True For You (Boys of the South)

by Valentine, Marquita

  But she’s happy, so I’m happy.

  “Shall we resume fishing for our dinner?”

  “By the time we catch something and cook it, there won’t be anything left of me.”

  “Complaining?”

  “Maybe a little.” She grins. “Sorry, I’m excited about eating fish.”

  I bump her with my shoulder. “I’m excited about eating fish with you.”

  She bumps me back. “Maybe tomorrow we can have crab?”

  “Already thinking about your next meal? Man, I must not be doing a good enough job keeping you satisfied,” I tease, keeping my face serious.

  Her smile fades. “Sorry. It’s just… um, I’m… Thank you. I’m having a nice time.” She looks down, her hair falling to hide her face from me.

  “Bliss, hey.” I hook my finger under her chin, but she refuses to move. “I was only teasing. You can request whatever you want, as long as it’s seafood, until either cell service starts working again, or someone magically appears with a boat to ferry us to the mainland.

  “Who’s not Cameron,” I add. “But with the cleanup going on and all the trees down on Highway 74, I doubt anyone’s concerned about some rich guy and his mansion.”

  “I’m happy with whatever you fix us,” she says quietly, still not looking up at me.

  I let my hand fall to my side. “So you’re fine with eel, then.”

  She swallows, and then nods.

  “Ever have sushi?”

  “No.” She shakes her head.

  “Raw fish guts, rolled up in rice and seaweed,” I lie. “Sometimes, when they put in the calamari, the tentacles are still wiggling around.”

  Her head snaps up, eyes huge and face turning a pale shade of green. Puke green, I believe it’s called.

  “So good. You’ll love it.”

  “No thank you.”

  Finally. “Excuse me?”

  “I said, no thank you.”

  “That wasn’t so hard,” I say, pushing back the glasses that have fallen down to the tip of her cute nose. “You’re allowed to say no, baby doll.”

  “I don’t like saying no when it comes to food.”

  Although I know I’ll regret the answer, I ask my question anyway, “Why is that—hate being rude?”

  “Because when I was homeless, I never knew when I’d eat again.” Stepping back, she turns and runs to the house, bare legs flashing. My shirt rides up her ass, and I can see the blue panties she’s wearing.

  I let her go, mostly because I’ve made a complete jackass of myself. Where did you think she lived after she ran away from home, you dumb shit—The Gaylord Hotel?

  “So much for that charming way you have with women,” I mutter to myself. I reel in my line and throw the half of piece of bait into the water, gather our supplies and heading to the garage.

  What I didn’t mention to Bliss is that I have a deep freezer in here, full of fish, shrimp, and crab Cameron and I caught last fall. The meat’s good for a year, so I still have plenty of time to eat it, and no danger of food poisoning.

  After cleaning up my equipment, I head to the freezer and take two bags of flounder out, then head up the stairs to defrost them. The house is quiet and, while I’m filling up one side of the sink with cold water, I’m wondering where Bliss has gotten off to. She can’t be far, because the island isn’t that big and there’s no way off.

  “I’m sorry for running off like that,” Bliss says from behind.

  Breathing out a sigh of relief, I wash and dry my hands, turning off the water with my elbow. “Fishing’s not everyone’s favorite activity. Tomorrow you get to pick what we do.”

  “I didn’t run away from you because I didn’t like fishing,” she says as I turn to face her.

  “You don’t have to explain yourself.” I lean against the cabinets and cross my arms over my chest.

  “But I do.” She walks to me, stopping just shy of touching me. “I’m tired of being ashamed of my past, of being homeless and uneducated. If I can’t be proud of me, then how can you be proud of me?”

  “Do you really think, with all my faults broadcasted all the time, that I have any right to be ashamed of you?” Yeah, I’m answering a question with a question, because I’m wondering how people will react when it gets out that the nobody I married used to be homeless and never graduated from high school. My fans and the press will either love or hate Bliss. Some will even accuse her of being a gold digger. Hell, I’d thought that.

  Will she be able to stand before those people, like she’s doing now?

  Even bigger question—will I be able to stand up to those people and defend her? I’d like to think I could, but my past behavior, my past cowardice and selfishness, speaks volumes.

  “That’s not an answer.” She sighs, and then turns away. “It’s getting late. I’m going to bed.”

  “But it’s five in the afternoon, and we haven’t eaten.”

  “I’m used to going to bed with an empty stomach.”

  “Damn it, Bliss. Stand up to me. Tell me no. Tell me to go to hell. Quit being so damned nice and forgiving.” I’m so mad at myself, at her for being exactly what I need, and a system that let her down, that I lash out like a moron. “Stop being a fucking martyr. If I piss you off, say so.”

  Suddenly, Bliss snaps, her face turning red and her gaze full of fire. “You know what happened to me the majority of the time I stood up for myself or voiced an opinion? I got smacked, dragged by my hair to my room, or worse. So I learned very quickly not to rock the boat, to always be sweet and agreeable, while forgiving the people who should be taking care of me. That’s how I survived my life,” she says, her chest rising and falling. “And that’s how I’ll continue to survive.”

  Gutted. Now I know exactly how that word feels. “I didn’t know.” I can’t think of what else to say, so I apologize. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m done with your apologies.” Turning, she marches away from me, head held high. Up the third set of stairs she goes, the one that leads away from my bedroom and to the opposite side of the house.

  As soon as she’s out of sight, I pick up the nearest object and throw it across the room. “Son of a bitch!” But the wooden cutting board didn’t satisfy my inner rage, so I start throwing everything around—glasses, plates, cutlery, knives.

  I’m pissed and helpless, and pissed at feeling helpless. The only other person who has ever made me feel this way is my dad, and Violet, but that was entirely Everett’s fault.

  A smear of red catches my eye, and I look at my hands. There are tiny cuts all over them, blood oozing everywhere. “Shit.”

  I make my way out of the kitchen, to the closest bathroom, and bandage up my hands. Then I grab some cleaning supplies and start picking the debris left by Hurricane Jackson. By the time I’m done, the fish has thawed.

  I’m not really hungry but Bliss might be later, so I prepare it as usual and bake it in the oven. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I head out on the deck. Only a sliver of the sun is left, casting dark orange light everywhere.

  Movement catches my eye, and I spot Bliss. She sitting in the swing, inside a gazebo that the first property owner built for his bride. There’s even a picture of the Beaumonts, standing in that very gazebo, fresh from their honeymoon, in the town’s local history museum.

  “Want some company?” I call out.

  Bliss starts, then looks up at me and crosses her arms over her chest. “No.”

  I grin at that no, wait another minute, and ask, “What about now?”

  “No.” She tips up her nose and looks away. “And I won’t want company in five minutes either.”

  I start to laugh, unable to help myself. “Ten minutes from now? I’ll bring some of those nasty hot snaps you like.”

  “Maybe in eleven,” she grumbles. “And they’re not nasty. They’re yummy. You just have a delicate stomach.”

  Victory is mine. Laughing at her opinion of my digestive system, I go inside, check on dinner, and grab the bag
of candy, before heading to Bliss.

  She scowls at me. “It’s only been five minutes.”

  “But I brought candy.”

  Her lips smash together and she hmpfs.

  I sit down beside her, pour some hot snaps into my hand, and wave it under her nose. “You can’t say no to candy.”

  “No,” she whispers.

  “What’s that?” I ask, cupping a hand against my ear.

  “You heard me.” She sighs. “I’m taking your advice by standing up to you, but you’re making it hard on me. I love hot snaps. Candy is my one weakness.”

  I store that bit of knowledge in the back of my head. “Taking my advice?” I stretch out an arm along the back of the swing, my fingers brushing her shoulder. Bliss sits forward, then back, and loose curls fall on my arm. “Haven’t you figured out I’m an open-mouth-insert-foot type of guy?”

  She turns my palm over and dumps the candy into her hand. I hide a smile. “No, you’re an always-used-to-getting-your-way type of celebrity.”

  Well, she has me there. I am used to getting my way, with most people, because of my celebrity status. I don’t want Bliss telling me no because of it, though. I want her to say yes or no to me, the man.

  “Care to have dinner with your husband?” I shake the bag. “You can eat dessert first, if you want.”

  She looks at me, calm and steady. “And if I say no, then what—you’ll throw more things around in the kitchen?”

  I flush. “Heard that, huh?”

  She nods. “Your hands gave it away, too.”

  “It’s all cleaned up. Did you come out here because you were scared?” Of me, I want to add, but I don’t. I’ve only made a jackass of myself one other time, with the temper I’d inherited from my dad, and Bliss had been the one to witness it. Our conversation had been nearly identical to the one earlier.

  “Go away, Jackson.” She says the ck portion of my name softly, unlike the hard x of my stage name. I blame my ears for picking up on the nuance.

  I’m not sure what to make of her using my given name. She’s never done it before. “Bliss—”

  “I said, go away.” She bites off the thread and stands, hanging up the shirt before smoothing it out. Then she packs up her supplies.

  “Just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

  She turns to walk past me, head down, like she’s all defeated. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  Thank you? My temper snaps. “Grow a damn backbone, Bliss, and tell me off.”

  Her head snaps up, full lips mutinous. It’s the first hint of anger I’ve ever seen on her face. “I’m not about to give you a reason to feel better.”

  “What?”

  “Most people think that turning into some screaming banshee somehow proves you’re this strong woman who doesn’t take crap from a man, but from what I know, it only gives the other person the right to feel better.”

  In some weird, twisted way, her logic makes sense. I had wanted her to yell at me, to cuss me out, or even throw something at me, because I know how to deal with that. It would make me feel better if she got back at me.

  But this way… I feel worse than ever.

  Maybe I underestimated her.

  “Or hit them,” she adds softly.

  That stops me cold, colder than when Violet caught us. “Hit them?”

  She nods, holding the small, plastic container in her hands out in front of her, like a barrier. Or a shield.

  “I scared you, didn’t I?” The last thing I’d ever want to do is scare her, even if I’d already done it. I’ll never do it again. I’ll find another way to express my anger and frustration.

  She shakes her head, sending dark, curly hair swaying. “Not really.”

  I don’t want to ask, but I do it anyway. “Why is that?”

  “Because I’ve lived through worse.”

  “A little,” she says softly, mercifully pulling me out of my head.

  Dropping the bag of candy into her lap, I turn her to face me. “I’d never lay a hand on you, not in anger. Not ever. I swear it.”

  She takes one of my hands, lacing our fingers together. “Of all the things I’m scared of in this world, you aren’t one of them.”

  “Know what I’m scared of?”

  “Crazed fans.”

  I tilt my head to one side. “Be serious.”

  “No fans.”

  “Are you in my brain, right now, because that’s pretty spot on,” I tease. However, she’s correct. No fans would be the end of my career. It would be the end of me. What would I do if I didn’t perform on stage?

  She smiles at me, beautiful and sweet, just like the first time we met. “I hope I’m in other important places, too.”

  And just like the first time we met, I feel a connection with her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jackson

  The next day dawns bright and unusually warm. I drink coffee as I’m standing on the deck, looking out at the ocean.

  Bliss joins me. “How long will it take for the bridge to be repaired?” she asks.

  I set down my cup and wrap my arms around her, kissing the top of her head. “In a hurry?”

  She leans against me. “Nope.”

  Dipping my head, I whisper in her ear, “What shall we do to pass the time?”

  “Not what you’re thinking.” She whirls around, tipping up her chin. “I want you to teach me how to swim.”

  I raise a brow. “Do you have a bathing suit?”

  Her hands go the hem of her shirt, slowly edging it up her body, giving me an inch-by-inch tantalizing view of her skin, of her stomach, the bottom of her breasts, then a wicked gleam enters her eyes, and she tugs it up and over her head.

  “I have the bottoms to one.”

  I swallow, unable to properly form coherent sentences.

  She’s topless, beautiful skin bare to me. All curvy, her breasts heavy with dark nipples. Turning, she wiggles her ass at me. “Do you like them?”

  The bottoms she has on are barely there, tied on each side, with ruffles in the back. My heart pounds. My cock grows hard, and I can barely think.

  But I can rely on what I’m used to doing when presented with a nude woman. I settle my hand on her hips, pulling her against me, enjoying the gasp that leaves her mouth when she feels how turned on I am by her.

  “You really plan on torturing me, don’t you?”

  That gleam of hers turns flirtatious. “Trust me when I say this kind of torture is mutual.”

  She breaks away from my embrace and runs down the stairs. I chase after her, catching her again when she skids to a stop at the steps of the pool.

  “Scared?”

  “A little.”

  “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Our hands lace together, and for some reason, in that moment, I feel that she won’t let anything happen to me either.

  “You go in first, and I’ll be right behind you.”

  She turns slightly, her gaze catching mine. “Promise?”

  “Always.”

  *** *** ***

  Bliss

  I’m standing in the shallow end, near the edge, as I wait for Jackson to join me. The water only comes to my waist, and I feel too exposed. Maybe I’m throwing too much caution to the wind by going topless, but I have nothing to lose. Not anymore.

  All my life I’ve been cautious, resigned to my situation. With Jackson, I want to be free.

  “Watch out!” Jackson yells.

  I turn in time to see him do a front flip into the deep end of the pool. When he comes up for air, I clap, impressed with his trick.

  “Pretty soon, you’ll be doing that, too.”

  “But not today.”

  He shakes his head, sending water flying everywhere, before he begins to swim in my direction. I bend my knees and sink beneath the surface, until the water hits my shoulders. My heart pounds as he comes closer and closer. A familiar feeling of desire swirls in my abdomen when he holds out his hand.
/>   I smash my lips together, suddenly nervous.

  “Ready?”

  “Kinda,” I answer truthfully.

  He winks at me. “Take my hand, baby doll, and I’ll show you the basics.”

  The minute our hands touch, I suck in a breath, and he does the same. Slowly, with my heartbeat in my ears, I stand and walk to him.

  “Is the water warm enough?” he asks, his voice all low. I recognize what it means. He’s turned on by me. It’s a powerful feeling for someone so used to being powerless.

  Nodding, I softly say, “Yes.”

  He keeps his eyes on my face, and I want to giggle when I see how hard he’s trying not to stare at my breasts. With my free hand, I touch the bluebird tattoo on his chest. It’s over his heart and, for some reason, it makes me sad to look at it.

  “I heard every tattoo has a story. Does yours?”

  His hand covers mine, but instead of pressing it to his heart like I want, he pulls it away. “I was drunk.”

  “Oh.”

  “You sound disappointed.” His dark blue eyes search my face, but I have no idea what he’s looking for—judgment or acceptance?

  “Just curious.” I’ve given him neither, I think.

  Dropping my gaze back to his muscular chest, I bring both our hands to a Grim Reaper. Whoever the artist was, he knew how to draw emotion, because just looking at it makes me feel the angry vibes. The colors are dark, black, red, and navy. “Was this one when you were drunk, too?”

  “I thought you wanted me to teach you how to swim?” he snaps, but I don’t take offense. I know the answer a question with a question game by now. It means I’m too close to the truth, and he doesn’t feel comfortable enough to share it with me. I can’t blame him though. I haven’t shared all my truths with him.

  “Being vulnerable doesn’t make you weak,” I say softly, bringing my gaze back to his face. I’m struck by the underlying vulnerability that actually lurks beneath the surface.

  He blinks, dark lashes fanning over sharp cheekbones, and the vulnerability disappears, replaced by his usual cockiness.

  “For you it doesn’t.” He tugs on my arm and I fall against him, wet skin to wet skin. His fingers travel down my spine, gently touching each vertebra, and I soak in the feeling. “God, you’re soft.”