by Anthology
He slides a leg into his pajama bottoms and then the other, pulling them up about his lean hips. I have to flee this room before anything further happens. His killer face and body makes me want to do things I’ll regret.
“Yeah, uh,” I stutter, walking backward toward the hallway. “I’m going to take a shower and head to bed. If you need anything, just let me know.”
“Sure, sure.”
I smile shyly at him before flipping a bitch and heading back into my room.
During my purifying shower, I feel the shame of that monster’s filthy touch wash away. I’ve always been a very resilient, easy going person, able to bounce back from the worst of situations. Basically, the opposite of Meghan.
As I slip into an oversized tee and then bed, I attempt to understand what occurred in the last hour, but my mind can’t wrap itself around it. I try not to focus on Seamus. With his connections to the mafia, if I snitch on him, I’d wind up dead in an alley or at the bottom of the bay. Instead, I think about Jamison. I toss and turn thinking about him out there on my couch, half-naked, sleeping feet from me.
After an hour of endless thoughts of him, I decide to sneak out to the living room, tiptoeing so I don’t disturb him. As I expected, he’s passed out on the couch. His arm rests across his stomach, the hand hanging over the bandage, with the other hooked above his head. He looks like heartbreak if that makes any sense.
A part of me wants him to come into my bed with me, hold me, make me feel safe. I want to take comfort in his body against mine. Nevertheless, I don’t want to bother him. He deserves an uninterrupted night of rest after what he went through.
I spot Prue sitting on the arm of the couch at his feet. She stares at me with those lethargic, judging, icy blue eyes, licking her chops. “Don’t judge, cat,” I whisper. Meowing her disapproval of my behavior, she jumps onto the floor and disappears down the hall, her ass high in the air.
Before I head back to bed, I lean closer to get a look at his side and make sure there isn’t blood on the bandage. As I shift my weight forward, the floor creaks under me, causing him to stir. I jump and quickly creep back to my room, not wanting him to wake with me standing over him like some weirdo.
I pick Prue up off the floor, climb into my empty bed, and tuck her soft body into my torso. She purrs happily as I comb my fingers through her black and tan fur, clawing at my comforter. Finally soaking in everything that happened tonight, I quietly weep until my awareness fades and merciful sleep takes me.
His rough hands grab at me.
He’s trying to rip off my clothes.
I fight him with everything I have, but it’s pointless.
He force me over the counter.
I claw at it, crying out for help, crying out for Jamison.
I scream his name as my body jolts up, my hands out in front of me to fend off Seamus.
It was a nightmare.
I pant hard, sweat clinging to my flushed skin.
I guess I’m more shook up by the incident than I thought.
“I’m here, Abby,” a voice says from the darkness, an unrecognizable silhouette sitting on the edge of my bed. When the confusion of sleep fades, I remember I invited Jamison to stay the night.
Why is he in my room?
“What are you doing in here?” I question, my tone snippy. I’m still feeling panicked from my dream, my heart banging against my chest.
“You were calling out for help.”
“Oh,” I breathe.
“Now that I know you’re okay, I’ll leave.” He stands up and walks toward the door.
“Or,” stopping, he turns and watches me from the doorframe, “you could stay.”
He stands there, the light from the hallway outlining his masculine frame. “What do you want, Abby?” he asks with a whispered voice.
“I want you,” I breathe out, “to lay with me.”
It’s fucking crazy to request someone you barely know to sleep beside you, when you’re most vulnerable. But if he wanted to harm me, why would he have risked his own life to save mine?
Even though his eyes are veiled by the shadows, I sense them zeroing in on my face. He moves around my bed and crawls in behind me, keeping a reasonable distance, a distance I want to close. After a few breaths of keeping extra still, I begin the delicate dance of discreetly moving into him. My bedsprings squeak beneath me and I pause, holding my breath.
The mattress shifts behind me, then his arm hooks about my stomach and hauls me into him with the ease of a ragdoll. His hard leg muscles flex against the backs of my thighs, his feet tangle with mine, his chest rises and falls. He encases me with his much taller, much wider body, warm and hard against mine.
“I’m sorry about tonight.” I yawn, nuzzling my head into my pillow. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d be unharmed and in your own bed.”
There’s a long silence, the warmth of his harsh breaths on the back of my neck. My body and eyes droop, the world falling away as I drift to that foggy state, teetering between asleep and awake. Before everything goes black, I swear he whispers, “It was worth it.”
CHAPTER 3
TUESDAY MORNING, I shuffle into my living room, scratching my head and wiping dry drool from my chin. My brain hazy with lingering sleep, I take a seat on my couch. When I look down, I spot my phone on the coffee table and the night before begins to piece itself together.
Seamus attacking me.
Jamison saving me.
His arms around me.
I notice all his clothes are gone and the bedding is neatly folded on the couch beside me.
He didn’t even say goodbye.
I make the conscious decision not to dwell on it and stroll into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Deciding to take some time to recoup from the night before, after breakfast I call Meghan and Marcus. Since I want to be alone and forget everything for a little while, I don’t tell Meg about what happened. That would be a drastic mistake. She would freak out and come over to console me, which consists of her asking me a string of questions that would only remind me. I’d tell her when I’d had time to process things. Instead, I tell them I’m sick. Without question, they agree to watch over everything while I’m out.
Over the next week, I kept to myself, locked away in my apartment with Prue. To take my mind off my attack and Jamison’s disappearance, I’d given my apartment a thorough spring cleaning. Armed with a pair of yellow rubber gloves, bleach, and all-purpose cleaner, I lost myself in mindless housework.
By the following Monday, I’ve swept, cleansed, and polished everything until the entire apartment smells lemon fresh, with a strong hint of chemicals. After a rewarding shower, I throw on an oversized sweater and my fuzzy slippers, readying myself for a night of relaxation before I head back into work the next day. If I spend one more day cooped up, I think I might go mad.
I blast the heat and head into the kitchen to make myself a bowl of popcorn to munch on while I binge watch the cooking channels, my guilty pleasure. As I’m dumping the bloated bag into a metal bowl, the ping of a text chimes from the living room. I walk over to the table, pick up my cell, and click on the new message, inwardly hoping it might be Jamison.
Have dinner with me, tonight.
M
Meghan.
When I glimpse at my feast of popcorn, it’s suddenly very unappealing. I text her back.
I can be ready in fifteen.
A
I’ll be there in twenty.
M
We eat at this Italian restaurant, Lucca, down the street from my apartment. Centrally located, North End has some of the best dining, pubs, and entertainment in Boston, which means I rarely have to leave the neighborhood.
“What are you going to have?” Meghan asks, eyeing her menu.
“Ravioli with chicken,” I mutter before taking a sip of my water.
“Mm. That sounds good.” She doesn’t take her focus off the menu. She never seems to be able to decide until the last second.
“
So, what have I missed at the restaurant?” I ask, itching to be in the loop since I’ve been out this week.
“Oh, you know, the usual.” She shrugs, continually glancing over the menu. “But there’s this weird dent in the fridge door. Marcus and I can’t figure out where it came from.”
Shit.
“Uh, yeah, I know about that,” I stutter, my leg nervously shaking under the table. I figure if I tell her what went down in public, there’ll be less of a chance of her having a meltdown. “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay,” she says, placing her menu on the table and giving me her full attention.
“Uh—I was attacked,” I mumble inaudibly.
“What?” she asks, her nose scrunching.
“Um,” I take another sip of water, my throat closing up at the very thought of what happened, “I was attacked last Monday.”
“Oh my God, Abby.” She places her hand over mine sitting on the table. “How? Where?”
“The restaurant. I was closing up—” Since I’m good at pushing my pain down, I’ve managed to avoid thinking about it until now. I learned how to numb myself at a young age. I skim through the events of the horrifying incident, figuring the faster I get it out, the easier it will be. I stop before I reach the part about Jamison busting in.
“How did you get away?” she asks, her green eyes wide and curious.
“Jamison.” A smile graces my lips when his name crosses through them.
“The tattoo guy?!”
“He was returning my phone and heard what was happening. He tore the guy away.” I smile again, thinking about how he’d rescued me. It falls when I remember seeing him on the floor with his hand gripping his side. “Before the damn coward ran out, he shot him. It wasn’t anything serious. He was lucky. But I had to take him to my place and stitch him up.”
“And then?”
“And then, he stayed the night on the couch.”
I won’t tell her about falling asleep in my bed together. It doesn’t seem like much to most people. But Meghan is old school when it comes to men. Such as, you don’t sleep in bed with a man you hardly know—I actually agree with that one.
Jamison, he’s different though. I’m not saying he’s harmless. There is definitely something bubbling below the surface. However, I can’t imagine someone willing to risk his life for mine, could truly be dangerous.
“Well,” she says, gripping my wrist in a reassuring gesture, “I’m glad you’re alright. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, Abby.”
She’s handling this better than I thought she would.
“Why, so we both could’ve been in that shitty situation? I’m glad you weren’t there. Honestly, I would like to drop it if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” she says supportively.
Once we’ve agreed to enjoy the evening, we order dinner and do just that. Devouring our chicken ravioli, we talk about the plans to expand to New York. We’ve been saving up for years, waiting until we found the right property at the right time. We’re close.
Throughout dinner, my mind wanders from future plans to thoughts of Jamison. Actually, he’s been on my mind most of the week. I wish he would’ve left me his number or asked for mine, but it seems obvious he doesn’t want anything to do with me. Usually, this wouldn’t bother me. I’ve never really gotten emotionally close enough to a man for his thoughts about me to affect how I feel. It isn’t the same with Jamison. I care deeply whether or not he thinks of me the way I think of him. That night, even though he simply held me and slept in my bed, it was the most intimate thing I’ve experienced in my twenty-five years.
When our waiter comes back to the table to check on us, asking if we need anything else. “Yes,” I answer, ready to forget this crap mood I’m in now, “I would like two glasses and a bottle of Pinot for the table please. Surprise me.”
He nods his head and walks off.
“You were reading my mind, sister.” Meg winks.
When we leave an hour and a half later, I hail her a cab knowing fully well she’s in no condition to drive.
“Don’t you want me to take you home?” she questions as the taxi pulls up to the curb.
“No, I’ll be fine.” Truthfully, I’m drunk, but I have my own agenda. I open the door for her. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
She steps into the street and turns to me. “What are you up to, Abs?”
I smile at her coyly. “Whatever do you mean, Meg?”
She shakes her head and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll talk to you later.” Sliding in the cab, she gives me one last glance before the car drives away.
I walk up Hanover a few blocks, the bright burn of the neon sign outside his tattoo shop coming into view. Not sure what I’m doing, I open the front door without hesitation, entering the warmth inside. For an instant, I stand there second-guessing my decision. Then, Jamison’s deliciously masculine voice says my name, “Abby?”
My eyes float up to his, unique and questioning.
I want to say something clever, witty, charming, but all that comes out is, “Hello,” in a breathy voice.
Oh, that’s genius.
“Hi,” he says, a ghost of a smile cracking the perpetual hard line of his lips. “Why are you here?”
I forgot to think of a reason. I can’t tell him I stopped by because I missed him. That would be strange.
“To thank you for what you did for me.”
“It’s not necessary.” He smiles sympathetically, as if he were saying ‘You crazy woman, leave me be.’ “Have a good night, Abby.” He walks into one of the tattoo rooms, disappearing behind a blue velvet curtain.
If I were smart, I would walk right out the door and stop bothering the poor guy. Instead, I follow him back. I guess I’m not smart. When he hears the curtain open, he glances over his shoulder, bewildered. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I,” I want you to take me right here on the table. I want you to ruin me, “was hoping you’d take a peek at my tattoo, make sure it’s healing alright.”
He seems to break a little, nodding. “Sure.”
While he parks his presumably fine ass on a stool, I take off my jacket, position myself in front of him, turning my hip toward him, and lift the hem of my dress, the thorny vine peeking out. He chokes down a gulp when he notices I’m not wearing any panties. I haven’t been able to since I got the thing where the strap normally sits.
“Um,” he stutters, skimming his fingertips over the exposed area. They’re electric. “Have you been cleaning it like I instructed?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Well, everything looks better than expected,” he assures me. “It appears you’re almost fully healed.”
“Thanks for taking a look,” I utter.
“You’re welcome,” he replies.
I wait for him to remove his hands, but he doesn’t.
“I should leave,” I state, internally praying something miraculous occurs to keep me here with him, a massive snowstorm, a citywide blackout, a divine intervention.
“Yeah,” he agrees, his fingers digging into my hips, “you should.”
Feeling off kilter, I watch him fixedly, my eyelids like lead from his touch. It’s dizzying—really dizzying.
He stares up at me with a knitted brow, concern in his mismatched eyes. “Abby,” he says, but it sounds warped.
I don’t feel very—
With a quiver of my eyelids, the bright light of daybreak stabs my bleary vision, prompting me to re-shut my eyes immediately. Trying to bring myself into a fully awake state before braving the sunlight, I listen to the sounds around me. Normally, the noises of the neighborhood under my window wake me every morning. However, this particular dawn, instead of the commotion of cars and people, my ears are greeted by the gentle splashing of water.
I’m definitely not at home.
Like one of those plastic moles in the arcade game, I pop up, searching the unfamiliar bedroom for a clue, trying to piece together where
the hell I could be. The room looks industrial, brick walls, exposed beams, and large windows, probably original to the building. It looks like it was once a warehouse or factory perhaps. From the sound of the water, I’m close to the bay, assuming I’m still in Boston. There are clothes sporadically flung across the floor, some of them mine. Shit. The furniture is minimal and simplistic, fitting of the space. And none of these things help me figure out whose place I’m waking up in—half clothed and tangled in their sheets.
What happened after I left Meghan last night?
“Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine in the morning.”
Jamison.
He walks out of the bathroom to the right of the bed, running a towel through his soaking onyx hair—shamelessly naked, every tattoo on his body exposed. He is covered from neck to feet in ink, a walking advertisement for his profession. As I’m admiring his hotness, I catch a glimpse of myself in the fogged over mirror behind him, I wince at the sight of my appearance. “No one likes a sarcastic ass,” I retort.
“It’s worked for me all these years.” He smiles, dropping the towel on the floor, snags a pair of boxer briefs folded over the back of a chair, and slips them on. He certainly isn’t shy about his body. And why should he be? It’s glorious. Before he slides on his jeans, I brazenly note his bulge hanging heavily under the thin material of his underwear. When he reaches for a first aid kit on the desk, his arm moves to reveal the square cloth bandage over his ribcage. It looks like he needs a fresh dressing. I jump out of bed, the shirt he must’ve put on me covering my bare ass, and walk over to him, taking the box.
“Allow me,” I offer.
With a smile, he lifts his arm and I work on fixing him up, removing the old bandage.
“This is your place,” I state, though the answer’s clear.
“Yes,” he responds without a hint of teasing.
“How did we get here?” I ask, lightly cleaning the minor gash then applying ointment. Luckily, by the looks of it, there shouldn’t be a scar when it heals, ruining the graphic skull tattoo where he was hit. It would be a shame to ruin such art.
