Cutslut

by Kim Jones

  “Why is there a trampoline here? Nobody has kids, do they?”

  He shakes his head. “Long story. I’ll find you some pants.”

  Pushing away from the table, he makes his way down the hall. I’m guessing to his room where he’s hiding all my fucking luggage. He returns a few minutes later with a pink hoodie, matching sweats and socks. I slip them on, aware of him watching me as I do. It takes more control than I thought I had not to shake my tits at him.

  He leads me through a side door and into a covered, fenced area outside that’s filled with workout equipment, a few exercise machines and, of course, a trampoline. Ignoring the cold, I climb on the trampoline and start jumping—cutting flips and doing air splits like I’m ten again.

  But just being outside reminds me that there is life beyond these four walls. That soon, Cain will come for me. There’s something about Jinx and being locked in the clubhouse that makes me feel so safe I forget. But here? Exposed and vulnerable? It kind of scares the piss out of me.

  I hop down and join Jinx who’s propped against the side of the building with his hands shoved in his pockets. I’m breathless when I reach him—mostly from exhaustion but a little bit of fear, too. There’s a cramp in my side. My nose is running. My hands are like ice. And I want to slap that amused smug look right off Jinx’s face.

  “Shut up,” I pant, grabbing my side and bending over.

  “I can see why you’re out of breath,” he says, patting my head like a dog. I swat his hand away. “You’ve been out here all of ten minutes.”

  “Is that all?” I shriek, immediately regretting it when that pain echoes in my side. “Fuck this. I’ve got a better idea.”

  “Like what?” Jinx asks, bored as hell as he holds open the door for me to stumble through. When I reach out to hold onto the frame for assistance, the damn thing shocks me.

  “First, I’m gonna lose these static clingers. Then I’m gonna get drunk.” And hopefully forget about Cain. “Maybe I’ll clean up some of that shit growing in the living room,” I add when I see him watching me a little too intensely.

  “That’s a relief,” he mutters. “Just don’t trade in those static clingers for my shirt. Wear something of your own. There’s some clothes in the bathroom. I’ve got shit to do.”

  I dismiss him with a wave and make my way down the hall—hearing the side door slamming behind him as he goes back outside. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mumble to myself. “Nobody wants to wear your shit, anyway.”

  Liar.

  19

  WINTER

  My hair is on my head. I’m wearing Jinx’s shirt. Dancing around the living room to Ariana Grande with a glass of scotch in one hand, a feather duster in the other and a cigarette hanging from my lips. That’s how Jinx finds me when he comes back inside sometime later.

  I have no idea how long he’s been standing there. How long he’s been watching me. It couldn’t have been more than a second or two. Because if he’s been there longer, I’m wondering how in the fuck I didn’t notice him before now.

  It could be the large amount of alcohol swimming through my system that has me overheating. I seriously doubt it though. I may by highly intoxicated—more like piss drunk—but even sober I’d have definitely felt heat at the sight of him. Considering he’s naked from the waist up. Breathing hard. Sweaty. Earbuds hanging around his neck. Bright eyes barely visible beneath heavy lids. They move to the shirt I’m wearing and harden. Not darken in lust like in the books I’ve read. But harden. Like he really doesn’t like me wearing his shirt. As he’s said so many times before.

  Hell, maybe he really doesn’t like it when he knows I’m not planning to escape him. Maybe I like it because I know if I’m wearing it, I can’t. And maybe it’s this shirt that makes me feel safe—knowing if Cain showed up and I was forced to leave with him, that Jinx could still find me.

  I’m crazy. Since when do I want help from this brooding bastard? Fuck his cold eyes. His mean look. My weird thoughts. I take a sip of scotch that I really don’t need and move to more pleasant parts of his body. Like those beautiful tats covering his torso. The thick veins that protrude on his muscular neck from his recent workout. That inked, tanned skin stretched tight over bulging biceps and triceps and all the fucking ceps in his arms. His chest a slab of granite. Stomach like stone and chiseled in abs. A dust of dark hair trailing down, down, down and disappearing into his sweats.

  Those damn sweats. Dark gray. Heavy cotton. High thread count. Little check mark on the pocket. Probably really fucking expensive. Hanging so low on his hips I can see that V. Which looks like an arrow. And it’s pointing at that thick shaft pressing against those expensive fucking sweats that even heavy cotton and high thread count can’t hide.

  He waits for me to meet his eyes. Unhurriedly, I do. I see that same heat I’m feeling there. But the blazing inferno can’t be nearly as hot as my pussy is right now. “You like me in your shirt,” I say, my words clear but sluggish.

  “I hate when you wear my shit.”

  I shoot him a lazy, drunken smile. Tilting my head a little, I bat my eyelashes—swaying as I do. “You’re lookin’ at me like you want to eat me.”

  “Do you want me to eat you, sweetheart?” Oh, he’s using the throaty voice. How cliché. How sexy. How fucking crazy is it that me, a cutslut, a woman who does business on her back, can be affected by a tone. It must be the alcohol.

  “Yes. But you won’t.” I give him a mock frown.

  He lifts a brow. “Oh really?”

  Nodding big, like the drunken fool I am, I say, “Yep. Cause you hate me in your shit. You don’t find me sexy when I wear it.”

  He shakes his head, a small smile on his lips as he slowly stalks toward me. His movements fluid. Precise. Confident. His body even more massive now that he’s closer. Towering over me. Looking down at my feeble form.

  I’m all wobbly knees and shaky legs. Mouth hung open. Deer in the headlights. I’m going to be eaten. Oh, god. Please let me be eaten.

  “I don’t care how much I hate it. There’s nothing about that shirt that’s gonna keep me from devouring you. Just like there’s nothing the Devil himself could do to keep me from fucking you into a goddamn oblivion once it hits the floor.”

  There’s a feral need in his voice that’s primal. Beneath all that calm is a beast—gnashing his teeth. Raging to break free from his cage. Roaring and pacing and letting everyone in the jungle know he’s here and he’s about to fuck shit up.

  He’s the king.

  The lion.

  I’m the gazelle.

  No.

  They’re graceful.

  I’m a clumsy zebra.

  Or one of them baby giraffes that trips and falls on its face the first few steps of its life.

  “You smell good,” I whisper, my eyes falling half-mast as I inhale him.

  I sway.

  He catches my elbow.

  “We have a connection. I feel it,” I breathe on a sigh.

  That spark.

  That electricity.

  Hot against my skin.

  Too hot.

  It’s really more of a vibration.

  A pulse.

  But it’s there.

  Yep.

  We definitely have a connection.

  “It’s my iPod, sweetheart.”

  My chin drops quickly—my forehead landing on his sweaty, warm chest. I blink a few times until my head stops spinning and narrow my eyes on what’s pulsing. Sure enough, there’s a white iPod in his hand. Pulsing with the heavy bass of some Metallica song.

  “Well, fuck me,” I slur, pulling in a deep breath and releasing it.

  The lethargic feeling that comes with being drunk is a double edged sword. I love that my mind feels weightless, but I hate that my limbs feel like fucking concrete and move at a snail’s pace. Like now, when I have to lift my hands to his arms and steady myself just so I can straighten. Which sucks because he feels really, really good in my hands.

  “You alw
ays drink when you clean?” he asks, keeping his hand—and iPod—on my elbow when I step away from him.

  “I drink all the time,” I say proudly. “It’s what you do when you’re in prison. Well, not really but when you feel like you’re living in one. George can tell it better than me.”

  “George?”

  “George Jones. Country music legend.” I grab the bottle from the table and top off my glass. Surprisingly, I do it without spilling a single drop. “Pierce loves him. He used to play that shit on a loop when I was a kid.” Laughing, I lift the glass to my lips. “That’s one of the reasons I left.”

  Sitting on the arm of the sectional, I cross my legs and pat the cushion next to me. “Sit.” Jinx waits a few seconds before taking a seat. When he does, he sits two cushions down from me. I roll my eyes at him. But he doesn’t notice. He’s too busy putting a shirt on.

  “Think that shirt’s gonna protect you?” I ask, pointing to the red T-shirt he now wears with the arms cut out and ripped halfway down the sides.

  He pins me with a promising look. “No more than the one you’re wearing is.”

  My breath hitches. And for some reason, a fission of nerves course through me. This is unusual for me. I’ve only ever fucked Cain and the people he told me to. I’ve never had to actually make conversation without both of us knowing how the night was going to end up.

  “George Jones,” he says, pointing to the remote in my hand.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m gettin’ to it.” Shaking my head, I mumble into my glass, “So damn impatient.” I finish off my drink. Pour another—smiling proudly when I don’t spill a single drop.

  It takes me a minute to find the song on the too-fucking-smart-T.V. app thingy, but eventually, “Still Doing Time” by George Jones filters through the speakers. We listen in silence. Him watching me. Me watching him. And the T.V. My glass. The floor. My fingernails. The couch.

  “So living with Pierce made you feel like you were doing time.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A fact.

  “Yep. Couldn’t wait to turn eighteen. To get the fuck out from under his watchful eye.” I light a cigarette, giving Jinx the opportunity to comment. When he doesn’t, I continue. “Do you know he ran background checks on all my friends, their family and their family’s friends? Two people made the cut. A girl named Natasha who lived with her eighty-year-old grandma, had a six o’clock curfew and went to church religiously. She ended up graduating second in our class, marrying right out of high school and had three kids by the time she was twenty-two.”

  Nursing my drink, I think back to Natasha and how Pierce always told me I should be more like her. Little did he know his praise of Natasha is what ruined her in the end. She was in love with him and married a guy she barely knew just to get Pierce out of her system.

  “You said there were two.”

  “I did.” Nodding slowly, my eyes focus on the lamp across the room. “Mia. Another good girl. I was a bad influence. My own brother said so. Staying true to my reputation, I tainted her perfect little life. Talked her into going to a frat part our junior year. We got drunk. Flipped a quarter to see who was going to drive home. I won. She drove. Got a DUI. And her parents tried to sue Pierce saying I bullied her into it.”

  “Did you?”

  Not meeting his eyes, I shrug. “Maybe.” Stubbing my cigarette out, I eye the scotch. I’m pretty sure I’m an alcoholic. I’m okay with that. Knowing is the first step, right? Right. And now that I’ve accepted it, I need to celebrate. Plus, nobody listens to George sober.

  I take a drink.

  “Why did you run from Cain?” Jinx asks, just as I’m about to take a sip. I study him—trying to see past that stoic face and find what he’s truly feeling, as I take two, long swallows.

  “That’s the third time you’ve asked me that.”

  “Maybe this time I’ll get the truth.”

  “Truth.” I laugh and slide from the arm of the couch onto the cushions. “I’ve told both of you multiple times that I wasn’t running from Cain. Yet there’s a reason you and my brother are convinced I did. Whatever that reason is, should make the answer to your question pretty obvious.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  Winking, I point a finger at him. “But you have a theory.”

  His lips twitch. “I do.”

  “It’s probably bullshit.”

  “Probably.” He shrugs, unaffected as he reaches for the bottle and pours himself a couple fingers before reclining back on the sofa—propping his ankle on his knee and stretching one, long arm across the back of the couch.

  Forcing myself to focus on the topic and not on how sexy he looks, I snap my fingers and wave my hand in the air. “Well, let’s hear it.”

  He’s thoughtful a moment—nursing his whiskey as I do the same. “You left San Diego to get away from Pierce. Thought the grass was greener. Found out it wasn’t. Tried to leave. Cain wouldn’t let you. And he threatened you with Pierce. I’m guessing something along the lines of, ‘I’ll kill him if you speak to him’ or some shit.”

  I smile at that. “Not even close,” I lie.

  “So tell me the truth.” It’s tempting—to tell him everything. But I’m too drunk. I’ll likely say more than I should.

  “One day,” I offer, grabbing my glass. “Ask me something else.”

  He seems surprised by that. “Okay…let’s say you get out of here and don’t go back to Cain.” He pauses as if to gauge my reaction. When he doesn’t get one, he continues. “What if by some fucking miracle, and when I say miracle I mean walk on water miracle, you get away from me, where will you go? What you gonna do when you get there? What are you lookin’ for? What do you want?”

  “Geeze,” I huff. “Who the fuck are you, Dr. Phil? I was thinking maybe you’d ask me something like my favorite color.”

  “I’m an overachiever.”

  “No shit you are,” I mutter, finding the bottom of my glass once again dry. “Well, if I can’t go back to Cain…I guess the first thing I would do is find a good bottle of scotch. Some sand and water. Get fucked up. Then have sex with someone who doesn’t leave me waking up to a cold bed.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “A snuggle partner?”

  “Yeah. Snuggle partner. Cuddle buddy. I might even let him kiss me with bad morning breath.”

  “Wow,” he says, humor dancing in his eyes. “You’ve got it bad for this guy. He your fairytale? Your happily ever after?”

  I shrug. “Maybe. If he fits all the requirements.”

  “And what requirements must this dream guy meet?”

  “Why so curious?” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Do you wanna be my dream guy?”

  A devious smile on his lips, he shakes his head. “Not a chance in hell, sweetheart. You’re not my type.”

  “Ditto, asshole. I’m sure your type consists of some meek, feeble minded bitch who does what she’s told, praises you like you’re something fucking special and bakes cookies for the club.”

  “Nailed it,” he says, fighting a smile. “Women like you are too much of a pain in the ass.”

  “Maybe to someone like you. But not to my dream guy.” Laying down, I pull the cover from the back of the couch and struggle to cover myself. Giving up, I let it sit half-folded over my legs and place my hands behind my head. “He likes a challenge,” I say, my words muffled by my yawn.

  “Well, he’ll definitely get one with you.”

  “Shut up,” I snap, but I’m smiling when I look at him. He’s smiling back. That genuine smile. The one that looks best on him. “He’ll also let me hold the remote, rub my feet and pour my scotch.”

  “He sounds like a pussy.”

  “He sounds perfect,” I mumble, my eyes returning to the ceiling. I stare at it a moment. My fuzzy brain drifting back to the original question—what do I want?

  Ultimately…to be free.

  To settle somewhere safe.

  To maybe one day find that dream guy.

  It’s ridiculous, but
I decide to humor him. And maybe myself.

  “I want to go someplace where nobody knows me,” I start, my eyes fluttering closed as I imagine the sun and the ocean and a beach full of strangers who don’t give me a second look. “I want to have cocktails at a bar without looking over my shoulder or down at my watch.”

  Turning on my side, I pull the covers up to my chin and glance over at him. He’s watching me. No smile. No smirk. He’s serious. Attentive. Interested. “Is dream guy there?” he asks, his voice not condescending but rather curious. He’s obsessed with my dream guy….

  “Yes. And he rides a moped. Not a Harley.” His lips quirk at my words.

  I focus on a spot across the room—my mind drifting back to my perfect day. “He owns colorful clothes. Not just black. Wears flip-flops and shorts instead of jeans and boots. No helmet to hide his face. No patch. No club to answer to. No bi-laws to follow. He’s his own man. Different. He’s special.”

  My voice dips and my admissions become more serious. “He likes to hold my hand. Sometimes he kisses my fingers mindlessly. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. And when he kisses my lips, he holds my face in his hands. He controls the kiss, but it’s not fierce and hard. It’s gentle and passionate.

  “I want a man who makes me feel wanted…not owned. One who wants me beside him…not behind him. Who knows when I need a hug and doesn’t ask why, he just holds me. Who listens when I speak. Who doesn’t tell me I’m stupid. Or ridiculous. Or that without him, I’m nothing.

  “I want to watch the sunset on his lap. Laugh until the morning. Toast a new day over a shared glass of scotch. Dance to “Josephine” by The Black Crowes. Make love. Fall asleep to the sound of each other’s breathing. Then wake up and do it all over again.”

  My heavy eyes have long been closed and my voice has become a whisper. I’ve gotten way too lost in my own fairytale. Caught up in the idea of something that doesn’t exist. As I fade from reality and into sleep I realize and accept that even if this fantasy does exist, it’ll never happen for me.