by B. K. Rivers
And then it happens. Gran coughs, or maybe it’s a laugh. We both turn to Gran, who is trying so hard to hold back her laugh that what’s escaping her mouth is something between a laugh and a snort. Jemma stands and walks to Gran with her chin quivering. She too is trying not to laugh.
“Get upstairs, you two, and put on some dry clothes,” Gran says when we’ve all recovered. I watch as Jemma kisses Gran’s cheek and she pats Jemma’s hip. A tug of wanting grips me. I want what they have. As I pass Gran, she pulls me aside.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, young man,” she says quietly. “My Jemma has had her fair share of struggles and heartbreak. I don’t want you making things worse for her.”
“I understand,” I say, and move away, but Gran’s hand pulls at my elbow.
“I’m not sure you do. I’m not a healthy woman. The cancer is spreading, I can feel it. I won’t stand by and watch Jemma’s heart broken by you as well as me.”
“Gran?”
“The experimental drugs aren’t working, I just haven’t had the heart to tell my granddaughter. I don’t know how much longer I’ve got with her.” Tears well in Gran’s pale blue eyes and an urge to hug her seizes me, but I don’t act on it. I haven’t hugged anyone in years, at least not a real hug. I don’t even know if I can do it right.
“I’m sorry,” I say instead. “You really should tell her. And I promise I won’t hurt Jemma.” At least I hope not to.
Gran pats my arm and shoos me upstairs, where I find Jemma standing in the doorway of her room with her arms folded across her damp chest.
“What was that all about?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I answer, and excuse myself to my room where I pull out my black jeans and tank. I slip them on and as I’m pulling the tank over my head Jemma steps through my door. “You ever think of knocking?” My tank slides down my stomach and I smooth my hair with my hands, the signature Jordan Capshaw look.
“Sorry,” she says sarcastically, and walks back out. Okay, it was a jerk thing to say, but Gran is right, I hurt everyone in my path, and I don’t want to hurt Jemma. She doesn’t deserve it. But why do I have to be such a dick? Groaning at my idiocy, I walk across the hall and knock softly on Jemma’s door. Her door opens and she greets me with pursed lips and arms folded across her chest.
“What?” she asks bitterly.
“Sorry for that back there. I was a jerk.”
“Yeah, you were.”
“Can I come in?” She drops her arms and gestures for me to enter. She sits on the edge of her bed, and since the room is void of any other sitting surface, I decide standing is the safest option.
“Did you need something?” Smooth, Jordan. “I mean, when you came to my room, did you need something?”
She sighs and rests her elbows on her thighs. “I was going to see if you wanted to use my computer to buy some new clothes. I don’t feel qualified to take your money and buy you anything.”
“Um, well, I guess that would work.”
“If you use Amazon, you could have clothes shipped overnight or…”
“Overnight is good,” I say as I move closer to her. Her breath hitches in her chest as I come even nearer. What am I doing? Jemma isn’t like the hundreds of other girls who flocked to me like a moth to a flame. She’s different, shy, and tentative, even. I should walk away but I find myself more than curious to know what her pale pink lips would taste like and how her small hands would feel on my skin.
“My laptop,” she breathes, “is over there.” She points to a corner in her room and I take advantage of her outstretched hand and pull her to her feet. Her pulse quickens at my touch and the apples of her cheeks blossom pink. She looks up at me with her stormy blue eyes, licks her lips, and then pulls her bottom lip into her mouth with her teeth.
“I never noticed the particular shade of your eyes until now.” I have to swallow against the hoarseness of my voice. God, I want to kiss her so badly there is a physical ache in my chest. Her eyes wander down to my lips and she gently pulls her hand from mine.
“I’ll go get my laptop.” She moves around me and walks to the corner of the room. She picks up a pink leather case and walks around me again to the side of her bed. I can already tell this is not a good idea. She sits against her headboard and pats the space beside her. The bed is a full at best, so when I sit next to her I feel as though I’m sitting on her lap. There isn’t room enough for air to pass between us.
She sets the laptop on her lean thighs, opens the top, and types in her password, then opens the Internet browser.
“We’ll start with Amazon and go from there, sound good?” All of the sudden her voice sounds…chipper, as though whatever there was between us a minute ago is gone.
Chapter 18
Jemma
I don’t know what was more unbearable last night, the fact my pulse reacted so heavily at Jordan’s touch or that I wanted him to kiss me, and badly. That kind of thinking will only hurt me in the end. I know this, but I also know if he doesn’t leave soon I’ll hurt no matter what.
We managed to pick out several articles of clothing for Jordan on Amazon, and with any luck they’ll be delivered tomorrow. It was torture sitting next to him on my bed while we ordered his clothes, so bad in fact, Jordan ended up taking the laptop from me to scroll through the pages while I watched. Everyone has quirks, but you’d never know Jordan has any by the way he performs onstage. Yet, as he scrolled through the many pages of Amazon, he chewed his bottom lip, or stuck his tongue out one side of his mouth and furrowed his brow. I wish I knew what he had been thinking while online shopping. I couldn’t think of anything but him and what he’ll look like in the boxer briefs he bought. Twelve hundred dollars later, he had purchased what he needed and excused himself for the night.
I went to bed with his name on my lips and a warning flashing in my head I tried so very hard to ignore.
***
The house is beginning to feel hot, charged with an energy I’ve not felt before. UPS finally delivered Jordan’s Amazon package late Wednesday evening and I don’t know which one of us was more excited, him for having clothes and shoes that fit him right or me for getting to see what he looks like in said clothing.
He joins us downstairs after dinner dressed in a pair of dark, fitted jeans and a black v-neck ribbed t-shirt. I hold back a gasp. His hair is combed, his face is beginning to fill out, and the five o’clock shadow he typically sports has grown in a little more thick around his jaw and along his lips. He looks devastatingly handsome and I feel out of place in my light gray yoga pants and off-the-shoulder sweatshirt.
“Let’s go somewhere,” he says, looking mildly ridiculous with his pink cast waving around like a flag.
Gran looks up over her knitting and then goes back to her project.
“It’s a Wednesday night, you can’t drink, and everything around here closed at six,” I say with a sigh. Good Lord, he is handsome. Is it getting hotter in here?
“What about a drive? I need to get out of here for a bit.” He holds his hand out to me and I hesitantly take it. He pulls me to my feet and I suppress a laugh when I look down at the floor and see he’s wearing the flip-flops I bought him.
“What happened to the new shoes you bought?” I ask as I smooth down my shirt.
He shrugs and gives me a wink, then says, “I like these better.”
“Let me go change and then we’ll go for a drive. Gran, do you want to come with us?”
Gran looks up again, smiles politely, and shakes her head. “No, you two go on ahead. I’m feeling a little tired and will probably go to bed here soon.”
“Okay, are you feeling all right?” I kiss Gran on the top of her head and inhale her citrus shampoo. She pats my arm and smiles again.
“Fine, honey, just a little tired.”
“We won’t be out too late,” I say, and then jog up the stairs. I throw on a clean pair of skinny jeans and some ankle boots and decide my off the shoulder sweatshirt is fine. It
’s not like I’m going on a date with Jordan Capshaw, it’s only a drive. I grab my coat and a scarf and take a deep breath as I count the number of heartbeats it takes me to get to the bottom of the stairs.
“Ready?” I ask, feeling like I’ve intruded on some strange exchange between Jordan and Gran. She’s giving him a knowing look and he’s avoiding her gaze altogether. He turns to me and I almost get lost in his brown sugar-colored eyes.
“Be good, you two,” Gran calls on our way out. I giggle inwardly as I search through my purse for my keys.
I stop the car at the edge of the driveway and look to my left and right. In high school I would drive the dusty old farm roads when I needed to get away or be alone to think about things. One time I found this ancient barn so old a large oak tree somehow had sprouted in the center and now was the only thing holding up the timbers. I sat outside that barn for hours one night, watching the stars and crying over what never should have been.
“Which way?” I ask Jordan. He shrugs and points left. We follow his random directions until we end up at the end of a windy gravel road nestled between two sloping hills. We both exit the car and walk toward a group of tall trees that stand like fingers waiting for gloves. The shadows surrounding the growth look like the bones of spiny skeletons and a chill runs down my back.
“Cold?” Jordan asks, and steps closer.
“A little, I guess. Though it’s kind of creepy out here, don’t you think?”
He shrugs and drapes his arm over my shoulder, pulling me to his side. In the movies they make this look cozy and romantic, but walking side by side is awkward with him being so much taller than me. Our footsteps aren’t in sync so it’s all bumpy and stiff, and neither of us seems to know how to make our rhythm match.
“Look at that,” Jordan says with a smile. He’s pointing to a large tree with an old wooden swing hanging from one of its branches. “You think it will hold us?”
“Us? I doubt I could even get my butt on there without it collapsing.”
“Since you brought it up, you do have a really nice butt.” His eyes light up as he leans back to check me out. I playfully smack him on his shoulder and then take off at a jog to the swing.
“Dibs!” I giggle as I run through the tall grass.
We reach the swing at the same time, laughing and gasping for breath as we each take hold of one side. Jordan pulls on the rope with his good hand, tugging me toward him. We’re both breathing hard, staring each other down with only the wooden seat of the swing separating us. The moon casts shadows over Jordan’s face, making the fading angles exaggerated, almost like his bones are sticking out from his pale skin. A shiver works its way through my body and I’m the first one to back down. I let go of the rope and step back. Jordan inhales deeply and then shakes the swing.
“I think it will hold,” he says as he puts some weight on the seat.
“Careful,” I say, “you don’t want to break your other arm if the swing breaks.”
The tree branch is solid and doesn’t move as Jordan slowly lowers himself to the seat. He pushes off the ground with his feet and slowly swings back and forth.
“It’s a little stiff. You should try it,” he says with a wink. Hopefully he’s referring to the swing. He pats the space next to him and I shake my head.
“You’re crazy. There is no way I’ll fit on there with you.”
“Sure you will.” He pats the seat again.
“It won’t hold us both,” I protest.
“Stop arguing and come here.” His feet drag on the ground until the swing stops moving. Groaning at losing the battle, I drag my feet over to the swing.
“If this thing collapses on us, you’re walking back home.”
A light breeze floats through the naked trees, rattling the wispy branches. No matter what I do the shivers won’t stop. I move to try to squeeze next to Jordan, who only scoots to the middle of the seat.
“Sit on my lap,” he says while he reaches toward my hips. My breath hitches and my heart hammers in my chest. Biting my bottom lip, I go to turn, but he pulls me toward his legs. “Hold on to the rope and put your legs over mine.”
Pink roses bloom on my cheeks. He’s asking me to straddle him, which is terribly frightening for multiple reasons.
“I can’t,” I say with a squeak. “What if it breaks?”
“You’ll be fine,” he coaxes. The fingers of his good hand tug on a belt loop of my skinny jeans. My heart is pounding in my ears. I swallow against the lump forming in my throat and slowly sit on his lap, straddling him, leaving no space between us. I close my eyes tightly against the impending collapse of the swing, but it holds firm, and suddenly Jordan pushes us off the ground and we’re swinging slowly in the night.
“See, I told you,” he whispers. His words alight on my cheek, resting there as light as a butterfly. All I can do is nod my head; looking at him is too painful, with his brown sugar eyes and angled jaw—all things that point to perfection. My rules flash before my eyes and for the first time I feel something changing and it scares me. I can’t let the rules go. I can’t dismiss them and why I created them.
When I get nervous my jaw trembles, and it’s going a million miles a minute now. Jordan mistakes my shivers for being cold, and cold is the one thing I am not.
The swing stops, Jordan’s feet rest on the ground, and he pulls my hands off the rope, guiding them to my lap. He wraps his arms around my back, enveloping me in his warmth and the shivers multiply.
“God, you’re freezing,” he says, and pulls me closer. My head falls to the crook of his neck and I breathe him in. Between his new clothes and the summery smell of the body wash he’s using, I could stay right here all night.
“I’m okay,” I say as I huddle down further into his chest. Jordan’s head rests on mine, his scruffy jaw pokes through my hair, and I resist the overwhelming urge to pull his face to mine. What is wrong with me? I created my rules years ago so that situations like this would not happen…not that I ever expected this. When his lips brush over my hair I know I’ve got to pull away. Sitting up on his lap, we’re now face-to-face and his eyes travel to my lips. His own twitch and he licks them slowly.
“And this is where I exit,” I say, stumbling out of our mess of tangled legs. My right foot gets stuck and I topple to the ground, landing on a sharp rock. Holy hell, the rock stabs my butt, sending a sharp pain down my leg. Jordan quickly stands and helps me to my feet, and it’s all I can do to stay upright.
“Crap, that hurt,” I whimper, and close my eyes.
“Want me to take a look?” His eyes uber-focus on my butt and I push him away.
“Get away, you pig,” I tease. “I think I broke my butt.”
Chapter 19
Jordan
I have never been more turned on than I am right now. Jemma keeps rubbing her hand on her ass where she fell and good hell if I don’t want to do it for her. She half limps, half walks back to her car where she slowly lowers herself into the driver’s seat. I would have offered to drive, but the shakes come randomly and, well, let’s just say they seem to be worse depending on my arousal.
Each time we come close to kissing, she pulls away, so I have to wonder if maybe she plays for the other team. Then again, the way her eyes rake over me and how her cheeks flush, it’s not possible.
“So where to now?” I ask, hoping she understands I’m not ready to go back to her house. I find myself fighting hard against the urge to shoot up. I would kill for a drink even. Not to mention this God-awful cast on my hand that inhibits everything. At least it wasn’t a bad break, more like a few fractures in the metacarpals or terabytes. I don’t remember.
She backs her little Civic up and then turns around, flashing the high beams on the swing, and just remembering the sensation of her straddling me makes me need to change positions in the passenger seat. Jemma watches the road, makes the turns opposite in which we came—at least I hope she remembers how we got here. I sure as hell don’t. She drives us throug
h the center of town and parks in the grocery store parking lot. I can tell she’s struggling with something as she stares at those automatic doors again.
“What is it with you and those doors?” I ask with a laugh. She turns to me and her blue eyes pierce a hole through my heart. Her cheeks are rosy, her hair is loose and tousled around her face. She’s a picture of beauty.
“The doors?” she asks, her eyes looking everywhere but at me. “Nothing’s wrong with the doors. Do you want anything?”
Jack Daniels? Grey Goose? “No, I’m good.”
“Be right back,” she says as she grabs her little purse and hops out of the car. This time, she leaves the car running.
Ever since my songs started playing on the radio, I find it hard to listen to anyone else’s. But I can’t handle the low rumble of the Civic’s engine so I turn it on and lean my head against the seat. Surprisingly, the singer’s voice doesn’t annoy me, nor do the lyrics, and I find myself tapping my fingers on my thigh to the beat of the drums. Three songs pass and my curiosity begins to pique. She’s got to have some things hidden in her car that will help me know more about her.
Her glove compartment contains the usual: insurance, registration, and owner’s manual. There’s also a pink purse-like object that when I unzip it, I zip it shut right away and shove it back into the glove box. Tampons. Don’t want to know about those.
The center console holds a dozen or more CDs, five of which are mine, or White Shadow’s anyhow.
The driver’s door opens and she plops down on her seat, handing me a plastic bag.
“I needed a soda,” she says as she reaches to my lap where she digs through the bag.
