by Ward, Susan
I flush, put down the seat, sit and reach for the receiver. I dial 411 for the number to our Santa Barbara motel.
When it’s answered I ask the front desk for my room, and then listen to it ring.
“Hello?” says a clearly irritated Jeanette.
I scrunch up my face. “Hi, roomie. Everything OK?”
Silence. Not one of the swifter things I could have said, but I can already tell that Jeanette is seething.
“Linda. Where the hell are you? I’ve been worried sick. You didn’t come back to the party and I searched the beach for you for hours. How can you just ask me if everything is OK? Are you thoughtless or out-of-your mind?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the psychology major.” Second lame remark, but the best defense is always a good offense, so I ask, “How’s Rob. Is he pissed at me?”
I hear a heavy, aggravated exhale through the receiver. “Thank you for asking about me. And I’m pissed at you, in case you were wondering. And Rob. I don’t know how he is. I left him at the party with that girl he was making the moves on.”
“That’s probably for the best,” I say.
Silence.
Then Jeanette says, “I’m packing up and driving back to LA within the hour. Do you want me to pick you up? Do you plan to stay? Not that I care, but what are you doing and who are you with? I should probably know that in case we find your body on a beach later.”
OK, I deserved that. This isn’t the first time I’ve ditched Jeanette and gone off with a guy.
“Well, if you must know, I hit on Jackson Parker on the beach last night and I fucked him until dawn.”
Jeanette’s laughter is harsh, disbelieving and insulting.
“There is no need to get nasty and vulgar,” she says, in that superior way she has at times. “You know I hate the gutter mouth. The guys you hang out with might think it’s sexy, but I think its crude. Really, where are you? Should I pick you up?”
I make an angry grimace. I decide to lie, tell her something she’ll believe just to get rid of her. “I’m still in Isla Vista. I’m going to hang around for a while. I’ll be home next week.”
“What about your things? Do you want me to drop them off?”
“Don’t bother. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” I say and hang up.
The second I set down the receiver, I realize my mistake. I shouldn’t have said that and slammed down the phone on her. Now I won’t have my purse or my clothes.
Crap, but that’s Jeanette. No one can piss me off and knock me off my feet faster. I’ve just hit the mother lode and my roomie can be such a downer.
I’ve never met a girl in the LA scene who can brag she’s had Jackson Parker. It’s like entering the groupie hall of fame, not that my roomie would appreciate that.
I stop at the sink to wash my hands and face. My teeth feel positively gross and I debate whether to use Jack’s toothbrush. It’s kind of a disgusting thing to do, but I use it anyway. It’s better than having beer-and tequila shooter-tainted morning breath.
I gargle and rinse. I run my tongue along my teeth. I cup my hand in front of my mouth and breathe out. Better. Much better.
I find a brush on the counter and try to do something with my hair, but it’s pointless. It’s still transformed into tightly curled ringlets with pockets of frizz. With a tissue I dab away the smudges of mascara beneath my eyes.
I study myself in the mirror, then feel ready to go back in the bedroom and move this encounter the direction I need to take it.
My steps become more purposeful as I near the door. It’s absolutely necessary that I take full charge of this opportunity. I don’t want Jackson Parker brushing me off before I can learn if he can help me find my father.
I open the door, step out, and freeze.
Oh Jeez. He’s awake, reclined against pillows, and staring right at me. How is it possible for a man to look so good after a night of drinking and sex?
He takes a long drag of his cigarette, slowly exhales and studies me through the smoke. The Marlboro man has nothing on him.
“So you are real…and very beautiful,” he whispers approvingly. “I wasn’t sure I didn’t dream you.”
The blood instantly begins to heat in my veins. I make a face. “Nope, I’m real.”
He stares at me and then smiles. “Oh, better than real. A man can get lost looking into eyes like yours.”
I feel my insides shudder and I struggle to catch my breath.
I hang back, watching him smoke, and try to plan my next move. He hasn’t called me by name. Does even know who I am? Is that his game with the sexy talk? He’s bluffing his way through the morning after of a night he doesn’t recall?
“How much of last night do you remember?” I ask.
Jack takes a long drag of his cigarette. “All of it.” His eyes rove me leisurely. “Some of it.” Another drag. A laugh. “The good parts. What answer would you prefer, Linda?”
I laugh. He’s fast on his feet in the morning. I’ll give him that.
“Do you remember us meeting?” I ask.
He frowns. “Of course. I don’t get picked up by many women wearing only a sheet. What was that about anyway? Who wears a sheet to a party?”
My eyebrows shoot up. Pretty fast recollection of events. “It was a toga party,” I explain, indignantly. “Do you remember me bringing you home?”
His eyes start to glow. “Do you want me to remember or do you want me to forget?”
I decide a bold play of my own. “Depends. Are we still having an encounter or is this now a date?”
The smile that flashes on Jack’s face is heart-stoppingly sexy. He puts out his cigarette.
“Which answer gets you back into bed?”
Oh, there we go. Right question. Right direction.
I feel my pulse tick up in beat. “Encounter. Oh, definitely encounter.”
He turns down the sheet, invitingly. “A woman after my own heart. Come here.”
I make another fast decision on how to keep control of this. I don’t climb into bed. I sit on my knees, atop the covers, beside him.
Jack’s smile is amused. “So, how long are you staying?”
My eyes round in surprise.
“What? Do you just pick up women randomly and expect them to stay.”
“Nope, you’d be the first in a very long time so I’m a little rusty at this. I just like to roll with my encounters. See where they go.”
The laughter pushes upward inside of me—God, this man oozes charm with every breath—but I can’t let him know he can charm me or he’ll have total control in this.
I crinkle my nose. “Is that some sort of ’60s free love kind of philosophy?”
He cups my chin with a hand and lightly moves a finger along my jaw. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, Linda. Some of the best things in my life have come from random moments I’ve least expected.”
“Then, you’re lucky. Most of my random moments end up scaring the hell out of me.”
He brushes my lower lip with his thumb and everything below my waist comes alive. “Maybe your luck is changing, Linda. I’m your last random moment, and I think it’s going pretty well so far.”
He’s leaning into me, and I don’t know whether to run with the moment or change course.
My resistance melts away at the first touch of his lips. As wonderful as the searing passion had been last night, it cannot compare to this clear-headed, enticing seduction.
No man has ever kissed me this way. A disarming blend of lust and tenderness. Part man, part boy. And of all men to kiss me this way, it has to be Jackson Parker: part sex symbol, part aging superstar, part dream, and part misery.
I am beneath him on the bed before I realize he brought me there. I feel his warm flesh all around me. His boldness and gentleness urge me onward, giving me the courage to get lost in him and take what I want.
My tongue slips through his p
arted lips, and he answers with a blissful, swirling dance. He doesn’t make love in parts, it is all of him always at once, not fast and not slow, a perfect rhythm of flesh and desire and him.
The taste of his flesh is as beautiful as he is, and my mouths wanders the perfect lines of his face, sipping and memorizing the line and texture. A throaty laugh shudders from deep inside his throat as our mouths continue more hungrily—and it is then I realize I am kissing him, I am consuming him and he wants it this way.
Heated currents surge through my body. He moves our bodies with artful sureness into a perfect fit, my curves against his muscles, his warm flesh against my smooth skin, my yielding sex to his hardening sex.
He lowers his mouth, kissing from my lips to a taut, rosy peaked breast. As he caresses it with his tongue, I moan, threading my fingers through his hair. As quickly as we are moving it feels almost like slow motion. As primal as the urge is, it is sweetly giving.
I arch up, no longer able to endure the play on my breasts without his flesh within me.
Jack laughs and lifts his head, mesmerizing blue eyes locking on mine. “You are too impatient. You need to learn patience, how to savor your own senses.”
He takes one of my nipples into his mouth, brushing it feather-lightly with his tongue, with the slightest suck. He moves away from me. That part of me dripping and eager begins to pulse fiercely.
He moves downward to my navel. Against my flesh, he whispers, “Slowly, lovely Linda. We have all day.”
I relax into his touch and uncharacteristically obey. If there is heaven on earth, it is Jackson Parker making love to me his way.
Four
I lift my chin from Jack’s damp chest. He is definitely a morning sex kind of man and even better in the light.
He smiles at me. I sense he is more than a little lonely and in need of this.
With a long, tanned index finger, he pushes back a wayward hair from my cheek. “You have sage eyes.”
Jeez, I don’t know how to take that one. He’s a difficult man to read.
I make a face. “My eyes are brown, not green. I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment.”
Jack laughs. “I meant it as a compliment. Your eyes are wise.” He kisses me gently on the lips. “You’ve seen a lot for a girl so young, you carry it in your eyes, and yet you are one of the gentlest women I’ve ever run across. And definitely kind.”
I blush and lay my cheek back against his chest. “How do you know? You just met me. Maybe I’m not kind at all. Maybe I’m just looking for a story to tell my girlfriends. Maybe I just want get laid by a musical genius with a really hot body for his age.”
Jack laughs harder. “Thanks a lot. I’d be completely offended if not for the hot body part.” His laughter ebbs, and with a graceful quickness of hand he lifts my face. “Don’t be flippant. I’m being serious here. You’re a pretty amazing woman.”
I trace my finger along his chest, sidestep the compliment because compliments make me uncomfortable, and debate with myself whether to ask.
I kiss his chest and then look up. “Why were you drunk last night? I read somewhere you’ve been sober for ten years.”
Jack exhales heavily and runs a hand through his hair. “An alcoholic is an alcoholic forever. We don’t need reasons to drink. It was a relapse. Reasons are crutches to enable drinking. I prefer to focus on the reasons not to drink.”
I study his expression. “You seemed very sad at times. Why were you sad?”
Jack frowns. “Do you really want to know?”
I nod.
His arms tighten around me, tucking more closely against him. “It’s hard being alone in this house with my regrets. It caught up with me last night. It was my son’s birthday.”
My eyes grow large.
Jack sighs. “We all make mistakes, Linda. We all have to live with them.”
I rub my cheek against the flesh above his heart. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry. Everyone says I’m curious to the point that I’m rude.”
He lifts my chin. “Not rude. You’re a caring person. That’s a rare thing to find these days.”
“How can you say that? You don’t even know me.”
“I don’t know you, huh?” He pulls out of my arms until he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed. He studies my face. “You are twenty-one years old tops, though you try to act older, and you try to act tough so people won’t see how unsure and easily hurt you are. You’re in college somewhere. Either working your way through school or on scholarship. You’re very intelligent. I’m betting on scholarship. Someone hurt you really badly. You carry that pain. It’s in your eyes. And because of that you let men use you, you give yourself cheaply, when all you really want is to somehow end the pain.”
My entire face is burning by the time he’s done. How the hell can he see that? Nearly perfect in every observation. Inside my head, I see Jeanette nodding in agreement.
He smiles. “I’ve told you. There is one thing I know. Women. But more than that, it’s troubled souls. I read those pretty well too.”
A touch irritated and enormously defensive, I snap, “How boring people must be for you, being able to see everything and never needing to know anyone. You can live the rest of your life completely alone with only random encounters because you read us all so well and we must bore you.”
Oh crap, I just zapped back with a knee-jerk reaction. I can tell by the look in his eyes I definitely hit him with that. Damn. Why did I do that? The last thing I need is to give him a reason to make me go.
There is a heavy silence in the room that’s nearly crushing. Then Jack smiles and reclines on a hip.
“So, where do you go to school?” he asks casually.
My eyes round, as I was not expecting that calm inquiry. “USC. And if we’d bet money, you would have won. Full scholarship.”
“What do you study?”
“Why are you asking? Do you really want to know this?”
“Sure I do. You’re an interesting woman. I can only read you—” Jack holds up his thumb and index finger with just a hair’s space between them. “—this much.”
“I’m an English major. But I don’t know why. I had to pick something because of my scholarship.”
“See, that one surprised me. I would have thought a girl like you would have a carefully thought out plan. Isn’t there something you wanted to study?”
“I used to dance.”
“Exotic?”
I hit him in the bicep, even though I can see he’s teasing. He curls away from me for a second, laughing.
“No. Ballet. But I blew out a tendon.” I point to my ankle. “Pretty much ended my dancing career.” I lift my chin. “I wanted to be a ballet dancer.”
Jack kisses me lightly on the lips. He eases back, smiling. “You certainly have a dancer’s body.”
I crinkle my nose. “Is that a polite way of saying I’m flat chested?”
He gives me a mockingly chastising look and climbs from the bed. “Your body is perfect. What isn’t perfect is how you see yourself.”
I watch him pull on his jeans.
“Where are you going?”
“To make you breakfast.” He checks the clock. “Or maybe I should say lunch. You are hungry, aren’t you? I’m starved.”
I nod. He drops a kiss on my mouth.
“Why don’t you take a bath and clean up while I cook for you?”
He crosses the room and disappears into a closet. He returns carrying some clothes and lays them on the bed.
“These should fit you. Pick what you like. If you’re going to stay here for a while, I’ll need to take you shopping. But we can’t go shopping with you wearing a sheet, not even in Santa Barbara.”
I follow him with my eyes as he moves to the door.
“You’re an interesting man, Jackson Parker. I don’t know what to make of you.”
Those stunning blue eyes lock on me. “Don’t make anyt
hing, Linda. Let’s just have a little fun.”
* * *
Bathed and dressed, I make my way down the long hallway, finally finding the kitchen. The house is confusing as hell. Room after room, and none of it laid out logically. A lot of wasted space, in my opinion. Rich people can afford to waste space.
I take in the kitchen with a quick glance since I really didn’t notice much about it last night. Marble counters, custom backsplashes, expensive dark wood cabinets and high-end appliances. Above the sink, another giant wall of glass reveals an ocean view.
Everything perfect, nothing vulgar or ostentatious, just like him. The blood instantly begins to heat in my veins when I spot Jack at the breakfast bar. I watch him carefully butter toast, slice it in two, and set in on the plates.
He really is making me breakfast.
I clear my throat. Nervous, I hold my arms wide. Jack whirls from counter.
“I think I should be making breakfast,” I announce. “I look like June Cleaver in this.”
Laughing, Jack sets down the knife and smiles. “You look lovely, Linda.”
I stare down at the pink flowered, out-of-style, mid-calf dress. “Didn’t your wife own any jeans? I’m assuming that these are her clothes and not some sort of costume for naughty role playing or something.”
He looks amused. “No role playing. My wife’s. And no jeans. Not that I know of. Lena was a very elegant woman. I don’t think I ever saw her in jeans. You’re welcome to look if you’d like.”
I crinkle my noise. “To be honest, I would rather not be wearing this.”
He drops a kiss on my nose. “To be honest, I’d rather you not be wearing it as well.” The roguish glint in his eyes makes it perfectly clear how I should take that one.
A smile forces its way through my indignant composure. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. But I can’t take you out shopping in a sheet. You have to wear something.”
He studies my outfit and something flitters across his face—is that pain? What man keeps his dead wife’s possessions for nearly four years? What kind of man is Jackson Parker?
I touch his cheek. “I’m sorry. This must be as strange for you as it is for me.”
