I continued to stare.
Jackson Clark was going to be a mistake. I could feel it deep in my bones. But, goddamn, he was going to be fun.
2
Tuesday
Five hours later, my ass was planted on a stool at a local hole-in-the-wall bar. I’d been seriously late to work. It had taken forever to get my car sorted and the rental picked up.
The last thing I wanted to do was strip bare for an uppity fashion designer so she could point out every new ounce of weight I’d put on since the last time she’d sewed me into her newest avant-garde creation. I’d thought about canceling my day altogether but it wasn’t Olga’s fault I was irritated and wanted to smack the hell out of Lawrence Piper. That was the squirrel saving prick’s name.
When I first started modeling, I’d been excited. I liked it. However, that had lasted all of a few months. Then my mother had made my life a living hell. At fifteen I’d been tall for my age, and my mom had taken me to a casting call for a department store print ad on a whim.
I hadn’t thought there was a snowball’s chance I’d get the gig, but the owner of the agency had taken one look at me, being five foot nine as a teenager, and had deemed me perfect. Dad had deemed it a crock of shit industry that preyed on young girls. He wasn’t wrong. He’d also caved when my mother told him his input was unwanted.
Everything had gone downhill after that until I’d learned to use the situation to my advantage and build my name. Eventually, I’d been able to start a side business, as a branding consultant. I loved it. Working with designers and helping them find their market was perfect for me. I was out of the spotlight, but was still able to use what I’d learned over the years. I wouldn’t have to model for much longer.
Over the years plenty of photographers had commented on my weight and had suggested I lose some. Considering I’d fallen into the modeling world by accident, and it hadn’t been some lifelong goal, and that my mother had bitched about my weight throughout my teenage years, I had no issue telling them to fuck off.
If they didn’t like the way I looked they could go with someone else. That didn’t mean that, before a show, I didn’t watch what I ate, I did, because, hello, I was going to be strutting down a catwalk in next to nothing. But I didn’t starve myself. And I didn’t count calories or food.
Uh-uh, no way.
I liked pizza and cheeseburgers way too much for that shit.
Olga had been kind enough to fly to Georgia from New York for the fitting, not showing up would’ve been a bitch thing to do. The fashion designer was pleasant enough, a little on the strange side, but, as far as designers went, she was the nicest one I’d worked with. And being a model, I’d worked with a lot over the last fifteen years.
My mood was no better than it had been before Olga had strapped me into her latest design. Two shots of tequila and a beer later, I could still feel the bite of all the buckles she’d cinched too tight around my hips, stomach, and boobs. Not that I had much in the latter department. The sadist had a perfectly placed strip of fabric that barely covered my nipples but compelled my breasts to push together for maximum cleavage. She’d bitched all day that if I’d had the boob job she’d suggested years ago, she wouldn’t have to fight with my titties, her words not mine.
I wasn’t doing that either.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Was asked from beside me.
“No, thank you.” I tried my best to keep my voice pleasant, even though I was mentally rolling my eyes. I didn’t bother to look over. Partly because I didn’t care who was asking and partly because I didn’t want to encourage any further conversation.
“You sure? You look like you could use another.”
Asshole. Nothing like pointing out how terrible a woman looked while trying to pick her up.
“Thanks, but, no.” This time I didn’t keep the bite out of my tone.
“Come on, Tuesday,” the man cajoled.
What the hell? How did he know my name?
My head snapped in his direction, and I had no idea who this man was and it was a little disconcerting he seemed to know me, or at least my name. He wasn’t horrible looking. My age. Full beard, which could be hot, but on him it just looked unkept.
Someone needed to teach him about manscaping. If his face looked like Grizzly Adams, God knew what his pubes looked like. It was probably a thicket patch down his drawers. No woman liked to have to hunt through bush to find the penis. And do not get me started on ball hair. I mean, why the hell does the sack need hair anyway? It’s gross. The least a man could do was trim the area if he wanted BJ action. Not that I actually remembered what a penis looked like, it had been so long.
“Tuesday?” he called again.
“Do I know you?”
“I work at Autumn Lakes Nursing Home,” the man said.
I still had no idea who he was.
“I’m sorry, I’m really bad with names,” I told him.
“Randolph,” he helpfully supplied.
Of course, his name was Randolph, he totally looked like a Randolph. I absentmindedly wondered if his buddies called him Dolph. Too bad the man standing in front of me didn’t look like the pro wrestler Dolph Ziggler. That man had a body to die for until you got to his face. It wasn’t nice of me to think that, but I did anyway.
“Well, Randolph, I appreciate the offer but I prefer to drink alone.”
“A beautiful woman such as yourself should never drink alone.”
Gag. If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard that I’d be retired on a beach somewhere.
Dolphy-Boy really needed to work on his game. His pick-up lines sucked ass.
“’Preciate it. But, seriously—”
“Come on, baby—” he tried again.
“Hey, Sweetness. Sorry I’m late.”
Jackson!
He stepped closer. I knew this, not because I’d turned to look. No, I knew because his hand was now around my waist and he was cozied up next to me. The first thing I noticed was my skin was tingling, and I was really sorry there was fabric preventing him from touching my bare flesh. The next was his deep voice, it was different than the fun, flirty tone he used on me when he was trying to get me to agree to go to dinner with him. And last, but certainly not least, was his musky male scent that drove me wild.
Serious as shit, it was a good thing more men hadn’t found whatever cologne Jackson wore. Women around the world would be dropping their panties in the streets.
I should’ve asked him to step back and not touch me, but I didn’t. I told myself it was because I’d rather have Jackson’s arm around me than Dolph hitting on me, but, in actuality, I liked how his strong, warm hand felt when he’d lowered it to my hip and gave me a squeeze.
“Looks like you started without me,” Jackson continued, ignoring Randolph completely.
“Randolph, it was really nice of you to check on me. See you around.”
Randolph didn’t look all that pleased with Jackson’s intrusion. But, finally, he cut his eyes to me and answered, “Yeah, Tuesday, maybe next time.”
With Dolph’s departure I was now alone with Jackson. I didn’t know which was worse and was considering calling the other man back. I may’ve been mildly annoyed by his lame attempt to pick me up, but he was far safer than Jackson.
“Wanna ’nother?” the bartender asked, and I silently nodded. “Anything for you?” That was aimed at Jackson.
“A shot of what she’s having and a Miller, bottle.”
Perfect. Great. Fabulous. Jackson was settling in and didn’t look like he’d be moving anytime soon.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Same thing you’re doing.”
That was highly doubtful. I was sitting in a bar, alone, contemplating my career and trying to figure out exactly when I’d become so miserable. He looked anything but miserable.
“Please don’t do this, Jackson. I’ve had a shit day. I really wanna be alone to think.”
“Worse time to be alone, T
uesday. Besides, I wanted to check on you. How are you feeling? Neck hurt? Sore muscles?”
“I’m fine. Nothing hurts. Just like the other fifty-two times I told you, the kid didn’t hit me that hard. I was pissed at Mr. 911 and him blathering on about how expensive his sports car was. I mean, damn, dude, we get it. You drive a Porsche and have a small penis, so your car is super important to you in your quest to find companionship. I wasn’t hurt, but my car’s fucked. But I have a super cute rental, so there is that.”
“Small penis?” He smiled.
“An assumption based on years of experience. Dude was compensating.”
The bartender placed our drinks on the bar in front of us. He picked up his shot of tequila and motioned for me to do the same.
“Here’s to lobster tail and beer. Three of my favorite things.”
His toast was a little funny but mostly corny.
“Seriously?” I was trying my best not to smile. “Lobster, tail, and beer? Those are your favorites?”
“All right, fine. What about this one? To the kisses we’ve snatched, and vice versa.”
“No. Just no. That one was worse,” I told him.
“Um. Let me think . . .” His gorgeous, chocolate eyes sparkled, and he wasn’t hiding his amusement.
This was the side of Jackson that scared me. Years and years of working with male models had made me immune to a man’s good looks. I knew a guy could be hot as hell but a total tool. I’d spent the majority of my life being judged by my appearance, I knew better than most that all the superficial shit meant nothing. Sure, Jackson was an attractive guy, great hair, he was tall, broad shoulders and built, but that was not what had me wanting to take him home and end my self-imposed dry spell.
Part of it may’ve been how funny he was, but mostly it was because when he looked at me, he didn’t see Tuesday Knowls the billboard model. He just saw me. Plain-’ol-nothing-special me. I liked that a whole lot. Too much. And because he looked at me like I was nothing special, I’d never felt more special in my life.
Seeing Jackson twice in one day was too much. I hadn’t had enough time in between sightings to build up my defenses.
3
Jackson
Tuesday’s smile never failed to stir something deep inside of me. It was like the dawn of a new day, full of hope and the promise of good things to come. But when the spark hit her eyes that promise became wicked. Crumpled sheets and satisfaction came to mind.
I’d thought about her hundreds of times since I’d first seen her through the crush of people, and there were a lot. My eyes had landed on her instantly, and not because she was a newcomer, I would’ve noticed her light straight away in a crowd of outsiders.
She was beautiful, sure. But it was the way she’d held herself. She was confident in her own skin, comfortable being in a room full of strangers. When I’d gotten close, and her gaze had swung my way, I’d felt like I’d been socked in the gut. Everything about her lit my body on fire. And her smile? I couldn’t get enough, it had even plagued my dreams.
I was thrilled when I’d walked in tonight and noticed Tuesday sitting at the bar. I’d heard my friend Brice chuckling from behind me when I’d peeled away from him and headed in her direction. He wasn’t stupid, he knew I wouldn’t be back. Not that he cared, the man never had any issue finding company, even if the company he found was questionable and mostly badge bunnies.
“I’m coming up blank,” I told her. “You got any toasts you wanna share?”
“Here’s to drinkin’ single, seeing double, and sleepin’ triple?” She chuckled and a pretty pink blush tinged her cheeks.
“Huh. You do that a lot, babe?”
“Which part?”
“Ahem. The sleepin’ triple.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Goddamn right I would. Though, unlike some men, the thought of sharing my woman did nothing for me. And thinking about Tuesday being intimate with any man had jealousy frothing near the surface. Two men? That had it bubbling over.
“Want another shot?”
“Sure.”
It didn’t take much to get the bartender’s attention, with a lift of my chin he turned and grabbed the bottle and refilled our glasses.
“So, what had you thinking so hard before I saddled up next to you?”
“Saddled?” Her lips curved up and she snorted a laugh. “Who says that?”
I ignored her question, mainly because she looked so fucking hot smiling over at me, I’d lost my train of thought. I shot the tequila, set the glass back on the bar, and savored the scorch as the liquid slid down.
She kept smiling, only now she was doing it while shaking her head.
I vaguely wondered if there would ever be a time her smile didn’t take my breath. God, I hoped not. I continued to stare, her smile got bigger and the pounding in my chest intensified.
I was at a complete loss for words. Which hadn’t happened since I was fifteen and Molly Blackburn had introduced me to the marvels of a hand job. Since then, I’d never had an issue talking to girls, then, as I got older, women. When I was a teenager that was a necessity if I wanted to get me some. As a man, I learned to listen more than I talked.
Though this was not one of those times. Sitting here next to Tuesday I was simply speechless. I didn’t have the first clue what to say to her. She wasn’t the type of woman who’d follow me home with a wink and a smile. She definitely wasn’t the type you tried to run plays on. Mainly, because I wasn’t playing a game with Tuesday Knowls.
It had taken me one afternoon laughing with her at a family barbeque to realize she was different. How different, I didn’t know because every time I’d asked her out, she’d turned me down. Flat out. The woman hadn’t let me down gently either. She’d basically patted me on the head and called me a boy.
The seven-year age difference didn’t bother me. That was, she’s seven years my senior. She’d told me she liked her men experienced, which was not an issue. I’d told her as much, but she didn’t believe me.
The way I saw it, I only needed her undressed and under me for exactly five minutes. That was all the time it would take for me to have her screaming and prove I had the experience she desired, not only that, but I had it in spades. It wasn’t because I had a bedpost full of notches. It was more quality than quantity. As I’d said, I’d learned to listen. And part of listening was paying attention.
“Well?” I prompted, going back to my question, ignoring hers.
“Nothing exciting. Work shit. Can we talk about something a little more fun? How was your day? Did you rescue anymore damsels in distress?”
“Is that what I did, rescue you?”
“Actually, the only person you rescued today was Larry the sports car driver from a Tuesday-style beat down.”
“Oh, yeah? What does a Tuesday-style beat down include?”
“Well, first I was thinking about taking off my shoes and hitting him over the head with one but I didn’t want my feet to touch the dirty asphalt. Then I was worried about breaking the heel off.”
I didn’t even have to close my eyes to draw the memory of her standing in the middle of the street in those heels. She was tall, nearly looking me in the eye with those sexy shoes on. It had taken an act of God for me to wrestle my dick into submission and not get hard while at an accident scene.
“It would be a damn shame to break a heel of one of those shoes.”
At least until I had her in my bed, wearing those stilettos with the point of the heel digging into my back.
“Is that right?” She smiled, not missing a beat.
“Oh, yeah.”
“You have a shoe fetish, Jack?” Her head tilted to the side, and all I could think about was it was the perfect angle to kiss her.
“Didn’t before I saw you in those strappy sandals. Your ass, your legs, would look great with a pair of Chucks on your feet. But those heels? Fucking phenomenal, Sweetness. What else did I save Larry from?”
“I�
��d already given him a verbal tongue-lashing for almost making the boy in the Honda cry. But I was contemplating strangling him. However, I refrained, only because I didn’t want Mercy’s soon-to-be cousin Ethan having to arrest me.”
I skipped right over the Mercy comment. That was one of her excuses for not wanting to go out on a date with me.
“A tongue-lashing? Is that what you call a full-on bitch fit?”
“A bitch fit?” Her adorable nose scrunched, and she looked totally put off.
“Because, Sweetness, I gotta tell you. You and me? We have a totally different idea of what a tongue-lashing is.”
“What exactly is your idea?”
“Come closer.” I gestured with a nod for her to lean in. “And I’ll tell you.”
I enjoyed the flirty banter a fuckton, but I wasn’t making a move to touch her in any way until she gave me the go-ahead. I was a patient man and I had every intention of waiting her out for as long as it took. Luckily, she tilted her body toward me.
“Well?” she whispered close to my ear. Her hot breath puffed against my neck and I had to force myself to remember what I was going to say.
“Goddamn, you smell good,” I noted. “I think maybe my explanation of all the ways my tongue can lash is better shown than told.”
“Is that right?” she whispered. And even if I hadn’t been paying attention to how close her body was to mine, I wouldn’t have been able to miss her shiver.
“Oh, yeah. And, babe, when my tongue is lashing over all your sensitive parts you will be verbal. However, you’ll be calling out my name begging, not bitchin’ at some squirrel loving jackass.”
“You seem awfully confident about your skills. Maybe I’d be calling out your name begging you to stop.”
“Sweetness, the only time you’ll be begging me to stop fucking you with my tongue is when you’re ready to take my cock. And that is not confidence, that’s fact.”
Claiming Tuesday: The Next Generation Page 2
