When I tap lightly, the heavy thump of footsteps is instantaneous, and I panic, or more or less freak out and turn on my heel to leave. Two steps down and I hear a baritone voice that I suddenly remember just like it was yesterday. “Help you with something?”
Fuck! Fucking fuck!
I shiver from head to toe and turn around slowly. Hesitantly.
The door opens a crack wider, and it’s right there—that familiar warm gaze that reminds me of the crystal-blue waters of Jenny Lake in western Wyoming, where Jana and I vacationed just two years ago. Still electrifying, still stunning, still a shade so damned clear and blue that most any woman would kill to have, his eyes almost do me in.
Jason is tall—well over six feet—lean, and beautifully handsome. With hair a dozen different shades of gold, today it’s cut short, encasing his angular face that’s warm and kissed from the sun, while a coating of manicured stubble covers a strong jawline and two distinguished dimples on either side, all combined with full pink lips that I once thought gave him that “pretty boy” kind of look.
With my thoughts in a whirl, my eyes trail over his body and everything tightens between my thighs. Old feelings come spiraling back inside me, and my hands ache to touch his hair, his cheek, or the thin dusting of a beard across his firm jawline. As a true Texan might say, “There ain’t nothin’ about this man that yells pretty boy.”
“Jen?” He moves closer, and we’re silently gazing into each other eyes, and that’s the instant I notice them—three blood-red spots lurking in a fine trail up the part of his neck that’s almost the nape but not quite, that resemble bite marks. That are bite marks.
Holy fucking shitballs!
I may as well be standing before the Queen of England, the entire royal family, or French President Emmanuel Macron. Words won’t form. My brain is searching for something, anything at all, but I can’t think of a damn thing to say as I stare into the blazing eyes that are passion and ice, certain but hesitant, beaming with that same ferocity they’d had when I offered him my virginity. And when he refused to take it.
With a slight smile, I nod, and he’s instantly smiling so wide that the dimples on his cheeks pop right through the shading of facial hair, and miniscule laugh lines form at the corners of his eyes. Warmth floods my chest, his smile one of the countless reasons I fell for him that day in the park, or maybe sooner.
“Well, I’ll be damned. You’re really here.”
Before I realize it, I’m against his chest and its pounding rhythm while his arms wrap around me. My mind buzzes with the first time he kissed me with desperation behind those enviable ice-blue eyes and the myriad of expressions that followed. I’d felt a hunger and urgency when his hands squeezed my breasts and nipples. I’d sensed power and lust when his fingers slid between my legs but agony and gloom when he rolled his body from atop mine and seen true sorrow and regret in his eyes when he said goodbye.
Keith and I weren’t a couple yet, even though I knew in my heart that I’d love him until my last breath. He was helping his dad brand cattle that afternoon. Rylee was getting her teeth cleaned. It was just Jason and me, in the park, sitting on the bench as he strummed his guitar. Bored out of our minds. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. Out of absolutely nowhere, his guitar was on the grass beside us and we were kissing like desperate lovers, somehow ending up in my bedroom with his hands all over me, touching me in places that had yet to be touched, and stirring feelings that I couldn’t control, and didn’t want to.
Not here. Not like this. That was one of two times he refused me, the second being only a week later. I was beside the house, sunbathing with slick oil covering my body and dressed in nothing but a skimpy white bikini. That visit had been unexpected, as well as his last. This is fucked up, Jen.
“I can’t believe it’s really you. It’s so damn good to see you again, sweetheart.”
His gaze slides over me, and the air seems to shift and turn the surge of delight that’s sweeping through me into one that’s overwhelmingly strong. “It feels good having you back where you belong. Jesus Christ, woman, you’re stunning. Let’s get you inside before your pretty little self melts out here. It’s hotter than six shades of hell.”
Eddie Vedder’s baritone voice drifts from a Bluetooth speaker as Jason leads us inside the traditionally decorated apartment with the air turned down to such a low degree that my palms are instantly chilled.
“Keith said you were ready for a new beginning, but I never thought I’d see you in Springhill again. Especially,” he says with his eyes narrowing, “to re-open Ryker’s museum. Have you seen what he’s done with the place?” There’s a look in his eyes at the mention of Keith’s name that’s warm, almost sensual. But just like that, it’s gone, and he tells me to take a seat on the sofa, while he walks into the adjoined kitchen and gives me an up-close, damned fine view of his intoxicating ass, which has my fingertips trembling to ease over the curves of his hips and slide down the long length of his thighs.
“I was just there. It looks awesome.”
He hands me the chilled bottle of Ozarka, and his fingers brush mine just enough that I sense it through my spine. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me? Less than an hour ago, my body was hungry for Keith, and now I’m having the same damned reaction to Jason. And just like my attraction to Keith, my attraction to this man isn’t just physical. It’s not simply the fact that he’s tall and lean, or still muscular from his days of running track, or that he fills out the tight faded black t-shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin, or even the fact that his jeans hang low on his hips and are snug all the way down to his feet, which are covered in sexy, square-toed, calf-skin Western boots. It’s in his eyes. It always has been. Blue like the ocean, Jason’s eyes flash with warmth and safety. They’re full of passion, life, and emotion, like they’re trying to tell a story. Like a man who’s strong, determined, proud to be the man he is, but holding secrets that he can’t quite express.
His posture stiffens, and he takes a step backward. “You sure you’re gonna be happy here, sweetheart? Running that place that you used to cringe at? In this simple little town after you’ve been a sophisticated city girl all these years?”
“Oh yes … my cultured uptown heart absolutely burns for the city lights,” I counter with a smile then just as quickly put on a serious face. “I—It’s just… God, Jason. Something still makes me cringe when I step in that back room. Even after all this time. And the stupid thing is that there’s no reason for it. There never was. It’s just my ridiculous paranoia and overactive imagination. I lost my complete shit in front of Keith. Started crying like a baby. But I could have sworn Rye was there beside me. God, I felt her there. I swear I did. Then I smelled that nasty-ass spicy stench again that none of you ever seemed to notice. Am I just crazy, Jason?”
“You aren’t crazy, sweetheart. You simply had an issue with Jigsaw and nothing more. But he’s long gone now. And honestly, that smell is probably just something drifting in from the outside or maybe even underneath the place. Hell, the building is over a hundred years old. Then again,” he adds with a wink, “there’s no telling what might be lurking underneath. Could be grimy bodies, decaying skeletal creatures with rotting flesh, or maybe a chupacabra or three.”
“Great.” I force a thin smile. “Makes me feel so much better.”
“Hey, you hungry?” He throws an arm around me. “Wanna get out of here and chill over a little Mendez goodness? Or I have frozen pizza. We could always stay here and discuss aliens, ghosts, and demons.”
When his lips bend into a smile, I feel it in my chest, my belly, my knees, my sex. I feel it absolutely everywhere.
Mendez is still open?
“Oh hell to the yes. I haven’t had Mendez hot sauce in nearly fifteen years.”
The Mendez is a family-owned, small Mexican café over in a residential part of town right around the corner from Homer’s Foodway. It’s been there ever since I can remember, but I am honestly stunned that it’s
still open for business all these years later. My stomach rumbles with hunger just thinking about the best salsa I can ever remember tasting and the gooey, smoked chicken enchiladas that were my absolute favorite growing up. I’m suddenly ravenous and hoping like hell the food hasn’t changed.
Jason grabs his keys, wallet, and phone. “Let’s get out of here then.”
Some ten minutes later, we’re walking through the front door, Jason is being greeted by his first name, and we’re being seated in a booth by the window. Within seconds, a young man brings a big basket of nicely warm chips, two bowls of salsa, and large glasses of ice water with lemon slices, and Jason orders two beers.
“Tell me it’s the same.” I waste no time and take a salted chip then dip deep into the charred tomato salsa, immediately tasting the delicious tang of cilantro, smoked paprika, and fresh jalapenos. I grew up eating here with my family, mainly on Thursday nights when the enchilada plates were half price. Between Mom and Dad, me, and my brother, we’d finish off half a dozen refills of the salsa and just as many of the warm homemade chips before our food was even brought out. Memories of my dad rubbing at his belly and mumbling, “I’m full as a damn tick,” flood my brain.
Lips on fire from the zesty jalapenos, I swallow half a glass of water. “Be still my heart. This has always been, and will always be, the best salsa known to planet mankind. I can throw together a mean-tasting classic and even a decent salsa verde, and I’ve tasted some that are next to none over the years, but they still don’t come close to this.”
“Hasn’t changed a damn bit.” Jason flashes me another grin then lifts the beer to his lips as I chew on another chip like a half-starved stray dog while watching his bobbing Adam’s apple as he takes a long swallow of the bottled Guinness. I catch another glimpse of the bite marks on his neck, and suddenly every inch of me wants to reach out and touch that neck—preferably with my lips—and work my way down.
“Now tell me how you’ve been all these years, sweetheart,” he says in a tone deep and husky, but with a touch of softness.
When a young waitress approaches the table, she gives Jason a flirtatious smile while looking at him like she’d like to lick every inch of his body. “Hey, Jason. Chili rellenos are today’s special.”
With a hard stab of jealousy moving though me as I wonder if she’s the one who’s marked his neck, Jason lowers the beer from his hand then quickly orders for the both of us—spicy chicken enchiladas with green sauce, a menu specialty, tableside guacamole, and handmade flour tortillas. Knots coil in my stomach at the obvious vibes between Jason and the pretty waitress while thoughts swirl around in my head like an ugly mess of chaos and confusion. After another swallow of beer, he turns back toward me, the late afternoon sun shining through the wooden blinds making his eyes glisten like a cloud-free sky and showcasing his perfect bone structure. He’s a stunning man, and the intense blue in his gaze tightens the flesh between my legs.
“Let’s get back to what we were talking about. How have you been, Jen? Really?”
“Good. I’ve been … good.” We ease into welcoming conversation, and I realize that he’s just as easy to talk to as he ever was. “But you…” I finally say after talking about traffic and road rage in the city. “Why are you still in Springhill? And unmarried? Is there at least someone special in your life? Your neck says there must be.” When I’m nervous or worked up about something, I tend to have this weird habit of sliding my thumb between my middle and ring fingers and pushing and releasing it repeatedly. Daddy used to call it the ole guilty finger. Jason immediately notices and lowers his palm against my fidgety hand. I stare down at his fingers with longing and my nerves tingling with the instant urge to crawl up his body and touch every inch with my lips, slowly and meticulously.
“Well, the job has kept me here but also kept me on the road way too much to be married. But I’m not lonely, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Oh.” I force a smile and pretend to sound enthused, while my insides roll at the thought of those sky-blue eyes peering upward as his sexy-as-fuck lips suck at a woman’s clit. As hard as I try to appear indifferent, I have to make myself blink away for a few seconds and concentrate on the party of eight being seated across from us, instead of the man I’m dying to simply ask why. Why wasn’t I good enough? Why didn’t you want my lips on your neck?
Reticence stretches between us when the curvaceous waitress rolls over the cart with the makings of tableside guacamole. Jason inhales a deep breath like he’s relieved for the interruption, while I’m put out with myself that what he’s just mentioned about not being lonely should make me happy, yet does the polar opposite.
“No onions but double the jalapenos.”
“Thank you.” My voice is a whisper, dumbfounded that he remembered that I can’t stand to even look at an onion but that I can eat most any man under the table when it comes to spicy food. My daddy taught me at a young age how to respect a good jalapeno and that removing half the seeds while leaving the others will keep the salsa spicy but not bring on blood, sweat, and tears. I’ve been making his special recipe all my adult life, partially seeding the hot peppers and adding the extra kick of cumin and smoked paprika just as he had, to give it that additional little bang of flavor.
“So, let’s hear about these attorneys you worked for.”
The blonde flashes Jason another inviting grin then places the freshly made guacamole between us with a, “Here you go, Jas. Just holler if you need anything else.”
Jas? The waitress is young and beautiful, almost shockingly so, with an athletic body out of a gentlemen’s magazine, big blue eyes with thick dark lashes, and long silky hair that appears natural and not out of a bottle. With thoughts churning hastily in my head, jealousy tries stabbing at me once again when Jason returns her smile and utters a low, “Thank you, darlin’” that’s so damned sexual and inviting that my hands flex uncomfortably in my lap. Tension in the air is suddenly thicker than butter.
He’s fucked her. Or he damn sure wants to.
But there’s no reason for my jealousy and nothing sexual between the two of us. There never was. Not really. So why the hell am I thinking like a love-sick teenager?
“Jen?” Jason peers down at me with a crease between his eyes as my mind tries returning to what he’s just asked me and not how his come-hither behavior has affected me.
“Criminal defense.” I pile guacamole onto a chip then set it back down. “We, or they now”—I shrug—“are full-service civil and criminal lawyers, specializing in family, car accidents, personal injuries, probate, and civil litigation.” Fire blazes in my sex as I watch his gaze lowering to my lips when I swallow more ice water.
“I still can’t believe you left that life to return to Springhill. I just want you to be happy, sweetheart. More than anything, I hope this move is a good one,” he says with an expression on his face that makes me wonder if he’s talking on a professional note or something entirely different.
We simultaneously reach for the tortillas, and heat flickers in my sex when his eyes meet mine and the warm pad of his thumb brushes over the edge of my forefinger. He fiddles with my hand and runs his fingertips, which are broad and warm, across the soft pink shellac on my nails then caresses each tip as my mind ponders those hands on my face, my neck, my nipples, my clit. With my head a clusterfuck of uncertainty and indecision, I can’t stop fantasizing about urgent, savage, mindless sex with Jason, while still wishing for the same with his best friend.
My God, what’s wrong with me?
A jarring breath shudders through his shoulders. “I’ve missed you like hell, Jen. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to call.”
A tremor moves through me at the sudden fire in his eyes. “I’ve missed you too, Jason.”
“Tomorrow, I head out for a week, maybe two. But I’ll be back for the grand opening. That’s a promise.”
Before I can form the words of a response, my eyes are on his as he stares down at our ha
nds that haven’t budged, barely even aware when the waitress brings our entrees and asks Jas if we need anything else. There’s only that familiar rush of weakness, the descent into yielding, and the cascading tide of heat that’s always left me limp since the first time he kissed me.
“I did want you back then, Jen. I want you to know that. I need you to know that.”
My face flushes with heat as I look into the sincere sorrow covering Jason’s expression. A hundred new questions play in my mind while sending wild tremors through my nerves, tremors that have my whole body trembling. Then why? What did I do wrong? What was so fucked up?
Butterflies flutter inside my belly as I try thinking of what to say or what not to ask. Why am I feeling the same kind of hunger for Jason that I’d just felt hours ago for Keith? It’s fucked up, way out of the range of normal. Though what woman wouldn’t want Keith Ryker or Jason Lee? I disregard his statement because I’ve no idea how to respond. Part of me wants them both … at the same time.
I want to comply and obey Keith. I want his fists knotted in my hair as he pulls me against his thick erection. I want him taking me hard from behind. I want his strong hands, his luscious mouth, his sharp teeth.
Then I want to see Jason’s warm smile as he gazes deep into my eyes. Feel his hand gently caressing my face and tracing the lines of my cheekbones with his fingertips as he makes passionate love to me.
“You sure could have fooled me.” The bold response falls from my lips completely and utterly out of the blue. “Nothing like wounding a girl’s pride in a moment of passion by telling her ‘this is fucked up.’ But it’s okay, Jason,” I add, knowing it’s not, and it never was. “It was a million years ago.”
Call Me Sugar Page 5
