by Clare James
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Clare James
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter 1
Jules
I bite my lip when his tattoo peeks out from under his shirt. Yes, it is completely cliché. And yes, I do look like some kind of B-list porn star lusting after this man and going into heat every time he shows a little skin. But seriously, he is that delicious.
Sweet Mother Mary, help me.
Deep black ink spreads across Foster’s toffee-colored skin along his lower left ab. I was with him when he got it—a tribal eagle. It’s an important symbol for the Ojibwe people. Foster’s people. Though he’s never really embraced his roots, not even after his dad died in junior high, he’s trying to figure it out now. He’s trying to figure out a lot of things—usually over whiskey Cokes.
My eyes remain glued to his abs. It’s ridiculous, I know. Still, I can’t help it. Foster Sutton does this to me. Every. Fucking. Time.
I’ve been up close and personal with his markings of guilt on a few occasions. And guilt is precisely what I’m feeling now as I stand here drooling over Foster’s body. It’s more than a bit shady—gawking at him while he’s passed out—but I can’t tear my eyes away. Click—I take a mental picture and store it away for…later. I have a million photos of Foster in my brain file. None of them, however, quite capture this side of him. Or, this much of him.
His shirt is riding up and the fly of his jeans is open, telling me he tried to take off his clothes before passing out. But it looks like the booze won this time. He sent me a text from the bar about an hour ago, incoherent and needy—his telltale signs of being three sheets to the wind. Of course, I rushed right over.
When duty calls…
Foster sighs and his eyes flutter open.
“Come here, baby,” he says, reaching for me from a pool of drunkenness.
And I want to, believe me. Oh how I want to, but we’ve played this game too many times before, and what a girl needs is her dignity—not a purse holding her panties while she does the bull-legged walk of shame in broad daylight.
I skillfully avoid Foster’s grasping arms, knowing I just have to keep away from him for the next few minutes. He always gets a second wind right before passing out completely. Trouble is, I don’t want to stay away. I want to climb in bed and lick him like a Popsicle.
Dignity is overrated anyway.
I want to take away his pain—at least for a little while. But I’ve been trying to do that for the last two years and nothing changes. We never move forward. We never get back to that place we were before the accident. Before everything went to hell.
The thought helps me pull away from those delectable abs to get the supplies I need. When I move down the hall, I swear Foster is hissing at the sunray beating down on him. The afternoon light is annoying me as well. It’s glaring through the apartment as if to say, “Look around, woman! Look at this mess of an apartment, this mess of a man.”
I tell the bitchy sunbeam to zip her lip and then close the blinds in the tiny studio. Foster mumbles what I assume is a thank you from the futon. The sorry sack didn’t even wait until nighttime to hit the bar today. But it’s been months since I’ve had to play Nurse Jackie, so that has to be a good sign.
I grab his blanket from the floor and drape it over his body, covering that damn tattoo.
There, that’s a little better.
Foster’s place is a dump, but it’s close to campus and it’s all he could afford after Noah finally kicked him out last year. I don’t blame Noah in the least, Foster’s act is getting old. Even for me.
Sure, after the accident we all had our issues. It was a tough few years, but now Noah and I have Tabby in our lives, and I also have my friends at group who make me face my shit—a group Foster’s not a part of, obviously.
If he was, things might be better.
“Here, take this,” I tell him from the side of the bed, holding out three Advil and a glass of water.
Foster takes the water glass from my hand and sets it on the bedside table, but instead of taking the Advil, he grabs both my wrists and yanks me onto the bed. The pills fly through the air and he has me pinned under him in less than a second.
“I’d rather take you,” he growls in my ear.
Holy hell.
This is exactly what I was afraid of. His eyes are bloodshot, hair disheveled, and he smells like cigarettes and whiskey. Doesn’t matter, he’s still hot as Hades. This is the one area of his life where he knows exactly what he’s doing—and though I have, on occasion, reaped the benefits from his sexual prowess, it still pains me to know how he got it.
Foster runs the back of his hand along my cheek, and I swear I see the guy I fell in love with back in high school. The kind, funny, impossibly gorgeous—Foster.
“I’ve missed you, Jules,” he whispers.
Instantly, my traitorous body responds. It cares nothing about dignity.
“Me too,” I tell him with a lump in my throat, because I have missed him. I’ve missed this.
“Maybe we could try again.” There’s pain in his eyes. “Maybe I could change.”
He brushes his lips across mine, an apology for so many things that have gone wrong.
“Maybe,” I say into his mouth unable to move my greedy body away.
I love the weight of him on me—the pressure, the heat. Foster’s mouth finds my neck and he nips and bites his way down to my collarbone, while I turn completely liquid.
My hands trail along his sides, under his shirt. He groans at my touch before meeting my eyes. His chestnut hair falls into his face and obscures his beautiful eyes. His locks have grown and it’s too long, too incredibly sexy. I fist my hand in it, pulling his mop away from those amber pools. I love when his eyes light up like this, almost glowing. It makes me feel like I’m the one who put the sparkle in them. It makes me want to do almost anything to keep it there.
His fingertips slide under my shirt and I whimper at his touch.
Then his mouth plunders mine. His tongue parts my lips, demanding attention. I let him kiss me because I hope his words hold some truth to them this time. I hope he can change and we can start over, but I’m not convinced he wants to. Not yet anyway.
Foster senses my hesitation. And in a blink, I feel him go back to the empty shell he’s become. He continues kissing me, but the sweetness is gone now. His hands move under my shirt, but they feel like a stranger’s. I roll over on top of him and grab his face in my hands, trying to reach him again. I search and search, trying to find the old Foster, the real Foster.
He’s gone.
Dragging my shirt over my head, he pulls me in. Skin on skin. Th
ere are almost sparks on contact. Our bodies know what to do, even when our heads aren’t in the game. Soon we are diving into each other, maybe both trying to forget. Trying to get lost in each other.
This is usually the point he passes out, but there’s no sign of that now. He’s frantic—touching, kissing, pulling, grasping.
I help him take my pants off and he pins me again under his weight.
And just as I’m falling into the moment and into him, he nestles my neck and says, “You feel amazing, Ash.”
All the air in the room has been sucked out. I can’t breathe. He’s screwed it up again. I can’t believe it. My heart almost stops and my fists clench, ready for a fight.
He actually called me by the wrong name. The. Wrong. Fucking. Name.
So I do the only thing I can. I knee the asshat in the balls.
Jesus, forgive me, for I know not what I do.
Scratch that, I do and it feels damn good.
While Foster’s grunting from the fetal position, I push off him with an ache that runs the length of me—head to toe. I pound my fists in his back for good measure.
“You ruin everything, you asshole.” I let a few tears escape. It doesn’t matter, not like he’ll remember any of this tomorrow.
“Wait.” He sits up, flinching. “Don’t go.”
I shake my head and put my pants and shirt back on, unable to look at him now. I grab my sweater and pull on my boots, fighting the overwhelming urge to throw them at his head.
“You ruin everything,” I say again before walking out the door. “Everything.”
I stomp down the hallway, leaving a fiery wake.
I suppose it could be worse; I could be toting my panties in my purse.
Chapter 2
Foster
I sleep it off for the next few hours. The sun is setting by the time I’m able to haul my ass out of bed, and I can’t help but wonder what Jules is doing after my stunt. Did she go home to cry? Did she light a cigarette even though she gave them up months ago? Did she say fuck him and decide to hit up one of the many end-of-year parties? Did she fashion a Foster voodoo doll and poke him with needles?
I did it on purpose, knowing it was an asshole move. I called out Ash’s name because I can’t say no to Jules on my own. I know I’m playing games, fucking with her head. Pulling her in and pushing her away. It’s a constant fight between my head and my heart. I can’t think straight where she’s concerned. Today, I wanted to be near her. Just for a while. But then I took it too far and I panicked. Once again, I acted like a douche so she had to make the decision to stop because I couldn’t.
The truth is I could never forget one thing about Jules. Her smell, her touch, her tiny body. Even her heart has its own special beat. I’d recognize her anywhere—no matter how drunk I may be. I’d never mistake my Jules.
But I had to do something. I couldn’t go through with it. She deserves so much more than what I can give her. I don’t want to contaminate her with my poison. I’ve let myself do it too many times in the past, the selfish bastard that I am. It’s just sometimes it’s almost impossible to not touch her.
Still a little sore from her ball-busting, I limp to the kitchen for some water. I drink my fill and pour the rest down the drain, imagining spilling it all over Jules’ body and lapping it up.
Christ.
My poor junk doesn’t know what the hell is up. From blue balls to an assault, and back to blue balls. She’s been gone for hours and I’m still hard thinking about her. Her lithe body covered only in purple polka dot panties and matching bra. Spunky, that girl, even down to her underwear. And here I sit like a horny teenager, pining for someone I will never deserve.
A knock on the door does nothing to pull me out of my condition. If it’s Jules, I don’t care. I’m taking her. Against the wall, on the counter, in my bed. I can’t go on like this much longer.
When I answer, it’s not Jules. It’s Ashley.
Karma is a nasty bitch.
“Foxy Foster,” Ash says, walking past me into my apartment.
Ash is the opposite of Jules—girly, tall, and voluptuous. She’s in a pink sweat-suit, the word Juicy plastered across her ass.
This is our pattern. I hang out at the bar when the guilt and loneliness are too much to handle, and Ashley comes by after her shift to help me forget. It’s been months since I’ve been drunk though; I know I should feel bad about it, but I don’t. Not after what happened to one of the kids at the Center—my secret place of penance. I needed something to take the edge off.
Even so, I know it was the easy way out. What can I say? I’m weak and destructive, and if I don’t want to destroy yet another person, I need to stop this shit with Ash too.
“I see you’re ready for my visit,” she says, tracing a finger down my bare chest to the opening in my jeans. She makes the mistake that my hard-on is for her. It’s for Jules. Always for Jules.
“About that,” I say to her, glancing down at the bulge in my jeans. “I can’t do this anymore, Ash. It’s not right.”
Ashley doesn’t relent. She leans in and pulls my zipper down all the way. “I disagree,” she says, backing me into the wall.
“Don’t,” I start to protest, but I can’t deny her touch feels good. I want to get lost again and this is the only thing that can take me away and help me forget for a few minutes.
“Foster.” Ash laughs. “Don’t be so dramatic. Don’t you think I know you’re thinking about her when we’re together?”
My mouth drops open. Surely, I’ve been a better actor than this. I’m the ultimate player—all suave and sweet-talking. Damn, I can’t even do that right.
She lifts my chin and plants the softest kiss on my lips—even though Ash doesn’t do soft. With us, it’s always been hard, fast, and frantic. “It’s okay,” she whispers on my lips. “You take away my pain too. And I need you.” Ash catches my bottom lip in her teeth and pulls. “Now.”
That’s all she needs to do. I capture her lips and devour them. Like I need her to breathe, to survive. In some ways, it’s exactly what I need. She is saving me. I pull her close and she wraps those long legs around my waist as I walk her to my kitchen counter. The bed is too intimate for us—always has been.
Ash unzips her sweatshirt and I do the rest. I yank, strip, and pull until she’s sitting on my counter, wearing only a thong. I cup her breasts and wrap my lips around her nipple, tasting, sucking, and pretending I’m with Jules. That it’s her tiny body writhing from my touch.
I think about what it’d be like to be with Jules completely. I’ve yet to make love to her. We’ve been drunk and we’ve fucked. It was fantastic, but I’ve never fully given myself to her. If I did, I could never go back to being just friends. She’d eventually learn the truth and leave me. For good.
So I settle for what we have right now. I only have one year left with Jules. One year together and then it’s over. She’ll go her way to her life, her future. And I’ll have mine—one where I float in the present, never moving forward, eating up time with girls like Ash—the fucked up and the low. I have one year to keep up this charade. One year to ignore the way my body responds to Jules. One year to pretend.
I quickly pull my jeans down to my thighs and roll on a condom.
I wrap Ashley’s hair around my fist and pull her head back so I can’t see her face.
Then I plunge into her and get lost.
Chapter 3
Jules
Later in the evening, I drink my tea and take a few drags from my electronic cigarette, trying to forget about the depressing scene with Foster. I was hoping to be smoking this thing for another reason…ahem. Instead, I’m here alone, swearing off boys. Or at least one of their kind.
I guess I can’t really blame Foster though; maybe I just don’t do it for him. It’s not like I have the necessary experience to bring the goods for someone like him. Besides Foster, I’ve only had two other partners.
There was my first: Joey Freemont. It was a one-t
ime deal my senior year and it sucked. Joey was a nice enough guy, but he smelled like Corn Nuts and he had no idea what he was doing downtown.
But nobody has a good first time, right? I wanted to check it off the list so I was prepared for the real thing—Foster.
Yep, he was my second.
It was great with him, even though we were both drunk. His breath was yummy, beer and all, and he knew exactly what he was doing in my nether region. It happened a week after the accident when we both needed comfort. I secretly hoped the sex would hold us together. It didn’t. Somehow we did get to the point of an understanding—a friends-with-occasional-benefits situation. Amazingly, it hasn’t ruined our friendship. Though I don’t think either one of us would ever let that happen.
And finally, my third and most important partner, Henry.
He’s exactly what I need tonight. Henry is my vibrator. He’s nothing fancy or crazy. He’s no Rabbit toy—those dildos with all the fancy apparatuses that get in and get you off in less than a minute. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. No, Henry is a take-your-time-and-enjoy-the-scenery battery-operated boyfriend. Good ol’ faithful.
Though I’m sure I could call up Corn Nuts to do the deed, Henry is guaranteed to satisfy.
Later that night, he does indeed.
~~~
In the morning, I sprawl out on Tabby’s purple velvet couch, drinking tea and smoking my new e-cig. I feel like a retro movie star.
“Those things are going to kill you,” Tabby says, walking out of the shower. “Noah just did an article about e-cigarettes in the paper. There’s still a surprisingly amount of nicotine in that vapor.”
Tabitha Kelly is my best friend and the bravest woman I know. I just met her last fall, but I’m pretty sure we’re soul mates. I can’t help but smile as she sashays into the living room while brushing her long blonde hair.
“Geez, one thing at a time,” I tell her. “It’s only been a few months since I quit. A little patience, please?”
Tab laughs. “Yeah, I guess it is better than those smelly menthol jobs you used to smoke. And you do look quite elegant lying there. Like a ’20s movie star or something.”
