Time passes as I soak up the relaxing, soothing heat.  Rivulets flow down my cheeks, down my chest, and I watch the water run down between my legs.  Suddenly, I’m overcome with emotion and soap the washcloth, scrubbing my skin in a desperate attempt to remove the memory of Wyatt’s touch from me.  My skin begins to turn red before I realize I’m sobbing.  Not entirely satisfied with the now raw skin of my thighs, I move the cloth upwards scrubbing my stomach to my breasts to my throat, while choking against the angst threatening to overcome me.

“What’s going on?  Are you alright?” Jacoby must have heard me from the bedroom and come in to check on me.  The safety and security of the shower had been an illusion, and I failed to realize how loud I was crying.  Instead of covering up my cries, I stand up and turn off the shower.

“C-can you hand me a t-towel, p-please?” I stutter, and I remind myself to breathe.  The soft blue towel appears from around the shower curtain, and I begin drying my skin before wrapping it around my body.

Feeling much calmer than a minute ago, I decide to share some honesty.  “I wish I could wash away the feeling of his hands on me.”  I pull back the curtain and come face to face with Jacoby.  He’s staring at my face with a mix of sadness and sympathy.

“I know, Sweetheart.  I wish you could, too.”  He reaches out, offering his hand to help me from the tub.  When I reach the vanity, I see he put out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt for me to wear.  As if reading my mind, he says, “I thought you’d like something clean to wear.  I can throw your clothes in the wash for you.”

“Thanks, but I’ll do it when I’m finished.  You’ve done enough.  Why don’t you get some sleep?”

“Why, so you can raid my fridge for more beer?” he replies with a smirk.

“I think I’m good on beer for now, Mr. Ryan,” I throw back at him.  “But I should sleep too.  I have to work tomorrow.”

“Get dressed.  We can sort it out once you’re finished.”  He exits the room before I can argue.

I dress quickly and find Jacoby sitting on the edge of his bed.  He doesn’t have a hair dryer so I’m combing my wet tangles with my fingertips when I come to stand awkwardly in his room.

“Um, where’s the washer?” I ask, not wanting to stare at his bed any longer.  There’s an intimateness from standing in the place where he sleeps when I don’t belong in here.

He leads me to the first floor where he has a stacked washer and dryer in a closet off the kitchen.  I start a load with my clothes and used towel, not wanting to leave any work for him to do once I leave.  After my clothes are in, I stop in the kitchen and begin tying off the trash bag where I so gloriously threw up earlier while he was sleeping.

“What are you doing?” he asks, because it’s totally normal for a stranger to take out your trash.

“Uh, I sort of threw up in here earlier,” I answer shyly.

“Here, let me take it to the garbage can,” he offers, but I shake my head.

“No, just point the way.  I don’t need you handling my puke.”

“And I don’t need you handling my trash,” he throws back.  Not having the energy to duke it out longer, I hand over the offensive bag.

“What time do you work tomorrow,” he questions when he returns.

“Ten,” I respond and take a bottle of water he pulled from the fridge and offers to me.

“You sure you’re okay to go in?  Take a sick day.  You probably need to relax.”

“I can’t take a sick day.  I had off Thursday already,” I reply, taking a long pull of the crisp, cool water.  The iciness soothes the rawness of my throat.

He looks at me strangely and crosses his arms over his muscled chest.  Shit, don’t think about his muscles.

“So, you missed class Thursday and Friday, and missed Thursday at work too?  I think we need to chat tomorrow about what else is going on with you.”

“You don’t need to keep tabs on me,” I retort, feeling angry at his implication and suddenly remembering my conversation with Mr. Stephenson yesterday.  “There’s nothing wrong with me, and it’s not your business if and when I miss class or work.”

“Tatum, talk to me.  I want to help you.”

“I don’t want your help,” I spit back.  “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to bed.”

He sighs, scrubbing his tired face with his palms, but he doesn’t argue further.  Instead, he maneuvers past me, leading me to a second bedroom down the hall from the bathroom.  He doesn’t say anything more to me, gestures with a wave of his hands for me to enter the room, and leaves without another word.

I hear him climb the stairs before his bedroom door shuts.  Exhaustion sets in and I lie down, falling asleep before I even have time to take in the room.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jacoby

Bright light filters through my eyelids, and I don’t need the blaring alarm from my phone to tell me morning has finally arrived.  I struggle to hold onto the last remnants of my dream, knowing when I open my eyes I’ll be back dealing with the reality I stumbled upon yesterday.  Back to dealing with the frightened young woman who’s sleeping in the room below me, hopefully finding a much needed reprieve in her dreams as well.  Fortunately, I wasn’t plagued by nightmares; the images of Harper had dissipated once I fell asleep and didn’t return when I went to bed the second time.

I blink against the harsh light streaming in from my window and sigh.  Tatum and I need to have a talk today, either before she works or after.  Yesterday, I let my emotions—and hers—cloud my judgment and get the best of me.  With everything that took place, I can’t think of a single thing I did right besides getting her away from that fucker.  I need her to open up to me.  I have a lot of unanswered questions.  Where are her parents?  Why can’t she go home?  Who was that asshole and where can I find him?  Is she going to report it?  She should report it.  I could lose my job for not reporting it.  But damnit if she wasn’t so terrified yesterday.  I couldn’t find it in me to subject her to that.

Slipping on sweats and a long sleeved Henley, I step into the bathroom to brush my teeth.  Today’s Saturday, and I’m not planning on being in public besides driving Tatum to and from work, so I tousle my hair with my fingers before heading downstairs.

I don’t care how I look to her.  I’m her teacher, not her boyfriend.

The mental reminder makes me feel a bit awkward, and I slow my steps down the stairs.  Tatum isn’t too much younger than myself chronologically, and although her immaturity shines through at times, I can tell her mental age is far more superior than her peers.  I’m not sure if I should be treating her like a student or a friend.

After stopping by the medicine cabinet, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and walk down the hall to the guest room.  Just as I bring my hand up to knock, the door suddenly swings open.

“I was just coming to wake you.”  Seeing her sends a pang to my chest, but why?  Nervousness?  Anxiety?  I can’t put a name to the suddenly heavy feeling in my heart.

“Thanks, but I’m already awake,” she responds, a glimpse of that attitude I know so well shining through, and it makes me smile.

“I brought this for you.  Thought you might be a little hung over this morning,” I tell her, offering the bottle and the pills.

She crosses her arms defiantly.  “I don’t need them.”

Oh good Lord, we’re back to this.  “Tatum, just take the damn pills,” I bark a little harsher than I intended.  But it has the desired effect as she takes the water and medicine from my hands.

“Thanks,” I sigh tiredly.  “What time do you need to leave for work?”

She hops from one foot to the other impatiently, or nervously, I’m not quite sure.  “Um, I work at ten but I need to go by my apartment for scrubs, if that’s okay,” she asks timidly.  Definitely nervousness.