by Lizzie Fox
“You have a really hard time sitting still, don’t you?” She said, with a sly grin.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I replied innocently, but she snickered. “No, seriously this is part of the reason I do the music… thing. Sometimes I get a bit hyper and it’s hard to contain.” Afterwards I nearly always crash and mope around for days, but I didn’t want to go there yet. I felt better as long as I kept up with the meds. “After you saw me at the Lagoona that time, two weeks later I stage dove into the audience and dislocated my shoulder.”
She winced. “Ouch. Why did you do that?”
I shrugged. “I get a little into… things. A little too much sometimes.”
“You’re a wild child,” she said, with an impish grin, and it slowly slid away when she spoke next. “I used to know someone like that.”
Biting my lip, I decided to take a dare. “Your husband?”
Her gaze snapped to me, surprised. “Yeah… how did you…?”
“Just a guess. You said, ‘used to know’ and well, I just took a stab in the dark…” I said carefully. “I’m sorry, is that overstepping or something?”
“No…” She glanced down at her plate and appeared to be contemplating something.
“You can talk about him. I won’t be like, offended or threatened. He was important to you, that much is clear,” I said carefully. I knew I was treading on dangerous ground.
She twirled a thin, silver metal band on her right ring finger, looking introspective. I noticed she always wore it, and since it wasn’t anything really to look at, I assumed it was something sentimental. Like, perhaps a cheap wedding band, the only thing an eighteen-year-old could have afforded at the time? My guess, anyhow.
“My ex wouldn’t let me talk about him. So I just… never did.”
“That’s… bullshit,” I said, with a stern glare. “Was he threatened or something? By someone no longer here?”
She snorted derisively. “I think he was, actually. He knew I’d never love him the way I loved Blake.”
“That was his name? Blake?” I asked.
“Yeah. Blake Lightman.” A small smile spread over her lips for just a brief moment, as she twirled the ring absentmindedly. Definitely a wedding ring.
“You must have really cared about him.” I forced a gentle smile. I’d be lying if I didn’t feel just a bit jealous. That of course was fucking ridiculous, I had no grounds to be jealous. Jessie wasn’t mine, and even if she was I had no business being jealous of a guy that wasn’t here—even though her feelings for him still were apparent. She still wore his ring, for god’s sake.
“I did,” she said quietly. “Do. But…”
“But?” I prompted.
“Everyone tells me I need to get over it.” Her lips pressed together in some sort of tortured frown.
“Why?” I asked.
She looked at me with surprise. Her eyes narrowed, as if trying to gauge me—somehow. “You don’t think I should be over him?”
I sighed resolutely. “Jessie, I won’t even begin to tell you how to feel about that. If you should or shouldn’t get over him. How can you? He was a part of you for—what? Two years?” She nodded in affirmation. “Obviously it was an impactful two years. Should you get over him? No, I don’t think you should, for what it’s worth. Love shouldn’t ever be ‘gotten over’ or pushed aside. But perhaps, you just need to find another way to remember him, in a way that isn’t preventing you from moving on with your life.”
Jessie flinched. I bit my lip sheepishly. Obviously I overstepped, so I added, “If that is in fact, what you need to be doing. That’s up for you to decide. Not me, not your ex. Not your friends. You.”
I braced myself for a scolding or—something as Jessie sat there, thoughtfully contemplating. I had a knack for sticking my feet in my mouth at times. So I heard. Finally, she turned to me and said the most surprising thing.
“Thank you.”
“Th—what?” I said uncertainly.
“Thank you. You are the first person who has never told me to get over it. Even a therapist I saw years ago kept pushing me towards that. ‘Move on, Jessie.’ ‘He wouldn’t want you to be sad.’ Pffft.” She laughed shortly and rolled her eyes. Setting her plate on the cushion next to her, she shifted until she faced me entirely. “I didn’t realize how badly I just needed someone to say that.”
“Say—what? That you don’t need to get over him?” I cocked a brow.
“Yeah. Like everyone wants me to keep pushing him aside. I can’t do that.”
“You shouldn’t have to.” I sighed. “Look, I have never dealt with that type of loss. So maybe I’m just full of bullshit. My father was an ass, my mother is nothing to write home about… my sister is probably the closest it comes to feeling a loss. But that’s a different sort of loss, I think.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Either way…” she bobbed her head slowly, giving me an appreciative smile. “Thank you for not making me feel stupid about it.”
Flashing a wry grin, I replied, “You’re welcome.” I didn’t know what else to say.
We didn’t talk any more about Blake, and it wasn’t lost on me how she rarely seemed to mention her ex—the guy she was married to for ten years. One day I’d find out what that was about, but I was sure I already knew. Because it’s probably something I would do. After Blake, she was numb. Probably searching for a place to belong, having the proverbial rug pulled out from under her like that and having her entire life change in an instant. She didn’t find it with her ex… but that didn’t mean she would find it with me.
But long after the pizza was gone, after chatting casually for the next couple of hours about my music, the band, her books and possible plans she might have for future ones, her overall demeanor was much more relaxed. Blake came up quickly a couple of times, but she promptly steered the conversation away. This time though she didn’t seem to have a guilty or sad, faraway look on her face when she spoke. And perhaps that was the first time—or maybe not—she tried to heal.
I didn’t know. I didn’t know if it was something I said, or if she just somehow had an epiphany, but something definitely changed. That same, flirty, starry-eyed look in her jeweled eyes returned; the same look I became infatuated with that night I ran into her at the Lagoona. And, while nothing else went further, when she yawned, and finally said good-night, and left for her bedroom for the night I sort of felt like a breakthrough was made.
What that breakthrough entailed, I didn’t know. But, if I was patient enough I’d find out. Hopefully.
12
Jessalie
After having a pleasant dinner with Seth, and just talking to him for hours, I finally made myself go to bed, not wanting to make any hasty decisions. But, I didn’t sleep. At all. I didn’t want to be sleeping. I wanted to stare into those hazel eyes or rub my thumbs along his lips or discover what could make him smile. That damn smile was electric, and every time I saw it I felt like it was chipping away and warming the cold edges of my frozen heart.
He had pretty much all but confessed he was interested in me. I couldn’t lie for a second and pretend I didn’t feel the same, even despite my apprehension of finally moving on. Still, I was petrified. He seemed so with it now, but I knew from experience he could be a ticking time bomb and at any moment, he could explode. Despite how he said he was pretty well in control.
I’d be damned if I almost didn’t care. For a glimpse of that smile or being able to trace my damned fingers along all the edges of his ink and find out just what he was hiding and where I would almost be willing to put up with anything.
Seth wasn’t someone I’d call cocky or conceited. Quite the opposite, he was bold, yet humble and sweet, sensitive and vulnerable yet somehow full of strength, and not at all the “bad boy” rocker tattoos, leather jacket, and motorbike conveyed. There was a mischief in his eyes as we talked, and I noticed him eyeing my body, or subtly sizing me up often. I’ll be damned if I wasn’t becoming addicted to that. It was
potent, like a strong alcohol that warmed all of your flesh right to the toes and the tips of the fingers and made the world spin.
I wanted so badly to be held by him and feel his lips on mine—and maybe bite on that piercing. It was so sexy the way he always messed with it, either licking or biting on it absentmindedly.
But still, I held back.
For the better part the night, I tossed, turned, stared at the ceiling before finally giving up and getting on the computer. I tried to write but when that didn’t work well, as it totally hadn’t lately, I started skimming through all my book files. Particularly the last book of the series, where the main male love interest—the one I patterned off of Blake—died a rather sad, and depressing death. The one that Seth’s friend, Shane, had commented was so sad. And, it was.
Samantha Lawrence and Lucas Green started out with a whirlwind romance, battling bullies, car accidents, families who didn’t approve, all to come out golden in the end. Until the very last book, where Lucas died as a result of a murder. He’d been at work, and it was the result of a disgruntled employee; a spurned woman who never got over the fact that he never wanted her. Obsessive, and crazy.
Because that’s how it felt to me; losing Blake. Or maybe that’s how I needed it to feel; that he was murdered, instead of him taking his own life. Being murdered still made you feel helpless, distraught, and tormented…but there was nothing you could do. Except find a person to blame. It was just the wrong place, wrong time. Samantha couldn’t have stopped Lucas from going to work. He’d done it so many times before; why would that day be any different?
Our future was cut short. A dozen broken promises seared my soul daily, and a dozen different reminders how I failed, and how I was always filled with self-loathing, what-ifs, and memories of moments that never happened. Our baby’s first birthday. That photo everyone always seemed to get with baby sleeping on Dad’s chest. Buying our first house. Maybe renewing our vows in a pretty ceremony; something he had wanted to do when we had the money. Things that never happened, obviously. Moments that were robbed from me.
When I felt like this—lost, and betrayed and missing him—I always fell asleep with his smile, his eyes on my mind. That was the only way I could deal is if I pictured him, still alive and well. Inside my heart, and my mind, he was. They were the last thing I’d think about before entering the dark oblivion of sleep. My dreams were the only place he existed anymore because when I woke up? He was gone. Again. Every morning and every day I relived losing him, again and again.
I figured in the morning, like every morning, I’d dream of those damned blue eyes I missed so much—blue like the sky, or his smile that could light up an entire room.
So I was shocked when instead of blue eyes invading my vision like normal, a sexy smirk and eyes the color of dark honey invaded my first morning thoughts. I woke up with a start, and immediately started shaking. It wasn’t cold in here, but I clutched the blankets around me as I shivered, feeling both confused and betrayed.
I never dreamed of Adam; not his pale blue eyes or his prim smile. Not once.
Now, after two weeks of knowing Seth Archer, I found myself thinking…of him. Of only. Him.
All right so I spent the better part of a few months pining after the honey-eyed hottie that caught my eye. And not Blake. I could try to push him aside all I wanted to. I could pretend I wasn’t into him, that my body didn’t thrum with need anytime he was near, or my heart didn’t race when he dared to touch me, or how breathless I felt anytime he even looked at me.
Whether I wanted to admit it or not, Seth Archer had my heart from that moment he first stepped on that stage, and casted that sultry gaze towards me. And I could do one of two things: run, and let the “what-if’s” torture me… or run to him, and possibly lose my heart.
Regardless…my heart was lost anyway.
Now, all I had to do was tell him.
13
Seth
I was leaning over the kitchen counter, groggily waiting those endless minutes for the coffeemaker to finish brewing so I could finally be somewhat functional. I didn’t sleep a wink last night, and refused to take a sleeping pill to make me crash. You know… just in case Jessalie accidentally stumbled into my room, tripped, and fell into my bed.
It could happen…
…or not.
“Seth?”
My head snapped up. Did I really just hear her throaty, sleepy voice behind me? At 8:21 AM in the morning? Gazing over my shoulder I realized yes, she was here, looking beautiful and adorably unkempt in a pair of gray sweats and a baggy sweatshirt where the sleeves were long and covered her hands; hair was tousled down her back. “Sorry. Spacing out. What are you doing up so early?” I asked, still looking over my shoulder, afraid to turn around so she didn’t see the “tent” I was pitching. Really regretting these pants right now…although I’m thankful I just remembered to put some on.
She shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep well. Thought I’d do some writing, and when that didn’t work and I smelled coffee I thought you were awake.” Her sleepy face spread into a slight smile. “Guess I was right.”
“You were. Obviously,” I said, scoffing at my own idiotic statement. Of course she could see you there, dumbass.
“Question is,” she moved to lean back against the counter next to me, and I took a slight step forward, hoping to disguise my raging hard-on with…well I don’t know what I hoped, really, “why are you up?”
“I don’t sleep well most of the time,” I replied bluntly. “Too much mess going on up here.” I gestured a wave around my face, with a slight sneer.
She chuckled lightly. “Ah, that’s not quite what I meant.” Her gaze tracked downward under my waist, and she smirked.
I slapped my hands over my face. “Oh hell…”
“Calm down, I’m just messing with you.” She nudged me with her elbow, before she opened the cupboard, pulled out two clear glass mugs, and set them down in front of us. “I have been married before. I remember the morning wood situation, I promise.”
Yeah, but this isn’t just morning wood. I’ve had this perpetually for the past few hours. Days, if I’m being honest…
“Right,” I just said, feeling my face heat with embarrassment. I groaned, covering my face with my palms and pretended to whine. It only got worse when she brushed up against me, reached for the coffeepot, her hand slipping across my arm, and her hip grazing my stomach. I pulled my hands away, surprised at the sultry look she was sporting…or was that sleepy?
And where did that come from?
“Um…what are you doing?” I arched a brow suspiciously.
She shook her head, chuckling, shooting me a look of are you kidding me? “Uh, coffee? Thought you wanted some?”
“Coffee. Right.” She poured two mugs and thrusted one towards me. “You remembered.”
“I did. Or I’m just incredibly lazy,” she said with a snicker, and it was my turn to nudge her.
“Or there’s that,” I replied, holding the mug between my hands and letting it warm me. I’d rather be warmed by other things, that was not an option now. Maybe soon, judging by the sudden, surprising shift in her demeanor. “So, you seem a lot more… uh…how do I put it…?”
“Like I’m not ignoring you?” She supplied, and I chuckled.
“Yeah, that.”
“Well…because I’m not. I never really was on purpose I was just… nervous, you know?” she said thoughtfully, after a sip of her own coffee.
“Yeah, I know,” I replied.
Jessie seemed to be looking intently into her mug, like somehow the liquid would have all the right answers. “What are you doing today?”
“Band practice. We have a gig on Saturday in Menomonie,” I said.
“Is that unusual?”
“No,” I shook my head. “Not lately. For the past four months or so we’ve been lined up every weekend without fail. So we usually practice two to three times a week when we have to perform on the weekends,” I said. �
��No big deal, something to do. Why? Did you have something in mind?”
She shrugged nonchalantly. “Nothing particular. But…”
“But?” I asked, waiting for her to elaborate.
“But… if you wanted to do something together, I’d like it,” she replied, her voice low and husky, so quiet I almost thought I dreamed it up. Until she leaned over my arms, and placed a soft kiss just along my jawline.
Grinning smugly, she trailed her fingers over the lines of one of my many tattoos on my arm, before turning on her heels and starting off upstairs. “I’ll see you when you get back from practice.”
Stunned, I gently touched my jaw where she kissed and left tiny explosions in its wake, watching her saunter up the stairs with curious intent. She paused on the landing to throw a smile over her shoulder, before she finished up the stairs, and I heard a bedroom door close.
Well…shit. Where the hell did that come from?
Not that I was going to protest. Not at all, not one bit.
Smugly, I smirked to myself, still touching my jaw gingerly, still feeling the softness of her lips as they brushed over my skin. This was going to be all I was going to think about until practice was over tonight.
Our band practiced in a building that once held a small, single-screen theater. Once it played cheap, dollar movies, but it’d been empty for five years, more or less. Theater groups, music groups, any group that made a lot of noise would rent it out for their purposes because it was relatively soundproof or at least, away from homes.
Normally the guys brought their spouses with them, and today I was relieved that it was too early in the day for that, so it was just us: Quin Greenway, the drummer, Anthony the bassist of course and my former roommate, and Ian Mitchell, the lead guitarist and keyboardist. Anthony also dabbled in keyboards, and I was the second guitar, and Ian was the backup vocalist, though all the guys sang somewhat. I was relieved it was just us, because week after week seeing everyone attached, and me alone, it dragged on my mood. It made it hard to keep upbeat and not fall into that pit of despair I was so good at doing. By now, the guys were used to this.
