Charlie walked in as the waitress walked out. When the door closed behind her, Tom and Miles resumed their bickering. It was a pointless battle of quips and, judging by Jason's intent study of the pattern of cream as it mixed with his coffee, it had been going on for a while. She stared at him across the room and tried to summon her anger. He'd betrayed them. He'd brought his father and a team of militia men into the tower and planned to kill them all. He was evil. Bad. Unredeemable. The only problem was she knew it wasn't true.
She'd left him to die. Miles had ordered the doors closed and, while she'd protested briefly, she hadn't run out to help him. If she had Miles would have left the door open or would have broken it back down to save her. She could have done more. Could have changed the entire event. Could have changed everything that had happened that day and since.
Jason had been the last sweet man she'd met. She hadn't appreciated that at the time. He never pushed her boundaries, never pushed her into a wall and demanded more. During the two weeks he spent in the hospital in Atlanta his hands never strayed below her neck. When the nurses interrupted their kisses he'd blush and smile. She'd had things to blush about, but she never did. She was just annoyed by the interruption. It was her hands that wandered down his collarbone and across the hills of his arms. Her hands that had traced his abs and rested on his chest, feeling his heartbeat counting the days before he'd finally woken up.
She'd snuggled in next to him in the hospital bed one day after a late night up waiting for Miles and fallen asleep with her head on his chest and his hand in her hair. They'd still been in that position when she awoken hours later. He'd kissed her forehead and asked if she'd had a good nap. She'd wanted him to roll over on top of her and kiss her breath away. The next day he'd been discharged. Once free from intrusions from the nurses and left to wander the city unsupervised, he started holding her hand as they crossed the street. Afterward he'd hang on to it, stroking her knuckles with his thumb as they walked. He kissed her often, but not long, not hard, not with demand. He'd never pushed far enough for her to stop him.
The others since had seen her lines as a maze to work their way around. There had been taunts to not be a prude, men who'd abruptly walked away when she wasn't giving away what they thought they were due. Then there came the one had recognized her desire to escape reality. They'd gotten drunk together, sucking down shots until she was barely aware of what was happening and in no shape to stop it. After that she'd cared less, wanted to escape more, took from them as much as was taken from her.
Jason had tried to give. He cared what she wanted. Dumbass. No one cared. She considered shoving him against the wall and showing him how adults kissed, with teeth and pulled hair and anger. He'd pulled her hair once in front of the door to the hotel room she shared with her mother, gently tipping back her head so he could run kisses along her neck and graze his teeth along her earlobe. She'd moaned and pressed into him. He'd looked into her eyes, taken a deep breath, and then kissed her on the cheek instead as if there would be other chances, a better time. There never had been.
That bastard had settled for less. He'd drawn stupid, meaningless lines of acceptable behavior. Lines she would have let him cross. Lines that men who meant nothing, who thought nothing of her, had run through like floss. It would have been different if he'd been more of a man. If he'd cared enough, wanted her more. It could have all been different.