Love's Inconvenient Truth

by Love Belvin

  “What in Christ’s name happened?” My stepfather cried as he threw himself down on his bad knees to assess his son.

  “Ellen, honey,” my mother gasped. “What’s going on here?”

  Utterly stunned, I didn’t know what to say. I stood frozen watching it all go down. So long as no one touched Jackson, I could hide in my shell of fear. My stepfather would not lay a hand on him. And I wish Craig’s soft ass would.

  “You speak now!” My stepfather demanded.

  Eugene’s head lolled left and right as he groaned in pain.

  “Ellen,” my mother’s tears began. “Honey!”

  “We’re leaving,” Jackson announced through gritted teeth and right away I understood his edict. I would not be staying the night at my parents’ even if I insisted after Eugene’s attack.

  “But wait!” my mother yelped. “Ellen’s staying over tonight. I have her room ready.”

  Jackson maintained his grip on my hands as he pushed me behind him and approached my mother somewhat abrasively. “She’s not staying in this place with his perverted ass! She can return once he’s gone.” Then he stormed off, tugging my shocked frame behind him.

  “Hey, young man! That’s my daughter! What authority do you have to come in here and attack my son and extract my daughter?” my stepfather screamed.

  “Don’t you have any respect for the Bishop?” Elyssa hissed.

  Jackson halted at the doorway of the room. “The only reason there’s no blood is because of my respect for her parents. The only reason he’s breathing right now is because I interrupted him from groping her crotch.” He then looked at me. “Get our coats.” I hopped into step, rounding the corner for the coat closet, grabbed our things in quick time and was back by his side, being led to the front door.

  “And you believe her?” Elyssa yelled. “You have no idea the very woman you’re protecting thrives off the attention she’s causing herself right now. “

  “Elyssa, ask Craig how much attention I require before you start talking shit you have no idea of.”

  She gasped. “Wha—”

  “Hang on there! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I ain’t never touched you, woman!” Craig defended.

  “Yeah, because I never gave you the opportunity you asked for.” I glanced around the room at the remnants of my nightmares. “And that’s because I’m not the slut you think I am. I’m not the reckless Jezebel I once was!”

  Jackson pulled at my arm, dragging me out the door.

  We entered the lobby of the opulent hotel and instead of heading to the elevator, Jackson slowed and released my hand.

  “Hang on,” he murmured with less bite in his tone than at my parents’.

  Jackson sauntered over to the front desk and without a doubt, I knew why. He’d been silent the entire way to Charleston, anger emanating from him in a fog. I was too afraid and embarrassed to begin my needed explanation. Bringing Jackson home was a horrible idea. Yeah, I’d always been transparent with him about my past, oddly so, but it was different having my community of naysayers shout it to him the way they did. And for some bizarre reason, I didn’t want that to shape Jackson’s opinion of me. Strangely, and not for fear of losing my job, I didn’t want his image of me marred by who I used to be.

  “Jackson…” I called out from a few feet away just as the receptionist passed off something to him, presumably his key, seeing that we headed straight for my parents’ when we landed.

  Jackson turned to me.

  I found my head shaking profusely. My heart trembled violently in my chest at my ultimate request.

  His face wrinkled in confusion; confusion I’d caused by my hot and cold signals to him since meeting him.

  My dry tongue darted to swipe my bottom lip. “I don’t need my own room,” I quickly asserted, scanning the room for what, I didn’t exactly know.

  Maybe because I was announcing in the middle of a luxury hotel that I wanted to spend the night with a man after leaving a family who dredged up my historical promiscuous conduct. In any event, Jackson raised his hand in the air, dismissing the clerk and slowly pushed away from the counter, beginning his gait toward me. Just when I thought he was about to torture me by asking me to clarify, he took me at the hand, lacing them and directed me to the elevators. We quietly ascended and he led me off.

  When we stepped into the suite, Jackson dropped our bags as the door closed behind him. I stood, facing the living room, heart still pounding fitfully as I fought back the tears. I felt safe, captured from my hell. I held myself tightly, pinching my arms while I struggled to keep it together. I hadn’t faced those fears or humiliation in years. And I finally did tonight in front of a man who I’d suddenly perceived as an angel? This couldn’t be my life. I’d tactically set up my new world to include an improved being.

  Now, I couldn’t even face Jackson. My back to him, hiding the other me: Ellen Ann Wilson the widowed, PK, whore with heavy baggage from a small town in West Virginia. The veil had been lifted, the mask removed.

  He cleared his throat. “Wh-what can I do?” his chords poured. I could hear the concern in them over my racing pulse.

  My body jolted violently, suppressing the cry. I could not. I would never cry in front of Jackson. I refused to let Eugene and Elyssa and the Bishop win. They had too many times. I was now Elle A. Jarreau. No more tears. No more dejectedness.

  “Elle—”

  I flew around to face him, muscles straining, limbs shaking and eyes bulging. “Kiss me! I know you don’t do it to build a barrier, but damn it, I can’t take another barrier tonight! I need acceptance! I need someone to believe in me!” I lost control of my breathing. “I need…you,” I could barely hear myself.

  And before I could determine if he could, Jackson was all over me. His hard arms, bubbled chest and scorching passion crowding me. His lips covering mine. His tongue sweetly invading my mouth with force, lashing through my cries. His hands and cheeks smearing the tears I could no longer conquer within. Jackson’s tongue dazed me, momentarily sedated me. I forgot to breathe, couldn’t recall what led us here and just relished in my oblivion…and his intimacy.

  Jackson crushed my frame into his, but this intense embrace was not sexual, it was protective. It was cleansing. Purging. He was accepting my tainted body and injecting life into it, something new. I felt him squat just slightly, switching his angle, pouring into me. I couldn’t say how long this went on. Perhaps for hours, though cognitively I knew it was likely for minutes.

  When we broke away, Jackson and I were heaving uncontrollably. My tears now damp stains on my throbbing face. Jackson’s glower was locked into place. I grabbed my pulsing lips that were grieving his mouth. What was he thinking? Was my breaking down a mistake?

  “Go shower and get in the bed, Elle. I’m a patient and perceptive man, but I have my limits.” My eyes, of their own accord, immediately landed on his flagrant erection lying against his thigh. I’d give him any relief he needed in exchange for his care for me. All Jackson had to do was say the wo— “The last thing you need tonight is sex.” Still panting, he shook his head. “Go shower. I’ll sleep out here tonight.” He swung his head, urging me to leave.

  I sucked in my bottom lip, trying to steady my breathing and grabbed my bag before heading to the back of the suite.

  When I padded into the bedroom after showering, I found a glass of red wine on the nightstand. I grabbed it, gulping down the red spirit with desperate thirst and sighed as the acidic liquid descended into my belly. My heart raced as I took another nip. I felt toiling in my stomach. Something felt incomplete. It was late; after midnight. The suite completely quiet. Struck with a thought, I quickly lotioned and slipped on a bra and panties. I then tossed on the hotel’s robe and went in search of Jackson. He was splayed on the sofa, one leg stretched out and the other on the floor as he regarded the night sky from the window. My heart jolted.

  I went for his hand, and he peered up to me. I couldn’t ask so instead I jerked his han
d in my direction, inviting him to the bedroom.

  “I’m cool, Elle. I know how you are about sleeping alone,” his chords droned, reminding me of the late hour.

  “It’s your bed.” I whispered without confidence. “I won’t touch you. Just sleep.”

  Jackson snorted and after a few seconds he stood and followed me back to the bedroom where he stripped down to his boxers. I removed the plush robe and tossed it onto a chair.

  “Whoa,” he hummed.

  Panicking, I browsed the room. “What?”

  “Aren’t you going to wear pajamas?” His brows were knitted.

  My eyes scanned my black lace revealing my ugly secrets. When they shot up to his face, I noticed the heaviness in his, the darkening of his orbs. He was aroused. I refused to venture down past his waist to confirm it.

  Aroused?

  A sharp nervous giggle escaped my lips. “Jackson, you better be lucky I’m wearing anything at all. I sleep mostly in the nude at home.”

  Jackson stared at me dubiously. If I knew him less, I’d stew in my shaken confidence from the day’s events and my exposed scars. However, I knew he had doubts about sleeping in the same bed as me half naked.

  He pulled the covers back without removing his gaze. “You just stay on your side of the bed and everything will remain copacetic.”

  Jackson got into bed and I followed suit like a lost child. We took our time finding comfort with our backs to one another. The bedding, though soft and plush, were cold and aesthetic. I felt like a damn needy teen, a wounded pet. I wasn’t accustomed to asking for comfort or feeling deserving of it considering my selfish ways. But suddenly I didn’t care.

  “Jackson…”

  In seconds, he shifted, scooted over and gathered me into his warm, hard and comforting frame. Next his magical fingers were in my curls, kneading my tight scalp. I may not have been able to articulate it, but he understood the need.

  I slept hard that night, don’t even recall dreaming. In fact, I didn’t rouse until eleven the next morning when I smelled coffee and bacon.

  The music flowed powerfully through various commercial speakers. The lights were low with infinitesimal ones in the air appearing as stars while Dale belted his most popular track since his career’s slow decline, “My Love’s Higher than a Mountain.” This single only achieved half the numbers as those on his “Revelations” album, but it got a little buzz. The crowd was calm and enraptured and I could see why: between the melodious harmony of several instruments, the volume of it, magical and mood setting illumination, and Dale’s perfect falsetto on this track, you couldn’t help but be hypnotized by the romantic serenade.

  This was the last song of the night for the concert. It was by far, hugely successful. The audience’s high and eager energy absorbed every strenuous, sweat-producing effort each performer exerted. It was crazy to believe I had a part in putting this together. Jackson and I had arrived to the arena around seven and watched it until the end.

  “This was a huge success.” I fought a haughty grin as I smiled over to Patience. People were passing all around us and in between, bustling with duties related to preparing to take down the stage once Dale was done. “I hope we’ve earned your trust.”

  Engaging a knowing smile of her own, Patience threaded through bodies, closing the gap between us. While she did, my eyes landed on Jackson and noticed he was in his phone, preoccupied.

  “Ours is a relationship that doesn’t require trust, Elle. It requires expectations; anticipating and meeting them.”

  “Touché.” I nodded. “But no matter the semantics, I hope something was achieved here tonight. We do have a solid investment in Dale’s comeback. If he loses at this point, so do we.”

  “You continue to refer to it as a comeback as if he descended into the pits of irrelevance,” Patience noted sharply.

  I fought not to roll my eyes. “Patience, I’ve been tracking sales. Dale’s two previous albums that have lacked luster have gained lead on the charts, experiencing an increase of minimally forty percent. Again, semantics.” I offered a humble bowing of my head as I hiked my brows. “But either way, we’re not done with him yet. Dale will get the recognition his dedication to his craft deserves.”

  Patience shifted in stance while fighting to hide a growing and obvious sneer. “Well, let’s hope you fight just as hard for Dale as you do in denying you have feelings for Jackson over there.”

  That landed like a gut blow. But before I could reply, someone joined us.

  “Elle, I can’t believe I’m finally putting a face to an energy.”

  It was Stacy Harris, the tour manager. We’d conferenced several times over the phone and even emailed, but had never met until Jackson and I arrived and I couldn’t ignore his ogling of me. I don’t think he exactly wanted me to either. Stacy was of solid build, a mature man; had to be in his forties. Clean cut and well spoken. He was good at his craft, having a solid reputation in the business for over twenty years, arranging tours for Janet Jackson, En Vogue, Brandy, Mariah Carey, New Edition, Missy Elliot and countless others. Suddenly, I felt uneasy. I knew what was coming, and in front of everyone.

  “Same here, Stacy.” I fortified a smile, not too big or too tight, just enough to exude professionalism. “It’s a pleasure to have worked, to some degree, with a man of your talents. Your team is extremely efficient.” I quickly shook his hand withdrew.

  I’d hoped that was enough.

  Once done, Dale thanked his fans and tour mates before exiting the stage. He was greeted by his team and inner circle the moment he landed in the wings. Patience paid a few moments of grace to give others a chance to acknowledge him. But Dale didn’t spend too much time basking in their praises. His eyes roamed until they landed on his lover and partner. A hint of a smile teased his lips, but quickly receded. Yet it was all in his eyes. The overwhelming sense of pride and accomplishment poured from him. And Patience absorbed it all as she strutted over to him, wrapping herself in his arms, participating in their private communication exchange. It was…intimate.

  “I think we’ve lived to fight another day,” I heard over my shoulder, low in my ear and I immediately knew the author of those words.

  It was because I‘d, in fact, been cultivating intimacy with him. Each time I eagerly gave my body to Jackson, I’d fallen deeper and deeper into an assembly far more than I bargained for. Even now my body responded to his simple murmur. My pulse raced, goose bumps lifted on my skin, and sex swelled. My body burned for him. My lips parted as I struggled for placidity.

  “I’m going to say my goodbyes,” Jackson informed. “We have to make this flight.”

  I nodded, understanding he was under time constraints. Tomorrow was Sunday, when Jackson disappeared for half the day. As I turned this over in my curious mind, I didn’t realize Stacy was in front of me until he spoke.

  “So, now that the tour has begun, I guess I won’t be hearing much from you,” he noted with soft eyes.

  “Don’t sound so sad. Not hearing from me at this point is a good sign. I’m crossing my fingers.” I managed, though I wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries, which is why I opted to not follow Jackson in saying goodbye to Dale and Patience.

  As I spied Jackson giving Patience an innocuous hug, I was drained beyond belief, the emotional lashings of the short weekend catching up to me.

  “Can I call for…let’s say more personal reasons?”

  My head shot up to Stacy and immediately caught the salacious curve of his lips. He was taking it there. And while he was fairly handsome and a man more appropriate for my age, tonight my wrestled mind served as a repellent to his agenda. I had no desire to play this cat and mouse game, neither was I of the mind to be a bitch.

  I found myself exhaling. And just when I was about to execute a diplomatic no, Jackson was on my back.

  “Harris, I guess the stress of this tour has you so jaded that you can smell the soil on this one,” Jackson informed with a predatory tone I’d never experienced.


  Did he…? Was he?

  Stacy took a few moments to process the warning just issued, and I stood there shocked, frozen in place.

  Stacy snorted. “Barking up the wrong tree, I see. My apologies, Hunt. I didn’t know.”

  Jackson didn’t acknowledge his regrets. He maintained an impassive expression until Stacy backed up and sauntered off into the busy crowd.

  Back on the plane, Jackson was quiet. I didn’t need this shit. What he did by interfering was wrong. Stacy could share that incident with any number of associates and have our cover blown. I’d wondered if Jackson was over in his seat brewing on that. He referred to me as a damn tree! A soiled one! He was totally out of line and it did nothing to ease my already troubled mind.

  Just when I’d decided to try for sleep on our redeye, he spoke.

  “I apologize.”

  My neck snapped into his direction. “For what?”

  “For putting your business out there like I did,” he uttered stubbornly, not giving me the benefit of his eyes. “It was not my decision to make. You don’t belong to me.”

  You’re damn right, I don’t.

  “Jackson—”

  “Don’t worry about it happening again.”

  “Jackson!” I bit out with urgency.

  Then I was rewarded with his eyes. They told more than his vague tenor did. Jackson was jealous.

  “We agreed to keep this thing exclusive, right?”

  He gave a nod, successfully appearing detached, but I saw past the lies of his bravado.

  “Then there’s no need for concern or conversation,” I issued firmly, not wanting to go any further because I was not his to have to plead my case to.

  Then why do you feel the need to assuage his blatant insecurities about your exclusivity to him, Elle?

  “I think we should keep it simple. Nothing wrong with hiring someone to deck the place out in Christmas garb and have a traditional dinner.”