Jake Forever (Jaked Book 3)

by Sabrina Stark

  Why was I even asking?

  Of course, Jake knew.

  That's why he'd brought Trey along to record it. And that's why he'd hired some guy to drag me away if things got too crazy. And that's why right now, somewhere on the internet, his rabid fans were probably already devouring his latest video.

  But in front of me, Jake gave a slow shake of his head. "That's what you think? That I knew a 'riot' was gonna break out? And I still brought you?"

  "So you're admitting it was a riot?"

  He gave me a look. "You ever see a real riot?"

  "No," I admitted.

  "If you did, you wouldn't be asking."

  "You're changing the subject," I said. "Did you know?"

  "Let me get this straight." He pushed away from the wall and said, "You think if I knew that was gonna happen, I'd have brought you within one mile of that place?"

  I saw his point. I'd been with Jake for a few weeks. During that time, I'd learned a few things. For one, he was scarily overprotective. For another, he was stubborn as hell.

  I lifted my chin. Well, so was I. And I wasn't going to let this drop so easily. "Then why did you bring me?" I asked.

  "Is that a complaint?"

  "No. I'm just wondering, that's all."

  "I brought you because you said you wanted to see him."

  "Who? Dorian?" At the mention of his name, I felt the first twinge of guilt. I wasn't a fan or anything. But I had been curious. After all, it wasn't every day that a movie star made their way to a place like Detroit.

  Jake's gaze probed mine. "You remember what you said?"

  Not wanting to answer, I gave a small shrug.

  In front of me, Jake waited.

  "Oh, alright," I muttered. "I said that if you didn't bring me, I'd show up anyway." I tried to laugh. "But it was just a joke." I glanced away. "Mostly."

  "Right." Jake prowled toward me and said, "So you were joking, huh?"

  I felt myself swallow. He looked so good, so dangerous, and so damned tempting that I almost forgot why I'd been frustrated in the first place.

  Looking at him now, moving toward me in that slow, deliberate way of his, I felt my stomach flutter and my breath catch.

  In front of me now, he leaned over me and asked, "You still wanna fight?"

  No. Mostly, I wanted to rip off his clothes and show him how very, very happy I was that he'd made it out of there alive.

  I felt the corners of my mouth give a traitorous lift. "I wasn't fighting."

  He moved only slightly closer. Deliberately, he reached out and wound a strand of my hair around his index finger. He lowered his head until our lips were almost touching. "Uh-huh."

  My lips parted, and my knees grew weak. I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to know for sure that he was real. I wanted to prove to myself that he was okay. And yeah, I wanted a few other things, naked things that I'd be embarrassed to tell my mother.

  Wait. Scratch that. My mother was a unique case. Nothing embarrassed her. Unfortunately.

  Shaking off the distraction, I lifted my face a fraction closer, waiting for Jake's lips to close the distance.

  But he made no move, and the moment stretched out. The air around us became charged with sin and sex and the hint of danger. When he spoke, his voice was low and seductive. "Tell me. You want a nice, safe guy?"

  Again, I felt myself swallow. My voice, when I found it, came out more than a little breathless. "What?"

  "Admit it. You love it."

  If I were coy, I'd ask him what he meant. But I knew exactly what he was getting at. He knew me, maybe better than I knew myself. If given the choice between Jake or a nice, safe guy with a nice, safe life, I'd choose Jake a million times over.

  I couldn't help but smile. "Oh, shut up."

  His lips were maddeningly close now. "So let me ask you again. You still wanna fight?"

  It was long past midnight, and I had to work in the morning. I still hadn't eaten or gotten any of the answers I'd been hoping for. But suddenly, none of that mattered.

  I didn't want to fight. I wanted Jake.

  And like the bastard he was, he damn well knew it.

  I gazed up at him. "What if I want to fight after?"

  He gave me a slow, sexy smile. "After what?"

  Five minutes later, I was showing him what – first on the nearby sofa, and later in the king-size bed. As for Jake, he showed me plenty of things in return, wonderful things that made me forget everything – the strain of waiting for him, the doubts I had about his long-term safety, and the fact that my life wasn't exactly going the way I planned.

  A couple hours later, just before I drifted off to sleep, I felt happy and sated in spite of everything.

  Probably, I should've made the most of it, because the next day brought plenty of reasons to not smile – and too many of those reasons involved the guy cradling me in his arms.

  Chapter 5

  I glanced down at the drink order. "What's this?"

  Melanie shrugged. "Don't ask me. Never heard of it. But hey, you're the bartender, right?"

  It was true. I was the bartender. Today, this wasn't exactly a good thing. The restaurant's computer system was down, which meant the serving staff was writing all of their drink-orders by hand. Some of them were doing a pretty good job of it. Others, not so much.

  I looked down at the scribbled slip of paper. Unless it was written in another language, it wasn't exactly legible. I looked up. "But I can't even read it."

  Melanie gave the paper an annoyed look. "What? You want me write it bigger?"

  "Not bigger," I told her. "Just better."

  She groaned in obvious frustration. "God, I hate this hand-writing stuff." She shook out her hand, like her wrist had grown sore and floppy. "I'm like a super-fast texter, you know? But the whole pencil-and-paper thing? It blows, seriously."

  She was right. It did blow. We were at the peak of lunch hour, and the place was packed. Usually, lunch wasn't a big time for drinks, but between the computer problems and a table of rowdies on the far side of the restaurant, I was having a hard time keeping up.

  I didn't bother reminding Melanie that her texting speed wasn't exactly relevant, since the steakhouse used computers, not phones, to place all of the orders. Besides, I knew what she meant. Take myself, for example. I was so used to texting that on some days, I could barely sign my own name.

  "Alright, then just tell me," I said, glancing at the slip of paper. "What drink is this, exactly?"

  "Not just one drink. Two." She pointed at a messy scribble on the paper's edge. "See?"

  I studied the thing. What I saw was a potato. I squinted at it and cocked my head to the side. I guess it could be a two if I squinted hard enough. "Uh, yeah," I said. "Two drinks. But what kind?"

  Again, she pointed at the paper. "Moon Pies. Just like it says."

  "Oh." I was still looking at the slip of paper. "Yeah. I guess that could be an 'M.'" Suddenly, I looked up. "Wait. Did you say Moon Pies?"

  Melanie nodded.

  I felt my gaze narrow. That wasn't a drink. It was a sign of trouble. I stood on my tiptoes and looked around the crowded restaurant. "Alright, where are they?"

  Melanie shook her head. "The drinks? You haven't made them yet."

  "Not the drinks," I said. "The goobers who ordered these."

  She gave me an odd look. "Goobers?"

  From the other side of the bar, Rosalie called out, "Hey, you got my daiquiris?"

  I didn't, in fact.

  Damn it.

  I'd been distracted by that stupid potato. "Sorry," I called back. "Not yet. But I'm making them now." I turned back to Melanie. "I'll have the Moon Pies in a minute, okay?"

  She smiled. "Great. I can't wait to see 'em."

  "Yeah." Now, I was smiling too, but in a totally different way. "Me neither."

  Five minutes later, Melanie was staring down at the two tall glasses. "Wow." She frowned. "Those are so not what I expected."

  I choked back a malicious g
iggle. "Yeah. I know. But trust me. They'll love 'em."

  But Melanie was shaking her head. "Honestly? I don't think so. Sorry, but they look all…" She gave a little flutter of her hand. "Um, wrong, I guess."

  I looked down at the so-called drinks. They did look wrong, but that was the whole point. Melanie might not understand, but she would after delivering them. And we'd all have a good laugh about it afterwards.

  Or, at least that's what I thought. Unfortunately, it didn't play out that way, not even close. They didn't love them, and in the end, no one was laughing – not me, not Melanie, not the customers, and most certainly not my boss.

  Chapter 6

  With a groan, I flopped back onto the camper's lower bunk and shared the unhappy news with my brothers. "I think I was fired today."

  "You think?" Anthony said. "Like what? You're not sure?"

  "Long story," I said. "But the way it's looking now, I'll probably be needing a new job."

  Sitting across from Anthony, Steve gave a bark of laughter. "Again?"

  "Oh, shut up," I said. "It doesn't happen that often."

  Now, Anthony was laughing, too. "Sorry, but, actually it does."

  I reached out and hugged the nearest pillow to my chest. It had no pillow case and smelled vaguely of stale pizza and even staler beer. Probably, I should've cared. But I couldn't. Not today.

  I closed my eyes and sighed. "Yeah. I know."

  After the scene at the restaurant, I'd been too embarrassed to head back to Jake's place. So instead, I'd barged in on my two brothers, who were in town for another huge construction project. Luckily, I'd caught them at lunch, eating pepperoni pizza at the small booth inside the camper.

  Technically, the camper was a job-trailer, except it wasn't anything like the other job-trailers I'd seen over the years. Most looked like rectangular metal offices on wheels. But this one? It was a vintage, bubble-shaped camper that might've slept four sometime in the 1950s.

  This month, it was sleeping zero. My brothers' latest construction job had come with a rare perk – free rooms at a huge, full-service hotel, located just a few blocks away.

  In fact, it was the same hotel that was attached to the steakhouse where I'd been bartending for the last couple of weeks. I might've called the arrangement a lucky coincidence, except for the fact that my brothers were the ones who, earlier in the month, had told me the place was hiring – and now, firing, the way things looked.

  At the table, Anthony was saying, "Look on the bright side. You won't need to dress like a cowgirl no more."

  I lifted my head to look down at my work uniform – a thin, frilly white blouse and Daisy Duke shorts that were a tad too short.

  On this, Anthony had a point. The way it looked, I wasn't a regular cowgirl. I was a slutty cowgirl with a poor fashion sense.

  The uniforms were brand new and universally hated – well, by everyone except for the male customers. In fact, the uniforms were so hated that Rosalie had started a petition to get rid of them.

  I let my head flop back onto the mattress. I hadn't even signed the petition, mostly because I hadn't wanted to get fired, not so soon, anyway.

  So much for that plan.

  At the table, Steve was saying, "Hey, I like the uniforms." He paused. "Well, except for when she wears them. I mean, you can see too much of your sister, you know?"

  "No kidding," Anthony said. "If I want a trashy cowgirl, I'll buy a farm, get my own."

  From the bunk, I was tempted to point out the obvious. Farms didn't have cowgirls. Hell, most of them didn't even have cows anymore. Did they?

  Why was I even thinking of this?

  With another sigh, I pushed myself up and looked around, taking in the discarded pizza boxes, crushed soda cans, and empty bottles of beer. "You guys really are slobs. You know that, right?"

  Steve gave the mess a quick once-over. "You wanna clean it? Be my guest."

  "Yeah," Anthony said. "We're busy."

  I gave them a dubious look. They looked the same as always, like two lean, twenty-something guys who could probably change a spark plug, but wouldn't be caught dead at the opera.

  Steve resembled our mom, with blond hair and blue eyes, while Anthony looked more like our dad, with olive-skin and dark hair. Right now, neither one of them looked remotely busy.

  In fact, it suddenly hit me that it was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon. It wasn't exactly lunchtime anymore.

  The trailer had a few tiny windows, covered in faded blue checkered curtains. I stood and shoved aside the nearest curtain. Outside the trailer, a dump truck rumbled past, while behind it, dozens of men in hard hats worked diligently under the hot, summer sun. Everywhere I looked, the site was buzzing with activity.

  But my brothers? Not so much.

  I turned toward them and asked, "Why aren't you working?"

  "We are working," Steve said.

  "Yeah," Anthony said. "We're waiting on an inspection." He leaned back in the booth and gave a long, leisurely stretch. "If we're lucky, the guy won't show 'til tomorrow."

  Tomorrow. At the thought, I wanted to dive back onto that bottom bunk and burrow deep under the covers. I gave it a wistful look and felt my enthusiasm fade. The covers looked lumpy, and I couldn’t help but wonder, what would I find if I burrowed deep enough?

  I shuddered to think.

  Steve's voice cut into my thoughts. "So what'd you get fired for this time?"

  I turned to look at him. "Technically, I'm not sure I'm fired. I mean, they're gonna think about it and let me know." I winced. "But to be honest, it's not looking so good."

  "What happened?" Anthony asked.

  "Well, that's the thing." I gave them a no-nonsense look. "In a way, it's kind of your fault."

  Steve and Anthony exchanged a glance. It was Anthony who asked, "Mine? Or Steve's?"

  "Both of you," I said.

  Steve reached for a new slice of pizza and took a huge bite. With a full mouth, he said, "Nah. It was Anthony's."

  I made a sound of frustration. "You don't even know what I'm talking about."

  "Don't matter," Steve said. "Because I didn't do it."

  "Hey!" Anthony said. "I didn't do it neither."

  Watching them eat reminded me of something. I'd skipped breakfast and, come to think of it, lunch, too. I edged closer to the table and looked down at the pizza. There were three slices left. One for each of us?

  "Is that a new pizza?" I asked. "Or an old pizza?"

  Anthony made a waffling gesture with his hand. "Eh. Depends."

  "On what?" I asked.

  He grabbed one of the remaining slices and said, "On what you consider old."

  I gave the final two slices a closer look. They didn't look that old. "So it's from today?"

  Anthony gave it some thought. "If you count early this morning as today, then yeah."

  "How early this morning?" I asked.

  "One-thirty."

  "You mean from last night?" My shoulders sagged. That meant the pizza was over twelve hours old. I didn't bother asking if they'd refrigerated it. I knew my brothers. They weren't big into food-safety, and besides, the camper's fridge was a beer-only zone.

  Steve grabbed the second-to-last piece, leaving just the one. It sat there, looking surprisingly tempting in spite of its advanced age. I drew back. No. The last thing I needed was botulism, or whatever you got from eating old food.

  Steve looked to Anthony and said, "Ten bucks she eats it."

  I gave him a look. "Save your money. I'm not gonna eat it. It's probably spoiled by now."

  "Dude," Steve said, "pizza never spoils."

  "Yeah?" I said. "Well, I have a night in college that says otherwise." Thinking of that awful, toilet-hugging adventure, my stomach churned. That night, it might've been the pizza. Or it might've been the vodka shooters. Either way, I wasn't taking any chances.

  At the table, Anthony was grinning again. "Wuss."

  Maybe I was. But I'd rather be a wuss than a human barfing machine.r />
  Steve reached into a side cooler and grabbed a Pepsi. Popping open the can, he said, "So what happened at work? You gonna tell us or what?"

  Just thinking about it made me tired, too tired to keeping standing there, anyway. I looked to Anthony and said, "Hey, scooch over, will ya?"

  When Anthony slid deeper into the small booth, I squeezed in beside him and paused, wondering where to begin. Across from me, Steve nudged the pizza box a couple of inches forward.

  I gave the final slice a quick glance. "Nice try, ass-wipe." I pushed the box away and started talking. "So you know how you've been coming in for lunch lately?"

  "At the steak house?" Steve said. "Yeah. Why?"

  "Well, I thought it was you guys."

  Anthony gave me a confused look. "You thought who was us?"

  "Lemme start from the beginning," I said. "So I'm working there today, and I get this drink order for a couple of Moon Pies."

  Anthony was grinning now. "No shit? Is that really a thing?"

  "Apparently," I said. "Not that I knew that at the time."

  "Yeah?" Anthony said. "So, what's in it?"

  I gave a dismissive wave of my hand. "Kahlua, Bailey's, something else – I forget. That's not important. But the thing is, when I get this drink-order, I think it's you guys, ordering something stupid again."

  Across from me, Steve chuckled. "Us? Nah."

  "Yeah, right." I gave him a long look. "Ass-blasters? Fuzzy berries? Stink eyes? Any of this ringing a bell?"

  Now, both of my brothers were laughing.

  I wasn't.

  For the last couple of weeks, they'd been coming into the steakhouse, ordering outrageous drinks just to get a rise out of me. Usually, I spotted Steve and Anthony in the dining room and did the same thing I always did, poured a couple of beers on draft and called it good.

  Today, I hadn't seen them. But I'd known it was them. I mean, the order was for Moon Pies, the exact same thing that Steve had been calling me for years.

  At the table, they were still laughing.

  The dipshits.

  I made a sound of frustration. "And stop laughing. It's not funny."

  To my infinite surprise, Steve actually listened. He put on a serious face and said, "You're right."