by Jewel E. Ann
“Fuck!” Releasing her hips he brought his hand to his mouth.
Jillian stood, smiling as her tongue swept along her lips tasting his blood. It tasted like control. She wasn’t an animal—she was a survivor. It was a ridiculous justification, but it’s all she had. “My water’s probably cold. Show yourself out.”
Without so much as a curious glance back, she walked up the stairs, shed her robe, slipped back into the bubbly water, and gave herself the most explosive orgasm she’d had in too many months to count.
*
Smoke and rust. Jillian specifically told her ignoramus brother she wanted to paint the living room pewter and pumpkin.
“Close enough.” Jackson dipped the wooden stirrer into the thick, dark orange liquid.
“You’re such a guy,” she mumbled, arranging the drop cloths.
“Why the mood? I thought you were going to take a relaxing bath.”
“I did, but it got interrupted, and then I had to finish in lukewarm water.”
“Interrupted?”
Jillian bit back her grin. “Yes. Sarge.”
Jackson poured the paint into the roller pan. “What did he want?”
Twisted lips hid a dubious smile as her eyes rolled to the ceiling. “Hmm … let me think. He wanted to know where you were, and then he made the brilliant observation … well, at least I think it was an observation and not a question … that you are my brother.”
He glanced up, one eye squinted. “It’s pretty messed up that we let anyone believe it in the first place.”
She grinned. “Yes. But in our defense, we never told anyone we were married, and the truth is … we’re about as messed-up as they come.”
“So he came over just to let you know he’s on to us?”
“Not exactly. I think he was on a mission to solve a mystery.”
Jackson pulled off his T-shirt exposing his freakishly fit, tattooed torso that always seemed to clinch the deal when he wanted to get laid. “What mystery is that?”
“I think he wanted to see our downstairs wall to confirm we were the perpetrators that broke into his house. Apparently Betta fish don’t get along.”
Jackson rested his hands on his hips and leaned forward. “We? You broke into his house, and why the hell didn’t you replace the fish with the same type he had before?”
Jillian pinched her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger. “I was tired, and hungover, and—”
“Stupid?”
“It was just a lapse in judgement. Sam Walton’s will do that to you.”
He handed her a beer, a paint brush, and a side of disapproving brotherly eye rolling. They tapped their bottles, cranked up the music, and attacked the white walls. By midnight they were delightfully buzzed, covered in paint—some of which did make it onto the walls—and ready to dive into the next color when the doorbell rang.
They shared blank stares, of course wondering if the doorbell did in fact ring or if their ears were as impaired as the rest of their bodies.
“Who could that be? Don’t these people go to bed by eight?” Jillian snickered.
Jackson lifted his shoulders then opened the door. “Hey, AJ. Is everything okay?”
Jillian peeked around Jackson. With wide, glassy eyes she checked out AJ’s swollen lip and small knot on his forehead. Hers was concealed by hair.
“No. Everything is not okay. It’s after midnight and you’ve had the music so fucking loud over here I can’t sleep!”
Jackson’s lips puckered into an O as he grimaced. “Sorry about that. I think we’re ready to call it a night.” He turned. “Right, Sis?”
Jillian’s wry grin was meant for Jackson, but AJ’s eyes narrowed into slits of displeasure as if they were making him the butt of their joke—and maybe they were. But even in her foggy, relaxed state, she couldn’t stop thinking about the heat from his lips, the taste of his tongue, and how his hands sliding up her bare legs took her halfway to her bathtub orgasm.
“Yes, we’re going to bed, but not together. We only do that on April 10, National Sibling Day. Oh and Twins Day, which is coming up sometime in August … I think. But it’s an unofficial day so we don’t always celebrate it.”
Jackson snorted out a laugh. “She’s full of shit.”
Jillian found her intoxicated eyes lingering on AJ’s bare feet and large defined calves. The right one had a serpent tattoo wrapped around it. She imagined tracing it with her tongue.
“I’m aware of that. Just try to be more respectful of the noise level.” AJ cleared his throat.
Jillian’s eyes flicked up to his, but his quickly cut to Jackson’s.
“Will do. Good night, AJ.” Jackson shut the door before AJ even turned away.
“Fuck, Jill! You have to stop that shit.”
Chapter Seven
Most brothers remember how bratty their little sisters were or how they were treated like a princess. Jackson’s sister hated being called “younger,” but that’s what she was, at least in his mind. Jillian was born seven minutes after Jackson, and rarely did a day go by that he didn’t remind her of it.
When he thought of his sister, it was usually the ghost of her innocence. It was the young teenage girl that watched a video on slaughter houses and declared never to eat meat again. He remembered the shrill scream of her racing across a room to save a spider from its near death as their father prepared to snuff out its life under his shoe. She shooed him away then coaxed the spider onto a piece of paper to set it free in the backyard.
Jillian walked away from the front door, refusing to acknowledge him. She always hid her regret behind a pile of denial.
“What happened to you?” he asked, his voice a notch calmer. “You’re not that person anymore. You shouldn’t even want to be that person. She died. Let. Her. Go.”
Jillian pounded the lid back onto the can of paint. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Don’t! You can lie to anyone, including yourself, but you can’t lie to me no matter how hard you try. I saw him.” Jackson grabbed her arm and turned her toward him then brushed her hair off her forehead.
Jillian blinked at the floor.
“You head-butted him.”
“He grabbed my—”
“You bit him! I saw the bite mark on his lip.”
She turned her back to him.
Jackson sighed. “This is your chance, Jill. You can be whoever you want to be. It’s not perfect, I get that, but you can find normalcy. That part of you doesn’t have to die. You were quirky, and a little weird, but in a completely endearing way. Remember when Dad would go to Home Depot and you’d beg to go with him because you loved the smell of the place? Even when Mom told you it was just chemicals off-gassing, you didn’t care because your other little secret was how you’d crack open the door when they filled the car up with gas because you loved the smell of those fumes too.”
Jackson grieved for his sister—what she’d seen, who she’d become. He suffered from his own denial. They were told she’d never completely recover, but he refused to believe it. She was too strong. He wanted to believe that she could prove everyone wrong.
“Do you remember when you got your first babysitting job how you blew your whole paycheck at Staples because you had an addiction to office supply stores? I miss that girl. I miss you showing me a carton of Sour Cream and Chive Pringles, an ice scraper, toenail clippers, a bulk box of red Bic Pens, and a box of tampons, then asking me if I knew where you got everything just so you could yell ‘Staples!’ before I had a chance to answer.”
Jillian turned back around. “No, I don’t remember because that girl is gone. She died. Let. Her. Go.” She sulked toward her bedroom.
“What’s going on with AJ? What is he to you?” Jackson called after her.
His sister had mad talent for compartmentalizing her emotions, almost to the point of OCD. Every situation had a little shelf in her head and she never took more than one thing down at a time, never mixed feelings, always kept a se
nse of control. Sometimes she sounded like she was regurgitating lines from a self-help book. The problem was, when she couldn’t mentally or emotionally handle a situation, she tried to physically control it. AJ was clearly one of those situations.
She stopped at her door and released a slow, controlled breath. “He’s therapy.”
Out of a million answers she could have given him … that was the one he feared most.
*
Take away a college education and all previous work experience and the only thing that’s left is one unmarketable loser. That’s how Jackson felt. Even as the movers were delivering his piano, the daunting task of finding students—adult students—drove him back into the warm comfort of a cool Heineken.
“It’s a grand piano.” Jillian observed as the movers situated it in the middle of their great room. “And it takes up the whole room. If we sit on the sofa we won’t be able to see the T.V.”
Jackson laughed. “We don’t have a sofa or T.V. anymore, remember … you had Stan haul them off.”
“The sofa smelled like Febreeze and the T.V. was a box—with a turn dial.”
“It didn’t have a turn dial, you goof. And this was your job choice for me.”
Jillian pressed her foot into the back of Jackson’s knee causing him to falter a bit. “Yes, but I envisioned an upright piano on the sun porch.”
“Then clearly you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” He ran his hand along the sleek black lines of wood then feathered his fingertips across every ivory key without making a sound. He loved music, it conveyed emotions much deeper than words.
They both had taken lessons from the tender age of four, yet Jillian had merely managed to butcher each note of every song that was set before her. She practiced. Jackson played.
“Well my Lascivio kit should arrive later today, and I’m watching after Lilith this afternoon, so I think it’s official: We are back to being responsible adults.” Jillian snatched his beer. “Starting now.” She sneaked a swig, then dumped the contents down the drain.
“Buzz kill,” Jackson grumbled. “Did you know some of history’s greatest composers were alcoholics?” He tipped the delivery guys before shutting the front door.
“You’re so full of shit.” Jillian plopped down on the piano bench.
Jackson sat next to her and played “Chasing Cars.” “I’m not. Have I ever steered you wrong?” He smirked.
Of course he’d steered her wrong. That was his favorite game. He believed you could convince people of just about anything as long as it was said with complete and unwavering conviction. Jackson told her it was human nature to doubt oneself, even in matters of factual certainty.
Jillian nudged his shoulder. “It’s the only way you steer me. I have to go. If my Lascivio stuff arrives, stay out.”
Jackson laughed. “I’m not into sex toys.”
“Too intimidating?” She winked, slipping on her shoes. “Vibrator envy?”
Jackson looked down at his fingers as they danced over the keys with effortless grace. “Nah, it just makes me sad for all the women that will stick anything in their pussies.”
Jillian paused before closing the front door. “Huh … interesting. Those are the same words I used to say about all the one-night stands you had over the years.”
Chapter Eight
Beneath the emotional armor of self-preservation, Jillian Knight wore a cloak woven with threads of deep love and compassion. She knew it was there, but she hid it well. All it took to see that intricate fabric of her heart was someone who needed protection more than her. Lilith Kepler was that someone.
“She just ate, but if you wouldn’t mind washing up those few dishes I’d gladly pay you extra.” Dodge slipped on his shoes. “She may need to go to the bathroom and being the stubborn old woman she is, she won’t ask for help but eventually you’ll have to go in there and pull her ass off the toilet. I need to get a rail put up, but I just haven’t yet.”
Jillian sucked her lips in and nodded. She imagined Dodge’s seemingly insensitive persona was nothing more than a mask to hide how much grief he felt for his sick wife. Masks were sometimes necessary. Jillian had many of them.
“Oh, and don’t forget. She’s deaf … mute would have been nice, but I guess we don’t get to make those decisions.” Dodge winked while scratching the bald spot on his head surrounded by a halo of gray hair.
“We’ll be fine and I don’t mind doing the dishes, no need to pay me extra. In fact if you have laundry or some other cleaning you need done, I’d be happy to do it. She doesn’t look too demanding.” Jillian looked over at Lilith in her recliner chair, head bowed into a book.
“She’ll be out before too long. Might want to bookmark her page though, before it falls out of her hands. Pisses her off when she loses her spot. I’ll be back in a few hours.” Dodge gave a final wave before shutting the door.
Jillian inspected the familiar surroundings. Most of the townhomes had a similar floor plan. She was impressed that the Kepler’s was updated with tile, hardwood floors, brushed nickel fixtures, and earth-tone paint on the walls.
Lilith’s eyelids closed, head tilted off to the side. Jillian eased the book out of her hands and slipped the bookmark in place, then draped a blanket over her lap. The T.V. was turned down, closed caption along the bottom of the screen. She grabbed the empty coffee cup on the end table and took it to the kitchen to wash with the rest of the dishes. On the granite bar top was a sliver-framed photo of a dog, a yellow Great Dane with a black mask.
“Pretty dog.” She looked back, not knowing why. Lilith was deaf and sleeping. “I had a dog once.” Jillian began to fill the sink with hot soapy water and the silence with a story. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but…” she shrugged her shoulders “…I think I need to.” She grabbed the sponge and laughed. “I bet you can keep a secret, huh?” She didn’t look back again. Jillian knew Lilith was nothing more than a warm-bodied statue that made her feel as if she wasn’t just talking to herself like Stan did, even if she really was.
“Jones was white with irregular black patches over his entire body. He was small and pudgy with big paws and so ornery. But that’s not where the story begins.” Jillian closed her eyes for a brief moment. “I was Jessica then … Jessica Day.”
*
Day
Jessica Day was an actuary intern by day and vampire by night. At least that was what she put under reason for visit on the health form she filled out at the office of Dr. Luke Jones, Psychiatrist. Her brother got his name from a friend who said Dr. Jones was stern, unconventional, and had already received high praises from other more experienced doctors in the field. He was known as the go-to guy for the more challenging psychological issues.
“Dr. Jones will see you now.” The sixty-something receptionist smiled.
Jessica looked up from her computer resting on her lap. She was studying for her next actuary exam, and after that she would be studying for the next and the next … That’s all she did, worked, studied … oh, and made people bleed.
“Psst.” The receptionist beckoned her with a crooked finger as Jessica walked past her desk. “I tell everyone this on their first visit. He’s young but he graduated top of his class and he’s just … brilliant.”
Jessica’s eyes widened, her lips parted into an O as she tucked her long brown hair behind her ear. “O-kay.” She gave a slow nod. “Like Doogie Howser young?”
The receptionist’s brow lined with confusion. “Of course not. He’s thirty-two.”
Jessica winked. “Good to know.” As she opened the door she stopped before clearing the threshold.
Perplexed. That was the only word to describe the look on Dr. Jones’s face as he leaned against the front of his desk, one ankle crossed over the other, hands resting on the edge. She felt him making a ten-page assessment of her before she spoke her first word. Her assessment of him was much shorter: sex in a suit.
“Come in, Miss Day.”
Jessica peele
d her eyes off him and turned to shut the door. “I’d like to come alright,” she mumbled to herself. Turning back to him she smiled.
Dr. Jones exuded confidence with his neatly parted black hair, a gleam in his blue eyes that tracked her without a single blink, and the way he held his shoulders back, chin up. He pushed off the desk and offered his hand with an air of calm self-confidence. “I’m Dr. Jones. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
His steadfast professionalism was reassuring and continued to feed her new naughty-doctor-troubled-patient fantasy. “Call me Jessica.” She gave him a firm shake, a very firm shake.
He raised a single brow, undoubtedly questioning the reason for her iron grip, but he didn’t back down from her non-verbal challenge. Her body language said more than she did that day.
“Please, have a seat wherever you’ll feel most comfortable.” He gestured to the chairs facing his desk and a brown sofa against the wall to the right by a fish tank.
Jessica surveyed her options. “Hmm … everything’s covered in dead cow. You don’t by chance have something in cotton or polyester do you?” She wanted Dr. Jones to feel distracted, slightly off kilter. She needed the upper hand. After all, that was the reason for therapy.
He straightened his light blue tie that looked sharp with his steel gray three-piece suit. Jessica expected a slight grimace, or some sort of stumble over his composure. How was he going to counsel her if she refused to sit on leather? Which of course she didn’t really have an issue with it, but wasn’t going to tell him that until she’d made him squirm a bit.
Dr. Jones tipped his chin, gesturing to the floor. “I believe the carpet is a nylon blend. Have a seat.”
She looked at the floor then back up at him. He held her gaze with eyes that said checkmate. Jessica ran her hand along the leather chair in front of him.
“Feels like aged leather. I bet the cow died of old age before they claimed its remains from a large grassy field under the arch of a late spring rainbow.” She stepped forward and slid down into the “humane” leather chair.
