Then Kiss Me
Jade C. Jamison
Then Kiss Me
Casey Williams has left a loveless marriage and is trying to rebuild her life. She finds that, even though you can never go home again, you can find lust again, and she finds a love interest in Scott, her coworker. She also discovers his secret, that he’s a drummer for a heavy metal band, and falls hard for him…just in time to find that, between his questionable friends and psychotic maybe-ex-girlfriend, he might not be the right guy for her. But her heart beats like a drum for him, and she finds herself willing to play with fire to get closer.
I could feel the demanding music in my abdomen, in my heart. It was a visceral feeling that grabbed me deep inside and incited the animal inside me. “Sounds fantastic,” I said, closing my eyes to concentrate on the music.
I felt his hands slide around my waist from behind, and my abdomen, my thighs, my neck tensed in response. Oh, shit…I eased out a deep breath. He whispered in my ear, “You like it?”
A shiver charged up my spine. I swallowed and forced my voice to stay calm. “Yeah. Great stereo.” My voice was coming from my throat—hoarse and gravelly. I found my composure and turned around, his arms still wrapped around my waist. He leaned back a little to give me room, but we were close. God…the heat coming off him. I tried not to shudder. I was feeling playful, though, and I asked, “Are you coming on to me?”
He smiled back but kept his distance. “Maybe.” Then, “Why?”
“Because if you aren’t, I’m going to turn back around and listen to this CD. But if you are, I’m going to kiss you.” Holy shit. Had I actually said that? My heart started beating more rapidly.
He stood there for a second, the smile on his face fading into something else. I saw his pupils grow darker as I sucked in a deep breath. “Then kiss me,” he said.
BOOKS BY JADE C. JAMISON
Tangled Web: A Steamy Heavy Metal Novella
Stating His Case
Fabric of Night
Worst Mother
MADversary
Then Kiss Me
NICKI SOSEBEE SERIES
1 Got the Life
2 Dead
3 No Place to Hide
4 Right Now
5 One More Time
6 Lost
7 Innocent Bystander
Copyright
Copyright © 2012 by Jade C. Jamison
Cover image © Jade C. Jamison
All rights reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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http://www.jadecjamison.com
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for Julie Mosack-Williams
If Jesse had a brother, he would be Scott.
Table of Contents
Part I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Part II
July 24
July 26
July 31
August 1
August 3
August 5
August 6
August 9
August 10
August 11
August 13
August 14
August 15
August 16
August 17
August 18
August 19
Part III
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Also by Jade C. Jamison
Part I
Chapter One
I AM LIVING proof that you can fall in love again. You can find someone else. You can open your heart again.
But you can also let it all slip away. I thought one time that I was never meant to love or be loved. I’m telling my story in hopes that you won’t make the same mistakes I’ve made. Ah…but who am I kidding? You’ll probably make the same stupid mistakes I did. I think it’s part of growing up.
Still…my story needs to be told.
I could start my story back in high school. Hell, I could start it back in middle school. My low self-esteem made relationships impossible, and I wasn’t very attractive either. The truth, though, is probably that I was more attractive than I thought, but my self-esteem didn’t quite see it that way. Add to it that I didn’t care much about my appearance (my sister Karen was the pretty one), and, by the time I was sixteen, I was sleeping around a lot. Who needs looks or love when you can have lots of attention from sex? But that’s all probably not very important.
Instead, I’ll start my story at the turning point and before I met the love of my life, the one who convinced me that I could love again. I was twenty-six years old, just trying to become my own woman. My husband and I had just divorced, and I decided to move out of Denver. I already knew that the huge city was not for me—not the violence, the smog, the traffic, the gangs, the filth, the fucking rat race. Sure, Denver had its perks. It had the light rail and there were clean parts of the city. And what could beat the 16th Street Mall or the Museum of Natural History? And I totally dug Starbucks. They didn’t have any of those where I was going.
But the truth remained…I was a fish out of water in Denver, and when my marriage didn’t work, I had no interest in fighting my way through life any more. Nothing in the city was for me and I wanted to leave it. And who knows? Maybe the stress of living there had a factor in my breakup with Barry.
Or maybe not. He and I hadn’t been ready to marry, and we definitely weren’t for each other. We had different interests, different friends, different jobs. But the sex was to die for. Fucking incredible. I think that’s why we stayed together as long as we did. Finally, though, the sex was not enough. We split as friends, both regretful that we weren’t able to make it work. I didn’t even like Denver; I’d just moved there to be with him. Well, that and for my career—I’ll tell you more about that later. We’d met in college at a party, both fresh out of broken relationships, had lots of great sex, had fun together, and figured that was a solid basis for marriage. So we got married right after he graduated. I had a year left to go but never bothered to finish college. So that was stupid. I know. But what can I say? I was in love.
But my story is not about Barry. It’s about Scott.
Oh, but I’m jumping ahead again. Sorry. Please bear with me.
Barry and I had been married for four years and, after all the fighting and distance that had grown between us, decided to end it before we grew to despise each other. Our relationship had grown cold and distant. We never even saw each other anymore, and I don’t know if that was a reflection of our feelings. Were we growing apart because we didn’t spend time together or were we avoiding spending time together because we disliked one another? Whatever the case, the relationship was destined to fail. I can see that now. But, like I said, we parted civilly as friends. He took his stuff; I took mine, and—proverbially—that was that. The papers signed, I loaded up my little white Versa, not sure what to do with my life now.
Oh, how rude I must seem. Sorry! My nam
e (now) is Casey Williams. It was Black before the divorce, but I took my maiden name back. I had been an art major in college and Barry was in business. He was moving up the ladder quickly in a large corporation and was already a junior executive. Sorry, but I’m not going to say much more than that. Even now, Barry’s kind of funny about people digging into the details of his life, so I’ve leave it at that.
Anyway, I was trying to break into art…you know, become a famous artist. I guess I shouldn’t have had such dreams. Most artists are famous only after they die. Unless, that is, they’re Banksy or Andy Warhol. It’s hard for most artists to really make it. But that was my dream, what I wanted to do more than anything else. So I worked part-time in an art gallery in downtown Denver, and I absolutely loved it. I loved being surrounded by art created by some of the most brilliant minds around. It was inspiring. I didn’t make much money, though. Fortunately, Barry’s paycheck was able to maintain us—he paid for the apartment, the utilities, and all that good stuff. But my paycheck went to my art supplies and grande lattes, and I had plenty of time to sketch, draw, and paint. I guess I didn’t spend enough time trying to sell it, though.
Part of that stems from a lack of self-confidence. I might have had better self-esteem as a woman in her twenties than I did in middle school, but I still had a way to go. Barry didn’t help that much, either.
But that’s not important to my story. After the divorce, I decided to move in with my parents. I had nowhere else to go. My parents had moved a few years earlier. They’d lived their whole lives in Pueblo, Colorado, and that’s where I grew up. Now, though, they lived in a small town called Winchester. I’d only visited a few times since they’d moved there. My sister and her family lived in Colorado Springs, and that was just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Winchester. So, basically, I thought, Everyone else is there, so why not me, too? So I put the few things I gave a shit about in my little Versa and headed to Winchester.
I arrived there in just a couple of hours and was greeted by my parents, my sister, and her kids. I got out of the car, feeling a little awkward. Divorce is frowned upon in the Williams household, and I’d already had an earful over the phone from the whole family. I was hoping we were past that. Only one way to find out.
My mom and dad met me in the driveway and hugged me as I got out of the car. Then Karen embraced me. Her cute, blonde-haired three-year-old son hugged my leg, and she held her six-month-old, also a boy, in her arm. His bottom was tucked into the crook of her elbow, propped up on her hip. Dad looked at me with sad eyes and hugged me again. We walked into the house in silence. Then we all sat at the kitchen table. Karen’s toddler Mac (I never understood why she and her husband had named the kid that) played in the living room with Mega Bloks, and Karen laid the baby (Jack…oh, wasn’t that cute? Jack and Mac!) in a playpen next to Mac. Then she joined us at the table.
“Coffee?” mom asked.
“Love some,” I said. “An ashtray, too, please.”
Now…before you judge me, I want you to know that I’ve since quit smoking. But…that’s part of my story too. Just bear with me. So, I asked my mom for an ashtray.
“Oh, Casey, you still have that filthy habit?”
I sighed. I’d heard this shit before. Lots of times. Frankly, I wasn’t in the mood. “Please don’t start, mother.” That was as civil a sentence as I could muster.
Dad lit up his own cigarette (now you know where I got it). “Go easy on her, dear. She’s gone through a rough time, and now she’s had to humble herself to move back in with us. You can preach to her about smoking later.” Thanks, dad.
Mom frowned but placed a clean ashtray on the table. Mom didn’t really worry about my health; I’m certain about that much. She was more concerned with the fact that I was dirtying her extremely clean house. (I wish I was exaggerating, but that was how I felt at the time.) At least dad was an ally. Or maybe he thought I was. Mom probably made him smoke outside most of the time.
So I lit up a cigarette and looked at Karen. “So what are you doing here?” I inhaled as I looked at my older sister. She was giving me a snide look, probably ready to lecture me about secondhand smoke around her children. I suspected she was visiting our parents because she just wanted to rub my nose in the fact that she had a successful seven-year marriage. Perfect Karen and Black Sheep Casey, a study in opposites. Anyway, I wanted to hear her response to my direct question. I knew she visited mom and dad frequently, but had she wanted to make my homecoming less meaningful with her own presence? If so, she wasn’t about to admit it.
“I thought you might need your whole family with you. Besides, I thought you would want to see the kids.” Karen tossed her beautiful long blonde hair behind her shoulder, her cool blue eyes piercing into me.
Oh, yes, and the kids. Karen had a perfect family. I was pretty sure she and her husband had a dog too, just so they could be like other normal families.
But then I guessed it was actually a thoughtful gesture. I needed to chill the fuck out and stop looking at my sister as an enemy. “Thanks,” I said, exhaling a deep lungful of smoke up toward the ceiling. The nicotine was beginning to take the edge off my nerves.
Karen coughed lightly and said, “Anything for my little sis.”
Mom placed a green mug full of coffee in front of me. “Still take it black, or has Denver made you want vanilla cream or cappuccino?”
Well, it was no secret I loved my froufrou coffee, but that was beside the point. “Mom, please.” I exhaled another deep breath. “Black’s perfect.” I had to get along with my parents (my mom) if I was going to live with them. I swallowed my pride—and all the nasty words in my throat—and said, “Thank you. I appreciate it, mom.”
Dad put his hand on mine. “So, honey, tell us all about it.”
“Nothing to tell,” I said, snubbing out my cigarette. “Barry and I went our separate ways. We weren’t meant for each other, so why waste our lives being miserable?”
“Casey,” mom said. “I don’t think you’re being realistic. The bottom line is this: you weren’t ready to get married. You rushed into it. And, besides that, you’ve always had a romantic view of life. It shows in your art,”—she lowered her voice slightly for emphasis—“and it shows in your choice of careers. You thought that if you love someone, marriage is easy. It’s not easy—it’s very hard work.”
Jesus fucking Christ. We’d already had this same conversation more than once. Oh, yes, unrealistic, romantic Casey. She lives in the clouds, wears rose-colored glasses, and has no clue. I really wasn’t in the mood for another lecture. So I cut her off. “Mom, please, save it. So I made a mistake. I’ll live with the consequences. It’s not a reflection on you just because my marriage wasn’t a Cinderella story.” Besides, I thought, you still have perfect Karen and her goddamn storybook marriage. Eat it up, ma.
My mom bit her lip and changed the subject, but she wasn’t prepared to stop digging at me. And what had I expected really? I think my mother felt like she had totally failed with me, and now she had her second chance to make me a dream daughter.
I don’t think so.
“I know that,” my mom said. She patted my hand in what should have been a motherly fashion. Instead, it seemed condescending. “But look at yourself, Casey. Your hair is lifeless; your face is pale; and you are much too thin. You haven’t been taking good care of yourself.”
Well, fuck, mother. Why don’t you tell me how you really feel? I held back the sigh. That would have just made it worse. “I know, mom. I’ve been a little distracted.” And, besides, my hair wasn’t that bad. I’d just had it pulled back in a ponytail for the drive. I’d had to pack all my shit in my car (and I’d perspired a little doing it) and I’d had the windows down for the drive. So my hair was probably stringy from the wind blowing through the car and a little sweaty, but it didn’t have split ends, and it was trimmed neatly. It was also dark brown, its usual color. As of the time I sat at my mother’s kitchen table, I had let my hair grow long and it
was its natural color and natural curliness—just a little curl to give it volume, although I always thought I would have loved super-curly hair like Keri Russell’s when she wore it in its natural style. Mine wasn’t cute like that. It usually curled where and how I didn’t want it to. But I looked okay. Really.
But I should have known my mother would find something else to complain about. I could never make her happy. I was already wondering why I had moved here. Why hadn’t I just stayed in Denver? I had a decent job, a few friends (well, maybe…they were all starting to take sides, and Barry seemed to be in favor), and the only criticism from mom was in the occasional phone call.
“Honey,” she said, “you’ve got to start taking better care of yourself.”
“Yeah, I know, mom.” I lit another cigarette. That’d piss her off.
“And that’s not the way to be doing it.”
Knew it. I looked up at her, almost daring her to say something else. I flicked a nonexistent ash in the ashtray, glad for the moment of silence. I glanced at Karen and my dad and saw how uncomfortable they were. I sipped my coffee and stood up. Leave it to me to fuck shit up. “I guess I’d better bring my stuff in.” Make it official and all.
I walked to the door. I hadn’t even realized I was muttering under my breath. “Just like old times.”
And I also didn’t realize my dad was right behind me until I heard him. “I’ll help you, honey,” he said, not acknowledging my remark. Yes, I had an attitude. I was young, and my mother and I had never really gotten along—and I had a lot of growing up to do, a lot of resentment and bitterness to let go of. But, at this point in time, I hadn’t even begun to let go of it.
“Thanks, dad,” I said as he followed me out to the car. There wasn’t much else to say.
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