Embody (Full Circle #1)

by S. E. Hall

  Zeke Stryker. I have to chuckle again. With his disbelieving eyes about to pop out of socket, you’d think he just got told his real name is Frank Smith…or something equally as shocking. His jaw is literally hanging open, yet he doesn’t seem to have anything to say. He simply stands frozen in place, not near as cocksure now.

  “All right,” I clap Mr. Salazar on the shoulder while leering at Zeke, “we all copacetic here, or do I still need to beat some ass?”

  “No, no, we’re good,” Mr. Manager starts to panic.

  He’s cut short when Songbird’s mouth finally moves, and I don’t think he realizes the awe with which he speaks. “Who the hell are you?”

  I can’t not…

  “Monster, Monster Slong,” I reply with a straight face. “Pleasure doing business with you, Zeke Stryker. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve left my woman waiting long enough. You know, the gorgeous gingersnap, that if you ever come near again, I’ll break both your arms and legs? Have a good night, and thank you Mr. Salazar.”

  Walking out, I should feel great. I don’t. Bellamy knows it too the minute she sees me, because her chin drops to her chest. I get in the car, start it and turn on some music without either of us saying a word.

  You have to be fucking kidding me. “The Place Where You Belong” by Shai? The one time it’s been played on the radio in the last twenty years is now?

  The only reason I even know the song is because of the Beverly Hills Cop movie. I wasn’t even born yet when it released, but have watched it…and alas, am revisiting its archaic soundtrack at the most inopportune moment possible.

  I reach up to turn the station, but Bellamy lays a hand on arm to stop me. “I like this song,” she says in a sweet, hushed tone. That delicate, tender sound only a woman can make, that even if she’s wrong and you’re spitting-mad at her…you kind of instantly forget exactly why. Or at least stop brooding and speak to her—if not for any other reason than to hear the sound again.

  What? No really, what in the hell is happening to me? I need a beer and a ball game, like yesterfuckingday.

  “I’m pissed as hell right now,” I gruffly inform her.

  “I know.” She makes the sound…again. “I’m just not sure exactly why, or for what the most, or…whatever I mean to say. So why don’t you tell me?”

  The song she insisted on is over so I turn off the radio and take a minute to choose my next words wisely. I can talk like Uncle Zach, blunt yet rational, or I can go the route I feel—Uncle Sawyer Avenue—totally screwing it up and undoubtedly making things worse.

  Dragging in two lungfuls and letting them out in a long, loud exhale, I chose the Zach Reece route. “Rather than me letting loose with angry assumptions, I’m gonna ask you a few questions.”

  “Okayy,” she drawls out cynically.

  “Did he touch you more than the one time I saw?”

  “Yes. And like I said, I told my manager, who did nothing about it.”

  “That’s been fixed. Your sorry excuse for a manager has been advised exactly where he went wrong and told the band they couldn’t ever come back.”

  Her head snaps my direction. “How’d you finagle that?”

  “Doesn’t matter how, I did, so you don’t have to worry about it happening again. Next question, why didn’t you call me? If you were being groped and harassed, you should’ve called. I’d have been there in minutes.”

  We’ve reached her apartment and parked, so we both shift in our seats to look at each other. She sighs, but holds her eyes on mine as she answers. “Couple reasons. One, I wasn’t sure if we were at that place, you know, where I had an actual boyfriend I could call to just at least come sit and make sure things went okay. I mean, Marshall is only a friend, and I’d never call him with that expectation.”

  “The guy, your ride home, from the bar? The one tossing back shots and left you sitting alone? In a bar? That guy?” I can’t contain my sarcasm, or resentment…being compared to him in any way is below the damn belt.

  “Yeah,” her head lowers, as does her voice.

  “Well thank God you wouldn’t call him! And whatever we are, we’re sure the fuck not that! What are the other reasons? I hope they’re better than the last one.” I shake my head, rubbing my throbbing temples.

  “I wasn’t sure I had the leeway to ask you to come. And if I did, I knew you wouldn’t just sit and keep an eye on things,” she laughs quietly. “You’d have gotten in a fight, and not only do I really need that job, I definitely don’t feel like I have the right to lure you into fights. Not that I’d ever want to use that right, if I did have it.”

  “So, you’re not sure where we stand, if we’re at “the place” where you can call me, but you’re positive that I’d get in a fight for someone messing with you? That make sense to you? Because it sure as hell doesn’t to me.”

  “No,” she mumbles. “Saying it out loud, I feel stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid, at all, which is why I’m gonna ask you one last question and I need you to be honest with me.” My voice is solemn; a lot I didn’t think would ever possibly matter to me hinging on her answer.

  “I won’t ever lie to you, Jefferson. What is it?”

  I know I shouldn’t ask, crossing over into “Sawyer Says” land, but I have to be sure. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna try to become a new and improved, gallant even, version of myself—putting my own dick in detention—if she says what I really hope she doesn’t.

  Deep breath. Huge. Well past lung capacity. “Is any part of the reason you didn’t call me because it was him? I saw the way you reacted to his “Ballad to Bellamy” that night. You liked every minute of it and were mesmerized, the lone girl picked out of a crowd by the sexy rock star. Did you get excited when he came in, hoping he’d be as suave and totally into you like before?”

  I’m braced for her blowback. Screeching. Maybe some name calling. Possibly insulted tears.

  The stinging, hard-ass slap across my face? Never saw it coming.

  She grabs her purse and nearly falls, scrambling out of the car as fast as she can. “Fuck you, Jefferson Kendrick! I left with, and kissed you that night, you prick! I’m not a groupie or some willy-nilly, star-struck little slut, and fuck you again for thinking I could be!”

  And with that, she slams the door and storms off.

  Well, I got the screeching and name calling part right.

  But I knew I shouldn’t have asked. Thanks Uncle Sawyer for your awesome tutelage.

  Eighteen

  Bellamy

  THE NERVE OF him!

  I’ve never slapped another person in my life, or screamed at someone to “fuck off.” Can’t recall ever calling someone a prick either. Not out loud, anyway.

  But damn! Here I am putting my faith in a chance at something real with a proclaimed, anti-relationship ladies’ man, while he’s doubting me? Am I imagining it, or did he and I not already discuss the night at the bar? If memory does in fact serve, I think I made it amply clear that while the attention and song were a cool experience, I wasn’t fooled by flashy gimmicks and had no interest in anything beyond listening to the song and perhaps thanking Zeke after the show. In front of the stage.

  What, does Jefferson really think that coming in and being boisterous, obnoxious, chauvinistic and crudely touchy-feely would change my mind? I’d suddenly want the guy, at his worst, when I didn’t want him at his best?

  Or was he just asking to be cruel?

  You have to be careful with jealousy, for it is a two-headed beast. A beast you must either train or set free. If demonstrated exactly right, a little jealousy can be sexy and flattering. If executed incorrectly, it’s nothing but hurtful and disrespectful.

  Jefferson’s beast got the best of him tonight, and now I’m left wondering—has he no confidence in my character, or does he simply not listen and/or believe me when I talk?

  I’m furious, hurt and confused, unsure what to do with myself, pacing my apartment in futile effort to expel this ball of ad
renaline rolling around inside me.

  I need air. Yes, air is good.

  Shooting for two birds with one stone, I gather up the trash to take out with me and walk over to do a quick peek out the window. I like to make sure, especially at night, that the coast is clear, no one milling about, before I walk outside by myself. Not to mention, it’d be hard to get any air if some lunatic attacked me and shoved a bag over my head.

  I pull the curtain aside and gasp…at the very same time my eyes mist with undefinable emotion. There, in the exact same spot I angrily jumped out of it, sits a silver Lincoln Navigator.

  It’s not as if I know a plethora of people who drive Navigators, so call me presumptuous, but I’m pretty positive who it is—waiting patiently—for what?

  And how could he have been sure I’d even look outside?

  He couldn’t have been. Which means, he’s camped out for his own reasons, absent of expectation.

  I grab my phone, not yet ready to face him. The one I slapped.

  Me: Why are you still sitting out there?

  Jefferson: Where else would I be sitting?

  Me: Um… at home? Your parents? Cuba? Anywhere but in front of my apartment.

  Jefferson: Now you’re just talking crazy. I’m in a car, not a boat. How the hell would I get to Cuba?

  Me: Swim. And you know the point I was making.

  Jefferson: Not really. We have plans tonight, remember? I’m getting kinda hungry too, so if you could speed up your aftermath, that’d be great. I’ve got the key to go look at the apartment and we’ll go grab something to eat after.

  Me: Stop doing that. Ignoring a problem doesn’t make it go away. We no longer have plans, JT! We’re fighting!

  Jefferson: I said something stupid, you slapped me across the face. I learned not to say shit like that again and you got me for it. Does that not conclude the fight? And don’t call me JT.

  Me: I’m sorry I slapped you. It was completely uncalled for and very out of character for me. It won’t ever happen again. But that doesn’t mean we’re done fighting. I’m very unhappy about what you said and we need to discuss it, after I’ve had some time to think. And aren’t you mad I slapped you? BTW- your name is JT, why is that a problem?

  I know the answer; I just want to hear him say it. Who’s playing games now? This girl, that’s who. Long overdue.

  Jefferson: We’re done texting. Either get your pretty self out here or I’m coming to you. How sturdy do you think your front door is? The answer? Not near sturdy enough. Motherfucker’s getting kicked the fuck in if I’m not laying eyes on you in the next five minutes.

  B&E threats probably shouldn’t induce full-body, not the scared kind, shivers. Too late. I felt that sexy ass warning everywhere.

  And, I do have to take my trash out anyway…might as well save my door and hear what he has to say. Since, again, I was already going outside. Totally of my own accord.

  I’ve taken approximately four steps out of my apartment, carrying one bag of trash and dragging the other behind me, when he’s suddenly right in front of me.

  “Give me those,” he grates, ripping both bags out of my hands. “Where’s it go?”

  “In the dumpster.” I point across the parking lot and he looks, then jerks his head back to me, his eyes bulging with an angry brittleness.

  “Please tell me,” he finds an impossibly lower octave, as tense as his jawline, “that you usually do this in the daytime, and this is a random, fluke occurrence.”

  “Sometimes,” I hitch a shoulder. “But if not, I do always look outside for any lurkers first.”

  “Jesus,” he groans, dropping his head and slowly shaking it back and forth. “Bellamy,” he glances back up, scowling, “lurking literally means hiding! Waiting, hidden, to strike. So, when you look outside, you’re not gonna see them, if they’re fucking doing it right!”

  I’m betting the vein in his forehead pops before the one in his neck…we shall see.

  “Well, what do you expect me to do?” I scowl right back, propping my hands on my hips. So they aren’t tempted to get slap-happy.

  “Take your trash out during the day! Every time!” Yep…forehead vein’s about to blow.

  I make an exaggerated scoffing noise. “Good thinkin’, genius. Why didn’t that occur to me? Hmm,” I tap my temple and pretend to ponder. “Oh, I remember now! Because during school, I already have to haul butt, lugging my backpack and breakfast, to the bus stop at the ass crack of dawn! And this morning, the start of my shift versus the bus schedule had me scrambling earlier than ass crack, so I wasn’t thinking about the freakin’ trash. Unfortunately, I have no say in the timing of public transportation. My bad.”

  “Fuck me, relationships are high maintenance as hell. I’m losing track of all the issues we have just from tonight. Hold on, lemme go dump your trash and we’ll start crossing things off the list. Don’t move.”

  Before I can blink, let alone move, he’s headed back from the dumpster, closing the space between us with quick, deliberate steps. I put both hands up in front of me and start backing away. I’m not ready for him to touch me yet, for reasons other than the one I blurt out. “Come on, you can wash your hands in my apartment. Thank you for doing that for me.”

  “You’re welcome. Question though. Is that the dumpster you’ll have to use when you move to the third floor?” he asks as we walk to my place.

  “Yeah,” I laugh. “How would a trash truck get to a dumpster up two flights of stairs?”

  “All right, okay,” he nods repeatedly, maniacally, unhappy with whatever he’s deliberating in his head. “So now you’ll be dragging your trash, at night of course, down two flights of stairs and even farther across the poorly lit parking lot. Then, going all the way back, nocturnal prey the entire time. Great, fucking fabulous news! Lemme guess, next you’re gonna tell me that I should be happy because of something even more spectacular, like…there’s only five sex offenders that live in this complex?”

  “You tell me,” I poke the bear. “Your family’s part owners, you guys run thorough background checks or not? Soap’s by the kitchen sink,” I tell him after opening the door to my apartment.

  He doesn’t answer my question, stomping past me to go wash his hands, grumbling under his breath the whole way. It takes him a while, and when the water’s stopped running, yet he hasn’t stepped back into the living room, I sneak up behind him to find out what’s taking him so long.

  Texting in turbo-speed on his phone.

  “Let me guess,” I snicker and startle him, laughing harder as he spins around with guilt smeared all over his face. “You’re texting your father to sic him on the background check standards and to check if anyone’s slipped through the cracks and already lives here.”

  “Don’t forget more, and brighter, lights in the parking lot and a better trash disposal system for tenants on upper floors,” he winks.

  “You’re ridiculous,” I roll my eyes. “You can’t possibly think you can just go around fixing everything you don’t like in the world?”

  He takes his time stalking toward me, the blaze in his eyes forcing me still, his grin growing more irresistible and predatory with every step. “Maybe not,” he says deep and gravelly, cupping the side of my face. “But I can fix all of it in your world. Bellamy, I want you safe. I want you happy. Blame my dad and uncles, but it’s all I know. When it comes to my woman, it’s my job to eliminate anything that makes her unhappy or could possibly put her in danger. It’s not my project,” he leans in closer until our noses brush, “it’s my pleasure. You are my pleasure. Gotta protect and pleasure you right back.”

  And then he’s covering my mouth with the frenzied strength of his own, the kiss rough and possessive. His tongue directing mine, his lips demanding. Ravenous. Authoritative. Wonderful.

  He leaves my mouth wanting more and sucks a searing path up my jaw until he’s groaning, rich and raspy in my ear. “Are we done fighting yet?”

  I want to moan my “yes,” f
orget it all and beg him to continue his delicious torture, but fortunately, I’m able to resist pretending that off-the-charts physical chemistry solves everything. So instead, I do my best to keep as much desire as possible absent from my voice when I answer.

  “I don’t know, are we? You said you knew what you insinuated earlier was stupid and you won’t say anything like it again, but is that because I got mad, or because you know it wasn’t true?”

  “Both,” his laugh is a hot, breathy gust on my sensitive skin. “I damn sure don’t want to make you mad again,” he sucks my earlobe into his mouth and murmurs, “and yes, I know it wasn’t true. You could’ve had him the other night when he was on his game if you wanted him. I was angry. Watching him touch you, wishing you would’ve called me to put a stop to it sooner. But I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry.”

  “Then yes,” I pant, since he’s now running his tongue across the magical dip where my neck and shoulder meet. “We’re done fighting.”

  “Good,” he says matter-of-factly, stepping back and eliminating all contact between any parts of his body and any throbbing, aching parts of mine. Making me grumpy and disappointed enough to consider starting another fight if I must. “Now can we finally go check out the other apartment?”

  “I suppose,” I frown, rethinking everything I thought I knew about the opposite sex. He’s putting a stop to our make-up session?

  “Let’s go, before we get sidetracked again.” He laces his fingers through mine and pulls me toward the door. “I know you’re gonna love it. And your neighbors. To your right is a couple in their sixties, both retired. He was a cop, bonus, and she was a schoolteacher. To your left, a married couple with one nine-year-old son. And directly across from you is a single woman, no kids, early forties. Perfect group,” he explains as we climb the stairs. “And probably tomorrow, next day at the latest, they’ll all get a notice to start putting their trash outside their doors by nine p.m. on Thursday nights so maintenance can collect it and take it to the dumpster.”