"That's all you're going to eat?" Jack indicated the two small chicken wings and single baked potato skin on her plate.
"I'm not very hungry."
Neither was he, but he picked up a potato skin and bit off the end. It tasted like sawdust. Jack chewed and swallowed, reaching for the beer he'd set down on the counter. He tipped it to his mouth, watching Faith as she pretended to nibble on a spicy chicken wing. Her fingers were slender and white against the fried poultry. Her lips were soft and red, bee-stung from his rough kiss of a moment before. Her tongue, darting out to catch an errant shred of meat, was small and pink and driving him crazy.
Jack slammed his beer down on the counter, making her jump. "The hell with this," he growled, and reached for her again.
Faith dropped her chicken on the floor as he grabbed her, but she didn't care. He was kissing her again, holding her as if he never wanted to let her go. She wrapped her arms around him and held on just as tightly.
"I want you." His voice was guttural with need. "Right here. Right now."
And this time, it seemed, he meant it literally.
Faith felt him lift her onto the kitchen counter, felt his hands slide up under her dress, skimming along her thighs to grasp her panties. He pulled them off in one continuous motion, dragging them down her legs, taking one of her leather thong sandals with them as he yanked them off over her feet. And then he was between her legs, spreading her thighs with his narrow hips, working frantically to free himself from his jeans. Faith held on to his bare shoulders and tried not to lose her balance.
"I want to be inside you," he whispered raggedly, his hands trembling as he unrolled a condom onto his turgid length. "I need to be inside you. I can't wait," he apologized as he took her hips between his hands. "I just can't wait a second longer."
She felt his penis between her legs, probing, and her own body became instantly moist in response. He slid his hands under her bare buttocks, positioning her for his entry. It was swift and hard. And, oh, so satisfying.
Faith arched like a tautly strung bow and let her hands slide off of his shoulders, reaching behind her to brace them on the counter. His thrusts were heavy, deep and grinding, and she met them, motion for motion, thrust for thrust. She'd never imagined making love could be like this. So basic. So primal. So glorious. She began to whimper softly, completely natural and un-selfconscious in her need. Jack answered that need, using his hands to lift her hips into each slow thrust, rubbing the swollen, sensitive flesh of her vulva against his pubic bone. Faith's whimpers grew louder and quicker, until she was panting, her breath pumping in and out of her lungs like a bellows, her body lifting to meet his, silently begging for release.
"Oh, please. Jack. Please. I can't—I want—"
"What do you want?" he growled, watching her through slitted eyes, glazed and heavy with passion. "Tell me. Come on, Angel," he urged, needing to hear it. "Tell me what you want."
"I want—" She moaned as he thrust particularly deep. "Oh, Jack."
"Tell me."
"Faster. Harder. Please, I need..." She moaned again, arching back until her head nearly touched the counter top. "I need."
Jack groaned, deep in his throat, and gave her what she needed. It was what he needed, too. Fast. Furious. Frantic. Fulfilling beyond their wildest dreams.
Faith stiffened as her climax reached the point of no return, her slender body arching so high and so hard that Jack feared her spine would snap. He slid one hand up her back, spreading it between her shoulder blades for support, and lifted her to his chest. Her arms came up and around his neck, clinging. Her mouth sought his, blindly. He took it as eagerly, as mindlessly, as desperately as she offered it, thrusting his tongue deep, mimicking the frenzied motion of his body in hers as they raced toward the pinnacle. Completion took them simultaneously. He exploded into orgasm, his arms tightening around her convulsively, clutching her to him as if she were the only solid thing in a world rapidly spinning out of control. She bit his lower lip, a feral female animal, shamelessly claiming her mate.
Chapter 9
"Faith?" Jack murmured groggily, awakened by a half-perceived movement beside him. Eyes closed, he reached out to pull her soft, warm body back into the curve of his. His fingers skimmed over the smooth percale sheets, finding nothing. He opened his eyes.
The room was dark and shadowed, the only available light shining in through the half-open bedroom door. It fell across the hardwood floor, a narrow lozenge of light that barely penetrated into the room. Faith was sitting on the edge of the bed, her body a dark shadow as she bent over, feeling around on the floor. "What are you doing?"
"Looking for my dress. Ah—Here it is." She stood up to put it on, turning it this way and that as she tried to figure out the front from the back by feel. Jack could make out the gleam of a bare breast, a shoulder, the curve of a hip, and then she slipped the dress on and pulled it together in front of her body, covering her bareness.
Jack felt a vague sense of panic stir. "Where are you going?"
"To the kitchen," she said, her hands moving down the front of her body as she buttoned the dress. "I'm starving."
He could hear the smile in her voice, see it in his mind. The panic receded.
"Do you think I'd be risking ptomaine if I reheated those chicken wings one more time?"
"Indigestion, at the very least," he suggested drily.
"Shall I bring you some?"
"No, I'll get up." He yawned and scratched at the hair on his chest, utterly content. "In a minute."
"Okay, I'll go see what's in the fridge. Maybe there're enough eggs for scrambled eggs and toast, instead. How does that sound?"
"Like manna from heaven."
Faith laughed softly, the sound drifting over her shoulder as she moved toward the door. The light slanted across her body as she approached it, illuminating her bare feet and ankles, then the pretty flowered material flowing over her calves and thighs and on up her body until she was silhouetted in the open doorway with the light streaming in around her. She turned to look back at him, the soft, delicate lines of her body visible through the thin material of her dress. "Don't take too long," she advised, a teasing inflection in her voice. "Or there might not be anything left when you get there."
Jack lay where he was for a moment, listening to the unfamiliar, strangely comforting sounds of a woman moving around in his kitchen. He heard the refrigerator door open and close, a cupboard door bang, and the sound of running water hitting the bottom of the stainless steel sink.
"If you want coffee," Faith called, "you're going to have to come make it yourself. I'm not going to touch this thing."
Jack grinned and got out of bed, grabbing his blue jeans up off the floor.
Faith was standing at the kitchen counter, her back to him as he entered the tiny room, fussing over a platter of soggy nachos and overcooked chicken wings. "You've only got three eggs but I found a jar of salsa in the cupboard so I'm going to improvise."
Jack came up behind her to look over her shoulder. She was stripping the meat off of the chicken wings with her fingers. "Improvise?"
"Mexican omelets," she said, head bent to her task. "I'm going to mix this chicken with some of the beans and cheese from the nachos and use it as a filling. The salsa will go on top and voila—Mexican omelets."
"Ole."
"Excuse me?"
"Ole,"he repeated. "Voila's French."
She rolled her eyes at him. "Just make the coffee."
They worked in companionable silence for a few moments, both of them feeling strangely at ease and deliciously content. Jack ground the coffee beans and filled the kettle with bottled water, then leaned back against the counter, waiting for it to boil and watched Faith as she finished stripping the chicken down to a pile of bones. She turned toward him when she finished, reaching for a paper towel to wipe her hands. Jack felt his gut tighten as he got his first good look at her in the bright light of the kitchen. He reached out, tipping her face up to hi
s.
Her hair was a rat's nest of tangles. Her eyes were smudged with languor and fatigue. The unmistakable flush of whisker burn marred the sensitive skin around her mouth and there was a large purple love bite nestled at the base of her throat. She looked thoroughly debauched. And ridiculously radiant.
Jack felt like the lowest kind of pervert and the ruler of the universe, all rolled into one.
"What?" she said, returning his stare. The look on his face was making her vaguely uneasy. "Jack, what's wrong?"
His hand trailed down her throat to the bruise at the base of her neck. "I hurt you."
"Hurt me?" she said, puzzled. And indignant. "I'm not hurt."
"Your chin looks like someone took a sheet of sandpaper to it and you've got a bruise the size of a quarter—" he touched it with a gentle fingertip "—right here."
Faith frowned. "A bruise?" she began uncertainly and then her face cleared. "You mean a hickey? Really?" She smiled, obviously pleased with the thought. "You gave me a hickey?"
"I bit you," he corrected, disgusted with himself.
"Well, fair's fair." She reached up and touched a finger to his lower lip. It was still slightly puffy. "I bit you, too."
"How many other bruises did I put on your body?" He moved his hand down to the neckline of her dress and began to release the buttons.
Faith grabbed his hand, stopping him. "Jack, for heaven's sake. I don't care if I'm covered with bruises. It doesn't matter to me in the least."
But it did to him. For the first time in his life, he'd lost control with a woman and let his passions run rampant. Had, in fact, been utterly unable to rein them in after the uninhibited way she'd responded to him on the kitchen counter. She'd released something inside him, something he'd kept locked away from the rest of the world. Something dark and dangerous, and desperately, uncomfortably needy. He'd carried her to his bed after she bit him, like a warrior with his prize—and kept her there for hours. The things he'd done to her, the words he'd used, the silent demand that she subjugate herself to his every desire should have shocked and sickened a woman raised as strictly as she had been but she'd surrendered to him gladly, joyously, answering his every erotic need. As he, in turn, had surrendered to her. No desire was left unexplored between them, no need went unsatisfied, no want was unfulfilled. They'd abandoned themselves to flagrant, unapologetic, heedless passion. The rush of feelings he'd experienced in her arms had been glorious. And gut-wrenching. And absolutely, utterly terrifying.
As looking at her now was terrifying.
He could see the love and concern in her eyes as she gazed up at him. She hadn't said anything, yet. She might not even know it was love she felt, but it was there. As clear as if she'd already spoken the words. It would only be a matter of time before she gave voice to her feelings and would expect him to declare his. And he wouldn't be able to do it.
He didn't want to fall in love. He didn't want to be in love.
He'd had no right to bring her down to his level, he told himself. Even if she was foolishly willing to follow him there. He had to lay it all out in front of her and let her see—make her see—that he was no good for her. It wasn't just a matter of years, although that in itself should have been enough to make her cautious of him, it was the living that had gone into those years. The ugliness of them. The emptiness. The god-awful waste of it all. He had to make her see it before it was too late. He had to make her despise him enough to run away, because he wasn't strong enough to resist her if she stayed.
"Jack?" she said hesitantly, frightened by the look in his eyes.
"I haven't shown you what I'm working on, have I?" He gestured with one hand toward the dining room table.
She shook her head. Slowly. "No," she admitted, not sure now that she wanted to know. Not when it made him look so lost and alone. And frightening.
He curled his fingers around her upper arm. "Come over here and I'll show you."
"The omelet," she said, hanging back. She really didn't want to know. "The coffee. It'll—"
"It'll keep," he said harshly, reaching out to turn off the flame under the teakettle. He all but dragged Faith around the kitchen counter and over to the littered dining room table, turning on lights as he went. He yanked a chair out, sitting her down in front of the typewriter.
"But I don't understand," she said, looking at the rickety old portable. The platen was empty. And there was nothing, no stack of completed work, on the table beside it. "There's nothing here."
"No, there isn't," Jack agreed. The tone of his voice sent a feeling of dread and foreboding down Faith's spine. He reached into the cardboard box sitting on the table beside the typewriter. "This is what I've been working on," he said, and thrust a sheaf of papers into her hands.
There were about a hundred pages, bound together along one side with two tarnished brass fasteners. The paper appeared old and fragile, the edges slightly yellowed with age. Faith held it between her hands as if it were a bomb, set to go off any minute.
"Go ahead," Jack urged, pointing to the words on the cover. "Read the first page."
"Lovers and Strangers," Faith read out loud, "by Eric and Jack Shannon. Final Draft, May, 1970." The address of the Wilshire Arms was listed in the lower corner, along with a phone number. She looked up at him. "Eric was your brother."
"I see the Wilshire Arms grapevine is still working as efficiently as always." Jack's voice was snide. "Somebody already told you the whole sorry story."
"Only that he died."
"He didn't just die," Jack said bluntly. "I killed him."
Faith didn't even have to think about it. "I don't believe it."
"It doesn't matter what you believe, Angel. It's true."
"No." She shook her head. "I don't believe it. I won't believe it. Not for a single minute." She stood up to face him, the script held tight between her hands. "You're not capable of murdering anybody, let alone your own brother."
"Oh, you'd be appalled by what I'm capable of. But I didn't say I murdered him. I said I killed him."
"Is there a difference?"
"Not to him there isn't. Dead is dead."
"But to you there is," she insisted. "You wouldn't have made the distinction if it didn't make a difference to you. It was an accident, wasn't it?" she said, thinking she understood. "Your brother's death was an accident and you feel responsible."
"I am responsible."
"No." She reached out to touch him, laying her hand on the tense muscles of his arm. They jumped, tightening even more under the gentle caress of her fingers. "Accidents are nobody's fault. They're awful and they're heartbreaking, but they're nobody's fault. They just are. They just happen and we have to learn to live with them as best we can."
"Dammit, Faith! Listen to what I'm telling you. It wasn't an accident. Eric didn't just slip and fall over the balcony railing. He jumped. He committed suicide. Because of me and—" he grabbed the script out of her hand and slammed it down on the table "—that," he finished, his voice rich with disgust and loathing. For the script. For himself.
There was a taut silence as they stared at each other. Faith's eyes were wide, filled with horror and compassion and the womanly need to reach out and comfort the man she loved. Jack's expression was bleak, filled with anguish and self-recrimination—and fear. Now she would turn away from him. It was what he wanted. What he'd intended, but he didn't know if he could stand it. His jaw was clenched tight as if he expected to be struck. Or touched tenderly. Either one would have shattered him into a thousand pieces.
Faith clenched her hands together. "What happened?" she asked softly, knowing he had to tell her. And she had to hear it.
"We argued. We were always arguing that summer, over one stupid thing or another. Eric didn't like my politics. I didn't like his friends. Stupid stuff." He waved a hand dismissively. "He was working as a gaffer at one of the studios but what he really wanted to do was write screenplays. He'd written a couple of scripts for television but they never went anywh
ere."
"And you?" Faith prompted. "What were you doing that summer?"
"I was an eighteen-year-old, left-wing radical pain in the ass. I wrote for one of the underground, antiestablishment newspapers that were all over the place in those days. My specialty was outraged diatribes against a corrupt and morally bankrupt system."
"So you were both writers."
"Yeah. Both writers." He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Eric convinced me to write a screenplay with him. He said if we got it produced, I could reach millions of people with my message instead of just the couple of hundred who were reading that rag I wrote for. My job would be to write the bare bones of the story, his would be to refine it, to make sure it was commercial enough to get noticed by the powers that be. Well, they noticed all right, thanks to Eric, and we sold it."
"And?" Faith prompted gently.
"And the producer wanted changes, like producers always do. I got up on my soapbox and refused to make them, said it would be like prostituting our script. Eric and I argued about it for days. We argued about it again the night he killed himself. There was a party going on and he was high—he was high a lot that summer—and he started pressuring me about making the changes again, talking about the money and fame that would come our way. What he was really talking about was security," Jack said reflectively. "We'd never had much of it in our lives and Eric had always been the one who provided what little there was for both of us. But I wouldn't listen to what he was trying to say. In the end, he threatened to make the changes himself. And I lost my temper and told him he couldn't because he didn't have the talent. I'll never forget the look on his face. Never. It was if I'd stabbed him in the gut."
"Was it true?" Faith asked.
"It doesn't matter if it was true or not. I shouldn't have said it to him. But I did. And then I stormed out of the apartment before he could say anything else. I don't even remember where I went or how long I was gone. The next time I saw Eric he was lying on his back in the courtyard. It almost looked as if he were asleep or had passed out, except for the pool of blood behind his head."
Lovers and Strangers (The Hollywood Nights Series, Book 1) Page 13
