Last night, she’d kissed me just like she used to. I’d kissed her back, sloppily and drunk, grateful, desperate, frantic for her. Then I tasted the salty taste on her lips.
She was crying.
She wasn’t making a sound, but the tears were running down her cheeks. So I tucked her head under my chin and held her close until she fell asleep.
I knew she was sad about Dirty leaving on their first world tour, but she’d already told us she wasn’t coming with us. Jesse threw a fit at first, but he’d gotten over it. I still hadn’t.
But what the fuck could I do? I couldn’t make her come.
I looked at her, sitting there, staring out the passenger window of my truck.
“I think you should come on tour with us,” I told her.
“I can’t,” she said, just like every other time I’d brought it up. “I’ve got school.”
“We can work it out. Maybe you can take a distance course or put college off a year. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Jessa. You can’t just pass it up.”
“I’ve committed to Europe,” she said. “I’m going for the summer.”
“I think that’s a mistake.”
“So you’ve told me.”
Shit. I was always saying the wrong thing when it came to her.
“What I mean is, modeling isn’t your only option. I know they’ve offered you a contract to do the Europe thing, but we can get you a better deal. With the band—”
“I know my options.”
But she didn’t. She didn’t know all her options.
“If you want to do something else, Jessa, I’ll manage you,” I told her. I’d never brought it up before, but I was getting fucking desperate. It was pretty much the last card I had to play. The only thing I had left to offer her. “If you want to do a solo thing. If you really don’t want to be a part of Dirty, we can do something else. You’ve got the talent—”
“I’m going to Europe,” she said. “And then I’ve got college. I’m not going on tour.”
“But we could cut a demo for you. The kinds of contacts we’re making… the world is opening right up for us. You have no idea. I know we can make it happen for you.”
“I don’t want it to happen,” she said.
Jesus, the girl was stubborn.
Every way I’d tried to come at it, she just shot it down. She shot me down.
I stared at her, still staring out the window. “You know, I never would’ve kissed you if I knew you wouldn’t be able to stand me afterward.”
She looked over for the first time, blinking at me. “What?”
“Last night. I never would’ve kissed you back, if it meant you weren’t gonna be able to look at me now.”
“I am looking at you now,” she said, holding my gaze.
Yeah, she was. Fucking finally.
How long were we gonna keep doing this fucking dance? Play this stupid childish game?
We weren’t children anymore. And I sure as fuck wasn’t playing.
“Why the fuck aren’t you mine?”
“Isn’t Christy yours?” she said, her voice light, but it was a fake kind of light, with a whole lot of heavy behind it.
“Christy is Christy.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not in love with Christy.”
She just stared at me. She didn’t say a thing, but her eyes were starting to shine.
“You remember that weekend we went surfing up in Tofino a few years ago? When Dylan’s van broke down?”
“I remember,” she whispered.
“We all got drunk around the campfire, yeah? And you and Jesse got in an argument over who knew more classic rock. He said he did because he could play the songs on guitar and you said you did because you knew all the words. And someone dared you to sing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and you did all the parts, and I laughed so fucking hard I almost fell in the fire. But you dove in and saved me, somehow, and you burned that hole in the ass of your jeans. I thought I was gonna break a rib laughing. I was sore the next day.”
She just blinked at me, her eyes shining with tears.
“I have about two hundred thousand memories of you like that,” I told her, “and I loved you in every single one of them.”
It was raining harder, and the rivulets streaming down the windows made shadows on her face that almost disguised the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you were fifteen and I was twenty and it just… it wasn’t right.”
“I’m eighteen now,” she said, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. “When is it ever going to be right, Brody?”
I reached over, drew her face close to mine, and I kissed her.
The feel of her, warm and wet as I sucked on her tongue and she bit softly on my bottom lip… the taste of her and the soft slide of her lips as she entwined her hands in my hair… This was fucking everything.
I dragged her closer until she was wrapped around me, until she was sitting in my lap while the windows fogged up and the rain beat down, her heart thumping against my chest.
“I won’t share you, Jessa,” I managed to utter between kisses.
“Share me…” she breathed. “What do you mean?”
“Seth,” I said, and I regretted it the second it was out of my mouth.
Her body went rigid.
Her face fell.
“I don’t know what’s going on, between the two of you—”
She pulled away, out of my grasp. “I have to go.” She didn’t even look at me when she said it.
“Jessa—”
“I have a modeling gig. I’ll be late.”
“I can give you a ride.”
“I don’t need one.”
She was already opening the door, so I gave in. Anxiety was firing off her like sparks, raising the hairs on my skin. It totally fucking unnerved me.
It always did when she turned tail and took the fuck off—which she did a lot.
But I caught her hand, stopping her. “Okay, sweetheart,” I told her. “We’ll talk later, yeah?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Call me if you need a ride.”
Her brown eyes met mine. She nodded. Then I let her go. I watched her climb out of my truck and dash off through the rain.
We didn’t talk later.
Instead, she pretty much avoided me until she left for Europe. She was away for two long months. Then she started college. I left with Dirty on our first world tour.
I saw her one more time on a break in that tour.
And then… six-and-a-half years would pass.
If I’d known, I never would’ve let her go that day.
But hindsight was twenty-twenty, and when it came to Jessa Mayes, I’d always been so fucking blind.
Chapter Fifteen
Jessa
Roni had gone out for the night with some dude or another she was sleeping with, so I put on Dead Crazy, Dirty’s second album, cranked it up, and made myself some dinner. I’d had a mild hangover the last three mornings in a row, thanks to the concerted efforts of Katie and Maggie to drag me back out into the land of the living, and while I’d appreciated their efforts, I really needed a booze-free night in.
I was dancing around in the kitchen in my woolen knee socks, worn old Brody T-shirt and panties, making my patented low-fat zucchini-and-eggplant lasagna—which tasted a lot better than it sounded—when Roni walked in, scaring the shit out of me.
With a couple of dudes.
Biker dudes, on second glance. Big, serious bikers, wearing the telltale leather vests; vests with patches on the chest that said Sinners MC.
The scary, shaved-headed one was looking me over, slowly, his eyes lingering on my panties. The blond one was grinning ear-to-ear.
“Uh… hi,” I choked out, trying to discreetly cover myself with a tea towel. “I thought you said you were gone for the night.”
Roni grinned, cocking an eyebrow at my outfit. “Couldn�
�t leave you all alone, now could I?”
Guess not.
After I’d put on some pants, I ended up sharing my veggie lasagna with them, sort of; Roni’s “friends” opted to snort some lines and didn’t seem to have an appetite for much else. I politely declined when they offered to share, as did Roni, though I got the distinct feeling she was doing so for my benefit—that if I wasn’t here, they would’ve been snorting the coke off her boobs while they fucked her on the breakfast bar.
Since I had no interest in witnessing or taking part in such activities, I figured I should probably make myself scarce—like before they got impatient with me cockblocking them. The party had moved into the living room, but I was cleaning up and more or less hiding in the kitchen when Roni walked in.
“You wanna hook up or what?” she asked, sashaying over to me and grabbing my hips, dancing with me. “Usually I’d just go ahead and enjoy them both myself, but for you, to get you out of this rut you’re in… I’m willing to share.”
“That’s what I love about you, Roni,” I said. “Your generosity.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun. Like old times.”
“In what old times did we tag-team a couple of bikers? Because if we did, I sure as hell don’t remember it.”
She huffed and pulled away from me, heading to the fridge for more beers. “You’re so unimaginative. What are you saving yourself for anyway?” She slammed the fridge door shut. “Let me guess. Brody.” She rolled her eyes.
“It’s not like that.”
“The hell it isn’t. At least be honest with yourself while you’re pining away. Which one of you are you trying to bullshit anyway?”
I didn’t answer that.
“I’ve seen the way you lick him with your eyes. It is so like that.”
Maybe it was. But if I’d never talked to anyone else about it—and I hadn’t—I wasn’t about to talk to Roni.
“Even if it was,” I said lightly, busying myself wiping down the counter, “I don’t think he wants to go down that road with me, you know?”
“Oh, Jessa,” she said. “All roads lead to fucking.”
She walked past, beers in hand, and flashed me a parting smile. “Door’s always open if you change your mind.”
I ended up in my room and put some music on, just in case the festivities down the hall got loud. I locked the door and wedged a chair against it for good measure, in case either of Roni’s guests decided to get “lost” on his way to the bathroom.
Then I flopped on the bed and thought about what Roni’d said.
Which one of you are you trying to bullshit anyway?
Him. I was definitely bullshitting Brody if I’d somehow convinced him I didn’t want him.
Because I sure as hell knew I did. No way I could lie to myself that well. Even if my brain wanted to believe it, my body knew differently. My heart knew it, too. Which was why every time I was around him I lost the ability to think straight.
Just like when we were kids.
Worse, because now I was a grown-up. I was supposed to have my shit together and all that.
I picked up my phone and held it a while, working up the nerve to send him a text. But what to say?
I knew I still needed to have a talk with him; there was no way I was going to skip doing that before I left town. I needed him to know why I ran all those years ago; that it wasn’t because I didn’t want him. Even if it meant he’d never be able to forgive me. Even if he couldn’t stand me after what I had to tell him. Even if it meant he was finally going to realize that I was never the girl he thought I was… that girl he thought he loved.
I had to do it.
Even if I was never, ever going to be his princess again.
And I really should’ve done it by now. Except that I hadn’t. I hadn’t answered his call two days ago, and I hadn’t replied to his texts.
I was leaving town in three days for my shoot in L.A., but somehow the really chickenshit part of me had convinced the rest of me to leave it until the last minute. Just talk to him right before I left town, so I could disappear afterward.
Yeah. Mature.
All I was accomplishing by putting it off was torturing myself anyway. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to see him, too, but seeing him was a slippery slope. There were only so many times I could see him without kissing him again, drunk or not. There were only so many times he could get in my face without me throwing myself at him and rubbing my pussy on him again, and there were only so many times I could do that without suffering a major blow to my self-esteem when he refused to fuck me.
But maybe, eventually, he would fuck me?
All roads lead to fucking.
And that was a bad thing, right?
Why, again?
Oh, right. Because I’d been lying to him for years. Well… lying by omission.
Same thing.
So no seeing him, then, until I was prepared to suck it up and come clean.
In the meantime, the phone was a safe option, right? No possibility of accidental fucking.
So I texted him; I said the only thing I could think of to say to him right now if I wasn’t bullshitting. The same thing he’d said to me many, many times over text.
Thinking about you.
I sent the message and tossed the phone down on the bed. He wasn’t going to respond. I knew he wasn’t.
Even if it wasn’t for all the times I’d recently pissed him off, or failed to respond to his texts, or the fact that he thought I was trouble for the band, those six-and-a-half years of radio silence, which he’d shoved in my face ad nauseam, made it pretty clear where he stood.
He’d said it himself, right to my face.
Brody Mason thought I was “unstable” and “unreliable.” Translation: fucking crazy and a big fat load of pain-in-the-ass.
Oh, and judging from our make out session on that bathroom counter, during which he’d pretty much accused me of intentionally giving him blue balls, it seemed he also thought I was a cock tease—never mind that he was the one who’d put a stop to things and left me hanging.
What the hell would he want with a cock tease when he had the lovely Amanda?
I ditched my jeans and panties for some well-worn sweats and took off my bra, but I left his shirt on. I thought briefly about masturbating, but that seemed too depressing. So I got comfy with my laptop and watched some junk on YouTube instead.
Then I put on Romeo + Juliet so I could watch Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes kill themselves over each other, because at least I still had a sense of humor. Just barely.
The night wore on.
Brody didn’t text.
I’d almost fallen asleep when a burst of laughter from Roni’s room jolted me awake.
Okay, maybe I was asleep.
Slow, sexy music was still playing faintly from my laptop. Pink Floyd’s “Hey You.” The words jarred me from my daze. Something about being naked… and sitting by a phone…
I wasn’t naked, but… I groped for my phone to check it.
There was a new message.
Brody: Thinking about you too.
I blinked as the light from the screen stung my eyes, making sure I’d read the words right.
He’d texted me back.
And he was thinking about me.
Instantly, I was wide awake. I turned the phone to vibrate so I wouldn’t miss any more messages, and texted him again.
Me: I got your messages. Just wanted to think about some things before I got back to you.
Then I chewed on my lip and waited, but I didn’t have to wait long before he texted back.
Brody: Up to you.
Well, he sounded pissed. Still.
But at least he was texting me back.
Me: Is it lame if I apologize over text message?
Brody: Yes. But I’ll take it.
Hmm. Progress.
If only it were that easy.
I took a breath and took a leap.
Me: What r u doing?
Okay. Maybe it was that easy?
Because I got a definite visual on that. A visual he wanted me to get?
Brody lounging back on his bed, long legs crossed at the ankles, all naked and tattooed except for a pair of… briefs? Black briefs? Really, really small ones that barely covered his big dick.
Yeah, I was a pervert like that.
I pictured him with a take-out container in his lap, next to his big dick, and maybe some chopsticks? Slurping on noodles…
I could really go for some noodles right now.
I snorted to myself. But I decided to roll with it. He’s the one who mentioned his underwear, right?
Me: Are we sexting now?
Brody: Depends. What are you wearing?
Damn. Was Brody flirting with me?
Was I flirting with Brody?
Yes. Yes, I totally was.
All those years I’d avoided him, ignoring his messages… was this what would’ve happened if I’d answered back?
Flirting?
Sexting?
Yes. You know this is what would’ve happened. Which was why you didn’t answer.
Okay. That was the hard truth.
But was it wrong that I liked it when he flirted with me? That I’d liked it a hell of a lot better when I thought he had me on some pedestal, even though I told myself all those years that it was wrong? Because at least then, he didn’t hate me.
Brody: ??
Shit. I was leaving him hanging.
Again.
Only this time… he’d accepted my apology. A lame one, but still. A door had cracked open, and I wasn’t about to let it slam in my face.
Me: The comfiest sweat pants ever invented. And your shirt.
Brody: Sounds sexy.
I had no idea if that was sarcasm or not.
I decided to rid myself of any doubt.
Me: No underwear though.
Dirty Like Brody: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 2) Page 16
