arden are best friends; they share the same fiery spirit.
She doesn’t have time to get another word out before Arden stumbles back in with a duffel bag that looks like it might cause her to topple over at any moment.
Lexi shrieks, “Holy shit, how long will you be gone?!”
Arden forces a smile. “I don’t know exactly, maybe a month or two? But you’ll manage. You only work a couple of nights a week. You’ve got a backup for Zoe, right? That girl from the club?”
Lexi’s eyes flash. She doesn’t look happy. She looks terrified, actually, but she nods.
Arden leans in, wrapping her arms around Lexi in a tight hug. I catch her whisper, “I just need you to trust me on this one,” before letting go.
“If anything happens to her…” Lexi’s gaze slices to me, “I will cut your fucking balls off.”
“Noted,” I say smoothly, though I take a few steps back, anyway.
Seconds later, Arden is in Zoe’s room whispering her goodbyes. When she rejoins me, her eyes are glistening and her lashes are clumped just enough to give her away. For the first time, I see something unguarded there. Not defiance or sarcasm. Genuine emotion.
She makes her way toward the door, her duffel bag bumping against her leg with every step. I reach for it without thinking. “I’ll take that.”
She shoots me a look and rolls her eyes, but in a few seconds she’s shrugging the strap off and handing it over anyway.
The bag is heavier than it looks.
We’re out the door moments later, the night air thick and quiet around us. By the time we merge onto the freeway heading south, she’s gone silent, staring out the window like she’s already bracing herself.
For the first time since this started, there’s no one else between us.
No waitress. No roommate. No exits.
Just me, Arden, and the road stretching out ahead of us. Dark, empty, and impossible to turn back from.
Chapter 11
ARDEN
The drive to L.A. is one I’ve made many times. Nothing to see here. Just a seemingly endless expanse of desert on both sides of the car.
If he were considering killing me, this would be the perfect time to do it. Maybe that’s why I’m not quite able to relax. I’ve been on edge since the moment I got into this car.
I’ve also been… curious. My imagination has already conjured up tons of different scenarios about the glamorous streets of Hollywood and the world I’m about to step into.
Red carpets, high-end shopping, and glitter trailing everywhere we walk. The type of glamour you only ever see in magazines or late-night reruns. In my mind, Hollywood is glossy and intoxicating. I don’t know if reality can live up to the hype, but I’m finally about to find out.
As we drive and I stare out at the dark desert, my mind continues to wander. What is Locke’s house like? Or maybe he lives in a hotel suite like the one he had here.
Either way, I’m picturing bare white walls, cold tile floors, and absolutely no warmth. That seems fitting.
That’s when I realize he hasn’t actually told me where we’re going or where I’ll be staying.
“Hey, where are we going exactly? And what are our living arrangements going to be while we’re working together?” The question makes my stomach flip. Not because of the job, or the possible chaos waiting for us in L.A. but because I’ll be trapped in the same space as him for weeks, maybe even months. I’m not convinced I can keep my hands to myself for that long.
“We might travel a bit, but for the week, you’ll stay at my place.” He notices my wary glance and grins. “What? Afraid to share a bed with me… again?”
He’s right. God, he’s right. I can’t stand his arrogant, insufferable ass… but the memory of his body pressing me into the mattress, the tattoos inked across those thick muscles, the way his hand sealed around my throat, how easily he wrung pleasure out of me like it was nothing. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want more.
I realize I haven’t answered when he adds, softer this time, “Don’t worry. There’s a guest bedroom and a private bathroom. I may be a lot of things, but a scumbag isn’t one of them.”
“Thank you” is all I can manage to say. Those memories are still swirling around in my head, leaving heat crawling up my neck. I need a distraction. Any distraction.
“So, tell me more about Jaxon Wilde,” I say, trying to think of anything to get my mind off that night.
Apparently, that was not my smartest move. Locke looks like he’d rather run the car off the road than talk about his rock star client.
He begrudgingly states the obvious. “He’s a 20-something train wreck that could probably use a shower and should definitely stop playing into the rock star stereotype. You know, all this throwing TVs out of hotel windows, smashing guitars, and getting so drunk he can barely remember the words to his own songs? It’s not cute up close.”
“But he is very cute.”
Locke shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “Every girl your age seems to agree.”
“Can you blame us?” I sigh, trying not to swoon at the thought. “All that angst and self-loathing? The accent? It works.”
I pause for a moment, looking out at the vast expanse of desert illuminated only by the car’s headlights.
“Not to mention his personality. His whole ‘fans are family’ thing. Most celebrities are so fake, you know? But not him. Every time he speaks, you can just tell he’s being genuine. And the lyrics? God, it’s like he’s bleeding on stage for everyone to see. Yet somehow it makes you feel better about your own mess. He’s reckless, sure, but it’s kind of… beautiful? Like he’s not afraid to set himself on fire just so the rest of us don’t feel so alone.”
Locke scoffs softly, eyes narrowing at the stretch of road ahead. “Wow,” he says. “Maybe you should be his publicist.”
Then he goes quiet. The silence drags on for miles, and I start to wonder if I struck a nerve.
His jaw flexes right before he speaks up again. “He’s not a hero, Arden. He’s drowning. Drowning himself in all the temptations of celebrity. Women, booze, drugs, power. All of it will eat a person alive if they can’t control themselves. The only reason he hasn’t disappeared completely is that people like you keep believing in him.”
I wasn’t expecting that response. I blink a few times, staring at Locke as he drives. Yes, Jaxon sings about struggles, heartbreak, and anger, but he’s smiling and laughing in every interview. Cracking jokes on social media. Nothing in how he presents himself would ever hint at that level of self-destruction.
“Anyway… tell me about you. About Lexi. How’d you two end up living together? What does she do for work?”
His questioning snaps me out of that train of thought. “Careful. If you ask too many questions, I might think you actually care.” Locke tries to hide the way the corner of his lip turns up but fails miserably. “We’re stuck in this car for a few hours. Might as well get to know each other.”
I consider that statement for a moment, then shut it down. “Nope. I don’t talk about my past. Especially not with you. As for Lexi, she works in HR. Or porn. Can’t remember which.” I give him a shrug, redirecting my stare out the passenger window.
A few seconds of silence pass. I sneak a glance at Locke, and his jaw looks tight. He doesn’t look angry… maybe frustrated? Annoyed? Which only makes me wonder what he really expected from me in the first place.
“Cute.” The word comes out dry. He’s not impressed. Not fooled by me. His eyes stay on the road, but I’m scared to look at him too closely for fear that he’ll see right through me if he glances over.
“Most people at least pretend they want to be understood,” he finally says flatly. “I thought maybe your speech about Jaxon was the start of us being real with each other, but if you’d rather lie than trust me with something simple, that’s your choice. Just don’t be surprised when I stop asking altogether.”
Chapter 12
LOCKE
Her perfume fills the car, clinging to the leather, and to me. The sweet scent is intoxicating, and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep pretending it doesn’t affect me. Good thing I’m sitting right now.
We finally approach L.A. and are greeted by an onslaught of bumper-to-bumper traffic. A sea of brake lights flaring in endless red lines. “Home sweet home,” I say dryly, as the car slows to a crawl amidst the chaos.
Arden’s been quiet since our clash earlier, but there’s a spark in her eye now, faint but unmistakable, even as we roll to a dead stop.
This part of the city isn’t glamorous. Industrial blocks rise on either side of us, with tacky billboards scattered between them, and a thick layer of smog clouds the sky. It’s pure Gatsby, the ash heap before the golden lights of Hollywood.
I watch Arden take it all in. “What do you think?” I ask, half-expecting another smart-ass remark instead of the truth.
“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” she says coolly. “Lexi and I drove out here once, after graduation. The first night we slept in her car, in a grocery store parking lot, until a cop kicked us out. Spent the rest of the night parked at the beach, waiting for sunrise. The next night we found a club, met some guys, and did what eighteen-year-olds with horrible judgment and nothing to lose do.”
Her voice flattens. “That’s how Zoe happened.”
A faint smile tugs at her mouth again. “Guess this town really left its mark.”
I blink, then nod once. “That’s… a hell of a souvenir.”
She lets out a soft laugh, almost a sigh. “We were idiots, but somehow it worked out okay.”
The rest of the drive is quiet, but not uncomfortable, just the silence of two people too drained to fill it. Despite the silence, my mind won’t stop circling her. The fragment of her past she just shared, the pieces of her present I’ve already observed, and that first night I saw her… it all blends together. I picture us in the same bed again, even knowing she’s nowhere near ready for that. Not when there’s nothing in it for her this time.
By the time we roll through the gate and up the long gravel drive, her eyelids are drooping as she fights to stay awake. She almost looks innocent like this, lashes low, head leaning against the window. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was.
I shift the weight of Arden’s overstuffed duffel on my shoulder as I flip on the entry light, then lock the double doors behind us. Arden drifts down the wide hallway leading into the living area. Slowing down to study the abstract art lining the wall — thick, violent strokes of black across large white canvases. She lingers for a moment, considering them, before moving on.
She enters the living room with a muttered, “Nice museum you have here.” Still enough energy to be a smart-ass, I see.
“Make yourself at home,” I reply, sweeping a hand around the space. Then, all at once, it hits me. She’s right.
Looking around at the vast expanse of white and gray marble, the slate walls, the black steel accents… it feels cold. Sterile, even. The only touch of warmth comes from the yellow glow of overhead lights and sunlight that streams in during the day. I had never noticed before. Or maybe I just didn’t care.
“Come on. I’ll take your things. Your room is this way.” I jerk my head toward another hallway to our right.
Arden follows, but there’s a hitch in her step, a hesitation she can’t quite hide. As we move down the hall toward the guest suite, her gaze flicks from the art on the walls to the doorways we pass, cataloging details, locating exits. She’s always alert. Braced for what might come next. I wonder what etched that instinct into her. Maybe it’s just the reality that she’s alone in a stranger’s house, with a strange man she met twenty-four hours ago, who also tracked her to her own home. We didn’t exactly start on the right foot. I can only hope that having a space of her own will convince her she can feel safe here.
At the end of the hall, I nod towards the door. Arden gently twists the handle and steps inside, her eyes widening as the room opens up around her.
A king bed enveloped in a white down duvet dominates the center. Across from it sits a sleek wooden dresser with a flat-screen perched on top. An arched entryway reveals a long marble countertop housing the sink and vanity, a large steam shower, and a separate soaking tub. It was all designed with ultimate luxury and comfort in mind.
She spins slowly, taking it in piece by piece, until her gaze snags on the real showstopper: floor-to-ceiling glass windows showcasing the backyard, the infinity pool stretching the length of the estate, and beyond that, the glittering sprawl of city lights below.
Arden doesn’t speak. Just drifts closer to the glass, staring out at the view like it’s pulling her in. Then her eyes snap back to mine, a brilliant spark cutting through the calm.
“Up for a night swim?”
Chapter 13
ARDEN
I don’t know why I thought a midnight swim with a near-stranger was a good idea. But this house, this view, the room… it all feels so surreal, like I’ve stepped into a dream. Yet somehow, for the moment, this is my actual life.
In that moment, standing in the guest suite, surrounded by sleek lines and luxury at a level I’ve only ever seen on TV, I decided I’m going to let myself have this. The travel. The job. Him. Whatever this is. Because I know it won’t last.
I guess that decision is how I ended up here, floating in Locke’s massive infinity pool, suspended above all of Los Angeles. I glide toward the edge where the water appears to spill straight over the hillside; the lights stretching endlessly below, the ocean a black, unknowable line beyond them. The water feels warm against my skin despite the cool ocean breeze drifting around me.
For a moment, I close my eyes and pretend this is mine. All of it.
The view. The stillness. A life where I’m not always planning an exit.
Then Locke slips in. He doesn’t speak, just drifts closer and closer until he’s leaning against the edge, mirroring my stance. Just feet away. For a while we sit in silence, both of us staring into the night.
It’s the kind of silence that feels charged. Heavy, like the entire world around us is holding its breath. This always seems to happen around him. The feeling of the air getting thicker. The way my body forgets how to do simple things, like breathe.
I don’t look at him right away, but I don’t have to.
His presence presses against my skin, calm on the surface but humming underneath. Dangerous in a quiet way. The kind of danger you don’t see coming until it’s already too late.
“Is this what you expected?” he asks eventually. His voice is casual. As if we’re not half-naked in the dark. As if the memory of the night we shared isn’t still hanging between us.
I take a second too long to answer, willing my body to remember why I’m here.
“The pool?” I reply.
“The house,” he says. “Everything.”
When I decide to brave a glance, water is sliding down the hard planes of his chest, the black lines of his tattoos look sharpened and vivid beneath the surface. Intricate Celtic designs woven together over the length of his arms and torso. They’re precise and controlled, just like every other thing about him. My throat goes dry.
“I didn’t know what to expect,” I say, and it’s the truth. “I didn’t really expect to be here.”
His gaze doesn’t leave my face. Not to look at my body, or the view, or any of the countless distractions around us. Like he’s consciously refusing to look anywhere else.
A corner of his mouth twitches. “And?”
“And it’s…” I search for the right word and come up empty. Thoughts and memories collide at once. Cheap apartments with peeling paint, nights spent shivering under thin blankets, learning young that nothing was ever guaranteed. “Different,” I finish.
Something flickers in his eyes, like he heard everything I didn’t say.
“Different doesn’t sound like a complaint.”
“It’s not.” I look back out at the city, leaning forward on my elbows over the pool’s infinity edge. “It all just feels a little too easy to get used to.”
His expression hardens. “That’s how it gets you.”
The space between us feels smaller now. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe it’s just the way his attention presses in on me, like he’s using it to avoid something else.
For a split second, I want to close the distance. To see if the pull I feel is real. To find out if he’s as dangerous as he seems.
