The thrust of the power was consuming her, burning her, pressing on her chest so hard she couldn’t breathe; she had to get it out, had to release it somehow. Miriam extended a finger to touch the image of the flame, and at the moment of contact the painting began to dance and waver, becoming impossibly real. She felt heat coming from the painting, so hot she thought it might scorch her skin and catch her clothes on fire. When her hand left the surface of the canvas, the dancing candle flame went still, returning to its painted image.
Jack spoke then, and she jumped, gasping. “Like it?” he asked, his voice at her ear. She could feel the heat radiating from his body. She didn’t have to turn around to know he would still be wet, his hair mussed and damp, a thin towel wrapped around his angular hips, looking like it might fall off at the slightest touch. She took a deep breath and turned to face him. She forced her gaze upward, keeping her hands at her sides.
“It’s amazing,” she said, not certain whether she was talking about him or the painting.
“You can have it if you like it that much,” he said. He seemed to have picked up on her unintentional double entendre, returning its meaning in the tone of his words and the smile in his eyes.
“Really? I would love it. It would go great in my room.” She was sure she was blushing. She hadn’t blushed since high school. She was almost thirty, and blushing. What was wrong with her?
“I’ll bring it over sometime, then.” He was inches away, looking down at her. Miriam’s hands were lifting on their own, tracing the lines of his abdominal muscles, drifting toward the “V” where his torso met his hips and groin. Her fingers followed the rolled rim of the towel, inching it farther downward, loosening it. She hadn’t meant to touch him, but where her fingers brushed his skin she felt an electric tingling, a flutter of wings in her belly.
She withdrew her hands, but Jack’s fingers pinioned her wrists in a gentle but implacable hold. His eyes roamed her face, flitting from side to side, down her neck, and down to the expanse of her cleavage. She had no memory of moving, but somehow she was pressed up against him, her breasts crushed to his bare, damp chest, her chin tilting upward, her eyes on the hard angles and planes of his face. Jack released her hands, but she couldn’t bring herself to move them—she couldn’t pull her palms away from the hot skin of his sides. Her lips parted, and she watched as he slowly bent over her, one of his hands cupping the curve of her lower back, pulling her flush against him, and the other palming her cheek, his thumb grazing across her lips just before he angled his mouth over hers.
Miriam sighed into the kiss, letting her palms skate up his bare back to clutch his shoulders, lifting up on her toes to meet him, and when his tongue traced the seam of her lips, she let her mouth fall open, let his tongue slide between her lips and touch her teeth and tangle with her tongue, and she tasted toothpaste, smelled fresh soap and shampoo.
She felt his desire thickening between them. She stepped away before her hands helped the towel fall off, pushing him toward his bedroom. “Go get dressed,” she told him. “I’m hungry.”
Jack complied slowly, stepping backward without taking his eyes from hers. After half a dozen steps, he let out a sigh and turned, vanishing into his room to get dressed. He emerged a few minutes later wearing a pair of tight, faded jeans and a plain gray T-shirt that hugged his torso.
As they walked out, Miriam noticed a candle flickering on the counter in the kitchen. She was sure it hadn’t been there before. It was a plain white candle, thick and round, with wax pooled near the wick and spilling over to drip in clumps down the length of the candle. The drips had not yet reached the countertop. Miriam dismissed it from her mind, or tried to, but the image of the dancing candle flame on the canvas stuck in the back of her mind.
“Should I blow out the candle?” Miriam asked.
Jack stopped in his tracks, confused. “What candle?” Miriam pointed at the candle, and Jack shrugged, then crossed the room to blow it out. “That’s weird. I’ve never bought a candle in my life. I wonder where it came from?”
Miriam had an idea where it might have come from, but she pushed the thought from her head. No way. Could she have just imagined the painting coming to life? Really? It must be her imagination. Maybe it had been a gift, and he’d just forgotten about it. That had to be it.
Jack took her to Mr. B’s, then got them a pitcher of Killian’s and a plate of cheese sticks, waiting for Miriam to order before he did. She was used to Ben ordering for her, taking her to fancy restaurants neither of them could really afford and buying bottles of wine, freaking out about every little thing she said, getting offended at everything, and always talking, talking, talking, just to fill the silence. Jack was calm and confident, able to sit and peruse the menu in companionable silence, not needing to fill it with endless chatter. He kept the conversation light, and Miriam was grateful.
Halfway through their meal, his cell phone rang, and he answered it. He spoke briefly and ended the call. “Sorry,” Jack said. “That was my older brother. We’re having a get-together next weekend, and he was finalizing the plans. Hey, you should come.”
“You have a brother?” Miriam, having been an only child, was always curious about people with siblings.
Jack laughed. “Yeah, I have…two brothers and two sisters.” He paused for a split second before he said “two”—a slight thing, but Miriam noticed it. She tilted her head in a silent question.
Jack shook his head, as if wishing she had missed it. “Well, technically, now I have three siblings.”
“Technically?”
There was sadness in his eyes, and Miriam wished she hadn’t broached the subject. “My oldest brother, Joe….” Jack hesitated, then took a drink from his beer. “Joe hung himself when I was fifteen. It was weird, though. I’d fallen asleep during history class, and I had this intense dream where I came home from school and found Joe in the garage, strung up with a noose around his neck, a chair kicked over beneath him. I woke up halfway through class, sweating, almost crying. It had been…just so real. It didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like…like a memory that hadn’t happened yet.
“I cut out of school and ran all the way home, knowing what I’d find. And I did find him, exactly as I’d dreamed it. So now I only have two brothers.” He waved his hand, as if dismissing the memory.
“Oh, god, Jack, I’m so sorry! I had no idea,” she said, wishing she could comfort him somehow. It was obviously still a raw, painful memory for him.
“Of course you didn’t. How could you? It was a long time ago.” Jack took a drink and changed the subject. “What about you? Any siblings?”
Miriam shook her head, “No, I was an only child.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask for details. There was a lot about her childhood that she didn’t want to explain. At least not yet.
He nodded, his eyes searching her expression for something. As if he felt her unspoken desire to talk about something else, he changed the subject. “Ah. Well, you should come to the party next weekend. It’ll be fun. My family is a riot at parties, lemme tell ya.” A hint of Irish crept into his voice. “My sisters always wanted an extra girl in the family anyhow.”
Miriam tried to imagine what it would be like to have that much family. She couldn’t wrap her brain around it. “I’d like that. It sounds like fun.”
“Oh, it will be. These family get-togethers are always a right crazy ruckus, as my grandpa says.”
They continued to linger over dinner, their conversation easily meandering from topic to topic, but never touching on anything deep or painful. When they finished their pitcher, Jack paid the bill, and they left Mr. B’s to wander around downtown Royal Oak, walking close together, their hands brushing. More than once Miriam nearly took his hand in hers, but she couldn’t quite summon the courage to do so.
Eventually Jack brought her home, well past midnight, and once again she found herself standing a step up from him, staring into his wide blue eyes, wondering what he was thinking. They were at that a
wkward distance, not quite close enough to kiss, but almost. She hesitated, her eyes locked on his, not pulling away, but not moving closer. Jack broke the tension by kissing her. His lips were soft, and he kissed her gently, giving her the chance to pull away if she wanted.
His arms were around her waist, at the small of her back. Her shirt was hiked up in the back, exposing a strip of skin above the waistband of her pants; his fingers found this gap, exploring tentatively, warm palms sliding up her spine, and she couldn’t resist anymore. She leaned in against him and tangled her fingers in his hair and kissed him back, pressing her body against his. She could feel his heart hammering wildly, feel his exploring hands tremble against the flesh of her back near her bra strap. He was as nervous as she was, and this endeared him to her all the more. Time slowed and stilled, and Miriam felt the same odd rush of warmth in her gut, heat spreading throughout her, setting her skin alight, making her scalp tighten and every sense heighten so she could hear Jack’s heart beating and feel every brush of his hands on her skin like arcing electricity. She could smell him—aftershave and paint and leather. Miriam was breathless, she was drowning; no, not drowning, but burning up, she was being consumed by the fires within her….
Jack was the first to pull away, suddenly hissing between his teeth. “God, you’re…you’re hot, like, physically hot to the touch.” He looked at his palms as if expecting to see melted skin. He grinned at her. “I mean, you’re hot, too, in another sense—like, beautiful.” Miriam laughed, glad he wasn’t bolting in fear. She had thought for one crazy moment that she might actually burst into flame. He was looking at her with obvious hunger, visible desire, his hands resting on the swell of her hips. She knew it wasn’t fair or right to compare them, but she couldn’t help it: Ben had never, ever looked at her like Jack was looking at her now, had never touched her the way Jack was touching her now, had never kissed her so passionately.
Ben touched her as if he owned her, as if she was his and she had no rights or needs. Ben kissed her as part of foreplay, but just so he could sleep with her. Ben looked at her… how? Miriam tried to categorize how he looked at her, and couldn’t. With ownership? Contempt? Smug possession seemed to be the most apt term.
“What are you thinking?” Jack asked. He was perceptive. Her face must have betrayed her thoughts.
“Just….” She couldn’t tell Jack what she was feeling. He’d want to continue this—this whatever this was, and that would only get him hurt. “Just that I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry.” She turned and ran up the stairs, leaving Jack standing at the foot of the stairs.
“Did I do something wrong?” he called. She could hear the hurt and confusion in his voice.
Miriam paused halfway up the steps. She couldn’t let him think this was his fault. “You didn’t do anything,” she said, turning around but not descending. She didn’t trust herself to get near him again. “I promise, Jack, you didn’t do anything. Bad, I mean. Or wrong, or whatever. You stopped Ben, and I’m thankful for that. You’ve been so nice to me…too nice. I just—I shouldn’t do this with you. I mean, I just met you, and….” She tried to think of a better reason, but he was coming up the steps toward her, and the desire in his eyes washed away her logic.
“I know what it is,” Jack said. “You’re trying to protect me. You’re afraid of him finding out about us, and what he’ll do to me.” He was two steps below her now, and she felt her will to turn away weakening. “And to you.”
“I–no, I mean, yeah. A little, I guess.” She wasn’t making any sense. She took a deep breath, tried again. “Listen, Jack. You’re right. But it’s not that I don’t think you can take care of yourself. I just know Ben. He’s…you don’t want to mess with him.” She backed up a step. “You’re amazing, Jack. I mean that. I don’t want to see you get hurt. Not for me.”
“I’m sure he’s a badass,” Jack said, a wry edge to his voice. “He looks like he could rip my arm off and beat me with it. I’m sure if I knew him, I’d be pissing myself. You’re his girl, and he’d kill me for even looking at you. I get it, Miriam. But what if I don’t care? What if I’m willing to take that risk?”
“Don’t be stupid, Jack. You just met me. You don’t know me.” He was getting too close. He had burrowed under her walls somehow and found her vulnerable heart, saying exactly what she had always wanted to hear, and it scared the hell out of her.
“Yes, I do. You may be his girl, but you don’t belong with him. You deserve better.”
“And you can give me better, I suppose?” She was getting defensive now, and she felt her walls going up. Not because she didn’t trust him, or believe he could and would treat her better, but because she did. She wanted to trust him, desperately, and that was dangerous for both of them.
“Yes! I can. And I will,” he said.
Bang, the walls were up, the gates closed. She wanted him more than anything, but she knew how it would go. He’d be all nice and charming now, but if she left Ben for him, he’d change. Assuming Ben didn’t kill him beforehand, of course.
“It won’t work, Jack. I’m sorry. You should forget you met me.” Miriam turned and ascended the steps, refusing to look back.
“Yeah, right.” Jack actually laughed at that. “You can’t push me away that easily, Miriam. I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work.”
She stopped but didn’t turn around. “What am I doing, then?”
“You’re shutting me out because you’re scared. I get it. I really do.” She was walking away, and he was raising his voice, not yelling, not desperate, only insistent. “You can’t scare me off, Miriam, and you can’t push me away. Just give me a chance.”
Miriam wanted to, more than anything. She wanted to rush back down to him, but she refused to let herself. She unlocked her door and closed it behind her, leaned against it and tried not to sob. This is stupid, she told herself. She’d just met him. He didn’t know what he was talking about.
All men are assholes, she reminded herself. No matter how perfect they might seem at first.
The trouble was, Miriam didn’t believe herself.
Chapter 4
Miriam
Three weeks earlier
It was Ben and Miriam’s one-year anniversary. Ben had reservations at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse in Troy, which was where he always took her for special occasions. But she hated it. She hated steak, she hated expensive wine, and she hated the stuffy, buttoned-up servers and the fancy atmosphere. She liked things simple, for the most part. She didn’t mind expensive dinners every once in a while, but something about the place just set her on edge. She’d told Ben this, of course, but he’d brushed it off. Special occasions always equaled Ruth’s Chris, no matter what. So here she was, sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, wearing a dress and wishing she was at home in her yoga pants.
She knew how the evening would go: He’d order the most expensive wine he could afford and drink at least one bottle, if not two. He’d splurge like crazy on himself, but he would never ask her what she liked. He wouldn’t consult her on the wine, and he’d behave like a total dick to the wait staff. She was just supposed to go along and keep her mouth shut. And sleep with him when they got home, of course. Normally, she’d keep herself in her shell, sip on one glass of wine, and nod in all the right places.
Tonight, for reasons she couldn’t have explained, Miriam decided to go a different route. When Ben poured the wine—$120 a bottle—she drank it as fast as he did. He didn’t seem to notice right away. She’d finished her third glass before the entrees had arrived, and she was feeling loose and unafraid for once.
“Good to see you finally relaxing a little,” Ben remarked, refilling her glass.
“Hey, a year is a long time. Something to celebrate.” The words were tumbling out of her mouth without any forethought, and she was grateful for it.
Maybe if she got drunk enough, she wouldn’t remember anything the next day. Ben would want to have sex, but she just cou
ldn’t make herself do it anymore. It had been okay when they first started dating. Better than Nick, at least; that, more than anything, had made Ben seem like a decent guy at first: He was better than Nick. She could even pretend that he loved her, that he cared about her…sometimes. But the longer she dated him, the more she came to realize that his drunken rages were going from an occasional explosion to a regular part of their relationship, becoming ever more frequent and ever more violent.
He used to slap her every now and then, yell at her, curse her out. Eventually he’d pass out, and that would be it. Then, one night, he got really drunk with his buddies from the Corps and showed up at her door with anger in his eyes. She’d tried her best to keep him calm, but he had memories of the war in his thoughts, and when that happened, there was no avoiding the hurt. He’d cracked her with a fist that night and nearly broken her jaw. The next time he hadn’t been as drunk, but he still slugged her in the stomach for no good reason. It was always the little things that would set him off. A misunderstood question, a reply too long in coming. Eventually he didn’t need a reason. Of course, he’d feel bad the next day, take her out for dinner, buy her flowers or jewelry, charm her into bed. Sober, he was the man she’d known when they first started dating.
But he wasn’t sober much anymore.
She chewed her steak slowly, each bite tasting like sawdust. If she refused to eat it, or complained about it, or ordered something different, he’d fly into a rage and blame her for making him mad and making a scene. So she ate the steak. She washed it down with more red wine, becoming dizzier by the moment.
But there was another reason she was getting drunk.
Jack.
She kept seeing his face every time she closed her eyes. She felt his hands on the skin of her back, his lips on hers. Ben was across the table from her, chattering about some basketball game, but she didn’t hear a word he said. Instead, she was hearing Jack tell her she deserved better. She also wondered if Jack was all he seemed to be. She found herself hoping he was, and tried to think of innocent reasons to see him again.
Jack and Djinn Page 4
