My breath is hard to control, coming out in short, fragmented puffs. “It’s not the driving,” I mutter and bridge the gap, smashing my lips into his. The full aggressor, I grab handfuls of his hair and pull him deeper into the kiss. He responds with roaming hands that scour every surface of my body and settle cupping the curves of my butt in his palms. I run one hand down the front of his stomach and grab hold of the waistband of his pants.
A low moan escapes between our lips, and he mumbles, “Remember those pure intentions?”
“Uh-huh,” I whimper, my mouth still on his.
“Yeah, those are out the window.”
“Good.” I grab the hem of his T-shirt and pull it over his head, clenching it in my fist as if it’s a trophy. His bare chest ripples under my fingertips as I trail kisses down the slope of his neck. His breathing comes faster, the warm air coursing over me in waves.
He throws open the door and maneuvers us both out of the seat, never releasing his grip, only hoisting me higher in his arms once he’s standing. I wrap my legs around his waist as he shuts the car door. His coppery skin is slick against mine, and he carries me toward the garage.
“Where are we going?”
“There’s a studio apartment upstairs,” he whispers before pushing his lips back against mine. He sets me on my feet and unbuttons my blouse with one hand while his velvet lips wash up and down my neck and over the top of my breasts. We stumble up a flight of stairs, littering the steps with the clothes yanked off in our hands-on exploration. At the landing, Jett twists the knob and kicks the door open with his heel. He pulls me with him to a bed in the corner where we collapse on the comforter. I still grip his T-shirt in one hand, so I fling it onto a small chair in the corner.
He hovers above me on the bed, kissing and groping, starting at my belly button and ending at the ribbon trim lining the bottom of my bra. With a sly grin, his fingers slip under the elastic, trailing pinpricks of fire and ice over my skin as he makes his way to the back, and in one quick motion, sets me free. The black lace lands on his rug, joined shortly by its match.
Jett’s wide eyes roam over every hill and valley as my aching for him swells inside like a wave rushing to shore. He leans over and fumbles in his wallet, then quickly slides off his boxers and tosses them into the pile.
A swell of butterflies beat against my ribs, an assurance I want Jett in every way possible. Right now.
His lips brush over mine, softer than before but enough to stir the craving even more. My body arches into his as he whispers, “Are you sure?”
His eyes search mine, waiting for my answer. I twine my fingers in his hair and wrench him to me. “Yes.”
I lift my head off the pillow. The silence of the room is broken only by the distant song of the cicadas outside. The red digits on the alarm clock say 3:12 a.m., but the pillow beside me is vacant. A small sliver of golden light cuts through the dark, and in it, Jett’s silhouette hunches over his desk. An art case filled with colored pencils and gum erasers sits beside him.
I ease from the tangle of sheets and sneak to the chair in the corner. Grabbing his T-shirt, I slip it over my head. Immediately, the blend of gasoline and coconuts envelops me.
“I like you better without it,” he says without turning around.
“Jett! How did you know I was up?”
“The secret to racing? Gotta have eyes in the back of your head. Know your six at all times.”
“Guess I can’t get anything over on you.” I walk behind him, lacing my arms around his shoulders, and nuzzle his neck. On the paper in front of him is a delicate vine with flowers. Camellias. “What’s this?” I ask. The petals on each blossom are expertly shaded, so much so they seem to leap off the page like an optical illusion. But the vine—something about its snaky, winding path seems familiar.
“It’s for you. A tattoo design.”
“A tattoo?”
He stands up with the thin paper, lifts the T-shirt, and presses it over my scar. An exact match. I gasp. “I traced your scar after you fell asleep, and then designed this. Figured it might be good therapy to dress it up. Maybe realize good can come from the bad.”
Tears slide down my cheeks as I clutch the paper—so fragile in form, so heavy in meaning. A simple thank you will never be enough. I cup his cheek in my hand, his stubble pricking my palm. “You’re the good in my world, Jett.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“See you later, Mrs. Baxter!” I yell over my shoulder.
The day’s been unusually slow with only three customers during my shift, probably because of the picture-perfect sunshine and the fact Saturday’s a “turnover day” on most of the rentals. Everyone’s either on the beach, packing, or unpacking. Right now, nothing sounds better than spending an afternoon with Jett, cuddled under the pier, possibly reliving some of those moments we shared after the race. But when I round the corner to The Shrimp Shack, he’s not the one waiting for me.
Jenniston gazes at me over the rim of her sunglasses with a mega-watt smile, looking as model-esque as ever in a bright pink halter-style sundress. She waves from the porch and motions me over.
“Hey there! I came by looking for Jeff, but it looks like he and Jett had to make another shrimp run this afternoon. They should be back soon according to this.” She holds up a half-sheet of lined paper with a few short lines scrawled on the front and shakes her head. “He could’ve saved me a trip. That man refuses to use his cell phone.”
“In that respect, Jett is not his father’s son,” I say with a laugh. “He’s never without his.”
“Tell me about it. Even more so now that you’re in his life.” She threads her arm around mine and nods toward the dock. I amble along beside her, trying not to obsess over what she inadvertently revealed—a confirmation of what Rachel’s been saying about Jett always being preoccupied with me.
“Maybe we should take my number out of his Contacts.” I force another laugh to hide the gnawing in my gut. “Get his head back in the game.”
The slatted boards of the dock creak under our weight, and Jenniston directs us to a long expanse with no railing. She tucks her dress underneath her and sits on the edge, dangling her legs over the side. I join her, and we sit for a moment. The soft lapping of the rising tides sloshes against the barnacled posts.
She leans toward me and nudges her shoulder into mine. “You know, Jett’s never paid much attention to anyone outside of his racing team until you came along. It’s still so funny to see him squirreled away in the house, texting you non-stop.”
There it is again. I chew on the soft fleshiness of my inner cheek, debating whether or not to ask Jenniston the simple but loaded question that’s been haunting me. One I might not want to hear the answer to.
I clear my throat, and she looks over at me. “Do you think I’m distracting him?”
Jenniston purses her lips and takes in a big breath, holding it for a beat before blowing it out. “Is that you or Rachel talking?”
My jaw drops open and a fluttering kicks up in my chest. I readjust on the dock and fidget with a rusty nail that sticks up from one of the boards. How does she know about Rachel’s beef with me?
Jenniston reaches over and pats my leg. “Don’t look so surprised, CJ. This is a small island and an even smaller racing community. I know all about Rachel’s meltdowns where you two are concerned. She’s complained more than once to Jeff about Jett’s lack of focus on the track and how it’s going to cost her. Her future. Her spot in the big time. Her, her, her.” She nods her head back, punctuating each “her.”
So, this has grown bigger than just bickering. Rachel really did go through with her threats and took the problem she has with our relationship to Jett’s dad. Jett always dismisses Rachel’s talk as the rantings of an opportunist, but would he casually ignore his own father’s advice? A father who’s been the only real parent to stick around and who also happens to be his manager? Probably not. The gnawing in my stomach clenches harder.
�
��What does Mr. Ramsey think?” My voice wavers as I say the words.
Jenniston stares out at the horizon toward the afternoon sun. The amber light dances around her like a halo. “Jeff’s always focused on the race. Sometimes too much. He forgets Jett is a 17-year-old who, in some ways, just wants a normal life. But he also trusts his son and stands behind him. I personally think it’s great that you break things up for him a bit. Get him off the track. Remind him there’s more to life than asphalt and octane.” She bites her lip and stares down at her lap. “Jett’s a good kid. Always has been. I’ve been very lucky to be his stepmom.”
From the way her eyes twinkle when she talks about him, I can’t help thinking that maybe Jett’s the lucky one to have someone come into his life, love him like he were her own, and choose not to leave. Choose to be there when other DNA-linked people didn’t.
“Jett told me about his real mom,” I blurt out without thinking and immediately wish I could suck the words back into the depths.
Jenniston stops cold, surprise seizing her face. “He did?” She raises her hand to her mouth, shaking her head. “I’m shocked. I mean…not that he told you…but he doesn’t talk about it—about her—ever.”
I shrug. “His feelings are all mixed up. He’s confused, and he has a right to be. What I don’t get is…how could she just—?”
“Walk away?” She glances at me, tears rimming her eyes. “This is a hard lifestyle. Janice isn’t a bad person. She just couldn’t handle it. She hated when Jeff and Jett were on the road, and the constant worrying and loneliness finally got to her.” She blows out a loud breath. “That’s obviously no excuse for her cheating or leaving her own child, but it’s an intimidating task, to fit in when you’ve not been brought up in this world.”
The thought of being caught in the middle like that—having to choose between love and self-preservation—wrecks me. But one thing Jenniston says twists my heart the most. I’ve not been brought up in this world. Everything about it is still so foreign to me.
A lump builds in my throat, and I whisper my one gut-wrenching fear. “Maybe Jett would be better off with someone else. Someone who understands what it takes to be a part of this. Someone who helps instead of hinders him.”
Jenniston gasps and grabs my hand, gripping it between hers. “Oh no, honey. That’s not what I meant. Growing up in this life isn’t a pre-requisite to be happy with him. It just takes character and strength to deal with this type of lifestyle. You have so much of both.”
“Sometimes I wonder about that.” I pick up a broken shell from the dock and launch it into the water. Circular ripples surface and spread out, dissipating.
“Can I tell you something?” she asks, scooting closer so that her rose-petal perfume encircles us. “When Jett first met you at the market, he said he saw something familiar in you. Something that hit home with him.” She reaches up and brushes away a few strands of loose hair from my face. “If you’re not into racing, so what? The connection between you and Jett is stronger than that.”
A breeze kicks up. I lean back on my elbows and close my eyes, letting the sun warm my face. “I hope so,” I whisper, so low my voice melts into the whoosh of the moving tides.
“I think you and Jett deserve a nice night out.” She rummages through her purse and pulls out a white envelope and hands it to me. “Here.”
I open the flap and pull out two dinner vouchers to a restaurant in Beaufort. “What’s this for?”
“Our new client couriered these over earlier. Five-star quality food, according to their ads, but I do know their seafood is divine, supplied fresh from some awesome local shrimpers you and I both know.” Her eyebrows move up and down, and she points down the canal where a large shrimp boat teeters on the horizon.
“Jenniston, we can’t—” I begin to protest, but she waves me off before I can manage another word.
“Take them. Jeff hates getting dressed up to eat out. He’d much rather go grab a bite from Something’s Fishy. Besides, you and Jett deserve a real date instead of hanging out at the beach all the time.”
A short distance from the dock, much closer than before, I can make out Jett’s figure standing at the front of the shrimp boat, waving in our direction. A quiet night away from the island and the racing and Memaw’s prying eyes sounds phenomenal. A moment to slow down and just be us without any expectations or interferences. I slide the vouchers back in the envelope and slip them into my purse as Jenniston beams, and I’m compelled to hug her.
I lean over and wrap my arms around her, squeezing tight. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
The spinach salad is of the wilted variety with some sort of artisan, gingery-tasting dressing I can’t pronounce. The fact we’re sitting in one of these upscale, coat-and-tie dining establishments with the real china and the authentic crystal goblets verges on the hilarious. It’s so not our style, but I guess when your dad’s company is providing the fresh-caught seafood, and the restaurant owner gives you two vouchers for dinner on opening weekend, you dress up and go.
While picking the cucumbers from my salad, I notice a woman staring at our table with an odd expression, somewhere between confusion and surprise. Go figure. We’ve garnered more than a few wary glances since walking in, as if all of the dressed-up, professional couples and families naturally expect us to be obnoxious just because of our age. And maybe we do look a little conspicuous, two teenagers eating at what the local newspaper called “Beaufort’s swankiest taste of the South.”
Still, one glance is acceptable. Two, irritating. But this is some sort of relentless gawking that scatters chill bumps over my skin.
I try not to stare back. No use encouraging her. But when it continues into the shrimp scampi main course, the warning bells in my brain go off. Something’s not right about her full-on ogling, fork paused mid-air between her plate and open mouth, or the way she never acknowledges the man and the teenaged boy sitting at her own table. While they load forkfuls of the night’s special in their mouths, laughing and talking together, she remains rigid and cold until she turns her head and catches my eye. She issues me a small grin that pinches up the corners of her eyes. I can’t place her, but the face is familiar. Maybe she’d been a customer at Beachin’ Books. So many come in each week, it’s impossible to remember every one.
I nudge Jett’s elbow. “There’s a woman at the far table who keeps staring at us, and…”
He leans back in his chair, craning his neck for a better look.
“Don’t. Too obvious. Just gradually check it out in a minute. I swear she looks familiar.”
Jett smirks, stretching his arms wide with a fake yawn while swiveling himself in the direction of the back table.
I roll my eyes at his obvious lack of smoothness and stab a bit of potato with my fork. “So, what’s the verdict? Do we know her or not?”
Jett doesn’t respond. He’s frozen in place; his lips and chin dimple both flat-lined, and his eyes are wide, unblinking. The woman sits across the room, still staring, though her expression has changed. Her lips are downturned, and her hands knead the linen napkin in her lap. Tears streak her cheeks. Why?
“Jett?” My fork clangs against the china as I grab for his hand. His fist is clenched tight like a rock. “Who is she?”
I don’t have to ask again. When I look at him, I know who she is. The coloring, the chin dimple, the smile—I have seen it before.
On Jett.
Oh my God.
“She’s my mother,” he spits out, jaw clenched tight. “If you can call her that.”
Across the room, she sweeps her hand over her open mouth. Her dinner company, the man and the boy, glance in our direction. The boy’s eyes shine a rich emerald green.
Jett’s expression softens for a moment before he throws down his napkin, fumbles with his wallet, then tosses the dinner vouchers and a hefty tip on the table.
“I’m done here. Are you ready?” It’s not really a question. He’s on the run, and nothing I say
is going to sway him from getting the hell out of dodge.
I manage a meager nod, all the right words sticking in my throat. Helping Jett find the strength to face it head-on would be best, but I’m in no position to be handing out family relationship advice. So I scramble from my seat, having to run-walk behind him to keep pace with his angry strides, which are twice their usual length.
Jett shoves open the double doors. Within seconds, the humid night air shrouds us like a heavy blanket. He walks straight to the large metal garbage receptacle at the building’s corner.
Bam! Jett slams his palm against the bin’s green metal top, and the sound echoes through the park. Passers-by stop and stare in our direction. I know from experience there are times when no words can help. This is one of those times. So, I step closer to him and run my fingers along the stony muscles lining his spine.
“I’m sorry. I can’t…” He turns to me, anger subsided; the timidity of his expression catches me off guard. Suddenly he looks so much younger, so vulnerable, as he turns and folds himself into my arms. He clings to my waist, mashing his face into the braid draped over my left shoulder.
I want to tell him it’s okay, that I’ll help him through it, but before I can open my mouth, we’re interrupted by a voice that echoes Jett’s Low Country drawl in a higher pitch.
“Jett?”
Those green eyes look totally different on the boy, young and innocent, and I can’t help noticing how they’re rimmed with tears. Jett whips his head toward him, standing by the restaurant’s entrance. He’s slightly bent over with his hands on his knees, panting from his quick jaunt out the door.
“Buck? My God, you don’t look anything like the last—”
“You know, just because you and Mom fell out doesn’t mean you had to forget about me,” Buck interrupts, his voice more pleading than accusatory. “I needed you. I wanted us—”
Before he can finish, Jett steps forward and wraps him into a bear hug. Buck hesitates at first, then slides his arms around Jett’s back. His fingers clench in the folds of Jett’s shirt as if he’s afraid that at any minute, it’ll all disappear.
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