Dancing with the Varsity Bad Boy

Chapter 5

Violet's POV

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I watch Jordan as he rummages through my duffle bag, grabbing a pair of sweatpants and my brother's, Zeke's, jersay from high school, the material soft and worn. The jersay is far too big for me, but that's what I need. Comfort.

"These ok?" He asks, holding up the clothing.

"Yeah, thanks," I mutter, and when he's placed them beside me, he grabs a clean pair of boxers and heads into his ensuite to change. I never would have thought I'd be sharing a room with Jordan Mathews, and if someone had told me a week ago that I'd be spending a night in his room, while he takes care of me, I'd have laughed in their face.

I wait, knowing my body far too well to know I won't be able to strip and get changed by myself. I'm too tired to feel embarressed that he'll see me naked, that he'll have to touch me in order to help me, that he has to help me change clothes like an old woman.

"Right, are you rea...dy?" Jordan asks, a frown just beginning to turn his lips down in the corner at seeing me still dressed, and having not even moved. His body on full display as he stands in just a pair of boxer, unashamed. Not that he has anything to be ashamed of, his body is the product of his hard work in the weights room. His broad muscled shoulders tappering down to slim hips, showcasing his six pact. Any other girl would be drooling, I on the other hand grew up with two older brothers who had eight pacts during their senior year of college and would walk around the house topless when they visited home.

That and I'm too tired to deal with the flare of attraction that warms my stomach.

"I need help," I mutter, refusing to make eye contact, that heavy emotion of being a burden sits in my gut. He opens his mouth as though to say something, then closes it again appearing torn between helping and getting someone else.

"Okay then," he says, drawing out the two syllables in O-kay. He doesn't look too comfortable and my lips quirk with a hint of a smile.

"What? Never helped a girl strip before Mathews?" Jordan chuckles, and bites his bottom lip. Why does the ass hat have to look so attractive when he does that? My cheeks warm and I push the attraction, and the embarrassment away. Jordan Mathews wouldn't touch me, especially now he knows who my father is.

"I've helped many girls strip, just never thought I'd be helping you, like this," he says and unbuttons my shirt, his breath hitching when he reveals the navy blue lace bra underneath.

"You never said your dad was Maxwell Beckingham," Jordan says, changing the topic and looking away from my bra clad breasts.

"You never asked. Before tonight you didn't even know my name is Violet so telling you my father is the Maxwell Beckingham would have just made me appear desperate, don't you think?" A shiver skitters up my spine as he gently pushes the shirt off my shoulders and tugs it off my arms, throwing the piece of clothing on the floor by the bed.

"I guess, are you able take your bra off?" I wince at just the idea of contorting my arms like that just to unclip the back of my bra. A whimper leaves my lips as I move, the pain flaring brightly back to life. But I manage to unhook the damned contraption and drop it to the floor. Jordan keeps his gaze firmly on my face, and I appreaciate it. He could oggle me, get a kick out of undressing me, but he doesn't. He's being nothing but respectful which I'm surprised to say surprises me.

I guess he's not as bad as I though he was. He helps me put Zeke's jersay on, the familiar worn fabric soft against my skin.

"How do you want to get your jean off?" He asks, again, not making eye contact, a slight blush reddening the tops of his ears.

"Zeke normally gets me to hug him while he pushes them down, then gets me to stand back up the same way as he pulls the sweatpants up," I shrug and Jordan nods to himself.

"So, how long have you had the errr...." he trails off, obvisiouly uncomfortable with the line of questioning.

"How long I've had Rhumatoid Arthritis and Fibromyalgia you mean?" a bone deep waryness seeps into me, weighing everything down.

"I became ill during the summer holidays when I was nine, but I didn't get a diagnosis until I was eleven. The fibromyalgia came about when I was sixteen, but again it took the doctors until my senior year of high school to diagnosis me. Dad fought tooth and nail for me to recieve treatment as fast as possible, but the damage had been done in those early years. The arthritis spread so fast," more tears trail down my cheeks and I struggle not to sob.

"That must have been hard for you," Jordan says, pity in his voice as he wraps my arms around his neck before helping me stand.

"It's been harder for my dad and brother's. They had to watch as I suffered, as it stripped me of everything that made me who I was. Everyone thinks it's hardest on the person experiencing the pain, but I think it's harder for their loved ones. They have to watch me fight a war everyday and can't do much to help," the words come out between gritted teeth, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of Jordan's shoulders as he unbuttons my jeans and hooks his fingers through them and my panties before pushing them down.

He gently lowers me back to sit on the bed before lifting each foot into the leg of the sweatpants and pulling them up. He doesn't say anything, although he does stiffen when his fingers brust against my hips. Once the sweatpants are on, he helps me shuffle to the bathroom, and back to the bed when I ask him to.

It's only when I'm safely under the comforter of his large double bed that he gathers up my dirty clothes and puts them in a hamper and pulls out the sofa bed, grabbing a pillow and blanket from his cloest.

"Is it why we don't see you at parties then, these conditions?" He asks, flicking off the main light and turning on a lamp that stands next to his temporary bed.

"Well, I can't drink on the meds I'm on, so what's the point? That and I'm too focused on graduating," I sigh, pulling the duffle bag closer to me from it's spot at the foot of the bed and pulling out the fingerless compression gloves, wrist and knee supports and my tens machine I drop the bag beside the bed and get to work trying to minimize the pain that radiates warmth like hot coils. Jordan watches me, taking in everything I do as though trying to understand why I'm doing it.

It's only when I've hooked myself up to the tens machine, the four sticky pads traveling along my spine, and turn it on the highest I can tolerate that I begin to feel the first stirrings of relief. Exhaustion pulls at me, but the pain hasn't let its death grip on my joints go yet. The throbbing a heartbeat that radiates destruction like sonic booms of sound.

"You should try and get some sleep," Jordan mutters, flicking the lamp off and plunging us both into darkness,

"Mathews?" my voice is quiet, but the fact he shifts on his sofa bed is enough for me to know he heard me.

"Violet," the sound of my name is jarring when all I've heard him call me is pet names.

"Thank you, maybe your not quite the asshole I thought you were," he chuckles in response, and I snuggle further until the soft comforter, his cologne familiar, woodsy with a hint of spice, and I feel safe. Here in a strangers bed, I feel safe.