Enjoy Your Stay

by Carmen Jenner

  “Why the hell are they both so into him? I mean, the bloke’s like a hundred.”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug, “he’s kinda sexy.”

  “You have taste in your arse, Hols.”

  “Yeah, well, I did sleep with you,” I joke, and then remember why that is so not funny. Truthfully, the way Jackson dismissed me the other night made me feel like nothing more than a dirty slut. Yes, yes, I asked for it, sort of. I mean, if you were to ask Jackson, it’d be all my fault, because I burst into his room with all the moxy of a Vegas showgirl, and threw my little slutsky self at him, and begged him to fuck me. And yes, okay, it might have gone down not too far from that, but the fact remains that I told him we should stop, and he grabbed hold of my hand and thrust us both headfirst over the cliff-face. Where exactly are we now? Fucked if I know. Probably the same place we’ve always been: walking a very fine, and tragically ill-fated line.

  “We gonna talk about the other night?”

  “What? You mean the fact that Sammy lost his mother, and Bob lost his wife?”

  “You know that’s not what I mean.”

  “No. We’re not going to talk about it. We’re not going to have a repeat performance, and we’re not talking about it.”

  “Okay then.” Jackson snatches up another handful of popcorn, and shovels it in his mouth, chewing with it half-opened. I swear, one day I’m going to shove my fist in there, and then maybe he’ll learn to shut the hell up. “So you don’t want me to eat you out right here on the couch?”

  I drop the bowl, and popcorn spills out all over my lap. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and whisper, “I hate you.”

  “No you don’t. You want to, but sweetheart, you got all kinds of feelings for old Jack, and none of them are based on hatred.”

  “Would you please not refer to yourself as old Jack? You sound like a paedophile.”

  “Night, Hols. Old Jack’s going to take a shower before hitting the hay. I might even forget to lock the door so you don’t have to kick it down.”

  “I hate you,” I shriek as he saunters away chuckling.

  “Sure, sweetheart, you just keep telling yourself that.”

  I pick up the popcorn, and shove each piece back in the bowl, harder than I should. Then I switch off the TV and glare at the hall, as if my angry-girl, X-ray vision power can melt Jackson’s face off with a mere look. Bastard.

  I will not go into the shower.

  I will not go in the shower.

  Oh, shit, I’m going in the shower. I open the door and let the steam engulf me. I watch the water trickle over his body, down his back, and over the hard planes of his muscular hips and arse. God, it’s exactly like looking an angel in the face: frightening, powerful, and all-over forbidden, and that’s exactly why I find my feet moving towards him. I pull open the shower door, and step under the too-hot stream. My clothes are soaked, I’m probably panda-eyeing all over the place, and I’m sure I look like a drowned rat with my hair plastered to my head. Jackson produces the smile of a cocky, sadistic bastard who knew without a doubt that I’d wind up in here with him. I shove my hand over his mouth.

  “No talking. If you utter a single a word I’m going to leave, and this never happens again. You go down on me, you fuck me, but you don’t say a word. Did you get that, you smarmy bastard, or do I need to repeat myself?”

  Jack cocks his head to the side, and gives me a predatory smile as he drops to his knees. He yanks my soaked skirt and knickers down, and tosses them aside. They hit the tiled wall with a loud, wet slap, sending a shiver down my spine. Taking hold of my ankle, Jackson thrusts my leg up and over his shoulder, and brings his face down so its level with my pussy. His tongue laps at me, softly. Slowly. Gentle enough that I feel everything inside come screaming and tearing to life by comparison, and then his whole mouth engulfs me. I buck my hips against his face, tug on his hair as he sucks my clit into his mouth and slides two fingers inside me. It’s wet, and messy, and I’m so fucking hot that I feel like an electric current is burning through the soles of my feet, right to the centre of my core. I throw my head back, and yank at his hair as I scream my orgasm at the ceiling.

  While I’m still praising God, Jackson comes to his feet, and swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “Jesus Christ, Hols, you nearly suffocated me down there.”

  “Shut up,” I command, and pull his mouth down to mine. I taste myself on his tongue, feel him smile against my lips, and then he lays claim to my body and mouth by sliding his hand between my thighs, kissing me hard as he brings me to the brink again.

  He pulls away too soon, fists his hands in my hair and yanks my head back, exposing the line of my neck to him. “On your knees, darlin’. I wanna see you kneeling before me while I fuck your pretty mouth.”

  I don’t even try to hide the smile that breaks out across my face. I have no idea how to deal with all the other stuff: motherhood, Jackson, the diner, Bob, Sammy—even Ana and Elijah. But this? This, I know how to do. I sink to my knees and take him in my hands, running the tip of my tongue along his length, the underside of his perfect head. He tastes of soap, and salt, and the scent? I don’t think anyone has ever smelled as damn edible as Jackson Rowe. He’s completely all male, and it’s so fucking hot that I’d gladly lick every inch of him without being commanded to. I make a tight fist around his cock and take him in my mouth, pumping my hand in time with my lips.

  Jackson throws his head back against the wet tile, and fists his hands in my hair. “Easy, sweetheart. I still have to fuck that perfect cunt yet.”

  I smile up at him, but it’s far from sweet. Jackson reads the challenge in my eyes, and laughs. “Ah, Hols, you’re gonna be death of me.”

  I trace my tongue over the tip, and then take all of him inside my mouth, or as much as I can without gagging—because that wouldn’t be awkward at all. Jack grunts, tangles both hands in my hair, and pumps back and forth. I slip my hand between my legs and begin stroking my clit, while my other hand cups his balls.

  “Fuck, I love it when you touch yourself,” he says, and pulls me up from the shower floor. I’m still wearing a soaking wet singlet top that Jack makes light work of when he just tears it down the middle. For a half-second I protest, because that was my favourite shirt, but then his mouth is on my nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, and I forget everything but the need to have him buried deep inside me.

  I know it must be the same for him, because without a word he lifts me up, and I have no choice but to wrap my legs around his hips. He shoves me up against the tiles, and then he slams into me, over and over again, until we’re both clawing and tearing at one another.

  After we’re sated, Jack sets me on my feet and begins soaping me up, washing away the trace of his sweat and scent on my skin. For the second time in as many days, I’m sort of numb. I just stand there, and let him clean me up, but when his palm skates the inside of my thighs and touches the sensitive flesh between my legs, I flinch.

  Jack cocks his head to the side, and sighs. “Out with it, Hols.”

  “Out with what?”

  He raises a brow. “Can’t bullshit me, remember?”

  “I’m fine.” I shove his hand away, and turn into the warm spray.

  “This doesn’t have to be weird. How many times we ridden this pony now? You and I make sense, because we’re not attached to one another. We can fuck, and still keep all that romantic bullshit separate.”

  I bite my lip. Take a deep breath against the tsunami tide of emotion threatening to crash over me. It doesn’t work. All the fears I’ve been burying since I first saw that little plus sign glaring back at me from the pregnancy test come rushing to the surface.

  “Not anymore we can’t,” I say, and instantly regret it, because the wary expression on his face makes me want to punch myself in the vagina. “I’m about to be a mum, Jack. You know what that means? Stretch marks, and poo, sleepless nights, and saggy boobs. And crying, lots and lots of crying. I shouldn’t be fucking my
roommate in the shower. I should be going to those bullshit prenatal classes, and watching videos of women pushing babies through their flabby snatches, not sticking penises in mine.”

  I suck in a breath through clenched teeth to keep from crying. I’m almost afraid to look at Jack’s face, but I do anyway because I have to know how he feels about all I’ve just said. I stare into those blue eyes that are capable of conveying so much—even when he thinks his poker face is indecipherable—and I’m met with impassiveness. I don’t know what I was expecting, but that was not it. Why isn’t he freaking out right now? Or comforting me? Or at the very least showing some indication that he heard what I just said?

  “How do I do this? I don’t know how to do any of this. I don’t know how to take care of a kid. I’m still a fucking kid myself.” A sob tears from my throat, and I struggle to reel it in. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m one step away from losing my shit altogether, and ugly-crying all over the hottest dude I’ve ever banged, so I spin around and stick my face under the warm spray.

  I startle when Jackson wraps me in his arms, and pulls me back into his chest. Then he kisses my neck, and says, “You’re gonna be a great mum, Hols. This kid’s gonna be lucky to have you. I’m kinda jealous of the little brat.”

  I give a half-hearted laugh. “I’m pretty sure breastfeeding isn’t as fun as it sounds, Jack.”

  “I’m serious. You got this, sweetheart. And you’ve got me for as long as you want me here.”

  My heart kicks into overdrive hearing those words. As nice as they are, coming from his lips, I know that’s not quite true. How could it be? I’m pregnant with another man’s child. Pretty soon I’ll get bigger, and when this kid comes screaming and ripping its way through my lady parts and crying into all hours of the night, Jackson will be out. Because that’s what I would do. And, like he said, there are no secrets between us. There’s no hiding, and there’s no pretending we’re anything other than what we are.

  FUCK, FUNERALS are boring.

  I mean, yes, it’s sad. The family member/friend/co-worker/acquaintance you used to know is lying in a box inside a church they more than likely only set foot in once. They’re painted up all creepy with colour in their cheeks, like at any moment they’ll sit up, and go, “I’m just shitting you, guys. How bout a drink at the pub?” And, yes, people are crying, and whispering half-hearted condolences, but they’re so fucking depressing you think you might just keel over if you have to endure it any longer.

  I didn’t know Kerry that well. I mean, she seemed nice enough. It was clear she loved her family—even if she didn’t always show it in the best possible ways—but I don’t think we ever uttered more than a couple of sentences to one another since I moved here. She didn’t sound like a bad person. I know Ana wasn’t her biggest fan, but even my baby cousin shed a few tears today.

  Poor little Sammy was heartbroken. He sat between Ana and Elijah, and quietly ran a toy car over the pew in front of him. And Bob hadn’t really uttered a word to anyone. He stood in the first pew in his leathers, sunnies firmly fixed over his bloodshot eyes. He hadn’t flinched when the empty coffin had been carried out, and he hadn’t cried when it was lowered into the ground, and the dirt had been shovelled over the top. He hadn’t said a word to anyone, just tore up the street on his Harley as soon as the service was over.

  The wake is at the little hall adjoining the church, and Ana’s been left with the burden of running around like a blue-arsed fly, making sure everyone has enough to eat, and a full coffee cup in their hands. I tried offering my help, but she shooed me away with a terse, “Go find Holly, and see if you can help her.”

  Looks like the whole town has turned up for the wake, but I gotta say, it’s a little odd seeing Bob’s biker friends in all their leather and tattoos beside little old ladies in pastels. There are a few other kids here, but Sammy hasn’t shown an interest in any of them. He sits on the hardwood floors, and stares into space while leaning up against Elijah’s leg.

  “You seen Holly?” I ask Cade. He’s nursing a cup of coffee in one of those dainty little china cups that he could probably smash with his pinkie. He glances up, and points to the back of the room.

  “Careful, those bitches are dangerous,” he mutters as he chews on a Tim Tam. “They practically bailed me up, and ran me right out of town when I first got here.”

  I glance over a sea of faces I don’t recognise and find Hols cornered by a group of elderly women. Either they’re trying to convert her faith, or they’re trying to coax her into a foursome, because she looks more uncomfortable than I have ever seen her.

  “Thanks for the warning, man.” I walk away, wondering how much damage three little old ladies can do. Old ladies love me.

  As I get closer, Holly spots me above their flower-patterned hats, and gives me these wild, crazy, rescue-me eyes. I grin, and make out like I’m about to keep walking, just to piss her off.

  “Jackson,” she shouts so loudly that several groups turn to stare at her, including the priest, who clears his throat and shifts his focus back to the avid churchgoers in front of him.

  “Hey Hols.” I smile snidely, as I stop beside her. “How you holding up?”

  “I’m hanging in there,” she deadpans. “Wasn’t there something you needed to show me?”

  “Show you?” I frown, and pretend like I’m really giving this serious thought. “Nope, nothing that I can think of.” While she’s silently fuming, and probably envisioning all the ways she could make me die a slow and painful death, I glance at the elderly women before me and hold out my hand. “Hi, I’m Jackson Rowe.”

  The woman closest shakes my hand, and I give her a megawatt smile. The gorgeous old thing blushes so much I bet it travels right the way down from her cheeks to her giant granny knickers. “Celia Rose, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Jackson. We’re very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” I reply solemnly.

  Celia introduces me to the two remaining ladies, and then launches right into a speech about the sanctity of marriage, and how important it is in this day and age. And then she stumps me by putting her hands on Hols’ flat belly, and says, “Are you the father of this beautiful gift from God?”

  Jesus Christ. Does everyone know everything that goes on in this town? Holly’s not even showing yet. How the fuck does anyone that’s not immediate family know she’s pregnant? “Er … Well, yes ma’am. Yes I am.”

  Shit.

  Fuck.

  Holly is going to spread my nuts on a cracker.

  I can feel her searing gaze on me. That crazy bitch is gonna flay me alive. “He’s not—”

  I put my arm around her shoulder, and pull her into my side. “Used to getting to tell people first. Happiest day of my life, though.”

  I can feel the anger coming off Holly like waves of radiation. She’s about thirty seconds from hulking out on these nosy old hags, and it’s apparent that I’m gonna need to remove her from the room before someone loses an eye … or their junk, or both.

  “Excuse us, ladies. I just remembered I did have something to show Holly, after all.” I steer her away from the purple-rinse mafia before she goes completely postal.

  “Such a nice, young man,” Celia says.

  “Yes. Shame that little whore has sunk her claws into him. He’d be perfect for my Alison.”

  Holly’s shoulders stiffen, and as I steer her toward the exit she leans in and hisses, “I’m gonna gut them, and then I’m gonna gut you, and wear your testicles as a necklace.”

  “Oookay, lady She-Hulk. Let’s just get you outside where you can cool off.”

  “Cool off?”

  A woman scowls at Holly, and makes a tsking sound as I lead her through the crowd of mourners.

  “What?” Hols demands of her audience.

  I realise she might explode before we can reach the other side of the hall, and the last thing anybody needs is a scary, pregnant ranga going postal and massacring a whole congregation. I lead her into the churc
h so we can talk in private. She shrugs my arm off her shoulder as soon as we clear the door.

  “What the fuck would possess you to say you were my baby-daddy, Jackson? Do you have any idea who the hell you were just speaking to?”

  “Celia Rose?”

  “No, Jackarse, Celia Rose is the devil. Her and her two henchmen back there are going to be spreading this news all over town. You mark my words: Before this wake is over, the entire town will think we’re settling down together.”

  “I just thought things might be easier for you if you weren’t doing this alone. Or, at least if you didn’t have to justify your actions to prudes like those women in there.”

  “I don’t have any actions to justify. Knocked up and left behind, remember?”

  “I just thought I was making life easier for you.”

  “Well, you weren’t,” she snaps, and plonks her sexy arse down in a pew. “Life’s never been easy with you around, Jack.”

  Well, fuck. That stung.

  “Hols,” I begin but she holds up a hand to stop me. She stares up at an enormous statue of Jesus nailed to the cross, and shudders. “I hate churches. They’re weird and depressing. And they always smell like incense and spunk.”

  I let out a chuckle and sit down beside her, even though I’m still not sure she isn’t going to cut off my balls and wear them as jewellery. “Jesus, what kinda churches are you worshipping in? Because I’m so ready to convert.”

  “It’s true. I used to be an alter-girl, and the first time I ever tasted a dude’s spunk brought me right back here, right back to receiving communion.”

  “Gives new meaning to the phrase take of the body of Christ.”

  She lets out a half-hearted laugh, and then scowls at me. “You do not get to make me laugh, mister. You are still in serious trouble.”

  “Spanking kinda trouble, or just the ordinary kind?”

  “Maybe both.”

  “Come on. Let’s see if we can’t give you a better memory of church than some random dude’s spunk.” I take her hand in mine, and lead her over to the confessional booths.