by Amelie Bloom
“I wasn’t aware that I was under any obligation to do anything other than ensure you come out of this weird interlude unscathed.”
“I’m not talking professionally,” said Jax. “It’s a wonderful opportunity to learn something. I haven’t had this kind of time on my hands—well, ever.”
“If you’re gunning to become the world’s foremost authority on the history of America’s rail system, count me out.”
“That wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I thought you might teach me something you’re good at, and I’ll teach you something I’m good at.”
“You mean like cooking or something?”
“I’m not good at cooking,” said Jax.
“I meant me teaching you.”
Jax started laughing so hard I got a little insulted.
“Last night’s debacle was not representative of my skills,” I said. “Normally, I don’t boil things over, and cut myself, and—”
“Alright, I’ll reserve judgment until I have more to go on. I wasn’t thinking of you teaching me how to cook, though. I thought you could teach me self-defense. Don’t you do that sort of thing on the side?”
I had no idea Jax knew about my teach-yourself-self-defense video courses.
“I suppose,” I hedged.
“Good. I’ll teach you how to play the guitar,” Jax said as if the matter was settled.
As we pulled into the grocery store parking lot, I was tempted to tell him that I’d never had the slightest interest in learning to play the guitar, but he looked so happy sitting there in the passenger seat that I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth.
“Anything else you want?” I asked Jax when I’d found what I needed down the feminine hygiene aisle. Somehow, it seemed less awkward to go up to that checkout with something other than a solitary box of tampons.
“Rocky Road Ice-cream,” said Jax. “I haven’t had ice-cream in ages.”
In the end, we got Rocky Road, mint chocolate chip, and coffee caramel.
Back at the cabin, as I was putting away the ice-cream, Jax brought up his let’s-teach-each-other-a-new-skill idea again.
I’d hoped he’d let it drop. I was not eager to teach Jax self-defense. Teaching someone else self-defense is a highly-physical hands-on activity. I didn’t trust myself to put my hands on Jax and maintain a purely professional attitude.
This, I realized, was a very recent impulse. Never before when Hugo and I had broken up had I suddenly had the urge to put my hands on every man in sight. The fact that Jax was the only man for twenty miles made it even more of a problem.
“Sure, I can teach you a few things,” I told Jax. There was no nonakward way of turning down his suggestion.
“Great! Let’s start right after lunch.”
Lunch prep went more smoothly than the previous evening’s supper had. I did not boil anything over; I did not scald or cut myself. That may have been because we had ham sandwiches, potato chips, and ice cream.
Lilith would be horrified if she could see what I was feeding Jax. He was naturally thin, but he wouldn’t stay that way at this rate.
After lunch, I tried to keep busy and hoped perhaps Jax would forget about self-defense. He didn’t.
“So, when do we start?” he said.
“There really isn’t a good place to do this sort of thing,” I said. “normally, I’d use a big room with a mat on the floor.”
There was no big room. Jax suggested that we might go outside, but the ground around the cabin was rough and strewn with sticks and rocks. I was not about to send Jax back to Lilith covered in bruises, or worse yet, cuts on his famous face.
When I floated the idea of moving all the furniture out of the living room, Jax protested that was too much trouble. He was right. Trying to move that log furniture would probably result in back injuries. I wasn’t even sure that the couch would fit through the door. I suspected that it might have been assembled in place.
“How about my bed?” said Jax.
Chapter Thirteen
I must have stared at Jax in confusion because he quickly clarified his suggestion, “I mean we can use the bed instead of a mat. A bed is pretty much like a mat, and the only thing to hit up there in the loft is a bunch of boxes.”
It was a sensible suggestion, but I didn’t like it. Pinning Jax to his bed, or worse yet, prompting him to do the same to me seemed like a dangerous proposition.
There was no reasonable way of objecting, however, without admitting I was having not-so-professional thoughts about him, so after we’d cleared the remains of lunch away, I sent Jax up to strip his bed on the floor down to the mattress.
“All ready,” he called down to me.
I decided that I’d teach Jax how to get out of a chokehold. Somehow, it seemed less intimate to grab ahold of him from behind.
“This is called the bully choke,” I said as I stood behind Jax. “I’m going to teach you how to get out of it, but remember you can also use a chokehold should you need to incapacitate someone.”
I placed my left arm across Jax’s throat under his chin and grabbed onto that wrist with my right hand.
The bully choke is also called the rear-naked choke, but I wasn’t about to tell Jax that.
“I’m going to tighten the hold,” I told Jax. “If you start feeling like you can’t breathe, tap my arm.”
Unfortunately, I was the one who was having trouble breathing. Every time I took a breath, I caught a whiff of whatever it was Jax smelled like.
It was mostly shaving cream, I think, and it definitely shouldn’t be having that dramatic an effect on me, but it was all I could do to keep myself from burying my face in the back of his neck.
“When choking someone, you can grab one hand with the other,” I told Jax, “or lock your hand into your elbow.”
“I don’t feel like you’re trying to choke me,” said Jax, turning his head slightly.
Did he know I was having trouble keeping my mind on the task at hand? I hoped not.
I left my right arm wrapped around Jax’s throat and pressed into the back of his neck with my other.
“How about now?” I asked. “Do you feel like you’re choking now?”
Jax tried to pull down on the arm that was cutting off his airflow, and I released the pressure on the back of his neck.
“That’s the worst thing you can do,” I told him. “Unless you are much stronger than your attacker, pulling down won’t do much good.”
“Are you saying I’m weaker than you?”
I was saying that, sort of. Jax wasn’t weaker than me, but I’d bet on me in a street fight. All his instincts were wrong.
“Let’s try that again,” I said. “This time, tuck your chin down as soon as I wrap my arm around you.”
That went a little better, but I wasn’t done.
“This time, elbow me in the ribs on the same side as the arm I have across your throat. Not too hard. Remember, we’re just practicing a sequence of moves.”
“Like muscle memory.”
“Something like that.”
If I had to stay this close to Jax for him to do enough reps to succeed at building muscle memory, I might melt into a little pile of goo, right there in the middle of that mattress.
Either that or I’d burst into flames.
Down in Heavenly, they’d see a fireball ascending to the stratosphere. They’d probably think it was some backwoods meth lab going up in flames, but no, it would be me, spontaneously combusting from prolonged physical contact with the 12th sexiest man on the planet.
I was saved from immolation by a sharp jab to my ribs.
“That’s good,” I said, trying not to cringe. “But let’s save some of that enthusiasm for when I teach you throws.”
“So, I tuck my chin, elbow you in the ribs, and that’s it?”
“After you elbow me in the ribs, you stamp on my feet, and then when you feel my center of gravity shift
, you hook one of your legs behind one of mine and shove all your weight back to topple me over.”
“Sounds fun,” said Jax.
We went through the motions several times, until Jax said, “I think I have it, but what if the person who’s grabbed me from behind has a gun or a knife?”
“Then, it’s a judgment call.”
“Based on what?”
“How weak your assailant is and whether you can quickly gain control of the hand controlling the weapon.”
“Let’s try that scenario.”
I grabbed my hairbrush off my nightstand and used it as a simulated weapon.
The first several practice runs went smoothly.
Jax tucked his chin, elbowed me in the side, stomped my foot, and knocked me over onto the bed.
Each time, once we hit the mattress, I moved away, and he let me.
“Isn’t this pretty unrealistic,” said Jax.
“What do you mean?”
“If this really happened, wouldn’t I have to fight the attacker for the knife?”
Jax had a point, but I was trying to avoid rolling around on the bed with him while we fought over my hairbrush.
“You would probably have to do that,” I conceded.
“Let’s practice that, and don’t let me take it from you. Really make me fight you for it.”
Ten seconds later, I was doing exactly what I’d been trying to avoid all along: rolling around on a mattress with Jax.
“You win,” I said, giving up the hairbrush and rolling over to the edge of the mattress.
“You let me win,” said Jax. “How am I supposed to practice if you don’t even try to fight back?”
“If I fight back,” I said. “You won’t win.”
“I’ll bet you I can win. I’ll bet you whatever you want. Name your wish.”
Chapter Fourteen
Jax didn’t want to know what I was wishing for at that moment. I was vacillating between wanting to tear his clothes off and wanting to put a hundred miles between us.
“I don’t want to bet,” I said.
“Why not? Are you afraid of losing?”
I was afraid. I was afraid of losing my self-control and irreparably damaging our working relationship, but I could hardly admit to that.
“Bets you know you will win are no fun,” I said.
“Fine,” said Jax. “I was just trying to make this more interesting. Now, let’s try this one more time, and don’t let me win.”
This time, when Jax took me down to the mattress, I didn’t let go of the hairbrush; instead, I jabbed it into his chest.
“Round one: over. I just stabbed you in the heart.”
“Let’s try again.”
We repeated the procedure over and over. I stabbed Jax in the heart, shot him in the head, and cut him in the kidney, but he still persisted.
“You’re not likely to come up against a skilled assailant,” I said as I stood up and wrapped my arm around his neck for the twentieth time. “You’re good at taking me down to the ground, which is all you’re likely to have to ever do. In real life, all you’d have to do is get away unscathed.”
“Let’s try once more,” said Jax. “I won’t give up until I get that weapon from you.”
“Fine,” I said. “This time, we’ll just consider you to be immortal.”
Ten minutes later, I decided that the only way to end this thing was to let Jax “kill” me. Nobody had declared me to be immortal.
I accidentally-on-purpose let Jax get the hairbrush out of my hand, but I couldn’t just lay there and let him jab at me with it. He’d refuse to give up if I let him win that easily.
When he got the hairbrush out of my hand, he was on top of me, but I flipped us over, so I was straddling his torso and pinned his hands over his head, pressing down on them with all my bodyweight levered forward.
I’d intended to subtly let him get the upper hand again and weld the deathblow with the hairbrush, so we could get on with our day.
The next thing on my personal schedule was eating half a tub of ice cream. I deserved it.
However, Jax did not react by fighting back.
He went very still, and I was suddenly aware of how easy it would be for him to raise his head a few inches off the bed and kiss me.
He had the same look on his face as he had had that evening when he pulled the sweater over my head.
He wanted me.
And I wanted him.
I don’t know why I did what I did next. If I’d just gone ahead and kissed him on the lips like a normal person, it would have been far less mortifying.
But I am not a normal person.
I did not kiss him on the lips.
I bit him on the neck.
I may have also licked him a little.
Then I let go of his wrists and bolted for the stairs.
“Ice cream!” I said. “I must have ice cream.”
I couldn’t look Jax in the face, but I couldn’t hear him laughing. That meant one of two things: he was either angry or aroused.
“You ok?” Jax asked from six feet behind me. “You’ve gone a funny color.”
“How would you know. You can’t see me.”
I finally turned to look at him.
Jax wasn’t as red as a lobster, as I undoubtedly was, but the tips of his ears were very pink, and he was breathing fast.
“I’m fine,” I insisted. “I think that’s enough for today. I’m going out for a short walk. I need to do my daily check-in with Lilith. Lock the front door behind me and don’t open up to anyone.”
“You’re sure you’re ok?” Jax persisted.
I really should have been the one asking him that question.
“I’ll be fine as long as we never ever speak of what just happened.”
“What just happened?” Now Jax was laughing.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be sorry. I—”
“I have to go,” I said. “Don’t forget to lock the door behind me.”
I did need to check in with Lilith, but I also wanted to talk to Bianca.
As soon as I got far enough up the road to have cell coverage, I dialed my sister’s number.
When she answered, I could hardly hear her over the chaos.
“What’s going on in San Francisco?” I said. “It sounds like the little cretins are burning and pillaging the city.”
“It may sound chaotic,” said Bianca, “but believe me when I say that Timo has everything very much under control. He’s teaching us all how to make tamales.”
“Us? You’re cooking?”
I could hear Bianca moving away from the noisy kitchen.
“Are you crawling under the stairs again?” I asked.
“Of course not,” Bianca said as if she’d never considered such a thing. “I’m heading outside to the pool house.”
“Rob and Camille don’t have a pool house.”
“Pool house? Garden shed? Same thing.”
“What do you have to say to me that requires you to shut yourself up with potting soil and pruning shears?”
“Nothing, just looking for a little solitude.”
“So, tell me all about this Timo and his tamales.”
It sounded like a considerably saucier question than I intended it to be, and it put Bianca’s hackles up.
“I am the aunt, you know. I ought to do things with the kids since I’m here. Timo asked me if I wanted to help. It would have been rude to—”
Bianca was on the defense, and I was pretty sure I knew why.
“But you hate cooking,” I couldn’t resist pointing out. “You detest anything that so much as hints at domesticity.”
Bianca swears she’s never getting married. She won’t even entertain the notion of cohabitation. She claims that if she ever does wake up one morning and discover she’s made either of those fatal mistakes, she certainly isn’t going to compound it by turning her body into a manufacturing plant for rug rats (her words, not mine).<
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“It’s just tamales,” said Bianca. “Don’t make such a big deal about it. Why are you calling, anyway?”
“Do I have to have a specific reason to call my only sister?”
“No, but you usually do.”
I could tell that Bianca was trying to divert my attention from her sudden and uncharacteristic interest in the domestic arts, and I let her.
“I just needed to talk to someone,” I said.
“Talk away.”
Now that I had Bianca on the line, I didn’t know where to start.
“It’s about Jax,” I said.
“Did he finally make his move?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I might have made one?”
“What did you do, Abby? Did you kiss him?”
I wished that was all I’d done.
“I might have bitten my boss.”
“Huh?”
“On the neck. Like a vampire.”
I’d always pictured Jax as a pale, sexy vampire. Apparently, I’d gotten that wrong. I was the one with latent blood lust.
“It could have been worse,” said Bianca.
I started to ask how it could have been worse, but I didn’t want to listen to whatever colorful suggestions Bianca might have for how to greater humiliate myself.
The way things were going, there was a very real danger that the next time an opportunity presented itself, I might act on them.
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning right after breakfast, Jax insisted that it was time for my first guitar lesson.
I’m not musical. When I was six, my mother signed me up for piano lessons with Mrs. Hadley. After only two lessons, Mrs. Hadley suggested that perhaps I was not developmentally ready for music lessons.
That’s my mother’s story anyway. I’m betting Mrs. Hadley was not quite so diplomatic. After I turned eight, my mother tried again. This time, she dropped me off twice a week for a group flute lesson with Mr. Peter Porter (yes, that was his real name).
Mr. Porter would set my two fellow flutists and me off on such musical masterpieces as Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and Row, Row, Row Your Boat and then fall asleep in the recliner he kept in the corner of his living room. Looking back, I’m pretty sure Mr. Porter was drunk most of the time, something I’m surprised that my mother didn’t pick up on.
