Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3)

by Stevie J. Cole

  “Okay, well, besides glitter, what’s your favorite color?”

  “Grey.”

  He snorted, stopping mid-stride to look at me. “Grey? Really?”

  Nodding, I said, “Yep. It’s the color of storm clouds. I love storms. I love rain because it washes all the dirt away. It doesn’t give nature a choice, it just cleanses.”

  That comment took him a second to digest; I could tell by the way he studied me and the slight curl that caught one corner of his mouth that my words had impressed him.

  “Grey. Okay…what’s your favorite food?”

  “Greek.”

  “Favorite book?”

  “Frankenstein.”

  “Favorite animal?”

  “I don’t know. A black and white marmoset monkey.”

  “That’s specific…” He chuckled, and immediately went on to ask, “What about your favorite thing anyone’s ever done for you?”

  I stopped. That was a random, odd question. “What?”

  Jag brushed the hair from his face and pushed his shades on top of his head. His eyes gleamed and he grinned. “What’s the most amazing thing anyone’s ever done or said to you?”

  “I don’t…know.”

  I thought, my mind sorted through my memories and fell on one of Sean talking to me when I was sixteen. My boyfriend had broken up with me because his parents didn’t approve of his dating a girl from “the wrong side of the tracks.” But then again, what parent would really be excited about their son dating the daughter of a meth-head and dealer? During our break-up, the guy had told me that I just wasn’t the kind of person he could associate with. Sean was livid, I could see it in his eyes, but he stayed calm and promised me that I’d be something more than what we’d come from one day.

  I looked down at my feet slowly sinking in the sand and tried not to choke up as I said, “The most amazing thing anyone has ever done was believe in me and tell me I was better than what I’d come from.”

  In that moment Jag’s eyes softened. Tilting his head to the side, he gently swept his fingers across my jaw and nodded. “You are. You are unlike anyone I’ve ever met. You’re…I don’t even have a word for what you are. But people like you,” his eyes narrowed farther, “are one in a million and I’m damn lucky you put me in my place at that meet and greet.”

  That nearly knocked the breath out of me.

  Without hesitation, Jag grabbed onto me and we resumed walking down the beach.

  “I like it here because most people don’t pay me any attention. Anyone seems small standing next to the ocean, and I like that.” He drew in a breath, and then squeezed my hip. “So, your turn. Ask me questions.”

  “The same ones?”

  He shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

  “Favorite color?”

  “Red.”

  “Why?”

  Arching both brows at me, he said, “You ready to have your mind fucked a little?”

  If he only knew how fucked my mind already was. “Mind fuck away.”

  “It reminds me of blood and bleeding means you’re feeling; it means you’re hurt and that eventually the pain will stop or you’ll be numb. And that’s all I want.”

  Ouch. He’s damaged. Really damaged.

  “So you got why grey’s my color, then.” We walked for a few moments, neither saying a word, both just staring down at our feet as we trudged through the cold, wet sand.

  “Umm…” I paused, trying to remember the questions he’d randomly fired at me. “Favorite food?”

  “Thai. And I mean Thai in Thailand. That shit is an orgasm for your mouth.”

  “Favorite book?” I fully expected Hustler or Playboy, but instead, he shocked me.

  “The Picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde.”

  “What?” Realizing how stunned I sounded, I tried to recover. “I love that book too. Crazy.”

  Jag cut his eyes at me, letting me know I didn’t cover up my shock too well. “Yeah, it’s a great book. Scandalous back then, almost corrupt. It always interested me.” He laughed. “What, did you expect me to say the May 2012 issue of Playboy?”

  “No,” I said, defending myself too quickly. “I just never thought the two of us would have so much in common.”

  “Okay, Roxy. It’s okay. I’m not that guy everyone thinks I am—well, at least not for the most part. The whole god-of-sex thing, you can keep on believing that, because that is true.”

  I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and nudge him with my shoulder. “Okay, so what was next? What’s your favorite animal?”

  “Bald eagle.”

  “Very patriotic.”

  He nodded.

  “And,” I stopped to stare up at him. “What is the most amazing thing someone has ever done for you? What’s the best thing anyone has told you?”

  His smile deepened and he turned to fully face me. All I could see was him, his hair whirling around in the breeze, and behind him the ocean. That moment was one that burned itself into my memory, one that I can recall like it were a picture stored deep inside my heart.

  “Well, that’s two different questions, but both came from the same person.” He pressed a soft kiss to my lips, then pulled away and locked his eyes onto mine. “The most amazing thing anyone has ever done for me was make me feel real one night in some run-down dive bar, and my favorite thing anyone has ever told me was that they didn’t really like my music.” A nervous laugh rumbled from his chest. “You are the most amazing thing that has ever broken me.”

  Again, this man had left me speechless, utterly surprised, and weak as hell.

  *****

  After spending hours on the beach just walking and talking, I was absolutely ruined. There were so many layers to him, there was such an interesting person inside hidden from everyone else. I knew I had become tangled up in him and that the only way out would be by getting hurt.

  Jag drove me back to his house, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t curious what his home was like. Who wouldn’t be curious about a lifestyle most people never get a glimpse into except on television and MTV Cribs?

  He pulled up to a gate, punched in a code, and then drove up a bricked drive to the front of a white stucco house.

  He parked outside of the three-door garage, and we walked up the cobblestone sidewalk. The front was lined with impressive landscaping. Manicured trees, bushes, and enough flowers to look like a botanical garden. The lights shining on the front of the house nearly blinded me as I followed him to the front stoop. This house was ridiculous.

  It was huge, it was flashy; it was definitely Jag.

  “Don’t judge me, okay?” Jag grumbled as he jabbed his key into the lock and turned the key. The large rod iron door swung open, without a sound, and the lights automatically flickered on.

  Everything was white. The foyer was white marble from floor to ceiling, with stairs curving up to the far right of the room.

  My eyes darted everywhere, taking in pieces of art and furniture that had been staged, and I’m sure had never been intended to be used.

  “I don’t even go up there.” He pointed to the second floor. “Kind of ridiculous, you know?”

  I wrinkled my brow and followed him through the arched doorway that opened into his living room. “Well, what’s up there?”

  “Rooms,” he said, tossing his keys on the counter.

  Yeah. So I figured.

  Everything was sleek, black and white, and absolutely spotless. The living room had each of Pandemic Sorrow’s album covers framed and hung on the far wall. To the side in a cubby were Grammys, MTV music awards, and other trophies of the band’s accomplishments.

  I had never in my life been in a house like this. It looked like a page out of a magazine, and it in no way looked lived in.

  “Damn, it’s so clean.”

  I was now mortified that he had been in my house. I shook my head as I remembered the cobweb I kept neglecting to wipe out of the corner of the living room and figured he must think I was an abs
olute slob. Even if my apartment had of been cleaned by a professional cleaning service it would have still seemed dingy and poor compared to this spectacle.

  He nodded. “Yeah, that’s not on me though. I have housekeepers. I’ll be right back.”

  Of course you do. Housekeepers. Plural. Shit. He’s American pop-culture royalty.

  I watched him disappear into a hallway and stood, jaw slightly hanging and staring around the room in absolute awe.

  In the hallway were several abstract pieces of art, and in the middle of them the Salvador Dali quote “Only few people know the real me” had been painted in swirly letters. He is absolutely alone. Just like me. That wall was one he had to pass every day. Where it was painted, there was no way to avoid looking at it. It was like he needed a daily reminder that he wasn’t the guy people thought he was. I’d thought he took so much pride in being Jag Steele, but every minute I spent with him, the deeper I got with him, the more I realized he wasn’t comfortable in his own skin. And in that moment it struck me that his addiction wasn’t about the glitz and glamour, or about trying to be the epitome of a rock star; it was a way to cope with living a lie.

  A few minutes later he strutted back in. “Want a drink?” he asked, making his way to a bar situated on the side of the room.

  “Sure.”

  “Bourbon?” He opened the oak cabinet.

  Before I had a chance to answer, he shook his head. “No, you’re probably a vodka girl.”

  Bottles clinked together as he dug through the cabinet. He pulled out a large ornate crystal bottle, then dragged an ice bin from the middle of the cabinet and shoveled cubes into both glasses.

  The stones decorating the outside of the sleek bottle sparkled under the lights.

  “That bottle is gorgeous. What kind of vodka is that?” I knew it had to be something absurd if we didn’t even carry it at The Club.

  “Oval,” Jag said popping the top and pouring a stream of liquor.

  I walked to him, staring at the bottle as I ran my fingers over the smooth texture of the stones.

  Grinning, he said, “Swarovski crystals.”

  “I figured. We have some Alize´ at the bar with pink Swarovski crystals, not near as intricate as this.” I knew how much that bottle of Alize was and could only imagine how much this one was.

  When I looked at him, I noticed his pupils had doubled in size, and everything inside of me shook. He’d just gone and gotten high. I pushed the disgust down, swallowing and wishing I’d just kept my eyes focused on that damn bottle.

  Jag sighed and plugged the top of the vodka. “It was one of those things I bought just because I could. When you don’t have money and then all of a sudden you’re swimming in it, you do ridiculous stuff just because you can. It’s stupid when I think about it now, but it is damn good vodka.” Handing me the glass, he arched one brow. “You don’t mix vodka like this with anything, except some lime.”

  I brought the glass underneath my nose and sniffed. It was strong, but smelled smooth. I sat on his couch, crossed my leg, and waited on him to return from his kitchen. He strutted over, flipping his hair out of his face as he placed a small glass bowl of sliced limes on the corner of the table.

  Jag plucked a bright green slice up. He didn’t ask, he just twisted the thin cut, spritzing a little juice on me before dropping the curled rind into the glass. “Don’t worry, my hands are clean.” He leaned in to kiss my neck. “For now at least,” he groaned, and bit down on my flesh.

  Chill bumps scattered across my skin. Suddenly, everything within me tightened and tensed. My heart palpitated and my leg bounced. Looking around, I took in my surroundings, including Jag, who was now lounging back on his sofa, one arm draped along the back with his glass clutched in his hand, the other arm hung loosely around me.

  He sipped his drink and used the edge of his thick tongue to savor the remnants from his lip. “I’m glad you gave me a chance.”

  I looked at him, caught off guard, and completely unable to form a response aside from, “You’re welcome.”

  You’re welcome? What the hell was that?

  Jag’s deep laugh rolled from his lips. “You’re welcome. Fuck, you are something else.” His grin deepened, forcing his dimples to pop out. “I like the way you make me feel.”

  I took a quick sip of my drink, swished it around for a second to calm my nerves, then set it down.

  “I like the way it feels to be with you,” I tried my best to sound unaffected by him, and in the process just sounded like an idiot.

  At first I really hadn’t been affected by him, and I had been proud of that, but the more I was around him, the more of him I learned, my stoic façade faltered. The more time I spent around him, the more I wanted him, and the harder I fell. All that terrified me.

  Leaning in, I kissed him and within seconds he’d pulled me into his lap.

  I was straddling him, the contact was too much, too tempting, and his hands roughly feeling over every inch of my body nearly made me scream. It was like a form of sexual torture.

  His caresses alternated between hard and soft, rough and sensual, and every few minutes the kiss would grow deeper, more passionate, and nearly silent moans would press through his mouth to mine.

  “God,” he moved his lips from my mouth, gently laying them right below my ear. “I want you.”

  That statement sounded as though it made him weak; it was almost a whisper, but had an edge of a growl to it—it was breathless.

  His lips swept down my neck to my collarbone, his fingers scratching up into my hair. “Fuck, I want you. Like fucking crave you.”

  Kissing down the scoop of my neckline, he pushed his hips up against me; the hard bulge beneath me was impossible to ignore, and that sensation caused my body to instantly prime itself for him. I was wet, I was hot, and I just wanted him to take me. Right then. Right there. However he wanted.

  I leaned my head back to better enjoy the feel of his mouth covering me, and my fingers twirled the silky waves of his hair, ever so slightly tugging the more turned on I became.

  Jag pulled the collar of my shirt down and rolled his bottom lip down my breast, the stud in his lip adding to the overwhelming sexual tension.

  “You believe I like you?” he groaned against my skin. He glanced up at me, his fingers gathering my hair tightly into his fists.

  I didn’t say anything, and just when I was about to, Jag said, “Right. Well,” he kissed his way back up my neck, ending with a hard, long kiss on my lips. “I’m not the guy you think I am, and I refuse to let you believe that I am.” He stared at me for a second and then scooted me off of him. “I’ve got to go to practice in the morning. I should probably take you home now.”

  “What?” I was so confused about what the hell had just happened.

  Jag stood up, flattened out his shirt, and, without even trying to hide it, adjusted the hard-on tenting his jeans. “When I know you understand that I like you, then we’ll go further. I don’t want to fuck shit up with you, and if I let you stay here I will end up fucking you in my sleep. Can’t let that happen.”

  Grabbing my hand, he yanked me up. “Come on, princess. Don’t take it the wrong way.”

  He chuckled to himself and tucked strands of hair behind both my ears, tilting his head as his eyes scanned from my lips to my eyes. “I need you to be different than all those other girls. There’s a first time for everything, and this is the first time I’ve ever respected a woman enough to not fuck her.” He walked toward his entranceway. “Even if it’s killing every part of man inside me not to. Because I have never wanted to fuck a girl the way I want to fuck you. And when I do, I promise I will ruin you.”

  In the past week he had fought for me, he had told me he believed in me, and now he’d just suggested he respected me.

  All those things made it easy for me to forget he was an addict. It made me want to forget that word even existed.

  *****

  A week later, not only was he still pursuing me
, but he really refused to sleep with me, which shocked me. We’d done nothing but hang out at his ridiculous house, watching movies, marathoning seasons of House and Breaking Bad on Netflix, and engaging in a lot—a lot—of really amazing foreplay.

  I thought surely once the satisfaction of getting his way sunk in, he would have moved on to somebody of importance, some other girl that was more like him, yet here he was.

  I’d been so preoccupied with him, I’d been oblivious that the anniversary of Sean’s death was creeping up. Jag really blocked out all the bad parts of my past. It was almost like his presence protected me from all those painful things I’d let consume me, change me, and torment me. When I woke up on May 3rd and looked at the date on my phone, my muscles stiffened.

  Shit.

  Sadness swam through me, and I gave into it. I missed Sean. And I felt like shit because I had been so consumed with a guy that I had forgotten my brother—well, not forgotten him, but I hadn’t observed my usual state of mourning.

  Sometimes I felt guilty when I just went on with life. I felt like losing someone that meant so much to you should destroy you, and it had; but I mean, I felt like carrying on with your life, laughing, enjoying anything was almost sacrilegious.

  A huge part of my soul died when Sean did, and I was in a constant battle with how much I should let it affect me. Until Jag, I had wanted to just lie down and die, and I pretty much had mentally and spiritually. For the past two years I had been nothing more than a shell. Jag had somehow breathed life back into me, and as I sat on my bed thinking about Sean and Jag, the fact that they had the same problems really hit me.

  It knocked the breath out of me.

  How and why had I let him get to me when I knew he was no good for me? I was too involved mentally with him now, I didn’t even want to acknowledge how emotionally attached I’d gotten to him already. I liked him and it wouldn’t be easy to just give up on him. Within a little over a week I’d already lost some of myself with Jag, and, for me at least, when I lost a piece of my heart to someone, I never, ever got it back.

  Chapter 12

  Two days later my mood was absolute shit, and not even Jag’s ridiculously sexy smile could bring me out of it.