My nostrils flared. A fresh odor — a metallic base note beneath the potpourri of spicy incense and floral and woodsy candles — threw me into ninja mode. Blood.I scanned the store. Jett loitered inside the register area. He had removed his black hoodie. My gaze slid from the iconic tongue on his rock tee shirt, to his pale forearm, to the blood-soaked bandage on the inside of his left wrist. The smoothie churned to acid in my stomach.Guilt clawed my throat. I had driven him to this with my stupid plan to save the store. I should have stuck to what I knew: raising disaster relief funds for people on the other side of the country and organizing holiday gift drives for foster teens I would never meet. I sucked at helping people I knew.Left, right, left, right. Avoiding eye contact, I skirted the cash register and headed for the bathroom to wash my hands. Something made me stop and turn. My gaze collided with Jett's. A heartbeat passed, then two. His eyes searched mine, calculating.Realization dawned on me like an unflinching light.
