Jack & Kayla (Imperfect Love Series)

by Ruby Molloy

  “How are you feeling?” His fingers trail through my hair, drawing it away from my face. His palm, wonderfully cool, presses against my forehead. “You still have a temperature.”

  “What’s the time?” I ask again. I’m not sure why it’s so important to know this. Perhaps it’s because I need to get my bearings; everything feels off.

  “Just gone six,” Boyd says.

  “Morning or evening?”

  He frowns and says slowly, “Evening.”

  “Really? I slept all night and day?”

  “Yeah. You’ve got one hell of a virus. You wanna do me a favour? You wanna sit down before you fall down?”

  I take small steps towards the sofa and for some reason I choose Boyd’s. I hear him moving around the apartment and eventually he returns with both crutches under his arms and a grey blanket draped over his shoulder. “Here,” he says, letting it fall into my lap. “Keep yourself warm. The heatwave’s broken.”

  I do as he says, curling my legs up under me, pulling the blanket into position so I’m covered from my shoulders to my toes.

  “You want something to drink?” he asks. I do, but there’s no way he’s able to carry a glass. I go to rise, but his chin tips up angrily. “Stay where you are. What do you want? Water?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  He nods and I watch him move towards the kitchen. He retrieves a plastic water bottle from the fridge and tosses it to the sofa. It lands perfectly on the cushion beside me.

  “Thanks.” My voice is hoarse and I try to clear my throat but it’s not happening.

  “What about food? You hungry?”

  It takes me a second to realise I’m ravenous. “Yeah. Starving.”

  Boyd makes his way over to the sofa and sits down beside me. “How about pizza?”

  “God, yes. With heaps of pepperoni and a side of chicken wings.”

  Boyd smiles and gives me a look before picking up his phone. He opens an app and makes fast work of ordering. “Done,” he says.

  “Thanks. I have some cash in my purse.”

  “This one’s on me,” he says, settling himself lower on the sofa.

  “Thank you.”

  “No worries. You need painkillers or anything?”

  I know Boyd. I know he won’t let me fetch the painkillers, but he’s just sat down and it seems like such an effort for him to get his crutches and hobble over to the kitchen when I can just as easily go fetch them myself. I’m off the sofa before he has a chance to stop me.

  “What the fuck? Kayla, sit your arse back down!”

  I grin over my shoulder and continue towards the kitchen. Five seconds later I’m on my way back to the sofa with the packet in my hand, walking towards an angry-looking Boyd. It feels like I’ve walked five miles. I plonk down on the sofa. It’s less than graceful and I immediately pull the blanket over my body as if it has the protective power of a shield.

  “You ever do as your told?” Boyd asks.

  “Sure I do. When I’m in the mood.”

  I swallow the tablets and Boyd takes the box, tossing it to the coffee table. “You need anything else, ask. Don’t want you moving for the rest of the night.”

  “Actually, I really need to go to the toilet. And I should brush my teeth. I can’t sit next to you with my breath smelling like week old garbage.”

  Boyd emits a noise. It’s a little like the sound Feo produces when he sees a cat sunbathing on the garden wall. Feo’s my Grandma Sophia’s dog. He’s too old to chase the cats away and makes do with a growl. I don’t tell this to Boyd. I’m not sure he’d appreciate being compared to a dog whose name translates as Ugly.

  If the walk to the kitchen felt like five miles, the journey to the bathroom and back feels like a trek across the North Pole. I sink beneath my blanket once more, happy that my bladder is empty and my breath smells minty fresh.

  When the video entry buzzer sounds, I lift my blanket.

  “Stay the fuck where you are,” says Boyd.

  Those words, in that tone of voice ... I do as I’m told. Also, I want to see how he’s going to take delivery of the pizzas and sides. He buzzes the delivery woman in and opens the door for her, leading the way into the apartment.

  “On the table, if that’s okay. I kinda have my hands full.” He smiles at her, a real genuine smile that’s as rare as snow in July. My head is twisted to the side so I can watch this scene. I see she has strawberry blonde curls and a lightly freckled face. She looks pretty and wholesome, though the way her eyes are eating him up I’m sure this is false advertising. Boyd gives her a tip, the woman smiles suggestively and says, “Anytime”. She sneaks a glance my way on her way out.

  “She fancied you,” I tell him.

  “Yeah?” Boyd sounds uninterested, as in he couldn’t give a crap.

  “She was pretty.”

  This gains his attention. He’s standing facing me and he doesn’t look happy. “So?”

  “So you’re a guy and she’s a girl ...”

  “Again, so?”

  I sigh impatiently. What’s not to understand? “So you’re single and I thought you might be glad of a little female attention.”

  “There’s someone,” he says.

  It’s unexpected and it kind of takes the wind out of my sails. “There is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.” And then, “How come I don’t know about her?” There’s a hint of accusation in my tone, as if we’re a couple and he’s just admitted cheating. What the hell?

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Is it Molly?” The words slip free before my brain has time to inform my mouth that it’s none of my business.

  I wait for Boyd’s reprimand, but he only says, “It’s not Molly.” He doesn’t elaborate and I should shut up, but I don’t. I dig further.

  “Is she married?”

  He glares at me, his expression intimidating. “You think that’s what I do? You think I screw married women?”

  I press back into the cushions. “You said it was complicated. I just thought―”

  “Jesus, Boots, you’ve been here four weeks now. You see any women come through that door?”

  I’m about to make a sassy comment about his mother being a female, but he beats me to it.

  “Not counting my mother!”

  Damn, he knows me too well. “Frankie said ...” It’s a little late, but this time my brain kicks in and I snap my mouth closed.

  “Frankie said what?”

  I scramble for a suitable response. “She, uh, she said ...” Damn it, brain, way to let a girl down.

  “Well?” He’s angry already and I haven’t yet told him what Frankie said.

  “She said you sleep with one girl and move on to the next. That you’re a player.” I say this super fast, each word rolling into the next, but Boyd doesn’t seem to have a problem understanding.

  “She told you that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. Months ago.”

  His head drops and he stares at the ceiling. “Shit.” His eyes close briefly and I can’t stop looking at him. He’s angry, but it’s more than that. He looks almost defeated. Several, long seconds later, he leans his crutches against the arm of the sofa and sits beside me, reaching for the uppermost box. It’s chicken wings.

  I’m confused. I don’t know what’s going on, why he reacted the way he did, or who the mystery woman is.

  “Yours,” he says, passing me the box as if our conversation never happened.

  “Boyd, I ...”

  “Just eat, Kayla.” He sounds tired. And angry. I wish I knew what he was thinking, but I do as he says, consuming my wings like I haven’t eaten in a week. Next I tackle the pizza. It’s a large one―I think Boyd may have overestimated my appetite. I demolish half before I admit defeat. Boyd finishes his, with the exception of a few crusts littered around the outside of the box. I place my leftovers in the fridge and leave the empty boxes on the side. Boyd doesn�
�t try to stop me. Maybe he can see that I feel a little better now I’ve eaten.

  I return to the sofa, shivering. As Boyd said, summer’s coming to an end and the heatwave has passed. I settle beneath the blanket and Boyd selects a movie. It’s our second night watching films together, sitting side by side. He does the pulling me into his side thing again, and I don’t argue.

  Ten minutes later it may seem to Boyd that I’m engrossed in the fight scene, but really my mind is elsewhere. To be specific, I’m recalling his words; ‘There’s someone.’ I wonder if it’s Molly. Or if not Molly, who? And does he have a type? My mind runs in circles.

  The movie runs at over two hours. I fall asleep somewhere around the midpoint and I don’t wake until it’s finished. My head is resting against Boyd’s chest and his arm is heavy against my shoulder. I tilt my head back and discover him watching me, his lids low, his lashes thick and dark against his skin. I reach down to push myself upright and my hand comes into contact with thigh. Or, to be more precise, Boyd’s thigh. He sucks in a breath and I know I shouldn’t glance down, but I can’t stop my eyes from skating over the front of his joggers and the bulge beneath.

  His softly intonated, “Fuck” hangs between us. Boyd snaps first. His hand comes to the back of my neck, holding me steady as his mouth covers mine. Five seconds later his tongue is in my mouth and I can’t help the moan that ripples up my throat. His kiss is good, as in really good, but I need more. And judging by the way Boyd’s hands are roaming my body, he does too. His fingers are warm against my skin when they ride beneath my top, skimming lower again to my hips and waist, where they tighten. Suddenly I’m in the air, hovering over him.

  “Straddle me.” His voice is gruff and urgent, and when he starts lowering me I do as he says, my mouth seeking his again. His hands retain their hold on my waist, guiding my movements until I’m rocking against him and he’s pushing up against the juncture of my thighs.

  “Boyd ...”

  His tongue coasts along mine, hands rising to my breasts, thumbs snagging my nipples through my t-shirt. I’m no longer thinking, I’m feeling―everything; the rasp of his tongue, him between my thighs, the squeeze of his hands urging me on.

  I can feel it approaching; the coil of pleasure tightening in my lower belly, the heat between my thighs. Boyd’s breathing is heavy and now we’re barely kissing as we groan and grind. His release comes just ahead of mine, his hand tightening round the back of my neck, holding me still as it powers through him. When it’s my turn I cry out, burrowing my head against his neck when the last wave hits.

  When we’re sufficiently recovered he tilts his head back and stares, his green eyes dominated by black pupils, mouth partially open. The pressure on my neck increases and he pulls me in to nip at my lower lip, sucking briefly before releasing me. “Next time we do this in my bed and I come inside you,” he says.

  Mini aftershocks are still quivering between my thighs, but I rise up, ready to climb free of his lap. “There won’t be a next time, Boyd.”

  His hands grip my waist, holding me in place. “Yeah, there will.” His green eyes flick over my face, checking I understand before he lifts me free of his lap. I guess this is his way of saying ‘conversation over’.

  “Boyd, there won’t! This only happened because you caught me unawares.”

  He smirks and rises to his feet, grabbing his crutches once he’s balanced. “Bullshit.”

  “Boyd ...”

  He’s moving away. “I’m taking a shower.”

  I take the opportunity to escape to my room and hide beneath my duvet. Our make out session plays on a loop and my belly tightens when I recall the pressure of his hands and the slide of his mouth on mine. I push my face into the mattress and groan.

  I’ve slept with two guys in total; Liam and Jono. Not a great selection, Liam being an abusive manipulator, Jono a laid-back stoner. I guess it’s not difficult to see why someone like Jono would seem so appealing after Liam. But I’m having a hard time getting to grips with the fact that I dated them for an entire month before we had sex and yet, just now, with Boyd ...

  Okay, technically it wasn’t sex. Nothing happened. I mean, an orgasm happened, two if you count both his and mine.

  But I won’t fall for him. Not when I know he has someone. And I can’t forget Frankie’s warning that Boyd’s a player, no matter how long ago she said it.

  Chapter Three

  Space

  JACK

  Kayla’s still asleep. The living room is empty and her bedroom door is closed. I imagine her body, warm and naked beneath her duvet, long legs spread ...

  Shit. I shut down my thoughts, but the damage is done. My dick’s rock hard. Seems it’s been that way since Kayla moved in. I’ve become a genius at finding ways to disguise it; laptops, cushions, newspapers―you name it, I’ve used it. The car journeys are the worst. I’ve taken to linking my hands over my groin like a schoolboy. Normally I’m a loud and proud kind of guy, but with Kayla I’ve had to change the rules. Though that kind of flew out the window last night when she fell asleep with her tits pressed up against me. I don’t know a single guy who wouldn’t have made a move in that situation, especially after her hand landed not five centimetres from my dick.

  But I kind of regret it.

  I wasn’t lying when I said there was someone, but I wasn’t exactly telling the truth, either. The thing is, that someone is her. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not in love with her or anything. I guess the fact that I haven’t had sex in a long time has something to do with how I’m feeling. But shit, she’s hot. And when I say hot, I mean, super fucking hot.

  First time we met I wasn’t prepared. It was at Frankie’s house. I was there as a backup for Mace, in case anything kicked off between him and Nora’s boyfriend, Carred. They had history, Mace and Nora, one that involved a failed one night stand. I was totally unprepared when I saw Kayla standing there in the hall, her long legs on show, her dress curving over her tits and arse like that. I acted like a jerk.

  That was months ago, but since she’s been helping out these past four weeks ... let’s just say I’m hooked. The thing is, she’s not my usual type. I like cool and composed, not crazy with hands that gesticulate too much and a temper that erupts over nothing. And even though I told her we’d have sex again, we won’t. We can’t. Not if I want my life to go the way I plan.

  Cool and composed, that’s what I want. Not hot and spicy as fuck.

  “Hey!”

  Shit. It’s Kayla and I still have a hard on that’s refusing to go down. I can hear her moving my way and in five seconds flat she’s going to see I have a boner. I push my hips up against the kitchen counter, but that’s worse. Now my dick’s sticking out above the worktop like it’s throwing her a salute.

  “You want breakfast?” Her voice comes from somewhere behind my left shoulder. I turn my head and glance her way. Big mistake! She’s wearing pyjamas, the ones that are a size too small. And not in a bad way, because Kayla might be curvy, but she’s not plump and those shorts and that top ... Jesus.

  “Boyd! You want breakfast?”

  “Just coffee.” Christ, was that my voice? I sound like I’ve been up all night drinking.

  “Are you okay? You don’t sound so good.”

  I clear my throat and shoot her a hostile look. “I’m fine. I just need coffee, is all.”

  She shrugs, the skin between her perfectly arched brows forming a vertical line. “You want some sugar in your coffee?”

  The way she says it, with her accent and her full lips, it sounds like she’s offering me a blow job. I used to think it was an act she’d perfected. Turns out it’s all her.

  “No.”

  She shrugs, as if it’s my loss.

  Keeping my back to her, I make my way over to the sofa, picking up my laptop as soon as I’m seated.

  “You want me to take that from you?”

  Damn, she moves fast. “No!” I grab hold of the laptop as if she’s about to pry it from my l
ap. It’s an overreaction and she studies me for several seconds before placing my mug on the coffee table.

  “You sure do like your laptop, Boyd.”

  I don’t answer. What the fuck am I meant to say to that?

  Finally, she gives me a break and shuts herself in the bathroom. I hear the shower running and push away the images that are blazing through my brain. When she returns she’s wearing jeans and a thin white jumper that clings everywhere, exposing an inch of skin above her jeans.

  Fuck me.

  I’m aware of her walking back and forth, loading the washing machine, emptying the bin and taking the trash to the communal bins downstairs. When she comes back she grabs her purse and tells me she’s heading to the shops.

  It’s what I want; her out of the apartment, out of my thoughts. So when she’s gone, why do I keep checking the time on my laptop? This is what comes of being cooped up for weeks on end without any kind of diversion other than Kayla.

  I need a distraction. Amelia springs to mind. I reach for my phone and call her. I stopped taking her calls after I met Kayla―about the same time I quit the meaningless one night stands. I don’t want to think about what that means.

  She picks up on the first ring, her voice too sweet, too needy. “Jack! You called! How are you? I heard you broke your leg.”

  “Yeah, I did, but it’s on the mend.”

  There’s absolutely no joke there, but she giggles anyway and I find myself wincing. I’m accustomed to Kayla’s rich, husky laugh. Amelia’s giggle is shrill and forced.

  “Poor baby. Is that why you’re calling? You want me to come over and make everything better?”

  It’s what I planned, what I thought I wanted, but listening to her now, I can’t go through with it. I brush off her comment as if she’s not serious, when I know she’d be here in five if I wanted. We talk for a while and I promise to call her, soon. It’s a lie and maybe she picks up on that because I hear the disappointment in her voice when she says, “Look after yourself, Jack.”

  Done with the laptop, I push it to one side and turn on the TV. Anything to get Kayla off my mind. The only sport I can find is snooker. It’s the slowest game in the world, this game especially. The player at the table keeps scrutinizing the balls without making a play and halfway through the game my mind is still on Kayla. By the time she returns from shopping I’m so fucking uptight I need out of the apartment. It’s not gonna happen because that would mean sitting in a car with her, feeling way more confined than I do already.