Chlorine and Chaos

by Jessalyn Jameson

  Unfortunately, every time they came close to making this work, one of them went ahead and ruined it. What he’d said to her in the school parking lot yesterday, his rancorous, unforgivable words…this was just another episode in a long line of fuck-ups since Sage had returned to him.

  Hell, he’d fucked it up years ago when he let her slip away the first time. He’d fucked it up for four years before that, when he kept Sage his secret to protect her from her psycho foster father. This vicious cycle of messing up a good thing wasn’t new to either of them.

  Tig slapped his hand over his forehead, than ran it down his face, rubbing the three days’ worth of scruff on his chin. Pudge stretched in the bed beside him, scratching Tig’s bare side with his claws.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do now, Pudge?”

  The dog yawned.

  “Helpful as always, mutt.”

  Tig stretched again, then crawled out of bed, making his way to the coffee maker with eyes barely open.

  “I slept like shit last night, buddy.”

  Pudge trotted behind him, as unresponsive as ever.

  After the coffee began brewing, Tig checked his cell, disappointment swirling through his chest. He hadn’t really expected her to respond, but he’d hoped. He couldn’t help but hope.

  He was about to send another text—flying right past annoying and right into desperate, he well knew—when someone knocked on his door.

  Eyes wide, and suddenly alert, Tig practically sprinted to the front of his apartment. He couldn’t believe she was here! He swung the door open, and—

  “Oh.” His shoulders fell as his soon-to-be ex-wife appraised his shirtless form.

  “Well, don’t seem too excited.”

  How he disliked this woman. “What’s up, Rosie? Did you bring the papers?”

  Rosie sighed, eyes downcast. “Yes. They’re all signed and ready to go. You can finally be rid of me.”

  Tig inhaled a deep breath. “Drop the pity party act, Rosalind. You’ve never been happy with me. You’ve never been happy here. I was a meal ticket out of dodge, and you’ve never forgiven me for wrecking my knee.”

  Her gaze snapped up to meet his, shock apparent in her wide, brown eyes—and almost convincing. “Is that really what you think of me?”

  Tig rolled his eyes, running his hand over his face. He scratched at his beard scruff and sighed. “Come on, Rosie. Let’s not go there. Just hand over the papers so we can both get on with our lives.”

  “You think I was only with you because I wanted out?” She stepped inside, closing the distance between them. “You think I stayed with you for thirteen years because I hoped we’d leave this podunk town? Thirteen years, Tig! I’ve wasted my life on you, and for what? So you could pretend I was an appropriate replacement for Sage Shepard?”

  She drew her hand back to slap him, but he caught her wrist, halting her movement just inches from his cheek. She fought against his grip for only a few seconds before she gave in, then fell against him.

  “Thirteen years, Brandon,” she sobbed against his bare chest. “All I ever wanted was for you to love me, for you to see me—”

  “I did—”

  She looked up at him, her hands on his chest, then pushed herself back. “No. You didn’t. Not like you loved her.” She shook her head. “Never like you loved her.”

  Tig opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

  Rosie took another step back, shaking her head. “You can’t even tell me I’m wrong, can you?”

  Tig searched her gaze, silently pleading for her to go no further. “Please, Rosie.”

  She slammed her mouth shut, jaw clenching so much a vein ticked in her cheek, but then she straightened. “No. You don’t get to ‘please, Rosie’ me. I’m the victim here, Tig. Me. Not you. Me.”

  Rosie turned on her heels and left, and as he watched her walk away, he wished he felt anything more than relief—he owed her so much more than that—but every time Rosie left him, relief was the only response he had.

  “Girls like me don’t go to prom,” she whispered against his neck, her lips teasing his skin.

  He turned, cradling her naked body in his arms, spooning her but wanting so much more. Somehow, no matter how many times they made love, he’d never felt close enough to her.

  He smoothed her hair, wishing he had something to say that would change things. He couldn’t take her to prom himself, they both knew that, but maybe…if she’d just agree to go with someone else…maybe he could watch her, get a glimpse of her in her dress, steal a kiss in the darkened hallway of the hotel. He knew she’d knock the breath from his lungs in a prom dress.

  He ran his fingertips down her arms, brushing over her long-healed scars. “But, what about Bobby?” He knew the question was absurd the second it left his lips. She wouldn’t want to go with anyone but him. Not even her closest guy friend.

  She turned her head back to face him, locking that gray gaze on his, brows furrowed. After a second, she turned to face him fully, bringing the fronts of their bare bodies together once more. The perturbed look in her eyes had been replaced with mischief. “You know, Brand, guys expect certain things after prom.” She tangled her leg between his, pressing her thigh up. She trailed her black-polished fingernail down his chest. “Dirty things.”

  Tig sucked in a breath as Sage trailed her finger farther down his torso. He grabbed her hand, halting her movement, then moved to lie on top of her. “I’ll kill him if he touches you.”

  “I know.” Sage shrugged. “That’s why I’m not going to prom, Brandon Tiggs.”

  Tig crushed his mouth to hers as she pulled the blanket up around their shoulders and moved beneath him, inviting him inside her once more.

  His heart broke as they made love, knowing it wasn’t just guys who expected things on prom night.

  Rosie Sanchez had her own plan for Brandon Tiggs, and he hated how helpless he was to stop it.

  The memory flooded him like it was yesterday. What was expected of him had always eclipsed what he wanted, needed, and he’d felt painfully helpless to change anything in his own life. When he’d been blindsided by that other driver, he’d watched his dreams fly away, his plans crumble to dust, his life spin out of control, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he’d been thankful.

  Released.

  That loss of control had given him all the control he’d ever wanted.

  Too late to salvage his connection to Sage, he’d stayed locked in the safety of a relationship with a woman he thought sorta loved him, but Tig had always wondered…what if that accident had happened just a few months before it did? Would it have been Sage by his side in the hospital room? Sage crying over his lost dreams, his hopeless future?

  Tig sighed as he entered the building. Prom was just two short weeks away. The gym was scattered with students now, hanging signs and streamers, beginning to decorate for the events leading up to the big night.

  This was the sixth year Tig would chaperone, but the first year he would do it alone. Not only had he been forced to bring Rosie to his own Junior and Senior proms, but he’d had to bring her to every one he’d chaperoned since.

  But now…Rosie finally signed the paperwork and their divorce had been officially final for three weeks.

  Tig watched Artie Langford climb up a ladder on the far side of the gym, pushing aside the disgusting desire to see the kid fall on his face in front of the gaggle of girls surrounding him. They worshipped that kid. Tig remembered what that had been like, but even then, even amidst the admirers, the followers, the sheep that thought he’d hung the damn moon, he’d only had eyes for one woman.

  He titled his head to the side, wondering if that went for Artie as well. Did he only have eyes for one woman? He stepped off the ladder, and Tig watched the girls gather around him. How did he look at them? Did he pay attention to any of them in particular? One girl linked her arm through his, and Tig figured that was probably Liz Collins—the rumored girlfriend of Artie La
ngford.

  But even as he watched—the creepy swim coach in the corner—Tig felt a lack of connection between the two kids. Was he imagining it? Surely Sage couldn’t still be sleeping with a student?

  Tig shook his head. He needed to get her out of his thoughts, needed to move on. He knew she wouldn’t continue breaking the rules by sleeping with Artie, but he couldn’t keep his broken heart from jumping to assumptions.

  And, hell, even if she was still fucking that kid…it wasn’t Tig’s business any longer.

  Artie passed Tig on his way out the door, nodding at the man as he strolled by, too self-assured for his own good.

  Once upon a time, not too long ago, Tig had wondered what had given that kid so much damn confidence. Now, his mind reminded him relentlessly what—who—it had been.

  Sage realized halfway through the first hour of school that she’d worn jeans to work. She looked down, her brow creased with confusion, at the denim that covered her legs. She respected her own professional dress code rules and never wore jeans to work, even though no one had told her otherwise and the majority of people on the faculty considered every day Casual Friday.

  She shook her head—she needed to snap out of this funk. Depression would get her nowhere, and a lack of focus was no good for her, no good for the students she may need to treat, and most importantly, no good for the brother she vowed to care for.

  Sage sighed and stood, hoping to find something to take her mind off her pathetic life. Maybe Ellie needed some help with something in the front office—

  She froze, midway through smoothing the back of her jeans. She’d forgotten about the razor blade she’d slipped into the back pocket of these pants when Artie’d shown up at her door a few weeks before. Had she not washed them? Her gaze flicked around the room, then she scanned the hallway through her office windows. She slipped her fingers into the pocket and retrieved the rectangle of metal, then sat back down at her desk.

  She laid the razorblade on the desktop, hands splayed on either side of it as she stared down at the unassuming object. Alone, it was harmless. Inanimate. Useless. But in the right hands, years of damage could be inflicted.

  Perfect pain could be obtained.

  Sage’s heart thumped in her chest as she considered the possibilities. Her adrenaline surged. She knew it was wrong, knew she’d fought long and hard to get over the desire to cut, but one little slice wouldn’t hurt. Nobody would even have to know.

  She slid her fingers nearer to the blade…waiting, wanting…inching closer as her mind warred with her heart. Her desire to bleed the pain free of her body threatened her logic—

  “Nurse Shepard?”

  Sage gasped, then slammed her hand over the razor blade and looked up. As she met Artie’s gaze, she opened the top drawer of her desk, then slid the metal inside.

  “Artie”—Sage coughed—“Mr. Langford, what can I do for you?”

  “You can stick to calling me Artie, for starters.”

  Sage gave a curt nod. “Okay, Artie. Are you hurt?”

  Artie smiled, then winked. “Yeah, um, I have a headache. I was hoping you could give me something for the pain.”

  He held her gaze with too much intensity, too much arrogance, his words asking for so much more than medicine.

  Sage cleared her throat again. “Artie—”

  “Shh,” he whispered, closing the distance between them in three long strides. He leaned down over her desk, then slid a piece of paper under her fingers. “I know what you’re thinking, Sage, I do. And I get it. But, just…don’t. Don’t fight this. Meet me here at four.” He tapped the paper, then brushed his fingertips across her hand and turned, striding out without another glance.

  “Damn,” she whispered on a sigh. That kid had some nerve.

  She crumpled the piece of paper up before even bothering to see what it said, then threw it into the trashcan.

  No way. She couldn’t see him anymore. The first time had been a mistake, and one she hadn’t known to prevent. The second time, well, that had been an even bigger mistake, and was borderline against the law. Doing it again—her eyes flicked to the trashcan—would just be stupid.

  She opened the drawer, seeking the comfort of oblivion by pain.

  But something about the way he looked at her…she was intrigued. And sneaking around with him was exhilarating—she couldn’t lie about that. Her gaze flicked to the trashcan once more.

  Maybe she was the self-abuser Rosie pegged her for.

  She closed the drawer and stood, took two steps to the trashcan, bent down, picked up the paper, and shoved it into her pocket.

  Fuck Rosie Sanchez. Tiggs. Rosie Tiggs.

  “Where are we going?” Artie hadn’t taken his eyes off her since they’d left the park where he’d ditched his car.

  “Out of town.” She glanced at him now, catching the shock that pushed his eyebrows clear into his hairline.

  “What?”

  “I can’t be seen with you. You must know that.”

  “Yeah, but I thought we were just going to meet at the park, and—”

  “So eager. Relax a bit, kid. There’s more to life than fucking.”

  Artie chuckled. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “Do you have a curfew?”

  “I’m eighteen.”

  “And?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sage glanced at him sideways. “And?”

  “Eleven o’clock on school nights.”

  Sage did the math in her head. Just barely enough time, and only if they could be seen immediately. “That will have to do.” She needed this, needed the release. Otherwise….

  She could almost feel the cool metal burning through her back pocket, begging to be freed to reunite with the soft skin of her forearms, her thighs. She imagined the blood pooling as the skin split in two, the searing pain as blade met flesh—

  “What’s on your mind, Sage?” Artie’s hand ran up and down her thigh, and she wondered if she should skip this all together and just stick to sex, but the gaping hole in her chest demanded more than the fleeting euphoria of orgasm.

  She needed to hurt, to feel.

  She needed beautiful, mind-numbing pain.

  Forty minutes later, they sat inside the car, staring at the neon lights in front of them.

  “Tattoos? Seriously?”

  “What’s wrong, champ? Scared of a little needle?” Sage smiled widely, then winked and licked her lips.

  Artie’s eyes widened in response to her seductive playfulness, then he nodded. “Fuck it. Let’s go. I’m buying.” He jumped out of the car before she could argue, and likely, before he could change his mind.

  Sage’s body vibrated with excitement, the adrenaline and desire caressing her with an electric feeling that was nearly as good as any sexual experience she could remember.

  Her back slammed against the side of the car, the door handle pressing painfully into her rib cage. His hands gripped her hips, holding her against the hardness in his pants. Pressed between a rock and a hard place, she thought, as she ground against him.

  Sage moaned as wetness pooled between her legs. “Get me into the car.” She practically growled the words, unable to calm her desire. If he waited any longer, she’d be riding him into the asphalt right here in the almost secluded back corner of the park.

  Getting his first ink had done something to Artie; adrenaline seemed to be his aphrodisiac of choice, and Sage planned to take full advantage of that newly acquired knowledge.

  He continued kissing her throat, then slammed his mouth over hers, his tongue plunging inside to taste her as he reached one hand into her skirt, sliding it into her panties, then gliding his fingers inside her. She gasped, nearly finishing right there in the open, so turned on by the forcefulness he showed her and the adrenaline that still surged through her veins.

  “Now, Artie,” she moaned into his mouth when he paused his suckling of her tongue.

  “Yes, Miss Shepard.”

  She’d told hi
m not to call her that, but something about the way he said it now, with that throaty rasp in his voice, made her knees weak. There was something sexy about this forbidden romance, something dangerous, alluring. Her eyes popped open. Not romance. There was nothing romantic between her and Artie Langford.

  Just good, old-fashioned, no strings attached sex. And damn good sex at that.

  She scrambled backward onto the seat as he stood calmly outside the door, watching, two fingers in the air, glistening in the amber glow of the streetlamp. He smiled as her gaze flicked between his hand and his eyes, then he slid his fingers into his mouth, tasting her, and she shook with the first signs of the oncoming orgasm. Who was this guy?

  Somehow, in the month they’d been sleeping together, he’d gone from awkward and nervous to commanding and in control. She couldn’t think of a bigger turn on, and frankly, if he had fucked every senior girl in school, she owed them her sincerest thanks.

  “Get your ass inside this car.”

  He winked at her, then jumped inside, slamming the door behind him.

  She slid her skirt down—already unbuttoned, apparently—as he watched, hunger in his eyes, then she reached forward and began undoing his jeans, her fingers fumbling in her haste.

  He pushed her back with one hand, sliding a condom over his shaft with the other, then, with pants around his knees, obviously as desperate for release as she was, he slid inside her.

  “So, prom’s coming up.”

  Sage stilled beneath Artie’s roaming hands.

  He nuzzled his face into her hair, breathing her in, having no idea the déjà vu he’d just created. He lifted his head up, searching her face. “What’s wrong? You’re, like, deathly still.”

  Sage swallowed, then gently shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

  Old enough to know how to make a woman cry out for God in the sack, but nowhere near old enough to understand that fine meant the absolute opposite, Artie laid his head back down, then continued running his thumb over her nipple.

  “Why don’t you ever undress for me?” His hand slowly began its descent, toying with the hem of her shirt.