“No. But it might be better for you.”
“Trust me. It would not. But this isn’t about me. Can you trust me to let it be about you?”
“That’s a hard proposition to turn down.”
“Then don’t. Come here.” He turned over onto his back and pulled her on top of him. “Shift just a little.” He gently pushed her thighs apart until his hard penis was situated exactly in the universe of all things good. “There. That’s right,” he said with a moan.
And they began to move together, all sweet fire and pure pleasure. His fingers drifted across her back and up her sides until she shifted to give him access to her breasts. The calloused fingertips of his left hand—his fretting hand—on her nipples were a perfect study in sensation.
“Come for me, sweetheart,” he said. “I want to give you pleasure.” And with that he raised his hips and pressed her hard and fast against him. Then he thrust one, two, three times—and she began to fall apart in slow motion. The spasms came hard and deep and went on and on until she collapsed against him and began to cry.
“Emory! What’s wrong?” Jackson sounded alarmed.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she cried. “You can’t know. I thought I would never … You just don’t know what you’ve given me.”
His arms went around her. “Then I’m glad.” His voice was raspy and his penis still throbbed against her. Overcome with relief and pleasure, she knew she had to return what she’d been given.
She framed his face with her hands. “It may seem silly, but I still can’t … ”
He shook his head and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Of course not. I told you this is about you. And you’ve honored me by trusting yourself to me.”
Her heart was so full. How could she not trust him?
“I want it to be about you, too.” And feeling like a caterpillar escaping from her cocoon, she slid downward, letting her tongue trail as she went.
He raised her face. “Emory, you don’t have to.”
“But I want to,” she said. “I am a strong, powerful woman—strong enough to say what I want and I want this.” She opened his boxer shorts and reached inside.
“Then far be it from me to deny a lady.”
It was one of life’s perfect moments when she closed her mouth around his beautiful penis and he cried out at her mercy. It didn’t take long.
Then she made the journey back up the length of his body, lifted his head, and kissed the back of his neck. He tasted just like she thought he would.
When he lay back and pulled her into his arms, she ran her hand over his chest.
“Tim McGraw, my ass,” he said in a sleepy voice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
June was almost gone.
Since that first night on the sofa, Jackson had spent three nights in Emory’s bed. The last two nights, he hadn’t even asked. He’d just shown up soon after she’d gone back to her house after work. They’d made simple meals—fried bologna sandwiches and salads mostly—and eaten while watching movies. They had laughed a lot and spent a lot of time in each other’s arms, talking about nothing very serious. In bed, he’d been even sweeter and more tender, never pressing her to go to that final place she couldn’t go.
In turn, she had not pressed him about the concert, reasoning that he’d make up his mind when he was ready. She still didn’t know what that “something else” was that he’d said he had to do before deciding, but she suspected it had something to do with tonight. He’d asked if she’d go with him to The Café Down On The Corner, which served breakfast and plate lunches daily but had bar fare and live music on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights.
Which was why she’d left him asleep in her bed and was at her desk before 7:00 a.m.—to get her work done so she’d be free tonight.
There was a debutante luncheon for forty today, a bridal tea tomorrow afternoon, and a wedding Saturday. And that was all, until after the holiday. Back in January, she’d blanked out ten days around the Fourth of July and the concert, as Amelia had always done. At that time she’d believed that if Jackson even came to Beauford Bend when he came in for the concert, he would have forgotten he’d told her to close Around the Bend.
And that might have been true if not for the fire in L.A.
Time was bearing down on her but she refused to think about it. She’d given herself until July fifteenth to take action. If Jackson had shown no signs of leaving by then, she’d cancel the fall bookings and start making an alternate plan—though she didn’t know what that would be.
But there was no point in thinking about it until after the concert. Somehow, she knew everything hinged on that. If he did the show, and it went well, it was a safe bet that he’d be gone within the week—back to his old life.
Jackson gone. A bittersweet pain went through her at the thought. Odd to think that not long ago, that was all she’d wanted. She straightened her spine. And she wanted it now—truly. It was what was best for him and what was best for Around the Bend, therefore best for Firefly Hall and the town.
Of course, he might not do the show—and then what? Did that mean he’d just stay here, doing what he’d been doing, which was pretty much nothing? Of course, he’d only be doing what he’d been doing up to a point, because she’d be gone.
Gone. And where? She might tell herself she was a strong, brave woman when she was lying in Jackson’s arms, but that only went so far.
Drake Winterbourne was still out there. He might be in New York but there were plenty just like him. And if things went well for Jackson—and she hoped they did; she hoped it and prayed it with all her being—he would be gone and she wouldn’t feel so safe anymore.
Yeah, Emory. Brilliant. Because Jackson Beauford can protect you with his guitar kit like Dirk and his staff never could with all that stuff they have that you don’t even like to think about.
She rubbed her forehead. No time for this. And no point—not until after the concert. She needed to use her energy to get her work done and stop herself from falling in love with Jackson.
No, wait. She hadn’t meant that, hadn’t meant to think it. Go away, bad words! Go! There. Gone.
She opened the file on today’s luncheon. Everything that could be done had been done. Gwen had the food under control and the flowers from The Enchanted Garden would be delivered at ten. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to call them, since there were deliveries scheduled for the events tomorrow and the next day, too, and they were all at different times. They’d answer the phone this early for her.
She picked up the phone and began to dial. The office door creaked open.
“Emory? May I speak with you for a moment?”
Aw, hell. Why had she even put it in the form of a question? She was already in and letting herself down in the chair in front of the desk.
Emory put the phone down. “What is it, Ginger? I have a ton of work to do.”
“So do I. Only I can’t get it done because I don’t have any answers. There are about five hundred details concerning this concert that cannot be addressed until I know whether Jackson is going to appear.”
Okay, this was sticky. Had he told Ginger, as he’d told her, that he was considering doing the show?
“What’s the last thing Jackson told you?” Emory asked.
“That he wasn’t doing the show.”
“Then that’s what I’d go with.” Emory looked down so Ginger wouldn’t see that she was hiding something.
“I know him. I know he’s thinking about it. I can tell. But I need to know where his head is.”
“Then you should ask him.”
Ginger shook her head and looked at the ceiling. “Emory, just tell me. Did you talk to him about it?”
Emory hesitated but what could it hurt? “I did. I told him I thought he should do it.”
Ginger looked relieved. “Well, that’s something. Thank you for that.”
“I did it because I think that really is what’s best for him, not because you asked me to.”
“No, I suppose not. But it sure feels like it when you scold him in front of everyone like you did Sunday night at the table.”
“You don’t understand. Do you know what an honor it is be a member of the Opry? They have expectations. And the label wants—”
Emory waved her silent. “I don’t care what the label wants or what the Opry’s expectations are. You don’t get it. He’s not ready. He may never be, though I hope that’s not true. But all that aside, you need to talk to him privately and not nag him in public.”
“That might be true but I can’t talk to him in private. He runs every time he sees me, like a three-year-old who knows I can’t chase him with my leg in a cast.” She narrowed her eyes. “And here lately, he seems to be spending his nights with you.”
“There’s no seems about it. He has been.” Emory set her jaw and stared Ginger down.
Ginger’s face went soft and worried. “Is he sleeping better?”
“Yes. He’s still asleep now.”
“That is better. I got the feeling he hadn’t been going to bed until mornings.”
Lately, he’s been going to bed about eight o’clock—but not to sleep. She smiled a bit at the memory. Last night, she’d almost asked him to finish the act but she’d panicked a little. Maybe tonight.
Ginger blew out a frustrated breath and Emory got the feeling she could read her mind.
“Just tell me, Emory. What do you think he’s going to do? There was a time that, when I couldn’t get an answer from him, Trace could.” She sighed again and put her face in her hands. This woman would break if she could decide what about.
“Look, Ginger,” Emory said gently. “I understand that all this has been hard on you, too. Jackson wasn’t the only one who stood there and watched his friends burn to death. And I’ve read in more than one place that you probably saved his life, and you certainly saved him from getting severely burned.”
“What else was I going to do? And he’s mad at me about it. He didn’t want to be saved. I saw him. He was going to run into that inferno and his bodyguards were too far away.”
“He’ll come around,” Emory said. “I don’t pretend to know anywhere near as much about him as you do but I know this: he’s a good man and he loves you. You just need to give him some time.”
“Maybe. Since you’re speculating, what do you think he’ll do about the concert?”
“I honestly do not know, Ginger. I wish I did.”
“Okay. Thanks, anyway.” She got to her feet. “If you get a chance, Emory, about the Opry—”
“No, Ginger. And I mean it.”
“I had to try.”
“Goodbye, Ginger.” Emory picked up the phone to call The Enchanted Garden.
“Emory. He won’t stay with you, you know,” Ginger said softly. “You’re a good woman. I would hate to see you think he might. I’ve seen the look on your face on other faces.”
Other faces, prettier faces, faces that weren’t afraid to make love like a grown woman and leave the bounds of Beauford, Tennessee.
“I know that.” And she did. She just wasn’t sure her heart had gotten the message.
• • •
Jackson entered the workout room. This time he really was going to work out. He felt better than he had in a long time.
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Dirk was lying on the bench lifting dumbbells. “Ginger’s been nagging me to get you to work out. If she asks, I’d appreciate it if you told her you’re here all because of me.”
“I’ll do it.” Jackson walked over to the wet bar and retrieved a bottle of water from the refrigerator and two bananas from the fruit basket on the counter.
“Didn’t Emory make you a big breakfast?” There was a smirk in Dirk’s voice.
“Ha! Not likely. Though she makes a good fried bologna sandwich. And popcorn. I’d put her microwave popcorn up against even your wife’s.”
Dirk swung around to a sitting position and put the dumbbells down. He was getting ready to talk and Jackson intended to head him off.
“Listen, Dirk.” He leaned on the counter and peeled a banana.
“I always do.”
“Yeah. I’ll give you that. Not a lot of other people do. Here’s the thing. I’m going down to The Café Down On The Corner tonight.”
“Open mike night. They’ll be glad to see you.”
He’d played there for tips and Cokes when he was a teenager. The Cokes would have been beer if he’d been old enough. Though it hadn’t happened in a while, he always tried to go in and do a few songs when he was home to show Billy Joe and Robin his appreciation. Besides, it was fun. Or it used to be. Tonight was a test. The times he’d been able to play without the panic, Emory had been there. Crazy, but that might be the key ingredient. But acting silly on the porch with her or singing in church was one thing. Singing in public with a guitar in his hands was another. If he could perform on that little stage tonight without incident, he was going to do the concert. If that went well, he’d see what happened next.
“Billy Joe always says they owe me a lot of beers. Do you think you and Gwen could come tonight and collect a few of them? So Emory won’t have to sit alone.”
Dirk shook his head. “Not both of us, not on this kind of notice.”
“I could get Sammy to babysit,” Jackson said.
“No. Sammy has never changed a diaper and wouldn’t know the first thing about getting a kid to sleep. But I’ll go.”
“Gwen won’t mind?”
Dirk laughed a little. “There’s a good deal that Gwen minds these days but she won’t care about this.”
“Yeah? What have you done to piss her off?”
“My friend, I haven’t done anything to piss her off. I learned how to avoid that about sophomore year. It’s Emory she’s worried about.”
Jackson’s head jerked up.
“Does she know what happened to Emory?”
Dirk shook his head. “Not from me. I don’t talk about my work and she doesn’t expect it. Emory hasn’t told her either, or Gwen would have told me. But you don’t have to spell everything out for Gwen. She knows something happened to put Emory off men. And now that Emory’s not quite so much off men—at least one man—Gwen thinks she’s picked the wrong one.”
“Me? What’s wrong with me?” Jackson was a little incensed.
“Gwen thinks you’ll break her heart and Emory will be right back where she started—or worse. She tried to get me to tell you to leave her alone.”
“It’s not like that with Emory and me.”
Dirk just shrugged and picked up a dumbbell and began to toss it back and forth between his hands.
“Why didn’t you talk to me? You usually do what Gwen wants.”
“Not that. It’s my job to keep you alive, your property intact, and the fans knocked off the front gate. It’s not my job to supervise your romances. And if it were, I see it differently from Gwen.”
“I’m going to regret this. How do you see it?”
“I don’t know why you have to break Emory’s heart. I don’t see why she can’t be the one.”
“For me? You mean permanently? You’ve got to be kidding.”
A storm cloud moved over Dirk’s face. “What’s wrong with Emory? Jackson, you’re our oldest friend but we love Emory.”
“There’s not a damned thing wrong with Emory! It’s me. I’m the mess. I’m not fit for any relationship, least of all with her.”
Dirk put the dumbbell down, brought a hand to his forehead, and laughed under his breath. “Not fit for a relationship? That might be true. But just what exactly is it that you’re doing, then?”
Good question—maybe one he should have considered more.
“I … I … I … ”
“You, you, you?”
“I’m helping her.”
“Helping her? Brother, you are headed down one bad road that dead-ends in hell. Because women really
love it when you help them.”
“I don’t think so. She needs help. She’s the kind of woman who ought to have a nice house, some children, and a man who will be a good father so she can do a job she loves. She ought to have everything. That means having someone who won’t necessarily give it to her but stand beside her while he gets it. She should have what you and Gwen have.” He swallowed. It pained him to think of her with some big blond guy who had probably rowed those little skinny boats at Harvard, but that was the life that was taken from her and she ought to have it back. “She needs help to get to the point where she can get that for herself.”
“I agree that she ought to have those things but I don’t see why it can’t be you.”
Jackson let himself down on one of the counter stools. “Does anybody ever sit on these things?”
“I think Brett sits there to buff his nails after he gets out of the sauna. Why can’t it be you?”
“Because I don’t buff my nails or get in that sauna. I don’t know why I had it put in.”
“I like it. So do my guys. Why can’t it be you who gives Emory those things?”
“Dirk, you and Gwen are like family to me. You know that I—” The word caught in his throat. No. It didn’t even make it that far.
“I know,” Dirk said. “And so do we.”
“But I can’t even look at your kids. All I can do is send a big check on birthdays and Christmas. And Ginger keeps up with that. Or she did.”
“You looked at Julie Sunday night. I thought you would when she outgrew Camille.”
“Children don’t come into the world as three-year-olds.”
Dirk nodded. “It would be different it was your own. Maybe.”
“You don’t know that. And that’s just one small part of how fucked up I am.”
“But you’re in love with Emory. And where does that leave you?”
“No, I’m not. It’s not my job to love her. It’s my job to help her. And to find that son of a bitch who stole her life.”
Dirk’s expression went from Wise Man with an Opinion to Bloodhound Soldier Who’s Picked Up A Scent—and that was just fine with Jackson.
Forgiving Jackson Page 19
