She threw on her floor-length jacket. Wearing nothing but her underwear beneath it, she slipped out of her room, both pillowcases in hand. Next stop was her mother’s bedroom. As much as she hated to do it, she pulled on some ridiculously low-waisted jeans and a billowy top, which her mother had no doubt worn to some concert or another. Bobbi McClain loved loud music and loud men and nights that came back to her in flashes the following morning. Right about now, she’d be stumbling into a seedy motel room with a beautiful bass player or a photographer with a wicked smile, and she’d be having the time of her life.

Riding high.

Then, in a couple of weeks, she’d return home with track marks on her arms and no light in her eyes. She’d sit in the kitchen and stare at the wall for hours. Or she’d lock herself in her bedroom and sob. Even now, the room reeked of stale cigarettes and tears. Jack left as quickly as she’d entered, creeping quietly toward the living room. The squat green house was a ramshackle affair, with creaking doors and peeling paint and two tiny bedrooms that weren’t big enough for her family. On her eleventh birthday, her brothers had surprised her by moving into the attic, so she could have one of the bedrooms to herself. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her, before Raven offered her more.

Jack swallowed, her throat as scratchy as sandpaper. She would not cry. These clothes were only a memento of dark eyelashes and soft hands, and soon she’d be staring into those eyes. Maybe even holding those hands, if she hadn’t ruined everything the last time they’d seen each other.

She entered the living room and knelt in front of the fireplace. Checked the flue. Struck a match. She was just holding the tiny flame up to the logs when she heard a sound at her back. There was a soft gasp, followed by the rustling of clothing.

Jack’s heart sank.

Her mother was home. She must’ve brought some stranger into their house, which she was never supposed to do again. Jack had made sure of that. She’d thought she had, but as the fire sprang to life, she wondered if she’d have to take things further this time.

Her heart hammered as the flames grew, casting pools of light in an otherwise dark room. Two people sprang away from each other on the couch, and Jack’s breath caught in her throat, her hands instinctively pushing the bags of clothing behind her. The figure on the left was familiar. He had auburn curls, just like she did, and his green eyes were filled with shock. Fear. Shame.