Break So Soft: Break So Soft Duet

by Black, Stasia

  Sam, Jackson’s driver, is nowhere in sight. “I thought you said you didn’t drive.”

  “Sam’s been giving me lessons. Only a few traffic cones were sacrificed in the endeavor.” He smiles down at me.

  I huff out a laugh which seems louder than normal in the quiet morning. Jackson walks around the car and opens my door. He takes my arm before I can sit and pulls me to him.

  “You look beautiful this morning.”

  The low, intense quality of his voice, the feel of his muscled chest against me, and just… him… being in his proximity. I meet his eyes and the zing hits.

  God, the day together just started. How can I already be feeling so much? The butterflies riot in my stomach and I swallow.

  I’m wearing dark maroon leggings and an oversized blue sweater, figuring I should go for a comfortable, friendly vibe. But the way he’s looking at me, you’d think I was prancing around in the sheerest lingerie.

  “Hi.” That’s the only word I manage to find in the moment. I’ve had this man on his knees, but he can still just fucking overwhelm me. How is that fair?

  The dimple appears. “Hi.” He drops down and kisses my nose. Then he grabs my duffel off my shoulder and goes to put it in the trunk.

  Wow. I sit inside. I can’t believe I’m a little punch-drunk off something as simple as a kiss on the nose. But then I’m distracted by looking at my surroundings, because damn, this is some car.

  The leather seat forms itself to my body and I can’t help but let out an audible sigh as I sink into it and close my eyes. I couldn’t sleep much last night. I was nervous about the trip, yes, but it was also my visit with Charlie that kept me up.

  He was healthy enough from all outward appearances. I mean, it seems like he’s eating and there aren’t any obvious signs of neglect or anything. All the nice feelings from moments ago with Jackson evaporate.

  I prop my elbow on the door and rub my temple. Because as far as everything else… I just can’t tell. He flipped out with excitement when he saw me but started getting progressively more out of sorts and whiny as our hour and a half together came to a close.

  It’s frustrating as fuck because I’m not allowed to ask about what it’s like at his dad’s since the damn supervisor was there standing over us and recording everything I say. Which is so fucking stupid, because it’s what parents are supposed to do. They help their children transition during difficult periods in life.

  How the hell is Charlie supposed to understand what’s going on when the parent he’s loved and known ever since he was born can’t even fully explain why she’s allowed only a paltry two hours with him a week? Who knows what the hell David or his psycho wife is telling him the rest of the time? There’s no supervisor watching their interactions with Charlie.

  I blow out a long hiss of air and try to settle my suddenly raging emotions. Just a little longer. A few weeks and I’ll have my baby back. As long as Gentry doesn’t fuck things up.

  I let my forehead drop hard against the window. That emotional roller coaster? Yep, that’s pretty much every minute of my life these days. Up and down and upside down. I jump only slightly when Jackson’s door opens and he slides into his seat. “Ready?”

  “Totally.” I swallow hard but don’t turn his way. I can’t quite put on a cheerful façade yet. The next second, I feel the pressure of Jackson’s warm hand on my forearm.

  “How was your time with your son last night?”

  Damn him and his intuitive nature. I can’t help the way my body stiffens. Jackson pulls his hand back like a pot has just burned him.

  “I’m sorry,” he hurries to say. “It’s not my place and if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fi—”

  “No,” I turn and face him. “It’s not that.” Shit. “It’s just—” I look out the front windshield at the street lined with apartment buildings and the gas station that’s seen better years. Then I let out a long sigh. “I really miss Charlie. I hate not knowing if he’s doing okay. Like, really okay. He’s always upset when it’s time for me to leave.”

  There. At least I found something true to say. I doubt there’s a way to come out of this with my integrity intact, but hell if I can’t be as honest as I can in the meantime.

  The fuck of it is, I want to tell Jackson everything. For the first time since David, I think I’ve found a man I actually trust. That moment of intimacy outside the car? I want more of that, all the time.

  Jackson reaches out again, just long enough to grab my hand and squeeze it before turning on the car. “You have some of the best lawyers in the business.” His clear blue eyes lock on mine. Usually they’re so dark I can barely make out the color of his eyes, but in the morning sunlight, the irises look like the deep blue of the Mediterranean Sea.

  Why does he have to look at me like that? God, when all is said and done, we still barely know each other. A few intense fucks and a scattering of days together. But he looks at me like… like he sees me down to my bones and then even deeper than that.

  He takes my hand again, like he can’t keep himself from going two minutes without touching me. He brings it to his mouth and brushes his lips across my knuckles, back and forth, his breath warming my skin before he finally presses his mouth down in a firm kiss.

  Christ. This man. Even a kiss on my hand sends shivers skittering up and down my spine. Not to mention the warmth that immediately rekindles in my lower belly.

  It would be wrong to jump him in his fancy car on the curb right in front of my apartment. Wouldn’t it? I lick my lips.

  When he leans over into my space, I think he’s having exactly the same idea and the spark between my legs bursts into full flame. Only to realize that he’s just grabbed my seatbelt and is buckling me in. He pulls back just as I was about to reach out and grab his face for a quick kiss.

  I drop my hands and let a growl of frustration. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that.”

  He laughs full out as he puts the car in gear. “I have no doubt.” He flashes me a grin as we pull out onto the street.

  It’s a sunny morning as we turn onto the 101 heading south. Even early on a Saturday there’s plenty of traffic. That’s Silicon Valley for you. Few people slow down long enough to take a breath, much less a day off. And when they do, it’s only to play as hard as they work.

  Jackson glances my way. “How is—”

  “Let’s just listen to music for the drive,” I cut him off. I don’t know what he was going to ask. How is my day going? More about my son? Whether he’s aiming for polite car chatter or more meaningful dialogue, I’m not in the mood.

  “And coffee,” I add as I reach for the dials on his radio. “Please tell me we’re getting coffee somewhere along the way.”

  My hand pauses in front of the dash, where I would normally expect dials and buttons. But fuck, rich people. There’s a freaking little flatscreen instead. Because of course.

  A little logo in the upper right announces it’s satellite radio. Little round images of buttons light up at my touch that I presume are presets. I press number one and screaming metal music rips through the air, assaulting us from all sides at earsplitting volume.

  The car jerks slightly in the lane and I swat at the screen trying to make it stop. “Oh my God!” I yell, finally giving up and slamming my hands over my ears.

  Jackson rolls his finger in a counterclockwise motion on a circle in the bottom lefthand corner of the screen and the volume goes down. I’m still hesitant when I pull one hand away from my ear, like it’s a trick and the eardrum-bursting noise is liable to come back any second. But no, it’s all clear.

  “Who has hardcore metal as their number one car preset?” I swat Jackson on the shoulder.

  He shrugs, his face neutral. “It’s good stress relief after a hard day at work.”

  I can only stare at him like he’s crazy. “Are you fucking kidding me? That music makes me want to go stab somebody, not feel calm.”

  He laughs at this.

  “
All right, crazy.” I give him the side-eye. “Let’s see what’s behind door number two.” I push the little number two preset and brace myself. At first I can barely hear anything, he’s set the volume dial so low. Cautiously, I spin the digital dial so it’s loud enough for me to hear the music.

  Alanis Morissette crooning about irony fills the car. Now I’m the one laughing when I look over at him.

  “Seriously? You go from metal to nineties pop music?”

  One edge of his mouth quirks up but I don’t miss the slightest bit of redness on the back of his neck. “What? I’m a child of the nineties.”

  Oh. Right. He’s thirty-two. Ten years older than me. I consider him, really looking at the lines of his face. There’s nothing noticeable that announces his age. But he definitely looks like a man and not a boy.

  Even dressed in more casual clothes like he is today, a dark gray Henley shirt that shapes the outline of his muscled shoulders without being too tight and a pair of denim jeans that look soft and worn… My mouth waters a little, I shit you not.

  Let’s just say, if he walked across my college campus, no one would mistake him for a student. My eyes linger longer than necessary on the jeans. Damn, this man can wear the fuck out of a pair of jeans. I get a little lost just watching the way his strong sloping thigh shifts as he moves between the gas and brake pedal.

  At least until I notice him watching me watching him. Ahem. I avert my eyes.

  The Alanis song switches to one I vaguely recognize but can’t recall the band or song name. I scrunch my face as I listen to the lyrics. “What is he saying? She’s his wonder all?”

  “His wonder wall,” Jackson corrects.

  “What’s a wonder wall?”

  “Who knows? The band’s British.” He says that like it explains it all.

  I bark out a short laugh and then press number three. It’s NPR. Okay. A bit boring but impressive. Four. Howard Stern. Interesting.

  Number five. Acoustic strumming guitar and a man with a ragged voice singing an old folk song. My gaze shoots back to Jackson. It sounds a little bit like the Civil Wars except I get the feeling this is actual original folk, the kind of stuff the Civil Wars took their inspiration from.

  “You’ve got eclectic tastes, my friend.”

  “Different music for different moods.”

  I arch an eyebrow at him. “And what mood are you in today?”

  He keeps his eyes on the road. “Number eight.”

  I press eight. It’s downtempo deep-house music. Slow but still with a thudding bass that I can feel underneath my seat, resonating… well, you can guess where.

  I lick my lips. Eventually a woman starts singing and her deep voice caresses the melody. It’s sultry. Sensuous. The excellent sound system in the car makes the music a full-body experience. I kick off my flats and draw my legs up onto the seat. My thighs shift as the singer hits an especially low note that collides with the bass, sending an extra rumble through the speaker underneath my seat.

  I look over at Jackson just in time to see him glance away from me, back to the road. The heat blooming inside me spikes. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

  “You know what? Forget the coffee.” I fumble with the buttons on the right side of my seat until I find the one that reclines the chair.

  Then I close my eyes and settle into the uber-comfortable seat. “I think I’m just going to rest a little more until we get there.”

  Jackson doesn’t say a thing and I’m tempted, so tempted, to sneak another glance at him. Is he looking at me again? Is the music making him feel the same way I feel right now? Or does it just seem like music to chill out to for him?

  Then again, this is the guy who destresses to screaming metal bands.

  But I don’t even so much as peek at him. Self-control wins the day. Or it would if I were actually sleepy and that damn music weren’t making my pussy throb crazily.

  I press the back of my head against the seat with force enough it makes my neck strain. God. Well. Jackson said it only takes forty-five minutes to get there. So that means, what? Only another half hour of this torture.

  Oh goody.

  * * *

  “All right, just put your thumb there and move it gently in a circle,” Jackson’s voice is low in my ear, his arms wrapped around me from behind.

  I bite my lip and concentrate as I do what he says.

  “That’s right. Right there. Perfect.”

  My heart pumps a mile a minute at his pleased praise.

  “Not too hard,” he says sharply.

  “Shit.” I struggle to readjust.

  The quadcopter buzzing over our heads suddenly takes a sharp nosedive.

  “Shit shit shit!” I frantically try to shove the controller back into Jackson’s hands but he won’t take it.

  “Jackson!”

  “It’s fine,” he says at the same time.

  My eyes shoot back to the quadcopter, cringing as I wait for it to crash into the small meadow beside the sloping hill of the vineyard.

  But the hover copter just sits there, well… hovering. Its little quadcopter blades whir and it has righted itself about five feet from the ground, far from catastrophe.

  I look down at the controller in my hand. None of my fingers are touching any buttons. “It’s just doing that… by itself?”

  I look over my shoulder at Jackson and he’s smiling. I swear, when I first got to know him I didn’t think smiling was in his repertoire. But now he does it all the time.

  At least around you.

  The thought warms my chest. Stupid chest. Maybe my first impression was wrong. Maybe he’s the smiley-est damn dude who ever lived and he was just having an off couple weeks when I met him. I was in the company of his worst enemy at the time, so it’s certainly possible. But no, even when I came to visit him at his office the first time, on his turf, he was the same way. At least, initially.

  I force my focus back to the quadcopter. It’s still just hovering there. And Jackson keeps grinning, obviously waiting for me to ask the question.

  I roll my eyes at his obvious baiting. “So how is it doing it?

  “It’s our foolproof design. So amateurs don’t ruin their expensive equipment while they’re learning. I put it on safe mode so whenever it comes within three feet of the ground, it automatically switches to upright hover.”

  I narrow my eyes. “All right, you definitely just referred to me as an amateur, but I think you also called me a fool.”

  He chuckles and his chest is so close to my back, I can feel the rumble of it. “See, that’s what I love about you. Anyone else would be too impressed by me and my little gadget to focus on anything I said.”

  Well I’m sure as hell laser-focused in on his words now. That’s what I love about you?

  Holy shit. No, stop freaking out. It’s just a saying. An expression. Because he can’t— I mean we’ve only known each other for like, well, it’s been several months, but we weren’t talking for most of those and, I mean, it’s not like that—

  “Here, put your hands on top of mine and try to feel how I’m moving.” Jackson takes the controller from me and I wish there was a way for me to shake my hands out without him seeing. Fuck.

  “I’ll just watch,” I try to say but Jackson is already holding the controller one-handed and reaching for my retreating arm. He places my hand, arranging my fingers to cover his on the small joystick. He reaches for my other arm so I lift my other hand and place it on his.

  Alright God, you big beautiful dame up in the sky, please don’t let him feel how much I’m trembling.

  Jackson pushes the left joystick forward. The quadcopter rises straight up into the air. With his forefinger, he clicks a button and the small screen in the middle of the controller lights up. A bird’s-eye view of where we’re standing comes into focus on the screen. I see the tops of our heads growing smaller and smaller as the drone ascends.

  I can’t help letting out a little gasp. Of course I know
that CubeThink makes copters equipped with cameras, but I didn’t think the one Jackson was letting me practice with would come with such advanced equipment. The image we’re seeing is crisp and professional. The vineyards are spread out on beautiful sun-soaked hills and it looks movie quality.

  “Let’s bring her back down a bit,” Jackson says and I swear he pulls me even closer against his body. I split my time between watching the dark speck in the sky and looking down at the monitor. The footage is so smooth, not jerky at all.

  I look back into the sky. The whirring object comes closer into view, but instead of heading toward us, Jackson uses the second joystick to veer to the right, skimming the drone right over the top of the plantings in the closest vineyard.

  I look down at the screen and it’s so beautiful it makes my chest hurt. Greenery bursts from the top of each staked vine. The drone flies straight down the row, slowly lifting in elevation as it goes, panning out to see the vineyard as a whole. It’s magnificent to watch.

  Jackson’s handle of the controls is perfect, even though it’s got to be awkward reaching around me like this. The image doesn’t jolt but is smooth and continuous as the copter glides back up into the sky. Yet again, the squares of each vineyard and the rolling hills of the larger valley come into view.

  “All right, color me considerably impressed.” The thing is, I’m not even being sarcastic. He’s built a truly amazing machine.

  I feel his shrug. I turn my head toward him. “Oh, come on. I didn’t think you were one for false modesty.”

  His mouth is a straight line, though. “It could be improved,” is all he says as he brings the quadcopter back in again.

  His words surprise me. Then again, I suppose they shouldn’t. I haven’t gotten to see much of this perfectionist side to Jackson before the glimpses throughout this past week as I’ve begun working directly for him. He’s exacting, constantly pushing himself and his team for better and better. But unlike a lot of people with his ambition and personality bent, he’s not an asshole about it.