by A. P. Watson
“When will you learn I’m not most women?”
“Maybe you should give me another reminder.” The words he uttered were tame enough for church, but his corresponding wink belonged in a confessional. Moments like these made me realize the title of friend would be harder to adhere to than I originally thought.
By the time we finished our wine and meal, the warm, humid evening had been replaced with a monsoon. Rain poured from the sky, pounding against the windows of Monteverde.
“I’m going to run to the car, and then I’ll come here and pick you up.” Jackson moved toward the door, popping the collar of his jacket around the back of his neck.
“Don’t bother. I won’t melt.”
“We’re going to get soaked.”
“Probably.” I ran through the doors and into the storm. Jackson’s hand grasped mine, and he took off in a sprint down the sidewalk. I kept his pace fairly well, considering I was wearing platforms, but the second block proved to be trickier than the first. Soaked from head to toe, my feet kept slipping in my shoes and making it hard to run. Noting my slower pace, Jackson swept me off the ground and began carrying me before I could even protest. I squealed in response, not too thrilled about my feet leaving the ground so quickly.
“You’re such a girl.”
“Ass.” Upon hearing my insult, Jacks’s arms tightened around me. Somehow, one block felt more like one hundred. Finally, we managed to reach the Corvette. He set me on the ground, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. “We can’t get in your car.”
“Why not?”
“We’re soaked, and there is no way in hell I’m ruining your leather seats!”
“I’ve never met a woman who loves my car more than I do.”
I feigned shock and began massaging the hood of his car. “Don’t worry, baby, I know how to treat a lady.”
“Do you?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“Maybe.”
“Please tell me you had experimental college years.”
A memory flashed through my mind of me sliding into the splits in front of a crowd of horny men. As minuscule as G-strings are, they sure could hold a lot of dollar bills. “Well, those years certainly were exciting.”
Jackson’s eyes slid over every curve of my body. I was soaked to the bone, but a rush of heat crept up my neck, settling in my cheeks. “I’m going to need you to tell me about these years.”
For once, it was my turn to grin mischievously. “Oh, I will . . . one day.”
Despite my protests and our drenched clothing, we made the drive to Jackson’s place. He lived near Lake Michigan in a glass high-rise. When I stared at the structure as we pulled into the attached parking garage, one word came to mind—money. If his suits and car weren’t adequate representations of his chosen career, his apartment would surely fit the bill.
Thankfully, Jacks kept a spare towel folded beneath his seat, a fact my conscience greatly appreciated. So, when we emerged from his vehicle, he made sure everything was dry. I followed him to a door on the far side of the parking garage. He entered a sequence of numbers on the keypad and pushed open the door.
We emerged from the garage into a pristine lobby. A sleek desk sat in front of the far wall with a crystal vase full of white orchids placed on top of it. The color scheme was a simple mixture of gray, black, and white, but the effect was very elegant. An older man sat at the desk, his eyes glued to a monitor in front of him.
“Hey, Bernie. How are you tonight?”
“I’m doing well, thank you for asking, Jackson.” The man stood to shake Jacks’s hand, his brown hair dotted with streaks of gray. “Looks like the two of you got caught in the rain.”
“Maybe just a bit.”
Bernie chuckled at my response and held his hand out to me. “My name is Bernie Samuels. I run the desk and security at night. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Wren Williams, and it’s nice to meet you too.”
“Well, I won’t keep the two of you, but I hope you have a great evening.”
“Thanks, Bernie.” Jackson shook his hand once more before turning in the direction of the elevators.
“Bye, Bernie. Don’t work too hard tonight.”
“Oh, never.” He smiled and waved, watching as Jacks, and I stepped into the elevator.
The elevator climbed all the way to the fifteenth floor and stopped. I followed Jacks down a narrow hallway until he stopped in front of apartment 1505. He unlocked the door and opened it, allowing me to enter first. City lights filtered in from the far side of his living room, illuminating the large space. His kitchen and living room were combined, sharing a long wall of windows. I stepped forward, enticed by the view.
“Wow.”
“You like it?”
“It’s gorgeous. I can’t believe that view!” My fingertips pressed against the window as I craned my neck to the left and right, desperate to see more. “It’s breathtaking.”
“I’m quite fond of it myself.”
“I’m sure you are. I wish Terayn could see it. There’s no way she would be reluctant to paint after witnessing a view like this.”
“Has she had trouble painting lately?”
“Yeah. I think she’s feeling self-conscious and it’s making it hard to find the desire to paint. She’s an excellent painter, but confidence can be an obstacle to any creative endeavor.”
“That’s very true.” I turned to glance at Jacks, only to find myself surveying his apartment once more. I left the windows behind me, crossing in front of the fireplace. A large picture hung beside the mantle. It was a picture of Jimi Hendrix playing guitar. “That was taken at Woodstock.”
“It’s incredible. Where did you find it?”
“David took it.”
“David went to Woodstock?” I asked, unable to mask my surprise.
Jacks nodded. “He said it was one of the best experiences of his life.”
“So, he is a music lover too?” I asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Is it weird that I think I love your grandpa?”
“Nah,” he replied. “The Carmichael men have that effect on women.”
“It seems they have no lack of modesty either,” I replied, nudging him with my elbow.
Jacks grinned at me, taking my hand in his. “Wait till you see this.”
We rounded the fireplace again, immediately stopping when we reached the left wall. A guitar rested in a stand in the corner near the fireplace. He picked up the instrument, handling it with great care. Then he placed the guitar in my hands. It was a black Gibson, and a signature was scrawled along the bottom. My eyes widened as I read the name, B.B. King.
“Holy fuck. You have a guitar signed by B.B. King?”
“It’s my most prized possession.”
“I’m seriously trying to decide if I love this or your car more.”
“Well, what is your decision?” he asked.
My thumb caressed the smooth edge of the guitar. “Definitely this guitar.”
“Good choice.”
“Do you play?” I asked.
He took the guitar from my hands, placing it back on the stand. “I used to.”
“Why did you stop playing?”
“Work keeps me busy,” he replied with a shrug.
“You should start playing again. It’s worth the time if it’s something you enjoy.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“There’s nothing to consider. Play.”
“Sometimes there are more important things to focus on.”
I took a step in his direction. “If you won’t do it for you, then do it for me.”
“You want me to play that badly?”
“I want you to do whatever makes you happy,” I whispered.
His hand curled around my waist as he inched closer. “Thank you,” he said, his lips pressing against my cheek.
“For?”
“Reminding me what is truly important.” Jacks backed away from me, sl
iding off his jacket as he headed in the direction of a narrow hallway next to the kitchen. “Follow me and I’ll find us some dry clothes.”
“Thank you.”
We made our way down the hall, passing a small bedroom connected to a bathroom. We continued to the end, heading toward what had to be the master bedroom. Jackson’s entire place was immaculate and the same held true for his bedroom. A grand four-poster bed stood in the center of the room, its black posts matching a dresser and nightstand table. Everything was modern and sleek, yet elegant. A picture of David in his younger years hung on the wall near the bed while a photograph of a couple sat on top of his nightstand. I picked up the frame, closely studying the people in the picture.
Jackson smiled stiffly. “Those are my parents.”
“I see a lot of your father in you, and your mother is lovely.”
“Yes, she was.”
“If they were here, I’m sure they would be as proud of you as David is.”
“I hope so.”
“I know so.”
This time when he smiled, there was nothing stiff about it. He opened the dresser, removing two pairs of shorts and two T-shirts.
“Here.” He handed me a set and hung his suit jacket on the corner of his bathroom door.
His fingers deftly unfastened the buttons on his shirt. I tried not to watch his progress but failed miserably. “So, what movie are we going to watch?”
“You said a horror movie, so I think we have to go with a classic,” he answered.
“Yeah, most of the horror movies they put out now are shit.”
Jacks nodded his head in agreement. “All tits and blood.”
“It’s sad really, though I suppose everyone can’t be like Hitchcock.”
“This is true,” he replied. “I hope you’re not partial to Halloween because I’ve seen it too many times.”
I felt the same way. Too many television stations played the hell out of it every October. I unzipped my top, sliding it over my head as I racked my brain for a decent horror movie. Nightmare on Elm Street was over played as well. Jacks disappeared behind the door to his bathroom as he changed. Insidious was a decent flick, but it wasn’t really a classic. I removed my shoes, leaving them on the floor by the bed. My hands unzipped my skirt, sliding the fabric down my legs. “Scream is a good movie, but it’s really not that scary.”
“Same with The Purge movies.”
“Yeah.” My bra was soaked too, so I removed it and placed it on the edge of Jacks’s bed with the rest of my clothes. I slid on the shorts and shirt he gave me, amused at the difference in his size and mine.
“I’ve got it!”
“What?” I asked.
“It.” Jacks burst into the room, clearly elated by his choice. “It’s a classic story, and the new movie is way better than the first one.”
“I’ve actually never seen that one.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I hate clowns.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” he questioned.
“They should.”
He grabbed my hand and led me back to the living room. “It’s a good movie, but I’ll understand if you would rather watch something else.”
“Let’s watch it, but you can’t make fun of me if I bury my face in your shirt.”
“Deal.”
Jacks retrieved a blanket for me and made me sit on the couch while he fixed us a bowl of popcorn and turned on the television. I wrapped the soft material of his blanket around me, my teeth chattering. Jacks must’ve heard because when he placed the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, he also set down a piping hot mug of hot chocolate for me.
Wrapping my hands around the mug, I took a sip. “Mmm. You’re too good to me.”
“You might not be saying that after we watch this movie.” I scooted as close to him as I could manage and prepared myself for hell. I freaking hated clowns.
We were almost an hour into the movie, though I’d only managed to watch about fifteen minutes. “Are you sure you can breathe?” Jacks asked, concern lacing his voice.
“Yes!” My face pressed even further into his chest as I gripped his shirt. “I can breathe just fine.”
His body shook beneath me as he desperately tried to keep himself from laughing. “I know I promised not to make fun of you, but you practically have a death grip on my shirt.”
Instantly, my grasp loosened. Jackson was right. I’d clung to his shirt so tight, there were tiny rips around the collar. “I’m so sorry!”
“It’s all good. I just didn’t realize you were so strong.”
“I am actually deceptively strong.”
“I’ve noticed.”
For a fleeting moment, my bravery triumphed because I turned to watch the movie. Less than a minute later, Pennywise flashed across the screen. “Nope!” I jumped into Jackson’s lap and flung my arms around his neck.
“Okay, it’s off.” He shut off the television, his hands softly rubbing my back. “Is there a story behind your fear of clowns?”
“My older cousin, who is kind of a douche, by the way, took me to a haunted house when I was ten. I did fine walking through the house until a clown with a butcher knife chased me through the mirror maze.”
“Damn,” he replied, shaking his head.
“Yep. I’ve hated those creepy bastards ever since.” My cheek found his shoulder, my entire body relaxing into his. “Jacks?”
“Yeah?” His breath warmed the side of my neck as he spoke. There was something about his tone I couldn’t quite pin down. It was as if a multitude of emotions coexisted in perfect harmony with one another.
“What are you thinking?”
“That I want to kick your cousin in the balls.”
I laughed, my hold on him tightening. “That’s it?”
He paused for a long while, clearly hesitant to confess whatever plagued his mind. “I was trying to remember the last time I held someone.”
“And?” I asked, tilting my head so I could look at him.
I watched as his brow furrowed. “I’m drawing a blank.”
I was surprised by his revelation, simply for the fact he wasn’t short on female company. But that was the catch. Sex and companionship don’t always coincide with one another. “If it makes you feel any better, I can’t remember the last time I was held,” I whispered. At my confession, his hands skated down the length of my spine. A sigh escaped my lips in response to his touch. I couldn’t deny the comfort his embrace provided. The space inside his arms was safe, and at the moment, I was the only thing occupying it. “Can I sit here until I fall asleep?”
“Whatever you need.”
chapter eight
do you
A MINUSCULE SLIVER OF light fell on my face, prompting my eyelids to open. I jolted upright, quickly noting the foreignness of my surroundings. When another hand grasped mine, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Is something wrong? Are you okay?” Jackson’s voice sounded from beside me. The duvet slid down his bare chest as he sat upright.
As a nurse, the majority of men I saw shirtless were over the age of seventy. So, I wasn’t even minutely ashamed to stare at his chiseled abs for a few seconds. “Yeah, I woke up and forgot where I was.”
“I hate when that happens.” He moved to rest his back against the headboard, his hands folding behind his head. “I was going to put you in the guest room, but I thought you might wake up and be scared. I’m sorry for suggesting a movie with clowns in it.”
Jacks was easily the most attractive man I’d ever been in bed with. Yet, I was still fully clothed. On the bright side, at least I could enjoy the irony of our platonic situation. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal. Thank you for sitting up with me till I fell asleep, by the way.”
“Of course, you were pretty scared.”
A flash of Pennywise’s face popped into my mind, eliciting a wave of chills along my vertebrae. “Fucking clowns.”
He chuckled, tapping the screen
of his phone. “It’s not even six yet, why don’t you lay back down and get some more sleep?”
“I’ll try.” I’d barely shifted when he caught my arm.
“Come here.” His hand slid along my skin, fastening around my waist. He pulled me across the bed, my body naturally folding into his. “Better?”
I rested my cheek against his chest. From the way I was pressed into him, it was the only area available to me. “Yes.” My reply was much too breathy to go unnoticed. We were venturing into dangerous territory. Well, dangerous for me. I tucked my hands under my chin, unsure where else to put them.
As if able to sense my uncertainty, Jacks took my left hand in his, rubbing his thumb along the inside of my palm. “Do you lift weights a lot?”
“Huh?”
“You have some big calluses at the base of each finger. I just figured you lifted weights.”
“Not as much as I used to.” It wasn’t completely a lie. I did hit the gym every so often to get in some squats and deadlifts, but those calluses were formed from years of grabbing poles, not weights.
“I thought so. You’re in amazing shape.”
“Thanks. You are too, though your chest is kind of puny.”
“Puny?”
“Yes?” My bottom lip caught between my teeth as I desperately tried to keep a straight face.
“I see.” Before I could even resist, one of Jacks’s hands slipped around my back while the other grasped my thighs. He pressed my body upward, above his chest, quickly hammering out ten repetitions as he mimicked a chest press. “I’m literally going to keep doing this until you recant your previous statement.”
“Stubborn ass.”
He laughed, but it did nothing to slow him down. Ten more reps were done in the blink of an eye. “I love it when you call me an ass because of how the word sounds with your accent.”
“Dick,” I spat.
“That’s actually doing it for me too.”
“Put me down!”
“Not in a million years,” he replied, laughing as he kept lifting my body.
“Jackson.”
“Nope.”
“Fine!” I sighed dramatically, hoping he would be able to pick up on how annoying he was being. “I take back what I said earlier. Your chest is huge, muscular, and magnificent.”
