That Guy

by Kim Jones

  I don’t think I’ve ever been closer to Jesus.

  I peel my arms from around his neck and my legs slide down his body until I’m standing on my own two feet. Though I feel like I’m floating from the sight of him studying my face as he sweeps his fingertips across my forehead. Brushes my hair behind my ear. Drags his thumb across my temple.

  The moment shatters when the phone on his desk begins to ring. He doesn’t seem to notice at first. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. But then the phone in his back pocket dings with a notification and his eyes fall shut. He takes a deep breath and I do the same.

  “That’s probably Uber Eats,” I whisper.

  He cracks one eye open and smirks at me. “Again?”

  “Yeah. I’m hungry. I ordered it from your phone. Is that okay?’

  His eyes roll. “Of course.” The phone on his desk rings again. “I have to get that,” he mutters, his tone apologetic.

  “Okay. I’ll go get Uber Eats.”

  “Want me to have Vance bring it up?”

  I shake my head. “No. I’ll go get it. I could use some air.” I grin. “Plus, if it’s that same little shit from earlier, I’m going to let him know my big bad husband is going to leave him a bad review.”

  Jake’s brow furrows. The phone continues to ring, but both of us ignore it. “Husband?”

  “Mmhm. The Uber driver thinks I’m your wife. He even called me Mrs. Swagger.”

  He throws his head back on a laugh. When he meets my eyes, they’re sparkling with humor. “Well, Swaggers are known for their promptness. So you better get down there, wife. We have a reputation to protect.” He winks playfully. Unbeknownst to him, I’m already planning our wedding. Naming our kids. Picturing the two of us chasing them through the park where we can live without fear of them stepping in a pile of dog shit.

  His lips pucker and he leans in to place a wet kiss on my mouth as he buttons his pants. He steps away and grabs the annoying fucking phone on his desk. When he answers, his voice is controlled. Tone cool and business like. It takes me a little longer to get my shit together and find my clothes.

  After I’ve located all of them and am dressed, I step out of the apartment—a dreamy smile playing on my lips that still tingle from his kiss. The elevator finally arrives and I float inside and press my nose to the corner.

  I hum my song and grin. I feel happy. Tingly.

  Who the fuck am I kidding?

  I’m so in love.

  The elevator slows to a stop sooner than expected. I shrug it off, figuring the ride felt quicker than normal because I was distracted. Or perhaps because I’ve gotten used to the travel. But when I open my eyes and step out of the corner, the lighting looks different. It’s a muted yellow instead of a soft white.

  And the doors aren’t opening.

  And I hear the faint sound of a power grid shutting down.

  And the doors aren’t opening.

  And the little digital number box on the panel next to the door doesn’t have any digital numbers showing.

  And the doors aren’t opening.

  And there’s a buzz and a click and a red light flashes in the corner.

  And the doors aren’t opening.

  The room spins. I can feel the walls closing in. I can hear the creaks and groans and the snap of wires. I’m pretty sure I’m falling. But I’m not sure how I’m still standing up if I am falling.

  I think I’m going to vomit.

  I vomit.

  Someone is talking. I can hear voices coming from somewhere. Maybe outside the elevator? Have I stopped on another floor?

  Assaulted with the knowledge that I’m still hovering in the air and will plunge to my death any second, I become seized with panic.

  I scream for the voice to help me. I bang my fists on the doors that aren’t opening. My stomach lurches. My vision clouds. I feel like my throat is closing.

  The voice comes from a speaker inside the elevator. I catch bits and pieces of what it’s saying. Something about staying calm. Electricity went out. Generator problems. I scream at someone—anyone—to get me the hell out of here. Try to pry open the doors. Punch all the buttons. Where is the phone? There should be a phone. I don’t have my phone. I’m going to die.

  I vomit.

  “Da-da-da-da…da-da-da-da…” Someone is singing the hook to my favorite song. I nod my head in tune for a moment while I try to breathe through the dry heaves now that my stomach is empty.

  When I find my voice, I sing along with them. “Da-da-da-da…” On my knees. “Da-da-da-da…” Forehead to the wall. “Da-da-da-da…” I will the room to stop spinning. “Da-da-da-da…” Will my mind to not focus on the falling.

  Falling….

  Falling….

  Falling….

  “Penelope!”

  Jake?

  “Penelope!”

  Not Jake.

  The elevator jolts.

  Fuzzy, black dots cloud my vision.

  I’m vomiting again.

  “Penelope, baby, give me your hand.”

  I’m so scared. But I swear that voice is real.

  “Open your eyes, Penelope.”

  I can’t open my eyes. So I sing.

  “Da-da-da-da….”

  “Penelope!”

  “Da-da-da-da….”

  “Please, sweetheart. Please, listen to me.”

  Jake?

  “For fuck’s sake, Penelope! Look at me!”

  That’s Jake.

  “Jake?”

  “Penelope! Baby, I’m right here!”

  “Jake?” I open my eyes but only the wall stares back at me. “Jake!” I look to my left. My right. “Jake!”

  “Turn around, Penelope.” The calmness in his tone helps to quell my panic.

  “Jake…”

  “I’m here, baby. Just turn around.”

  I look behind me. Then I follow his voice up. And I see him. The first thing I notice is his eyes. They’re soft. Determined. Full of…something.

  “I’m sorry, Jake.”

  “Penelope, take my hand.”

  Fresh tears fill my eyes. “I threw up in your elevator. Don’t be mad at me.”

  “Baby...” he breathes out. The sound is a mixture of relief and pity. “I’m not mad at you. Come here and take my hand.” It’s then I notice his head and shoulders are squeezed between the gap in the doors. His arms stretched out toward me. The elevator must have stopped between floors.

  Stopped….

  Hovering….

  Falling….

  “Penelope.” His voice is firm but not angry. Just enough to keep my attention. “I want you to stand up and—”

  “No. No. No.” I shake my head. “I can’t. I can’t. It’ll fall.”

  “It won’t fall. I’m not going to let you fall. But I need you to stand up. Come on, baby…There you go…Good girl…Now, one step—”

  “Jake—“ my voice cracks on a sob. My vision fogs with more tears. “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. One step…That’s it…One more…Almost here…Just take my hand…”

  I stretch up on my toes to reach for his hand. I’m afraid I’m too short. He’s too far away. I’m going to fall.

  Crash.

  Die.

  A hand circles my wrist. Then my other wrist. My feet leave the floor. The top part of my body is dragged through the opening. I’m lifted under my arms. Folded into Jake’s arms. He sits on the floor in the hallway and leans against the wall next to the elevator.

  “Good girl. Good girl. Good girl,” he chants, over and over as he holds me to him and pets my hair. Peppers my head with kisses. He’s controlled, but I can hear the relief in his voice. I remember the panic that tinged it only moments ago. Remember the panic I felt when I thought I would die. When I thought his voice wasn’t real.

  But it was real.

  He’s here.

  I’m here.

  I’m alive.

  I’m alive.

  Chapter Twenty-Oner />
  The elevator had stopped somewhere between the seventeenth and eighteenth floors. After the understanding that I was safe and alive began to sink in, I started to process another truth. I’d panicked in front of Jake. He’d seen me at my most vulnerable. And that made me feel…weak.

  Still, I allowed him to carry me up fourteen flights of stairs, as if it was his duty. I’d protested, but he’d ignored me.

  When I told him I was fine, that I could walk, he would simply respond with, “Hush.”

  When I couldn’t stop my body from trembling, he would hold me tighter, kiss my hair and say, “I’ve got you, baby. You’re safe.”

  When my tears leaked from my eyes and wet his neck, he would beg me, “Please don’t cry, sweetheart.”

  And with every step. Every word. Every temple kiss, backrub, soothing sound and squeeze, I found that my weakness had its perks. But the downside was greater. My embarrassment. The shame…. How could I ever face him? He’d called me perfect only moments before I stepped on that elevator.

  What would he think of me now?

  He sets me on the couch and kneels in front of me. My chin in his fingers, he tilts my head so he can look at me. Before he can ask, I answer the question written all over his face and in his eyes.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Penelope.”

  “I’m not. I’m okay, Jake. Really. I’m just tired. And sore. And my throat hurts.”

  He pushes my hair out of my face. “Your screams….”

  “Yeah. I know. Sorry about that. I panicked.”

  “Don’t apologize. I just figured that’s why your throat is sore.”

  I shake my head and look away from him. “My throat hurts from throwing up.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed by that, baby. It doesn’t matter.”

  “I can smell it on me, Jake,” I snap, swiping the tears from my cheeks. I’m not angry at him. I’m just…well I’m fucking embarrassed. “I’m pretty sure it’s in my hair.” My eyes widen as I scan his T-shirt. His neck. “God, I hope I didn’t get it on you.”

  “You worry about all the wrong things,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. “Tell me what hurts so I can fix it. What else besides your throat?”

  His eyes travel over me. Looking for physical signs of injury. I close my eyes and try to keep the blood from rushing to my cheeks. I’ve humiliated myself enough for one day. Or one lifetime. As exhausted as I feel, I shouldn’t care. But I do.

  “Hey. Look at me.”

  I open my eyes and he’s nothing but a blur. I’m an ugly crier. That’s usually enough to keep my emotions in check. But my emotions are in turmoil right now. And I can’t fight them no matter how hard I try.

  I move to stand and he backs out of my way. I want a shower. A bed. A redo of today. I walk away from him but only make it a few steps when I feel his hand on my elbow. I stop, but don’t turn to face him.

  “You’re tired because you’ve had hardly any sleep since you’ve been in Chicago. Your throat hurts because you were sick. You’re sore because of me.”

  Humor. Where the fuck are you? Please come back to me. You’re around for Cocky That Guy. Jerk That Guy. Sexy That Guy. Why abandon me with Nice That Guy? He’s the only one I can’t handle without you.

  For fuck’s sake. I’m having a conversation with my sense of humor.

  “I just want to take a shower.” I pull away and he releases me. I’m relieved. Yet I feel cold without his touch. I don’t want to be away from him. But I can’t look at him right now, either. Not like this. Not when I feel like this.

  I walk to the guest bathroom in a zombie-like trance. Inside the shower, I plant my hands on the wall and stand under the hot spray—willing it release all the tension in my body. Wash away the morning. The panic that still simmers beneath the surface.

  Sometime later, I’m still just standing there when a cool blast of wind hits my naked, wet skin seconds before large hands flatten against my back. I jump beneath the touch.

  “You’re okay. It’s just me.” Jake’s thick tone instantly relieves some of the tension. Perhaps because I’m not facing him. I don’t have to look him in the eye—see the pity there. The remorse. Or—God forbid—the disgust.

  His thumbs knead the flesh on either side of my spine in a firm, circular motion. The result makes my knees wobble. “Feel good?”

  Shivers ripple through me and I nod, unable to find my voice. His thumbs work their way up my back to my shoulders to focus on my neck at the base of my skull. After several minutes of his caresses, it’s a struggle just to hold myself up. “Lean back against me, baby.”

  I stagger back until my head is on his shoulder. My back against his chest. His thick cock nestled between the cheeks of my ass. The water sluices over my breasts and causes an erotic sting in my nipples that shoots straight to my core.

  His mouth finds the curve of my neck and he places soft, lingering, wet kisses there. I release a long, low sigh and his cock hardens against me. I wait for him to slide his hands to my breasts. Or down my stomach to my swollen clit. Or reach between us and stroke himself. Doing what he does best, which will help me forget everything. But he just continues to massage my neck and shoulders—his touch highly intimate and erotic in its own way, but not sexual or demanding.

  He washes my hair. Massages my scalp. Spins me to face him. I keep my eyes closed as he soaps my body and cleans me from my head to my navel with his bare hands. I stand still and silent. Eventually, I lift my lashes just a fraction to peek at him. And I’m more than a little awestruck by the magnificence of Jake Swagger. Of his body that’s chiseled perfection. His masculine facial features that are devilishly handsome.

  That feeling that is becoming too familiar rocks through me when his eyes meet mine. They are as soft with kindness as they are fiery with lust.

  I need to fill the silence with something. But all I can manage is his name. “Jake…”

  “Shhh.” He straightens and cups my face with his hands. “Let me do this. Let me take care of you.”

  I swallow hard. Blink away tears. Nod. Let him kiss my head. My eyes. Cheeks. Nose. Chin.

  Son of a bitch why does that make me want to cry harder?

  He kneels in front of me to wash my legs. Soaping his hands and rubbing the lather into my hips before making his way all the way down my legs in firm, circular strokes. When he makes his way back up my legs, his touch is more sensual. I never knew the spot behind my knee was such an erogenous place until the slow drag of his fingers there leave me trembling.

  “Turn around, Penelope.” His dark voice and even darker stare has me forgetting about everything but doing as I’m told.

  This.

  This is what he and I know.

  It’s safe.

  It’s distracting.

  It’s…normal for us.

  “Bend over. Hands on either side of the bathtub.”

  My eyes fall closed and a noise I’ve never heard myself make escapes me. I try my best to forget that he’s kneeling behind me. But it’s impossible to do when I feel his lips skim my hip in feathery kisses moments before he breathes across my skin, “Spread your legs. I want to see your pussy.”

  “…Jake…” The cry is guttural. And I don’t know if I’m trying to tell him I’m embarrassed by his words, or if I’m simply calling out to him because he’s all-consuming.

  I have that feeling.

  The warm one.

  The Pop Rocks are in my veins.

  There’s a flutter in my belly.

  A heaviness in my chest.

  And these things don’t stem from a throbbing, sexual need for him to be inside me. These feelings come from somewhere even deeper. There’s something about this humiliating, titillating, provocative moment that makes my body, mind and voice sing his name over and over.

  “Hush, baby. Trust me. I got you.”

  There are those words again. The ones from the elevator. The ones he whispered when he saved me. The ones from last
night. The ones that made me fall asleep with the realization that what’s happening between us isn’t just some fictional story I’m writing. This is real. What I feel is real. I do trust him. And with trust comes love. With love comes pain. And I know it’s love because despite the fear of risking it all, I want to give myself over to him.

  I cannot believe I’m having an epiphany while I’m bent over in the shower, my ass in Jake’s face, legs spread so he can see all of me.

  I guess that’s what it takes for a girl like me who hides behind her humor and lives in an imaginary world to escape reality and all the heartache that comes with it. Because humiliation, uncertainty and vulnerability are feelings that can’t be ignored. And those are the feelings I feel in this moment.

  Jake’s hands slide up the back of my thighs and cups my ass. “I should’ve done this last night.” He spreads me open and his breath fans over me. “This morning. Every time you gave yourself to me, I should’ve been right here. On my knees. Worshiping what brings me the best goddamn pleasure I’ve ever felt.”

  Then his mouth is on me. Kissing my pussy. His tongue and lips like velvet on the sensitive, swollen flesh. It feels exquisite. Just like the massage. More cherishing than carnal despite where his mouth is.

  This is nothing like last time. This isn’t foreplay. This isn’t him trying to make me come hard by sucking on my clit or fucking me with his tongue. This is him doing as he said—worshiping what he ravaged. Soothing what he hurt. Doing what he can to put back together the pieces of me that shattered in that elevator.

  Everything inside me unravels. A sob escapes from deep in my chest. I don’t know what’s water and what’s tears. I’m a boneless, exhausted mess. Completely numb aside from the low, steady hum that swims through my veins and sounds in my ears.

  He shuts off the water and helps me straighten before turning me to face him. I want to look at him. To see if his eyes reflect a hint of what I’m feeling. But I can’t lift my lids. “Wrap your arms around my neck, sweetheart.”

  By the time his demand breaks through the fog and registers with my mind, he’s already placed my arms around his neck and effortlessly lifted me so my legs are around his waist and my head is on his shoulder.