by Megyn Ward
Me: Good.
I’ll tell you
all about it
in the morning.
Going to bed.
As soon as she reads my text, she looks up at me and shakes her head. I point upward, telling her I’m just going to go upstairs. I know she means well, but watching people fawn all over her while fighting off her sloppy seconds is the last thing I want to do.
She frowns at me before looking at her phone. The text comes through a few seconds later.
Bri: Front stairs
are blocked.
Bri has throwing parties down to a science. She locks away valuable in our dad’s home office. She blocks the front stairs to keep people from going upstairs. She’s surprisingly responsible about it all, considering there are half-naked people running around.
Bri: No watching
My Fair Lady
without me.
Every once in a while instead of going out with friends, Bri’ll stay home with me and watch movies. Her favorite is My Fair Lady. She says she has nothing better to do, but I think she just feels sorry for me and gets tired of getting turned down when she invites me to tag along.
I laugh, and she blows me a kiss before I turn and head for the kitchen. Tucked away in the butler’s pantry is the back staircase, manned by a locked door. Like the rest of the locks in the house, it’s one of those fancy ones that takes either a key or code. Handy when Bri locks herself in our Jack and Jill bathroom for hours on end.
Keying in the code, I unlock the door and head upstairs, the insanity downstairs fading to a dull roar with each step I mount. As usual, blocking the front staircase worked. No one is up here but me.
It’s been about an hour since I left Jaxon’s house and I haven’t heard from him. To be fair, he never actually said he was coming over. He might’ve gotten caught up with his mom. He might’ve fallen asleep. He might’ve come to his senses and realized a girl like me isn’t worth his time or effort.
In my room, I strip out of my clothes and toss them in my hamper—I was downstairs for a whole fifteen minutes, and I’m already covered in beer—debating on a shower before I decide I’m too tired. If Jaxon’s not coming over, then what’s the point? I settle for washing my face and brushing my teeth, pulling on an old pair pajamas.
Leaving the bathroom, I turn off the overhead lights and switch on my reading lamp. Choosing a case from the row of Blu-rays in my collection, I pop it into my player.
I’m snuggled into bed with the lights off and the movie cued, but I don’t really want to watch it. What happened with Jaxon has been playing on a constant loop in my head. What he said. The way he touched me. The way his mouth felt against my neck. The strain of his hard cock, working and flexing against my throbbing center, fucking me through our clothes. Now that I’m not moving, focusing on the next thing I have to do, it all pushes its way to the front of my brain, so real, so vivid, I can feel my pussy start to pulse and swell. I’d be on the edge of an orgasm when we’d had to stop, and it left me feeling achy. Needy.
Closing my eyes, I let my hand slip past the waistband of my pajama bottoms, brushing between my legs, along the outside of my panties. I’m so swollen, so sensitive, the slightest touch makes me gasp. I draw my fingertips up the seam of my slit, the press of them instantly soaking the crotch of my panties...
My phone lets out a chirp, the sound of it so loud it startles me.
Expecting a don’t be lame, come back downstairs text from Bri, my heart leaps at my throat, getting stuck there when I see a text from a number I recognize.
Jaxon: I’m outside
your house.
Nine
Jaxon
I’m not sure how long I’ve been here. Awhile. Long enough to know I shouldn’t be here. That I should do the right thing. Go home. She doesn’t even know I’m here. Neither does anyone else, really. I could just go.
Leave her alone.
With her gone, I was able to think things through rationally. Without the feel of her against me, the sounds of her, whimpering and gasping with every stroke of my cock against the center of her, urging me on, I can see things clearly.
I’m leaving.
I’m not coming back.
I can’t do this to her.
I pushed her out the back door and watched her stumble down the steps, looking as drunk and disoriented over what happened between us as I feel. I stood on the back porch and watched her cross the street to her car while my blood pounded in my ears, my arms crossed over my chest in an effort to keep myself together. Behind me, my mom walked into the kitchen, dropping her purse on the table.
For once in my life, we were over-staffed... is that Claire driving away?
Yeah. She stayed for dinner. Simon asked her to.
That’s nice...
I sit with her while she eats the plate Claire put in the oven for her, half-listening to her tell me about her day. I can hear her talking, I’m even participating in the conversation, but my mind is somewhere else.
It’s on Claire.
And even though I’m still telling myself to leave her alone, to let what happened be all that happens, I know I won’t.
I know I can’t.
As soon as I hear my mom’s bedroom door close, I take a quick shower, using Simon’s watermelon-scented shampoo because we share a bathroom and it’s just easier when your five-year-old roommate uses your toiletries as bath toys. Afterward, I scrawl out a quick note with one of Simon’s crayons and stick it to the fridge with one of him alphabet magnets—
Mom -
Went for a drive.
Jax
So here I am, standing on her front lawn while people I went to high school with are running around like wild animals. I’m getting a few errant, puzzled looks—like they see me but don’t really believe what they’re seeing. Like tomorrow morning they’ll say, I was so fucked up last night I thought I saw Jaxon Bennett.
I’ve never been what you would consider social. Could never really afford to be and to be honest, it never really felt like I was missing much. What could my peers understand about my life, anyway?
I think that’s what might’ve drawn me to Claire in the first place. Even before I started to think about all the things I wanted to do to her, I wanted to know her. Talk to her. Spend time with her. I hadn’t felt that way about anyone in a long time. If I’m completely honest, it’s what prompted me to suggest we ask her to be Simon’s sitter in the first place.
There’ve been a lot of nights I’ve laid awake, listening to Simon’s light snore across the sea of Legos and action figures, staring at her number on my phone. Thinking about calling her. Maybe ask her out to a movie. Take her to dinner. In the end, it always seemed easier to just leave her alone. But that was before. Before I felt her tremble and sigh under my hands. Before I listened to her say the one word I’ve been dying to hear her say to me.
Yes.
I can’t leave her alone anymore.
I don’t want to.
Cursing myself, I dig my phone out of my pocket and send her a text before I can come to my senses.
Me: I’m outside
your house.
Almost immediately, a light clicks on upstairs, reminding me of what she told me earlier. That she hates it when her sister throws parties and that she usually spends her time in her room. The thought of her hunkered down, hiding away from the drunk and swarming masses like it’s all some sort of natural disaster to be weathered, makes me smile.
Claire: Okay
That’s it.
Okay.
I stare at my phone for a few seconds, trying to decipher the one-word text like it’s an encrypted military secret when another one comes through.
Claire: Go to
the kitchen
I fight my way through the house, pushing toward the back of it until I finally find the kitchen. Cabinet doors are hanging open. Cups and half-empty bottles scattered across the counter, despite the fact that there’s a 55-gallon
trash can—the kind I imagine their gardener uses to collect lawn clippings—wedged into the corner. Fighting the urge to clear the clutter, I pull a red plastic cup from a random stack, filling it with water from the tap and drink it because my mouth is so dry I can hardly breathe. The police chief’s kid is doing a kegstand, his buddies holding his legs steady while he does a handstand on the rim of the keg, the operator giving the tap a few pups before, thumbing the nozzle to start the flow of beer from keg to kid.
My phone buzzes again.
Claire: Backstairs are
in the butler’s pantry.
Code for the door is 51597
What the fuck is a butler’s pantry?
Feeling like a dumbass, I look around the kitchen. Spotting a door that doesn’t look like it actually goes anywhere, I take a chance, shouldering my way through the tight knot of people clustered around the keg to squeeze myself through the door, barely refraining from tossing people out of my way like a deranged ogre.
I’m not really built for crowds.
I’m in a space about the size of my own bedroom. It looks like another kitchen, only smaller. Counters and cabinets on either side. A prep sink. A refrigerator.
And a door with a keypad with a red flashing light.
I key in the code, Claire sent me and the light goes green. Palming the knob I give it a turn, opening the door.
And run right into her.
Her eyes go wide. “Oh.” She lets out a breath, her hand still latched around the doorknob, jerking her across the short distance between us.
“Shit.” My hands come up, wrapping around her upper arms, holding on to her, so she doesn’t plow her face right into my chest. I get the impression of baggy clothes, possibly pajamas. Her hair is up. Face scrubbed clean.
It takes considerable effort to keep my hands on her shoulders, especially when all I can do is think about shoving her against the wall and my hand up her shirt.
I need space. Distance. I move her back, away from me. Her hand detaches from the knob, and the door bangs shut behind me, leaving us in the dark. “Jaxon?”
“Yeah?” My voice sounds like I swallowed a handful of hot asphalt. Rough. Too rough. I’m going to scare her if I don’t knock it off. When she doesn’t follow up, I think I’m already there. She’s already decided inviting me up to her room was a bad idea. Trying to figure out a way to get me—
“I didn’t think you were going to come.”
I have to grit my teeth, set her away even further because the way she said come goes straight to my dick. “I got...” Scared. Worried. A conscience. Instead of telling her the truth, I lie. “Held up. With Simon. I—”
“Is he okay?”
The concern in her voice nearly undoes me, and I have to swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “Yeah....” I close my eyes even though we’re standing in a dark stairwell because I can feel her breath on my neck like she’s tipped her face up to look at me. I don’t want to talk about Simon. I don’t want to talk about my mom or how fucked up my life really is. “I’m here now.”
She sighs, her shoulders softening under my hands, melting like warm butter. “I’m glad.”
Jesus.
I’m in trouble.
I lower my head, opening my eyes. My sight adjusted, it’s not as dark anymore. I can see the shape of her. The impression of her mouth, inches from mine, reminding me of earlier. How close she was. What it felt like to kiss her. What she tasted like. She’s staring up at me, her eyes wide, like she’s look at something dangerous. Something that wants to eat her.
She has no fucking idea.
“Have you been drinking?”
I can practically hear her confusion. “What?” She shakes her head. “No—I mean, I had some cranberry juice but not—”
I give in.
Finally, let myself have something.
Claire.
That’s the last rational thought I have, right before I kiss her.
Ten
Claire
2018
This is happening.
It’s really happening.
Jaxon Bennett is my limo driver.
I’m standing on the front porch, pretending to check my purse for the essentials—ID. Cellphone. Money. Emergency Credit card—while my dad chats him up, nodding and smiling. Reaching up to clap a hand against his enormous shoulder. They’re standing at the foot of porch steps, less than ten feet away and it doesn’t take long to realize my father recognizes him.
... mother must be proud.
... always impressed with your dedication to Simon.
... always wondered what happened to you.
That makes two of us.
The thought makes me laugh, the sound of it bubbling past my lips and Jaxon’s head snaps up at the sound. He’s still wearing his sunglasses so I can’t see his eyes but I don’t have to see them to feel them. He nails me with a look so sharp, I can practically feel it pierce my skin.
I roll my lips over my teeth in response because I know what it sounded like. It sounded like I’m crazy. Like I’m somehow affected by his sudden and unwelcome appearance, and I’m not.
I.
Am.
Not.
“Oh, Claire.” My dad spots me while I push myself across the porch. “You remember Jaxon, don’t you?”
“Hello, Claire.” A hand appears in front of me. A very large, very strong hand, offering to help me navigate my way down the steps.
So much for being forgettable.
I hesitate, cursing Bri and these godforsaken shoes. The only thing I want less than to touch Jaxon Bennett is for him to see me trip down the stairs like a deer on roller skates. Making up my mind, I slip my hand in his, aiming what I hope is a puzzled expression in his direction.
“I’m sorry,” I say, giving him my best Grace Kelly. “Have we met?”
His hand tightens, his long, wide fingers squeezing around mine, almost hard enough to hurt. As quickly as they constrict, his fingers loosen. “See, Dr. St. James,” he says on a laugh while his thumb sweeps over the soft underside of my wrist. The gentle pressure is intimate. Designed to remind me of all the other intimate things I let him do to me. It works. I suddenly can’t breathe. “I told you she wouldn’t remember me.” He aims an easy smile at me. “You used to babysit for my… Simon.” He does it again, skims the pad of his thumb over the pulse hammering away in my wrist, and it takes everything I have to keep my knees from buckling completely. I give him a blank look, silently willing myself to stand my ground.
Finally, splitting an apologetic smile between him and father, I pull my hand free from his. “I remember Simon, but I don’t remember you,” I say, feeling fierce and savage when I see his smile go hard around the edges. “What was your name again?”
“Jaxon.” He says it carefully, like the sound of his own name is sharp against his tongue. “Jaxon Bennett.”
“Hmmm…” I cock my head, twisting my lips like I’m trying to remember him. Finally I right my head and shrug. “Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Claire—” The admonishing tone my father uses on me makes me feel like a child. A bratty, spoiled child.
Turning toward him, I lean over to give my dad a quick kiss on the cheek. “Don’t wait up,” I say before blading myself between the two of them, heading toward the open door of the limo where I can see Bri waiting.
“... apologize. Claire’s had a rough couple of years. When Brianna left, she...”
Hearing him apologize for me makes me want to scream. Hearing him categorize my king-sized abandonment issues as a rough couple of years makes me want to cry. Especially since he’s explaining them to the one person who’s leaving hurt me the most.
I risk a look out the open door as I slide across the seat. Jaxon is looking right at me. “No apology necessary, sir. There wasn’t much about me worth remembering back then.”
“That certainly isn’t the case now,” my dad says, offering Jaxon his hand. “I’d like to thank y
ou for your service.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jaxon smiles at my father and takes his hand, offering him what sounds like a rehearsed response. “Your gratitude is appreciated.”
So that’s what happened.
Jaxon went into the military.
Mystery solved.
“We better not lose our reservation.” I look up to find Bri frowning at her cell phone. “I had to book it six months in advance.”
Actually, I booked it, and it was nearly nine months ago, but I don’t point that out. I’m too busy watching Jaxon. He leaves my father at the bottom of the porch steps, walking toward me at a fast clip.
“Relax, we won’t be late,” I say to her, still looking up at Jaxon through the open car door. His jaw is clenched tight and even thought I can’t see his eyes, I can feel them, dark and intense, trained on my face. He’s angry. Feels rejected. Confused.
Good.
Now he knows what it feels like.
“I’m sure Lurch is an excellent driver,” I say and I have the satisfaction of watching his jaw go slack, right before I shut the door in his face.
Eleven
Jaxon
Did she just call me Lurch?
Fucking Lurch?
It would be funny if not for the fact that I’m so pissed I can barely see straight.
I didn’t expect her to fall into my arms, weeping tears of joy over my safe and triumphant return but I sure as shit didn’t expect her to deny even remembering me.
A polite nod. A smile. A yes, I remember. How have you been, Jaxon?
Yes.
A puzzled smile. A blank stare. An I have no fucking idea who you are because nothing that happened between us was worth remembering?
No.
Oh, hell no.
Leaving her father behind, I come at her fast, eyes locked on her with laser focus. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I get to her, but I’m pretty sure it’ll start with me throwing her over my shoulder and probably end with my needing bail money. She saves us both by calling me Lurch and slamming the car door in my face.
