by J. D. Mason
She had managed to save some money. Not as much as she’d wanted, but enough to leave Blink. Farrah was more determined than ever now to leave this place, and to get as far away from him as possible. She’d settled on Canada a long time ago, and Farrah hadn’t changed her mind. Canada was big and vast and far away from him. She could get lost in a place like that, so lost that he couldn’t find her, and so lost that maybe she could finally lose herself and everything she’d ever been.
* * *
After getting off work, Farrah went to the football field where she knew Jackson would be coaching. She watched him more than he knew. Looking at him now, she could kick herself for not taking advantage of him when she’d had the chance. He hadn’t played football in years, but you couldn’t tell from looking at him. Jackson had a physique as good as any man on that field more than a decade younger than him, only he was stronger, fluid, and more confident in his own skin. The boys around him were awkward and clumsy.
Jackson was timing the players running sprints. “Four point eight, Lewis. You got to pick it up, man. Too slow.”
Lewis came over to him, breathless. “Too slow? I’ll bet you can’t beat it,” Lewis challenged.
Jackson squared his shoulders. “I don’t have to run forties no more. I’m grown.”
The younger man laughed. “Is that another way of saying you’re old?”
Jackson glared at the kid, then motioned for him to follow him out onto the field. “C’mon.”
Farrah watched fascinated as Jackson took off his sweatshirt, then knelt down in a sprinter’s stance next to the kid challenging him. Someone yelled “go.”
The power of his body as it flexed and moved so quickly was mesmerizing to Farrah. The kid next to him wasn’t as heavy, but his muscles weren’t as defined, his movements not as smooth. Surprising to everyone on that field, Jackson won, barely, and then he doubled over at the end of the race, and fell flat on his stomach.
He tried to raise his fist in victory but could barely lift it up. Finally, some of the players came over to help him up off the ground. Jackson bent over and rested his palms on his knees until he finally caught his breath, looked up at the kid he’d just raced against, and warned him.
“Don’t you ever call me out like that again, son. I’m too damn old for this shit.”
Unexpected tears filled her eyes. Farrah was going to miss him. Like so many times before, Farrah left the stadium before he noticed that she was even there.
Farrah drove around the house several times, before finally pulling into the driveway. She hated this car. Mateo would recognize it. Farrah had tried to sell it when she first arrived in town, but none of the dealerships would take it because they didn’t think they’d be able to sell it. He knew where she worked, so it wouldn’t surprise her if he knew where she lived. The carriage house didn’t have its own address, though. She knew that Mateo would have to have Jackson’s home address, which meant that Jackson wasn’t safe.
This was what she’d wanted to avoid. Mateo coming after her was one thing, but knowing that he’d have to get past Jackson in order to get to her was a problem. She’d hoped to be gone before he ever tracked her back to Blink. But Farrah had been selfish. She’d been stupid not to realize that Jackson would be caught in the line of fire as long as she had anything to do with him. Farrah had messed up. She hurried to the carriage house and quickly packed all of her things, stuffing everything into an oversized duffle bag she’d bought.
After she packed up the car, she went back to her place and started writing Jackson a note.
Mateo found me. He’s coming. You have to be ready. He’ll probably come here. Call the police and let them know that he’s dangerous. I’m so sorry, Jackson. Sorry that I dragged you into all of this. I’ll never be able to repay you for everything you’ve done for me, but know that you saved me. And for that, I’ll always be grateful. I love you. You need to know that.
—Farrah.
If she could turn back time, she’d have never left home at eighteen. She’d have kept her distance from that little, big-headed, big-grin boy, waited for him to grow up, and …
“That’s just sick, Farrah,” she muttered, shaking her head.
He was Jackson. The kid she’d gotten paid to babysit. And yes, he’d grown into a beautiful man, inside and out, but the two of them had no business together.
Farrah pulled out another sheet of paper, and rewrote her note:
Mateo found me. He’s coming. You have to be ready. He’ll probably come here. Call the police and let them know that he’s dangerous. I’m so sorry, Jackson. Sorry that I dragged you into all of this. I’ll never be able to repay you for everything you’ve done for me, but know that you saved me. And for that, I’ll always be grateful. Take care. Be happy. And be safe.
—Farrah.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jackson had beaten that kid, but it’d cost him a whole lung to do it. Practice ended right after his head stopped spinning and he could catch his breath long enough to get his ass home. He went to the kitchen for some water and noticed an envelope on the floor at the kitchen door. It was from Farrah. He finished reading it just in time to hear her car starting up. Jackson bolted through the house and back outside in time to see her starting to pull out of the driveway.
“Hold up! Hold up!” he yelled, taking a dangerous risk standing behind her.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Farrah cried.
“Farrah!” He raced to her side. “Stop the car!”
“I was supposed to be gone before you got home!”
“Well, I’m home, baby!” he said, walking alongside of the vehicle as she backed up. “Stop, please!”
Farrah abruptly hit the brakes. “I’m sorry, Jackson. I didn’t want this to happen.”
“Can you just … Turn off the car, Farrah. Let’s go inside and figure something out.”
She wanted to leave. He knew how badly she wanted to leave, but for some reason, Jackson was more determined now than ever, not to let that happen.
“It’s too late.”
“No, it’s not, baby. It’s not too late,” he said, desperately. Jackson reached into the car, shifted it into park, and pressed that fancy ignition switch turning off the engine. He stepped back and opened her door. “Come on, Farrah,” he said, holding out his hand to her.
She clutched the steering wheel as if her life depended on it.
“Please?”
Reluctantly, she took hold of his hand and followed him inside. He led her into the kitchen and gave her a glass of water. He’d seen it enough on television. Whenever women were upset, water seemed to help. Farrah just looked at it. He made a mental note to strike the water thing.
“Tell me what happened,” he asked, sitting down next to her.
After she composed herself, she began to explain. “He left me a message at work. Said he was coming.”
Jackson’s thoughts banged into each other as he tried to rationalize in his own head if all of this would’ve somehow been better if he’d told her about the call he’d gotten a week ago. The only thing that would’ve come from that is that she’d have taken off sooner.
“You don’t know when?”
She shook her head. “He’ll just show up. And it’ll be messy,” she said with tears flooding her eyes again. “He’ll come here, Jackson. If he knows where I work, then he knows where I live, and I don’t want him to … I don’t want anything to happen to you,” she cried.
He pulled her into his lap, and held on tight to her. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, Farrah. And I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to you.”
“You don’t know him like I do,” she said, sobbing into his shoulder.
“I don’t need to know him. I know me. Come on.”
He didn’t want to have to go there, but Jackson felt as if he had no choice. He gently coaxed her off his lap, and then went up to the bedroom with Farrah following behind him. Jackson sat on the side of his bed, pulled a pistol from his
nightstand, and checked to make sure that it was loaded.
“I didn’t know you had a gun.” She sniffled.
He went over to the closet, and pulled a box down from the top shelf. “This is Texas, baby.” He looked over at her and smiled. “I’ve got a whole bunch of guns.” He winked.
He pulled another gun from the box and loaded that one. Jackson spent the next ten minutes going through the house, locking windows and doors, and loaded up two more guns that he had downstairs. He hid one under the cushion of the couch, another one he put into a kitchen drawer. The one in his truck was already loaded and hidden underneath the seat. And he kept one on him. Maybe nothing would pop off tonight, but if it did, he was ready.
* * *
Half an hour later, he felt silly, but prepared. And he desperately needed a shower. Farrah sat curled up in the chair in his bedroom across from the bed. If he was going to fuckin’ die tonight for this woman, then this whole “I’m your friend” bullshit had to go.
“I need a shower, Farrah.”
She glanced up at him and nodded. He knew what would happen if he left her in here alone. Farrah would bolt, and he didn’t want that.
“I want you to take one with me.”
Farrah blinked those pretty eyes of hers up at him. “I thought we’d gotten past all that, Jackson.”
He slowly shook his head. “No. We have not.”
After all that crying, Farrah still had some fight left in her, which surprised him. “Yes, we have,” she insisted. “This is not the time.”
“There is no better time,” he said sternly. “I’m not letting you leave. I’m not letting you leave me.”
She frowned. “Jackson, please,” she said, raking her hand over the short curls of her hair. “He’s coming,” she finally said with conviction. “Don’t you get it? Mateo is a killer. And he’s coming here to this house. And you want to fuck?”
Is that how she saw this?
“I don’t want to go back to him. I don’t want you to get hurt in all of this because it’s my fault that you’re involved at all,” she argued.
The more she talked, the angrier Jackson became.
“He could kill you. Don’t you understand? I need to leave so that I can save you now, Jackson. I need to go.” She stood up. “You have to trust me.” Farrah walked over to him, pressed her hand to his cheek and kissed him tenderly on the lips. “My sweet boy.”
Every muscle in his body turned to stone, and Jackson glared at her. “Ain’t no goddamn boys up in this house, Farrah.” He growled low from his chest.
She stepped back, shocked by his tone, but he didn’t care. She needed to be shocked.
Jackson clenched his teeth. “Do I look like a boy to you?”
Farrah wiped tears from her cheeks with her hand. “That’s not what I meant.”
He was livid, but he knew that he had to reel in his rage. He wasn’t angry at her. Yes, he was. But he loved her. And he needed her to know this.
“You need to let it go,” he told her. Jackson’s heart pounded like a fist. Farrah was—she was everything to him. “You need to let it go.”
He held out his hand to her and waited.
Farrah took one hesitant step toward him. And that was all he needed.
Jackson pulled her into his arms, raised her face to his, and kissed her, raking his tongue between her lips until he found hers. Farrah fell limp against him, grabbed hold of the back of his neck, and held on. She was going to need to hold on.
They showered without saying a word to each other. Jackson washed every inch of her, and then stood patiently while she washed him. Every touch from this woman sent shockwaves through him. His dick was so hard it ached, but he wasn’t about to rush through this. Jackson was going to take his time, to savor every single second of this night, and to make her shut the hell up once and for all about that boy shit.
He carried her to the bed. Farrah lay on her back, gazing up at him with those beautiful eyes of hers, pursed her full lips together, and waited patiently while he took in every inch of her with his eyes. Her nipples hardened as he stared at them. Jackson bent over her, and wrapped his lips around one until she moaned. Farrah arched her back, spread her thighs, and fed him the other one. The nipple swelled against his tongue until he thought it might burst, but he didn’t stop.
His cock pulsed hard in anticipation of pushing inside her, but he was determined not to hurry. Jackson pushed her farther onto the bed, then knelt between her legs, and drove a finger inside her. Farrah bit down on her bottom lip, arched her back again, and rolled her hips against his hand. She looked up at him with heavy eyelids, and licked her lips.
“Put it in,” she whispered.
That’s what he wanted. He wanted her to beg for him. He wanted to drive her crazy for him. And damn if he didn’t want to push into her, but Jackson had to hold on. Farrah grabbed him by the wrist, and pumped furiously against his hand as he finger fucked her. Juices flooded his palm, and soaked the bedding under her hips.
“Jackson!” she cried out, on the verge of coming already.
He pulled his hand away, moments before she could. He leaned over her and hovered.
Farrah was speechless. He smiled and placed the head of his dick against the lips of her sweet pussy. Farrah’s hips had a mind of their own. They jerked against him, but Jackson pulled back just in time. He knew that once he was in, she had him.
“C’mon,” she murmured, staring at him like she was pissed.
Jackson lowered his mouth to hers again and swept his tongue against hers. Farrah ate at him like she was starving. She grabbed his ass with both hands, raised her knees to her shoulders, and thrust her hips against the tip of his cock again and again until Jackson ran out of willpower. She pulled him into her, inch by luscious inch until she had almost all of him.
Farrah smiled wickedly back at him, like she knew—she was in control now.
The muscles inside her squeezed and massaged him until he damn near lost his mind. She milked him slowly, putting him in check every time he attempted to lose control and go too fast. And then she rolled over on top of him, straddled him, pressed both hands against his chest, and bucked those gorgeous hips of hers, until he fuckin’ exploded! Farrah pumped and pumped, and just as Jackson was releasing his orgasm, she found one of her own.
He held her by the waist, as she tossed her head back, arched her back, and creamed all over him. This was fuckin’ worth waiting for. She fell weakly into his hands. Jackson pulled her against him, then rolled over on his side, draped one leg over hers, and breathed as best he could with that one good lung of his.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
He was gone when Farrah finally woke up. She came downstairs, wearing one of his T-shirts she’d found in a drawer, and a pair of his socks, which, of course, were too big. Jackson was in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, and frying bacon and eggs. The muscles in that broad back of his flexed every time he took a breath. Nothing could’ve prepared her for how he’d made love to her last night. Jackson was definitely not a boy.
He turned and saw her standing in the doorway. “You hungry?” he asked casually.
Farrah nodded. He wasn’t going to make a big deal of what they’d done. She liked that.
“Do I smell coffee?” she asked, walking over to the cupboard to get a cup.
Jackson finished the bacon, turned off the stove, came over to her, planted both arms on the counter on either side of her, and kissed her neck. His lips felt like heaven.
“How’d you sleep?”
Farrah moaned. “So good.” She leaned back into him, and relaxed.
She had no idea how long they stayed like that. Farrah felt as if she could fall asleep again and he’d support her until she woke up again. Before she could pour her coffee, he took hold of her hand, led her over to the table, sat down, and then pulled her onto his lap. Jackson’s handsome features expressed concern.
“I’m going to give you the code for the alarm on
the house,” he explained. “You already know where the guns are.”
This conversation just brought everything back to her again. That sick feeling in her stomach returned and the panic she’d slept away last night swept over her again.
“But I’m sticking with you today,” he said, staring into her eyes.
“What about practice?”
Jackson thought for a moment. “I can afford to miss a day or two.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” she protested.
“It’s all right.” He pecked her on the lips. “This is important. Keeping you safe is important.”
He shouldn’t have had to keep her safe. The fact remained that if he’d just let her leave, Mateo may very well have shown up here, found out that she was gone, and he’d have left. Jackson would be safe. Farrah would be in the wind. And Mateo could go screw himself. But she could look at Jackson and tell that he wasn’t going to listen to what she thought should happen.
“Let’s try and keep each other safe,” she said.
He smiled. “That’ll work too.”
Farrah didn’t get her coffee. The bacon got cold. And Farrah and Jackson sat on the sofa in the living room, wrapped around each other in another bout of slow and easy lovemaking. She straddled his lap with Jackson buried deep inside her, making love to each other’s mouths while their bodies barely moved at all. This was about being close. It was like dancing the Kizomba, subtle, yet passionate and very, very intimate.
She inhaled him, savored him, gave all of herself to him, and opened herself up to receive him. “I love you,” she whispered, over and over again in his ear and against his lips. Farrah felt like a silly girl, who’d lost herself to a man for the first time, and she didn’t care.
Jackson held her close to him. “I know,” he said. “That’s all I want. That’s all I need. And I love you too, Farrah Hart.”
Farrah came so unexpectedly, and so deeply that all she could do was wrap her arms around him and hold on, as her body quaked in response to his. “Jackson.” She murmured his name, squeezed her eyes shut, and cried out.
