A Cruel Kind of Beautiful (Sex, Love, and Rock & Roll Series Book 1)

by Michelle Hazen

  I gesture at him, not even sure how to explain that he’s too perfect. What I really need is a guy who leaves the toilet seat up and forgets to call his mother and is sometimes snippy with me because he’s tired. Not one who brings me beautiful metaphors of gifts, and who wants to listen to Iron Butterfly’s drum solo even more times than I do. With a crappy guy, I wouldn’t feel pressured to watch him to see if I’m living up to everything he is, everything he might want.

  Instead of trying to tell him that, I switch tactics. “You keep saying you shouldn’t have a relationship, so why are you even here?”

  His Adam’s apple bobs, and for the first time since he woke up in my bed, his confidence falters. “I...” His shoulders tighten, and I can all but see the wheels in his engineer’s brain cranking to life. But a long moment passes, then two. A chill of dread is starting to creep along my fingers before he finally answers. “I can’t help it.”

  My breath explodes out, the relief turning it into something like a laugh. “What? Jesus, with a pause that long, I thought you were about to confess something about wanting to make a lamp out of my skin.”

  He doesn’t laugh, his eyes dark and still as he watches me. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be chasing after you. I’ve got a ton of family responsibilities I didn’t have a year ago. A girl like you deserves somebody who can put her first, and as much as I want to, I can’t promise you that. I can’t even take you on a decent date, because the only jobs with a flexible enough schedule for me don’t pay worth crap and I’m pretty much always broke.” The tiny lines of sadness are back at the edges of his eyes, and it’s almost like he’s asking for my forgiveness. “I know I shouldn’t, but there’s something about you. I can’t...help it.”

  This man. Dear God, this man.

  “Neither can I,” I whisper.

  He takes a step closer, and when I don’t move away, he lifts my hair back over my shoulders, the strands brushing over my neck seeming like a caress just because he’s the one moving them. “Are you saying yes?” Guilt and hope war in his eyes, and I know he must see the same thing in me.

  “One condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “You let me make you some soup before you have to go.”

  He exhales and then lays a kiss, very softly, on my right cheekbone. Even that small touch sends a flash of heat through me so fast I’m left lightheaded. I never had a prayer of telling him no. Not in person. Not when he touches me like that.

  “I have a condition, too.”

  Nervousness twists under my breastbone. “Okay. Please tell me it doesn’t involve exotic sex toys.”

  “The fact that you look worried tells me you have a lot to learn about sex toys. Don’t worry, though, this is perfectly innocent. If you get to make me soup, I get to make you dinner.” He straightens and takes a deep breath. “At my house.”

  My eyes narrow. “Why’d you say it like that?”

  His gaze flicks away, and then he puts on a quick smile. “Well, once you see my apartment, you might be overcome with lust and want to experiment with exotic sex toys. I’m just bracing myself.”

  “I think I can probably resist Casanova Apartment.”

  His grin is white teeth and pure delight, and it goes to my head like the roar of a mosh pit crowd. “We’ll see.”

  Chapter 18: Cracked Paint

  Jacob lives on the far end of a boxy, cinderblock apartment building, with trees growing so close around the walls you can barely tell what color it is. I’ve raised my fist to knock twice, and lost my nerve the same number of times.

  I haven’t seen him since we struck the infamous no-orgasm deal, because it’s taken us nearly a week to schedule our dinner at his house. He had to change the day once, he was busy on Halloween, and I sort of stalled on finalizing the time. Possibly because I was freaking out a little bit.

  How do you make polite dinnertime conversation with your new boyfriend when he already knows you’re a dishrag in bed? More than that, how do you begin the flirting and making out phase of a relationship when you’ve already decided you won’t go all the way?

  I can’t explain it, but somehow our pact makes all the things we can do seem less limiting and more...tantalizing. The tease of all those suddenly un-forbidden acts renders me incapable of looking Jacob in the eye, which is why I still haven’t knocked.

  I turn around, not sure if I’m headed to pace around the block or hyperventilate in my Volkswagen, when I’m distracted by Jacob’s car sitting at the curb. The passenger door is a cheerful, unabashed blue against the rusting brown of the rest, like the wink of an inside joke. Not an inch of it is the sleek, sporty red you’d think a star athlete would drive. I smile a little bit, looking at it. He invited me here, and despite the jokes he made to cover it up, I get the idea that it was a big deal for him to invite me into his home. The first step to being worthy of that trust is probably not fleeing at the sight of it.

  I turn back around and knock. His door needs paint as much as his car does, and it must be as thin as a Post-It because I can hear it clearly when he yelps, “Wait, don’t leave! I’m not wearing clothes yet.”

  “Jacob,” I call through the door, “Casanova Apartment is flirting with me already. Get that thing under control before I have to bust out the pepper spray.”

  “Damn it, Apartment,” he bellows. “Get your shit together, man!”

  I chuckle, smiling at the cracked taupe paint on his door. It’s kind of a nice color, I decide.

  It takes him an extra second, but when he swings the door open, he’s sporting damp hair, a wide grin, and a shirt that says: “Engineers Do It With Precision.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Because you already know I love pun shirts, and also I have no dignity?”

  My held breath comes bursting out on a laugh.

  His eyes flicker to my outfit and he blows out a breath. “Wow, you’re not going to go easy on me, are you?”

  “What?” My shoulders curl automatically inward as I glance down. My battered brown bomber jacket doesn’t totally hide the fact that I’m wearing one of my nicest tops: a cream-colored tank swishing with a bunch of asymmetrical, lacy layers. I also couldn’t resist trading in my combat Docs for ankle boots, but I dressed it down a touch with jeans that Danny swirled with Celtic knotwork in black Sharpie.

  “How am I supposed to look like a gentleman if I’m staring at you all night?”

  Pleasure tingles along my scalp and I pull my shoulders back. All week, I swore to myself I wouldn’t get nervous and start second-guessing myself just because we’re dating now.

  “Better get creative, Tate.” I sweep past him into the apartment and drop my messenger bag by the door. “Especially since Casanova Apartment is about to sweep me off my feet with an insatiable desire for exotic sex toys.”

  “Any second now, I’m sure.” He closes the door with its peeling beige paint.

  The tiny living room is decorated in Vintage Craigslist Mismatch, and the only thing on the walls is an old Pink Floyd poster with naked women’s backs painted like the covers of each of the band’s albums.

  “Sorry I made you wait. I had to grocery shop so you wouldn’t have to eat ramen with hot dogs, and I forgot to factor in time for a shower. Which I definitely needed.”

  I note the absolute lack of clutter and fresh vacuum marks in the carpet, plus the dried smears on the coffee table that show he dusted with a wet rag instead of furniture polish. “You factored in time to clean.”

  The corner of his mouth crooks up. “This morning. I had class this afternoon, and I figured I could get away with starving you, or maybe having to show up sweaty from biking, but you’d probably head for the hills if you saw this place the way Ben usually leaves it.”

  When we danced at the club, he’d been sweaty, the drops glistening on the muscular column of his throat. There was something about the smell of it that made me want to bite him. Suddenly, I wish I would have shown up early. Bite-ably pre-sho
wer early.

  “So...what’s for dinner?” I ask, too brightly.

  “Spaghetti and garlic bread, if that’s okay.” He leads the way into the narrow kitchen, more like a hallway than a whole room. A wood-grained laminate table and four chairs sit in front of a sliding glass door that displays a miniature back yard.

  “Do I qualify for the grand tour of Casanova Apartment, or are you afraid this is all I can handle?”

  “Actually, this is pretty much it, plus bedrooms and a whole lot of cars outside that are waiting for me to find time to work on them, including my sister Hayden’s Jeep, which I’ve got to do as soon as the part comes in tomorrow.” He gives me a rueful look. “That’s why the parking situation sucks so much. My neighbors pretty much hate me right now.”

  This place is so sparse they might have just moved in, and I glance around with a twinge of disappointment. I don’t know what I was hoping for—some kind of insider clue maybe, to a side of Jacob I haven’t glimpsed yet. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t leave that out in the open. I wander toward the other side of the house, trying to look casual. “What about your room?”

  Jacob jolts a step forward, as if he’s actually going to grab my arm to stop me. “Um, no.” Something about the look on my face must make him realize that was an odd reaction, because he amends, “Maybe next time. I, ah, didn’t have that much time to clean.”

  “Okaaay...” He probably bulldozed everything he didn’t want me to see into that one room. Like that doesn’t make me crazy curious or anything. What would a guy like Jacob have to hide? Engineering schematics he’s been studying for fun? Really kinky pornos? He did seem to know an awful lot about fetishes.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Jacob asks quickly.

  I slide my hands into my back pockets, peeking out the back door at the totally un-punctuated stretch of grass. Not even a patio chair in sight.

  “A beer would be nice.” Nice doesn’t cover it after the week I’ve had. A beer, a meal I didn’t have to cook, and the chance to sit down without my neck bent over a textbook I don’t want to read? Bliss, with chocolate sprinkles.

  “We don’t really keep any beer around. Sorry. We have water, and...” He opens the fridge and bends, rummaging inside. “Orange juice, apple juice, chocolate milk.” He pops his head up again. “Gatorade?”

  “A bachelor pad with no booze on the premises?” I pull out a chair at the table, humming a few bars of the Twilight Zone theme. “So when do I get to meet the younger brother slash roommate who was going to tattoo my band’s name on his...” I give a little two-note whistle and bob my eyebrows.

  Jacob chuckles nervously and closes the fridge. “Actually, I should probably explain about that before Ben gets home.”

  I gasp. “Oh my God, he did it already? Tell me he at least has a big dick, or the guys are going to be so disappointed our band name is all over it.”

  Jacob grimaces. “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly as in he does have a small penis?” I let my gaze drift down toward his fly. “We’re definitely entering third date confession material here, Jacob.”

  Jacob crosses his arms over his chest and arches an eyebrow at me. “Where was this flirty girl when I was trying to talk you into hanging out with me? I think I like her.”

  I flush, focusing on shrugging out of my leather jacket. “I haven’t dated in...um, kind of a while.” I toss him a small smile as I hang it on the back of my chair. “I’m just starting to shake off the rust.”

  “Me too, actually. I had the same girlfriend all through high school. No one at all for the last year, obviously, after everything happened with my parents.” He goes quiet for a second, tilting his head. “So did your dry spell possibly have something to do with the guy on that voicemail?”

  My pulse jumps. We haven’t talked about the voicemail since I shoved it in his face and wow, yeah, I wouldn’t exactly have outed the most shameful moment of my life if I thought I’d ever see Jacob again. He’s still here, though, and he seems determined not to let the issue become something that we have to tiptoe around. The least I can do is match his honesty.

  I lift my eyes to Jacob’s. “Him, and my non-stellar track record with dating.”

  “Look, I don’t know the guy,” he says, his voice low, “but I do know if he’s blaming you for ‘ruining his life’? It’s probably because he doesn’t want to take responsibility for his own problems.”

  “Yeah well, Andy wasn’t the only one in the relationship.” I glance away. “And he certainly wasn’t the only one who made mistakes.”

  Jacob crosses the kitchen, and a gentle finger touches my chin, tipping my face back up to his. “I respect that you say it was half your fault.” He gives me a crooked smile. “I don’t believe it, but I respect it.”

  Something light flutters up through my chest and I clear my throat. “Well, I don’t believe that small penises run in your family but I can respect it if that’s what you need to confess.”

  “Try two notches less embarrassing and you’re there.” He straightens up. “Thing is, we don’t have any beer in the house because I’m not really of age for a couple of months.” He winces. “I made up all that stuff about Ben being nuts for your band so I could find out if the bar was going all-ages for the festival. That’s also why I was so late. My friend, Cody, said he could get me a fake ID, but he didn’t come through until the last minute. I almost had a heart attack when you wanted something to drink, because the bouncer barely glanced at the fake, but I was afraid the bartender would call the cops on me. I definitely can’t afford to get arrested right now.” He pauses. “Plus, you said something about ‘no kiddies allowed’ and then I really didn’t want to tell you.”

  “You’re twenty?” I don’t know why it seems so odd that he’d be younger than me, even by only a few months. I shake my head. I had no idea how much trouble he went to just to see my show. “Jacob, you know I was just kidding when I said that. You could have told me you couldn’t get into the bar.”

  “Not a chance. I meet a hot girl who is in an actual band, she invites me to their actual concert and I say, sorry, I’m too young to ride that ride?” He makes a face. “God, that sounds lame.”

  I grin, peeking up at him through my eyelashes. “You are so different than I pictured you.”

  He snorts. “Than you pictured me when? When I blew out your front window with my incredible athletic coordination?” He scrubs a hand over his face, groaning as he leans back against the kitchen counter. “It’s because I told you I was majoring in engineering, isn’t it? You thought I was this smooth, really witty dude and that cashed me in, didn’t it?”

  By the time he’s finished, I’m laughing too hard to answer. He seems nothing like the Jake Tate that the gossip mill knows.

  And maybe I don’t need to peek at whatever secrets he swept into his room to get a glimpse of the man he really is. When I first met him, I thought he was Jake Tate, hottie baseball player who set my hormones to singing. Devoted to his family, straight A’s in math-heavy engineering courses, he’s the kind of boyfriend you bring home to your mom wrapped in a red ribbon. But Jacob, with his painful blushing and love of vinyl albums and the fact that he grins at the bad pun on my shirt and not the boobs underneath? That kind of guy is more like a present made just for me.

  AS IT TURNS OUT, JACOB is an amazing cook when it comes to delicious, savory-sweet pasta sauce, but falls way short when it comes to how to deal with the pasta underneath.

  After the second pot of ruined noodles, my growling stomach and I tried to teach him the throw-the-pasta-at-the-ceiling trick to help decide when it was done cooking. But then we ended up boiling the third pot into oblivion because Jacob insisted that getting it to stick or fall down was all in the throwing style, which led to forty minutes of comparing wrist action and noodle length and extensive theory testing.

  His little brother, Ben, came home halfway through our clinical trials when the ceiling was raining spaghetti back down
at totally unpredictable intervals and the floor looked like the final exam for a Hazmat cleanup class. I had an excuse all queued up, but then Ben gave me a very teenagery raised eyebrow, which of course led to me throwing a piece of spaghetti—with unimpeachable wrist action—right in his face.

  Apparently pitching genes must run in the family, because that kid was hell on wheels in a spaghetti throwing contest, though after all Jacob’s hints about “family issues” I half-expected Ben to pull a knife. He seemed like an okay kid, though, his worst trait a blond flop of emo bangs that I had a hard time taking seriously. He retreated to his room instead of eating dinner with us, which is probably for the best since we were headed for WWIII-levels of edible warfare.

  In the end, Jacob and I had to cannibalize a couple of boxes of mac and cheese to get enough pasta for our spaghetti, but at least we didn’t go hungry.

  After that, we started watching Napoleon Dynamite, but it took us forever to get through the first half because we had to pause it for Jacob to tease me every time the grandma’s house in the movie had similar ‘70s decorating elements to my house. Then we started debating the soundtrack choices, which led to a long spree of contentious YouTube music videos. Plus, he had to replay the scene where Uncle Rico hits Napoleon in the face with a steak so he could explain why it was a terrible throw and a purely lucky hit.

  Now I’m falling through a blistering hot sky and I’m sick with the knowledge that I won’t survive the impact at the end.