by L. B. Dunbar
I know his type. He’s all gnarly and cool, dude and what’s up. Is that what she wants? Perhaps I’m not her type. The brainiac literature lover wasn’t much of a stud back in the day, not until I started working out and boxing. I’d never been a fighter, and my father was quick to remind me how much of a wimp he thought I was. Whenever I didn’t play in all the sports he signed me up for, it was always the fault of a coach. They didn’t see my potential, but even my father didn’t believe I had athletic talent. In public, the coach was to blame. In private, I was the issue. I wasn’t stronger, faster, better equipped. I wasn’t the star athlete he wanted me to be, and he thought beating it into me would work.
It wasn’t until I was older and desired the strength and speed on my own terms that I learned to fight . . . and fight back. He never saw that first punch coming, and it was the last one he spent on me.
Shaking off the memories, I quickly walk back to my car in the freezing night air. Slamming my door after falling into the front seat, I start the engine, listening to the deep purr of the SUV.
She pushed me away.
I was close enough to kiss her, and she pushed me.
She doesn’t think we need to see one another. Fine, I can respect her wishes.
Only the next day, she almost runs into my stepsister and me on the landing between the second-floor apartments over the pharmacy and an empty storefront.
“Ella?” Pam questions before stepping up to her and wrapping my sister into a tight hug. This is another thing about Pam. Since the moment my sister came to live with me, Pam opened her heart to my sibling and ignored her scars. With patience and kindness, Pam befriended Ella as much as Ella would let someone in, and this endeared Pam to me even more. My sister has been through a lot, and Pam accepted her.
Ella wanted to show me her new office and future storefront, which is located next to Pam’s apartment.
“What are you doing here?” Pam questions, implying the second-floor balcony.
“I’m renting this place,” Ella states with pride in her voice, and I’m equally proud of her. She’s come a long way from all that’s happened.
“You need to tell me everything,” Pam insists, giving Ella a puzzled expression at first but then reaches out for my sister’s arm, encouraging her to be open.
“Let me talk to Ethan. We need to plan a girls’ night,” Ella cheerfully suggests, and Pam gives me a skeptical look. I ruined her outing last night.
“I’d like that,” Pam states, her attention still directed at me.
Ella looks back and forth between the two of us, and my mouth opens.
“Aren’t you going on that date soon?” I’d kick myself if I wasn’t still worked up over the possibility that she might say yes to that douche with his blond wavy hair and his fake tan in February. He’s taller than me by a few inches, but I could totally take him. In fact, I might enjoy the fight, but he probably doesn’t know how to pack a punch.
“What date?” Ella asks, turning to Pam in surprise.
“Ignore him,” Pam moans, reaching out for Ella and giving her another hug. “I’ve got to get to my mom’s, but I’ll call you.”
She turns for the staircase without another word to me. My sister and I stand still, watching Pam’s retreat.
“Pam’s going on a date?” Ella asks me, narrowing her eyes.
“I don’t know,” I huff, scrubbing a hand down my face.
“When are you going to admit you’re in love with that woman?” Ella teases me.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I state, taking a step forward. The lie I tell myself actually hurts for some reason. I don’t know how to love someone, and even if I did, I’m certain I’d ruin it.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Ella jokes behind me as we descend the stairs from her new office space. “But let me tell you, there’s no point in denying something wonderful, Jacob. Perhaps it’s time to take the risk.”
While I’d like to think my sister knows what she’s talking about—she didn’t ever think someone would love her nor would she love—it doesn’t seem so easy for me. Ella’s scars sit on the surface of her skin while mine run deep within.
Chapter 10
A Blizzard of Emotion
[Pam]
Almost a week passes without seeing Jacob until I receive a text. Need you at the house.
Is he kidding me? A blizzard is predicted, so I call him to tell him the weather report.
“Better bundle up, buttercup,” he says and hangs up.
Driving to his house, I curse him during the entire ride.
Insufferable. Egotistical. Wretched jerk. Just who does he think he is? A better question might be why am I so easily doing his bidding. However, the simple answer is he pays me. Our friendship grew out of the blogger-author relationship, but we also have a kindred spirit that Jacob doesn’t see. He needs someone to love him for who he is, and I think I could be that person.
Perhaps, I’m a bit of a masochist.
When I pull into Jacob’s driveway, the garage door opens as if he’s expecting me. His house is built on a bit of a hill, with the garage underneath the north section of the home where both his office and bedroom stand. As soon as I enter the garage, the door closes behind my car. I have a key to help myself into the house but find the doors unlocked.
Jacob meets me at the top of the steps.
“What took you so long?” he questions, and I glare at him, tempted to turn back around and leave his sorry backside.
Too bad his backside is not sorry in the least but perfectly sculpted, firm, and tight.
“Have you seen the weather?” I ask. It’s starting to really snow, and it’s not pretty and gentle but coming down sideways. “We need to make this quick so I can get home before I’m stuck here.”
I’m in a mood, which the weather matches, and I can’t deal with Jacob’s moodiness.
Jacob stares at me without an ounce of consideration for my fear. I cannot stay here with him again. If he was half as evil as the villains he writes, I’d think he planned this snowstorm. As I don’t believe he’s able to dictate weather patterns, I dismiss the thought.
“I want you to read these three chapters. Mark them up. Bleed on this thing.” He hands me the pages, old-fashioned in his ways to print and proof with a regular pen. We’ve also done edits electronically, but he prefers a first draft in this manner at times, and apparently during a snowstorm is the time. Thankfully, I didn’t have to work at the garden center, so I take the papers thrust at me and help myself to one of the two couches in the living room. The leather couches are at a ninety degree angle to one another with one facing the large wall of windows with a view of lake while the other faces a stone fireplace reaching the vaulted ceiling. The room is considered a great room with the dining room table large enough for twelve behind the couch facing the fireplace.
Without glancing back at Jacob, I begin reading while I feel his eyes on me. Finally, he steps back into his office. It’s been an unsettling day for me, and I decide this is what I need—to get lost in a book and rip apart Jacob’s writing.
Unfortunately, roughly twenty minutes later, the lights begin to flicker. Oh God, no. The snow outside the glass panes is so thick I can’t see the lake, which is out there somewhere. It’s like being inside a snowglobe with the snow on the outside. It’s beautiful and frightening at the same time. The wind whistles, and the lights flicker again.
Jacob enters the living room and glances around the lit room. “It’s getting bad out there.”
“Yes, thank you, Sherlock,” I mock. I told him the weather wasn’t conducive to me being here. I’m still angry that he demanded I come here as if it’s so urgent I can’t read these chapters from home, but I have calmed a bit from my original irritation.
“Maybe we should start a fire,” he states, just as the lights blink again. I swear it’s as if he willed them to flicker to prove his point. Walking up to his fireplace, Jacob stops and stares at the large opening.
&n
bsp; “It’s not gas,” I tell him, knowing he loves convenience.
“I know that,” he snaps at me while glaring at the fireplace as if it could build a fire itself. I set the chapters I was reading to the side and stand next to him. Ignoring his sass, I continue.
“You need to set wood in there and start the fire with kindling and newspaper.”
“Thank you.” His sarcasm is warranted. We’re both on edge, but he still doesn’t move. Instead, he glances toward the window, which we can’t see out. “You’ll be stuck here again for the night.”
His tone has me questioning if this upsets him or concerns him. Either way, he has nothing to worry about. We will not be having a repeat of what happened while I was sick. I’ll sleep on the fricking couch by the fireplace.
The thought of a fire reminds me of my dad and being a kid on camping trips. “Did you ever go camping as a kid?” The question pops out as I’m curious.
“My dad didn’t believe in camping. It was dirty and for people without money for hotels.”
Yikes. That’s rude, and one of the first real mentions of his father. Jacob never talks about his parents while Ella has spoken of them on occasion.
“Okay. Newspaper and kindling.” I glance up, and Jacob stares back at me. He has neither of these items. “Cardboard?”
“Maybe some frozen pizza boxes in the recycling bin,” he suggests. That will have to do.
“If you could go get more wood from your garage, I can look for cardboard and get this started.” Giving him something to do other than building a fire seems to please him, and I grumble my way through his bin, finding some scraps of paper and the boxes he suggested. A set of matches rests on the mantel, and I set up the fire, recalling how my father taught me from nights of camping as a kid and bonfires on the beach as a teen. Jacob makes several trips, really piling up the wood in his living room and accepting the reality of things.
As he dumps his third stack, the lights give a final wink and go off. “Your furnace runs off electricity,” I remind him.
“Yes, Mrs. Electric Company. I know,” he grouses, and I smirk. This means the only heat source is this fireplace, so we’ll both be camping on couches tonight.
“Did you back up what you were working on?” With the electricity flickering, I’d hate for him to lose whatever he was writing on.
“You were holding in your hand what I was working on. I was waiting on you.” The undercurrent of attitude in his tone is not appreciated. “Let’s pull one couch closer to the fire.”
If it were anyone else, the setup might be romantic, but knowing all I know about his dislike of romance, this is not going to be a romantic evening. This is necessity, and it looks like we’re sharing a couch for the time being.
Once we rearrange the furniture, placing one couch only feet from the blazing fire, I settle back on the cushions in a corner while Jacob falls into the opposite corner. Somehow, a bottle of scotch appears near the leg of the couch. Jacob pours himself a glass, not offering me one. I assume I’m to keep reading, which I do as best as I can under firelight and the diminishing light of the day.
“Why didn’t you introduce me to your friend the other night?” The question startles me from reading.
“I did introduce you.”
“But only after I asked you to do it.” There’s something in his voice I can’t read.
“I signed an NDA, remember?”
“Are you embarrassed to work for me?” The genuine concern in his tone surprises me.
“What’s there to be embarrassed about? You’re a famous author. I was respecting your privacy.”
He sniffs and takes a sip of his drink. His body slouches back on the cushions, his head resting on the back of the couch.
“When I was a kid, my father was embarrassed by me. He rarely introduced me to people as his son. He was very proud of Ella because she was such a beauty, but not so proud of me, his flesh and blood.”
I’m stone still as he speaks, astonished by the admission, especially as it’s more than he’s ever told me about himself in relation to his dad.
“So you weren’t close to your father.”
Jacob rolls his head to look at me. “Only as close as his fist could reach.”
Horrified, I bite back a gasp. “That’s awful.”
He takes another heavy gulp of his drink, looking away from me while my eyes beg him to turn back. His focus fixates on the fire, and I’m worried for half a second he’ll toss the alcohol at the flames and set the house ablaze.
“I was close to my father but not like people would think. I didn’t match the rest of the Carter clan.”
“Don’t depreciate yourself,” Jacob states, his voice tight.
“I’m not. I’m just stating a fact. I’m not one of the famous Carters, and I struggled with the difference between myself and my siblings when I was younger. I wasn’t the football star of Jess or the class clown of Tom, and definitely not the beautiful tomboy of my sister. They are all tall, lean, and athletic. I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up, unlike the rest of them who seemed destined to be an engineer, a small business owner, and a teacher, respectively. I sort of fell into the position of EMT, and while I loved it because I don’t mind blood and guts, I fell out of love with it.” I’m quiet as Jacob knows why I stopped being an EMT.
“But my father always gave me the best advice, as if he knew I didn’t think I measured up or considered myself worthy. I needed to love myself as much as he loved me, he’d say.”
I love you bunches, Pammie, he’d tell me. I smile to myself, recalling my father and noting the snowstorm oustide again. “His advice reminds me of a song by Tori Amos, called ‘Winter.’ And I don’t know why I told you that.”
Jacob’s attention has turned back to me. “You know I’m always sorry about your dad.”
“I know.” I met Jacob the night my father died. Jacob was the man in that red Corvette, and I was tending to him when my dad passed away in the ambulance ride to the hospital. I wanted to blame Jacob when it happened, but he wasn’t at fault. Still, I went to visit him the next day in the hospital to rip him apart for his stupidity. Drinking and driving, he could have killed someone. He could have been the one to hit and run on my dad, but he wasn’t. I was still hell-bent on giving him a piece of my mind, but when I entered his hospital room, something changed my mind.
“Don’t go there, Lilac,” Jacob whispers, but it’s too late. The loss of my father was difficult for me. Memories fill my thoughts for a few minutes. My father’s advice. His bear-style hugs. His silent support.
“You never mention your father. Is it because of mine?” I’d actually never thought about it until this moment, but Jacob doesn’t discuss his, and perhaps it’s because his is still alive and mine is not.
“I don’t mention him because he’s an asshole and not worth my breath.”
Ouch, but then again, Jacob just mentioned his father’s fist, which suggests an unpleasant history between them.
“I’m sorry he hit you,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Jacob sneers. He’s so unfeeling sometimes, but his concern for his sister and the friendship he tried to start with Ethan prove he isn’t totally heartless. He’s just a contradiction, even in our arrangement.
He flirts. He holds back.
He teases. He rejects.
I attribute his moodiness to his creativity and the evil in some of the stuff he writes, but sometimes, he’s just a bastard, and moody is his middle name.
“Is that why you had that dream the other night?”
Jacob huffs. “ I don’t want to talk about the dreams.”
And that answers that, I decide.
“Here,” he says, holding out his glass for me. Shaking my head, I decline. I’m not a scotch drinker. Give me a margarita any day or wine some evening, but not the heavy stuff.
“Want some wine then?” he asks as if reading my mind.
“I only like
it sweet.”
“I figured as much,” he grumbles, the demeanor of his voice shifting as he rocks his body to stand. He sets his glass on the mantel and crosses behind the couch for the liquor cabinet with a wine fridge built into it. I should comment on his drinking, but his argumentative stance last weekend outside the pharmacy comes back to me. It’s not that I think he’s an alcoholic, but I do see him using the liquid as more than courage but a crutch. Does that make me an enabler if I don’t speak up? Jacob has some deep-rooted issues if his father abused him, and alcohol might be his way to cope. But how does it expand to the fact he drinks often—and too much—as an adult? I don’t have it in me to fight with him tonight, so I don’t question his life choices.
He returns, carrying a bottle of moscato and a glass already filled for me. “This must be leftover from my sister.”
His brows pinch, and we both think on the months his sister lived here. He sets the bottle down and picks up his drink once more before returning to his seat on the couch.
“Do you miss her not being around?” I ask as long as this is revelation hour.
“I do, and it surprises me.” With the shift in his tone, his surprise is genuine. “She’s ten years younger than me, so we didn’t live together long as children. By the time she was a teen and entrenched in my parents’ business, I was gone.” Jacob’s eyes drift to his drink in his hands. Guilt still coils around him for what happened to his sister. Her scars. Her unhappiness. “I got to the point I could only think of me, and getting away from there was the way to save myself. It makes me selfish.”
“It doesn’t,” I say, and he looks over at me. “It sounds like self-preservation.”
From what I know, Ella didn’t have quite the same upbringing as Jacob despite being raised in the same home. Jacob was underappreciated while his younger sister was revered. Ironically, they are both famous in their own right.
“I’m sure Ella understands.” I speak on her behalf. She’s a grown woman who’s worked through acceptance of her past, something Jacob seems sorely in need of doing. He’s never been in therapy that I know of. Ella started as soon as she left here, and I’m assuming it’s a reason she’s been able to return.
