by Jenna Black
“Problem was, the bastard was bat-shit crazy and hated the world even more than I did. I lost myself under his influence for a very long time, and I did some very bad shit, let the death magic have its way with me. Until Anderson found me and convinced me it didn’t have to be that way.”
And then I came along, killed his best friend, who’d been helping him keep the death magic tamed, and put everything that was good in his life at risk.
My mind took me back to that fateful night, replaying a picture of that dark, sleet-slicked driveway, of my struggles to keep the car in control. A figure appeared out of nowhere, only a couple of feet in front of my car, no time to stop or swerve. My headlights illuminated his face as he raised his head and smiled at me in the instant before I slammed into him.
I shook my head violently to stop the playback in my head. I wished there were some way I could expunge those images from my brain for good. I’d relived them more than enough already.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Jamaal said gruffly, and I guessed my face had told him exactly what I was thinking about.
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my emotions under control. Jamaal was making a huge concession by admitting that, though I supposed he’d stopped blaming me long before. Now, if only I could stop blaming me.
“I know that,” I forced out through my tight throat. “He set me up, and he basically did it to himself. But I had to make a couple of bad decisions for his plan to work, and I can’t help wishing I’d made different ones.”
When Emmitt had called and asked me for help, I’d agreed because I’d wanted an excuse to cut my bad date short. My gut had told me from the very beginning that there was something hinky going on, but I’d ignored it. That was Bad Decision Number One. Bad Decision Number Two—also known as Worst Decision Ever—was to go looking for Emmitt when he failed to show up at the rendezvous. Driving through those gates and onto private property was against the law, even if Emmitt had left them enticingly open, and I’d known that. I should have—
“But you know that if you’d made different decisions, Emmitt would have found some other way. The goddamned bastard had made up his mind and didn’t care what anyone else wanted.”
It was the first time I’d heard Jamaal express any anger toward Emmitt for what he’d done. Personally, I’d thought a number of times that I’d like to go back in time and kill Emmitt all over again for being so selfish. He had to have known how devastated Jamaal would be, and he had to have known, or at least have had an inkling of, what I would be put through thanks to his decision. But he hadn’t cared enough about anyone to trouble himself about the consequences.
“Why didn’t he talk to anyone?” Jamaal asked, the pain in his voice so deep I wanted to draw him into my arms. “If he felt so fucking bad he wanted to die, why didn’t he say something, let us try to help him?” His voice was turning hoarse like he was crying, although his eyes were dry. “Hell, why didn’t we just know, without him having to tell us anything? Why didn’t I just know? We vented the death magic practically every day, and the days we didn’t vent, he was teaching me to meditate to help calm my temper. How could I spend that much time with him and not realize he was fucking suicidal?”
Jamaal was on his feet and pacing before I could answer. There was so much fury in him he could barely contain himself, and I half expected him to start smashing up the room. But at the heart of that fury was pain. And, apparently, guilt. He was furious at Emmitt for killing himself, but he was equally furious with himself for not seeing how depressed his friend and mentor had been.
“No one realized,” I said gently. “He was obviously very careful to hide it.” I stood up, moving slowly because I knew Jamaal was on a hair trigger. “You can’t blame yourself.”
He was in my face between one blink and the next, hands gripping my biceps as he leaned down and snarled at me. “The fuck I can’t!”
I should have been scared of him at that moment. He was so furious I half expected to see sparks flying off him, and I’d had firsthand experience with how savage he could be when his temper snapped. I should have said something noncommittally soothing, appeasing the dangerous madman. Instead, I found my own temper rising to meet his head-on.
“Oh, get over yourself!” I snapped, making no attempt to escape his bruising grip. “First, you decide I’m the one and only person to blame for Emmitt’s death, and now you’ve decided it’s all your fault and you’re using it as an excuse to act like an asshole. Why don’t you just grow up and deal with it like everyone else has to?”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I wondered if I was doing the equivalent of lighting a match while wading in a pool of gasoline. I held my breath and waited for the explosion.
Jamaal stood frozen in speechless shock. His hands still gripped my arms, but they weren’t squeezing as hard, and his eyes went comically wide, like he couldn’t believe I’d just said that. To tell you the truth, I couldn’t believe it.
When he didn’t immediately go ballistic, I forced myself to let go of the breath I’d been holding. Yelling at him had been cruel when I knew how wounded he was, and I felt like a mean-spirited bitch for doing it.
“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head in amazement at myself. “I didn’t mean that.”
Jamaal’s shoulders relaxed, and the rage drained from his eyes. I didn’t think the bleakness that replaced it was much better. “Yes, you did. And you were right. I just … I can’t seem to keep a lid on it. All this shit keeps bubbling out, no matter how hard I try to keep it together.”
He finally seemed to realize he was touching me, and his hands quickly opened and dropped to his sides. He sank back onto the sofa, his head in his hands.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said, and I could barely hear him because he was talking to the floor.
I joined him on the sofa and put my arm around his shoulders. Maybe he didn’t like to be touched—especially by me—but I just couldn’t help myself.
“You’ll figure it out,” I told him as I ran my hand up and down his back. “Either you’ll figure out how to make it manifest and vent it that way, or you’ll figure out how to keep it leashed. I have confidence in you.”
Don’t ask me where all these words of encouragement were coming from. I’d lost my rose-colored glasses long ago. Jamaal had all the signs of being a ticking time bomb, and logic said that that bomb would eventually go off. I did not want to be around when that happened, and I had no reason to believe Jamaal could control himself indefinitely.
So why was I telling him I had confidence in him? And, even more mystifying, why was that actually the truth?
Jamaal raised his head and met my eyes. He started to say something—something scathing, judging by the look on his face—but he stopped himself.
“Why?” he asked, still holding my gaze. “Why would you have confidence in someone like me? I’m a total fuck-up.”
“Beats me,” I responded, coaxing a hint of a smile out of him. My heart did a little flip at the sight of that smile. I swear, if that man actually let the smile take over his face, he’d stop traffic.
And just like that, all of the angry energy that had been zipping around the room changed into something entirely different.
EIGHTEEN
I’d been attracted to Jamaal practically from the first moment I’d laid eyes on him. It was an attraction that was purely physical, but that didn’t make it any less real. Until recently, I hadn’t had any evidence that he’d shared even one iota of that attraction.
Okay, yeah, he’d kissed me that one time, but that hadn’t been a real kiss, so it didn’t count.
The way he was looking at me right now did count. His luscious dark-chocolate eyes practically smoldered—with something other than rage, for once—and he seemed to be holding his breath, like he was stunned into immobility by a sudden bolt of desire. No, wait, that was me.
I leaned in to him just slightly, unable to stop myself. His scent of cloves and smoke, which
had once made my nose wrinkle, now evoked an erotic cologne, making my pulse soar. His lips were so lush and sensual, made even more so by the elegant lines of his face, with its high cheekbones and artistic curves.
I told myself to back off, to get off the couch and run if that was what it took to snap myself out of the fog that was overtaking me. I reminded myself of all the reasons even trying to be friends with Jamaal was a bad idea, never mind trying to be anything more. I even tried reminding myself of the awful night when Jamaal had ambushed me, preventing me from getting to Steph and saving her from Alexis’s clutches.
That memory was almost enough to kill the arousal, because, let’s face it, it had been one of the worst nights of my life. Not because of the beating Jamaal had delivered—that hadn’t been any fun, but I’d been too hopped up on adrenaline and fear to be much affected by it—but because of what had happened to my sister because of it.
I should hate Jamaal for getting in my way, even though he’d had legitimate reasons at the time to think I was a traitor. A guy beating me up was not something I should be able to forgive and forget, even granted my history of being attracted to inappropriate men.
None of that mattered as our eyes remained locked and he slowly lowered his head.
I breathed in his scent as his braids clickity-clacked with his movements, my eyes half-closed and my lips parted. A little voice in the back of my head was still trying to talk me out of it, but it was no more than background noise, easily ignored.
When his lips touched mine, my nice, sane inner voice, the much-vaunted voice of reason, abandoned me completely.
Who’d have thought a broody, angry man, a death goddess descendant with a badly damaged soul, could kiss like an erotic dream come true?
His kiss of the other day had been all aggression and dominance, with neither tenderness nor subtlety behind it. This, however, was something different altogether.
Those full, sensual lips of his brushed over mine lightly, teasingly, drawing a little sound of need from somewhere deep inside me. My hands found their way around his neck and locked on, prepared to fight for what my body wanted if he came to his senses and backed off.
That, however, was not a valid concern.
Jamaal put his arms around me and drew me closer as his lips continued their delicate exploration. I had no objection whatsoever to getting closer, having yearned to get to know his body better for quite some time. My hands slid down from his neck to his back, exploring the muscles that rippled beneath his shirt as I returned his kiss and tried to be patient.
I didn’t have to try for very long, because Jamaal was apparently as impatient as I. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding into my mouth for a delicate taste.
Seeing as he was a smoker, his tongue should have tasted like an ashtray to me, a flavor I would tolerate as the inevitable price for the pleasure of his kiss. Apparently, my brain never got that memo, and a hungry, raw sound rose from my throat.
I wanted to get closer still, so I squirmed until Jamaal’s grip loosened enough to let me move; then I straddled him on the sofa. His hands slid down my back until they cupped my ass, and I groaned at the touch. Then, as I settled myself on his lap, I felt the significant bulge in his pants, growing bigger and harder by the moment.
Oh. My. God. I’d thought I was hot before. But that oh-so-tangible evidence of Jamaal’s desire seemed to set my very nerves on fire.
I buried my hands in his hair as I opened myself completely to his kiss, my rational mind consumed by my desire. I played with the coarse braids, explored the intricate beading, all the while pressing myself more firmly against him. Without my even noticing, my hips started to rock, and he rose to meet me.
My hands couldn’t get enough of him, eager to touch bare skin. I started to pluck at the bottom of his shirt, but he distracted me by shifting in his seat so he could lay me on my back on the sofa. His body came to rest between my legs, sending a flush of heat and hunger through me.
My hands slid down Jamaal’s back. The football jersey was thin enough that I could feel the ridges of the worst of his scars. His weight shifted on top of me, the movement dislodging my hands. I made a little sound of protest, until I realized he was just making room for his own hands to explore.
His fingers trailed from my throat down my collarbone to the little V of skin revealed by my button-down shirt.
Our eyes met as he began opening the buttons one by one. The heat in his eyes made me wish we were already naked in his bed.
He only made it through two buttons before he impatiently thrust his hand inside, cupping my breast. I gave a soft cry of pleasure, raising my head and demanding his kiss. He obliged me as he worked his hand under my bra. The brush of his fingers over my nipple fanned my hunger even higher. I hadn’t thought that was possible.
I reveled in the sensation of skin on skin, but I wanted more, much more. One of my arms was trapped between my body and the back of the sofa, but my other hand was free. I smoothed that hand down Jamaal’s back once more. I couldn’t reach the hem of his shirt, so I just grabbed a handful of fabric and pulled up until the small of his back was revealed. Finally, bare skin.
I let go of the jersey and touched my hand to his back.
And the moment my fingers made contact with bare skin, Jamaal went stiff, and not in a good way.
He broke the kiss and jerked away from me, jumping to his feet so fast it would have been comical in another situation. One where I wasn’t lying there on the sofa so desperate for the touch of his hands that I practically wailed. My nipples ached, and there was that low, insistent buzz of hunger in my belly, a hunger that could only be satisfied in one way.
But though I was still all achy and desperate, Jamaal had clearly lost the mood. His back was turned to me, and I forced myself up into a sitting position in hopes I could at least get a glimpse of his face.
What I saw there dampened the fire inside me.
Jamaal’s eyes were too wide, white showing all around the irises, and there was a glazed look to them. This wasn’t the way he looked when he was about to go Incredible Hulk, but I still got the impression that the Jamaal I knew had left the building. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes, but it sure as hell looked to me like he was afraid.
But of what?
“Jamaal?” I asked tentatively. “Are you all right?”
Stupid question; I could see that he wasn’t, though I had no idea what was wrong.
Stupid question it might have been, but at least it seemed to draw him back from wherever he’d disappeared to. He blinked a couple of times, and his eyes cleared. He glanced quickly in my direction, then averted his eyes and slid his hands into his pockets. His shoulders hunched a bit, and he turned away from me.
I took a deep breath to compose myself, then stood up and went to him, putting a hand on his shoulder but not making any more intimate gesture. His muscles quivered under my touch, like he was fighting the urge to pull away. I’d have been hurt, except I didn’t think whatever was going on had much to do with me.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” I urged him, though I honestly didn’t know if a man like him was capable of sharing anything that might resemble intimate details. Even the things he’d told me about his past had been lacking real depth, like he was giving me the Cliffs Notes version.
“It’s not you,” he said hoarsely, and if it had been someone other than him, I might not have been able to resist making some wisecrack about the famous cliché. “I just …” But he couldn’t seem to finish his own sentence, falling instead into a brooding silence.
I might not be a genius where relationships are concerned, but I could put two and two together with the best of them.
Jamaal’s back was riddled with scars. He’d pulled away abruptly the moment I had touched those scars skin-to-skin. Ergo whatever was wrong had something to do with the scars.
Was he self-conscious about them? He certainly had seemed to get prickly about me
having seen them, but I didn’t think it was self-consciousness that had made him run away from me as abruptly as he had. This was something more visceral than self-consciousness.
Should I press him about it? Or should I just figure he’d tell me in his own good time?
I honestly don’t think of myself as a particularly pushy person. Sometimes I’m almost embarrassingly ready to ignore the elephant in the room and skip out on potential conflict. But with Jamaal, I was having a damn hard time finding my emotional balance, and I found myself incapable of letting it go.
“You don’t like when someone touches your scars,” I said.
Jamaal moved away from me, his body language screaming of tension. “Just leave it alone,” he said tightly. “We have more important things to talk about, like—”
“Not right this second we don’t.” Yes, I did still have a sense of perspective. I knew figuring out a plan to stop Kerner was more important than having a Dr. Phil moment. I also knew neither of our minds would be fully in the game if we were both distracted by what had been left unsaid between us.
“Tell me what that was all about,” I insisted.
Jamaal’s eyes flashed, telling me he didn’t appreciate how I’d made that into an order. Not that I was in any position to give orders.
“It’s none of your business,” he grated.
“You can’t honestly believe that. Not under these circumstances.”
His glower became even fiercer. “I believe you need to back the hell off. We shouldn’t have let things get that far, anyway.”
He was sealing the cracks in his emotional armor with alarming speed, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. Maybe what had caused him to back off had nothing to do with me touching the scars; maybe he’d just been scared he was letting me get too close.
Curiosity, desire, and common sense battled within me, but common sense won out. I could see that Jamaal had fortified his defenses against me, and any further attempts I made to breach them would only make him dig in his heels more firmly.
