Please Me (Crush Me Book 2)

by Stasia Black

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Why the fuck am I talking to him? I want to smack myself in the face. I’m supposed to be making better decisions about men now and here I am, waffling back and forth when—

  “It’s not safe,” Jackson says, dimple gone and his face dead serious. “What you’re doing,” he gestures behind us in the general area of the dark corner we came from. “With random men like that. These…” He shakes his head as if looking for the right word before his mouth turns down in distaste, “hookups. Men you don’t know, circumstances you can’t control.”

  I swallow even though my mouth feels dry, like it’s full of dust. How can he know—? No one was ever supposed to know. But wait. How…?

  Holy shit. My eyes widen with the sudden realization. He actually has been following me. And not just tonight. He’s either following me or having someone else do it.

  My skin goes hot with fury and my jaw locks. Someone’s been watching me without my knowledge or consent. During very private moments.

  I finally get to the club exit and slam my whole body into the door I’m so furious. I try to shove it in Jackson’s face when he follows, but it has one of those damn soft release catches. Jackson slows it with his body even more.

  Enough. Fucking enough.

  I don’t care about the audience—the bouncer standing only a few feet away by the entry door or all the people lined up outside the club.

  I face off with Jackson.

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I am in control.” I stab at my chest with my forefinger. “I say when. I say where. I say who. I say how. Nothing happens that I’m not in control of.”

  Jackson isn’t hesitant about stepping into my personal space. “Bullshit,” he spits. He points an angry finger back at the club. “That’s not safe. You think you’re in control because it’s public, but that’s bullshit. I know for a fact that ten feet from where you and that low life were was an unlocked door to a hallway. A couple guys see you, decided to fuck with you? You think you’re in control and then boom,” he slaps his hand together so abruptly that I jump from the noise and glare at him, even more pissed. “They drag you in there with the doors shut so no one can see or hear you.”

  “So I’m just supposed to be scared all the time?” I throw my hands in the air. “Or feel ashamed? That it’s my fault if I get attacked?” My voice takes on a hysterical edge. “It’s my fault, huh? For dancing suggestively? For daring to tempt the guy because of what I’m wearing? Because I’ve got big tits? Is that what you’re fucking saying?”

  I go to slam his chest again, but he catches me by the wrists before I can. He lets go the next second as if sensing that I’ll lose my shit on him if he keeps hold of me. At least he’s not a complete fucking idiot.

  “No,” he says firmly, face going red, in anger or frustration I can’t tell. “Christ, I hope you know me better than that.” Then he runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “Not that we had that much time together to get to know each other beyond the basics.”

  His penetrating gaze comes back to me. The light of the street is better than in the club. This is a busy strip of downtown San Francisco, lit up by shops and streetlights. I can see every line and plane of his face. Goddamn him, he’s always been so fucking intense. He refuses to let things just fucking lie. He digs and digs and digs.

  Everything in me wants to break the stare-off we’ve got going on, but fuck that. No. He’s not intimidating me. No man will ever intimidate me again. I lift my chin and ignore the fact that I have to look upward to stare down my nose at him since he’s half a foot taller than me.

  “Maybe I have been stalking you,” he finally says and I feel an immense amount of satisfaction that he’s the one to break first, even if I’m not so thrilled by his words “—if by stalking, you mean having one of my security guys shadow you when you go out on your own.”

  I gasp and open my mouth to go off on him but he holds up a hand.

  “He always stays a respectable distance away. Nothing invasive is involved and he only follows you when you’re in public.”

  “So you had some guy fucking watching me? And what, like reporting back to you my every move?” My neck goes hot and I’m not sure if it’s with anger or embarrassment. Just how close was this guy watching? Obviously close enough to let Jackson know about the men.

  Jackson holds out his hands again and shakes his head as if preemptively sensing my coming tirade. “He never got close enough to see anything. But when you went off alone with certain… individuals,” he says, obviously picking his words carefully, “he felt that they were unsafe scenarios. He just stayed within earshot in case he heard you in any distress. But he never saw anything,” he hurries to add.

  As if that makes it okay!

  He keeps going before I can say a word. “I’m worried about you, Callie. Something happened with Gentry. Don’t even try to deny it.” This time, no matter how stubborn I want to be, I drop my gaze. That name. My stupid hands start trembling. I grab my left hand with my right, furious that just that bastard’s name can still get to me.

  “Something happened, something bad, and you changed.” His voice is strained, with anger, but also clearly with pain. Pain because he knows I’ve been in pain. Even though he hasn’t seen me himself in months, he’s known. Somehow.

  And he’s right. Pain. That gaping hole that was bored through the center of my chest ever since that day, it hurts in a way I’ve never experienced before, even though I was abused for several years when I was a teenager. That was innocent petting compared to the repeated violence of that afternoon in June. I shudder.

  People talk about the phantom pain of a missing limb and in this moment, I understand. I feel the phantom pain of the girl I used to be. She was cut out, gored from the middle of my chest.

  I rub my temples with both hands. Clubgoers stream by us, in and out, voices chatter, cars honk, and the beat of the music from inside the club thunders on and on in the background like a goddamn train.

  I can’t fucking think straight. This is too much, coming at me all at once. Jackson’s been watching me. He’s had a security guy tailing me. Because he was worried about me. The aforementioned security guy did not see me bust out my psycho Ginsu knife trick last night. But now I know there was always backup close enough to hear me if I had needed to call for help, which makes me feel kind of… safe. But only because I know Jackson was behind it. If it had been anyone else, I’d still want to take the knife that’s usually at my garter to their balls.

  God, I’m too mixed up to know how any of that makes me feel.

  Hence, I lash out. “So? What the fuck is this?” I ask in my most scathing tone and cross my arms over my chest. “An intervention? Are you here to show me the error of my ways and lead me to the righteous path?”

  Jackson lets out a dark, self-deprecating laugh. I don’t miss the bitter edge to it. “I’m the last person in the world to know anything about righteousness.” Those piercing eyes meet mine again. “But I do know a little bit about finding my way back to sanity after Bryce Gentry blows up a person’s life.”

  I squirm under his gaze but I don’t look away.

  “I’m not suggesting that I know what you’ve been through,” he says, “whatever happened. I’m not saying that you should tell me what it was or that I have some great wisdom I can impart.”

  “What the hell are you saying then?” I ask impatiently.

  He shrugs in a way that would be casual if I didn’t know he was interested in this thing between us, whatever this is. “There are safer ways to get the same—” he casts about for a word, “—effect as what you’ve been doing.”

  I blink. Okaaaaaaaaaaaay. That was not what I was expecting.

  I arch an eyebrow, half in disbelief. I can only wait to hear what the hell is going to come out of his mouth next.

  “There are ways to do it safely. In controlled environments. One possibility is to do it w
ith a partner that you have an established agreement with, no other attachment or strings.” His eyes briefly drop at this. At first I only feel a brief spike of satisfaction that I made the unflappable Jackson Vale look away first. Finally.

  Then I get the gist of his words. Oh my God. He means with him. All this to suggest friends with benefits?

  “But that’s not the only option.” The words come out rushed and his eyes come back up to meet mine, as if he’s forcing them to by will alone. “There are groups of people and places,” he continues, tone of voice very calm, almost monotone compared to the rest of his speech tonight, “and I’d like to introduce you. It’s a world where safe, sane, and consensual are the most important tenants.”

  That phrase rings a bell and it suddenly clicks where I’ve heard it.

  Holy. Shit.

  Is he—?

  Did he just—?

  I know my eyes are wide as saucers, but I seriously think Jackson just invited me to let him be my guide through the world of—

  “As in, BDSM?” I clarify. It’s become pop culture enough through movies and books for me to catch the reference. But damn. Is he really…?

  His eyes glance to the left and right, like he’s worried I was overheard. Oh sure, now he worries.

  “It doesn’t have to be seedy and sleazy,” he leans in, eyes searching mine. “Most of us who live the lifestyle have perfectly normal lives on the outside. And like I said, all play is safe, sane, and consen—”

  He breaks off at what must be my expression. I have no idea what he sees there. He sort of lost me at the ‘most of us who live the lifestyle’ part. The ‘lifestyle’ as in, kinky sex and hanging out with others who do the same kind of stuff is something that he regularly participates in?

  Whoa.

  I think back to our brief time together. There was that episode with the vibrator up my ass that surprised me at the time, but damn…

  “Okay,” he says with a slightly nervous laugh, hand running through the back of his hair, “I can’t tell if that face means wow, how interesting or, wow, how can I distract him because I need to get the hell out of here right now.”

  I guess I have backed up a couple steps in my surprise at everything he’s just said. He looks really nervous, watching me warily like I really am about to bolt any second.

  “It’s just…” I trail off. “A lot to take in?” I don’t know why that came out as a question, but yeah. I nod. “A lot to take in.” It’s a statement this time.

  His head goes up and down, eyes still guarded like he’s not letting himself hope that I’m going to stay and keep talking to him. “I understand. I do. I didn’t mean to,” he waves a hand abstractly, “ambush you like this. I was going to suavely run into you in the VIP lounge, buy a round of drinks for your group…”

  He stops as if realizing he just put his foot in his mouth. I’m pretty sure both of our minds just went to how his plan got screwed up by, well, me, grabbing rando dude off the dance floor because I was all DTF.

  “Yeah.” He sums up, his hand going to the back of his hair again. It’s an out-of-place gesture for such a usually put-together man. He drops his hand as if realizing the same thing. “Well. You have my number. So.”

  There’s an awkward moment where I feel like he might be waiting for me to say something. To stop him from leaving, maybe.

  I don’t.

  My head is still on a crazy tilt-a-whirl from everything that’s just gone down in the last twenty minutes.

  “Well,” he says again. “Bye then.”

  And with that, he turns and starts walking down the sidewalk.

  I let out an explosive breath of air. I’m about to sag against the building and grab my phone out of my purse when he suddenly turns back around.

  Oh God, now what? I don’t think I can handle any more big revelations tonight.

  “My driver, Sam, is just around the corner and I could—”

  I shake my head quickly and hold up my phone. “I’ve got Uber on speed dial. I’m good.”

  For a moment, I’m afraid he’s going to offer to wait with me. That would be a bit torturous after the conversation we just had. Talk about awkward. We’ve managed a sort of graceful end to a pretty nutso conversation and I’d really just rather leave it there.

  Thank God, he seems to get the message because he just smiles, the dimple makes a brief appearance. Then he’s walking down the street again, his broad back to me.

  I wait until he’s at the end of the block and stepping into his car before I let out a sigh of relief again.

  I try to start sorting through all that was just said, but decide I really need to go home and down a bottle of wine first.

  Chapter 3

  The bottle of wine didn’t really help and only results in a monster headache on Saturday morning. I spend the rest of the weekend marathoning the second season of Outlander with my sister, Shannon. Thankfully Shannon is addicted to two things in life: strong coffee and immersive TV shows. When we have marathon TV sessions, she gets more lost in the story of the on-screen characters than anyone I’ve ever met. Perfect for me since it means she’s too caught up to concern herself with what’s going on in my life. So I spend the weekend watching TV, eating ice cream, folding laundry, and texting Lydia.

  What I do not do, however, is let myself think about any of the things that came out of Jackson Vale’s mouth.

  Nope. Not happening. I’m officially checked out for the weekend. The only drama I can handle is of the 18th-century Scottish variety.

  And, in small doses, Lydia’s. Lydia rarely has drama, after all. She’s really into the redhead from Friday night, Shayna. Turns out they didn’t hook up that first night. Instead they hung out and walked around downtown San Fran in what apparently turned into one of those epic all night get-to-know-you sessions that ended after sunrise and pancakes.

  She only slept a few hours before waking up and immediately blowing up my phone with texts about every detail of the night. After more pings coming in before I can even text back, I finally just call her and we talk for about an hour.

  I’ve never heard her so excited about a girl. When we finally hang up I feel the briefest stab of something in my gut. Jealousy? No, I don’t think that’s it. Maybe just the hurt of a memory when I’d been similarly happy at the beginning of what I imagined might be a great relationship. Which leads back to thoughts of Jackson and the confusing tangle of thoughts and emotions and…

  “Come on,” Shannon calls. “How long does it take to go to the bathroom? They’re about to land back in Scotland. That means we’ll get to see Jamie in a kilt again. Get your butt back in here!”

  Yeah. Time to check out of my own life again. I hurry back into the living room. “Just let me grab another pint of Ben & Jerry’s.”

  * * *

  Now it’s Monday and I’m heading into the CubeThink offices with no better idea of what I would say to Jackson’s unorthodox proposal if I ran into him in the elevator. Not that I usually see him in the office. But what if today he’s waiting in his car on the curb or standing on the sidewalk in front of the building, ready to ambush me as I head into work?

  When I get there, the coast’s clear and I let out a small sigh of relief as the elevator climbs to my floor.

  I check my phone. 7:51. Good. I’m going to be conscientious to be early for a while so Marcy doesn’t hold the one time I was late against me for too long. No one can hold a grudge like that lady. So far I think she’s satisfied with my job performance, but you can never really tell with her. It’s not like she gives out compliments. She just seems to berate me less than others on the team.

  My immediate coworkers are a small group of four fellow coders. When I started, we were just scrubbing code that comes down to us from above, debugging and scrutinizing it for errors, and then setting up experiments to check run times. Wash, rinse, repeat.

  But lately, I’ve been getting to write some code. The algorithms we were working on in the middle of sum
mer were dubbed too slow for product viability. We were given a shot at increasing data-run time with our own code, not just quality testing other people’s work.

  I was determined to prove myself, and I’ve actually come up with some solutions that seem to be working. It’s the first time in my life where I feel like I’m accomplishing something that I can be proud of. Something that I’m earning for real—not just because I have a pretty face and a big rack.

  My thoughts are full of the project as I grab a coffee and settle into my cubicle. It’s your basic workspace, small but not claustrophobically so. Some people plaster the thin divider ‘walls’ of the cubicles with hundreds of pictures of their kids or their cats. I don’t see the point in that. I’m here to work. I don’t want anything else distracting me. Sure, I have a picture of Charlie that I keep taped to the left-hand side of my desk, but that’s all. This is not my home away from home. This might be a very good job, but at the end of the day, that’s all it is. A job.

  The morning is all clear too, so I can get straight to work. Marcy likes us to come off the weekend and jump directly into whatever we’re supposed to be working on. She calls it starting off the week right. Weekly meetings are usually on Thursdays and Fridays. I think the whole Friday meeting thing is to try to get us to obsess about work all weekend.

  Might work with some of the more anal types but her mind games don’t work on me. Not after working for the master of mind-fuckery. Plus, I like not having to socialize on a Monday morning when I’m not in the mood.

  Like today. Another plus to being a little early? No one’s congregating around the coffee like they do when everyone gets here right at eight o’clock. The last thing I need is anyone wanting to do post-mortems about our respective weekends. It’s bad enough when Bonnie sends me an IM to ask where I disappeared to on Friday. I just shoot a quick message back that I’m deep into working on something. It does the trick. She leaves me alone for the rest of the morning.