His kiss is electrifying. He pushes me back against the door, holding my throat with one hand and the bulge in my pants with the other. I’m helpless against the sensual onslaught, bucking into his hand and moaning into his mouth.
He lets go, moving both his hands to cradle my face. His kisses turn soft and sweet, full of the kind of tenderness that used to come easily between us, but that’s been too rare for too long.
“Ritchie,” he whispers. “God, Ritchie.”
“Take me to bed.”
He pushes me down to the bed and pulls my shirt over my head. His hands run down my chest, tracing my tattoos, as familiar to him as his own. He thumbs at a nipple, sending a new wave of lust through me.
“Give me your skin,” I demand, tugging at his shirt. He pulls it off and throws it over his shoulder, then slips out of his pants. Finally, he’s on top of me, chest to chest. Kissing me, loving me.
I stretch my hands over my head, and he grabs them and pins them down, then bites his way down my chest to my stomach. When he reaches the waistband of my jeans, he growls and lets me go. He yanks at the button so hard, I’m afraid for a minute it will go flying, but then somehow, he’s got my pants off and his mouth around me, and I’m dying from pleasure.
His tongue strokes me just the way I like before he sucks me. His movements are so eager, so excited, I know he’s near the edge. I run a hand over his shaved head, caressing gently even though it takes every fiber of my will not to thrust wildly into his throat.
“Jacks, fuck me,” I say. “Please. I really want to feel you inside me.”
He pulls off and shakes his head. “No lube.”
Of course not, it’s all still at our apartment—my apartment. Damn. “I bet the girls have some.”
“I’m not going through Nat’s bedside table looking for lube.”
“I’ll do it.” I start to stand, but he pushes me back down to the bed.
“Easy, tiger.”
He kisses me again and I get swept up in him. His hard dick pressing into mine. The barbell in his nipple brushing against my skin. His hands on my face, in my hair, stroking over my body.
“This is good,” he tells me. “Touching you. Kissing you. Thinking about how good it will feel when I can fuck you. Or when you can fuck me. But we can save that for another night. I’ve missed you so damn much, and all I want is to make you come.”
He makes his way back down my body and starts sucking me again, taking me so deep he starts to gag, which shouldn’t be a turn-on, but it is, God it is. His throat spasms against the head of my dick and I moan.
His fingers are moving, delving back behind my balls, and I widen my legs and lift my knees. He slides one spit-slick finger over my hole, tearing an impatient noise from me. He pushes inside, moving with unerring precision to massage my sweet spot as he swallows around the head of my cock.
“I’m gonna—”
His finger moves again, insistently, and I’m gone. Pleasure tears through me so violently, I thrust hard into his mouth, my hands landing on his head. He sucks me fiercely through it, wringing every last drop of come from me, and leaving me limp and exhausted.
He sits up, wiping at his mouth.
I tap my own, and smile as invitingly as I can since I’m pretty sure he sucked my skeleton out through my dick. He moves over me, bracing his hands on the headboard and pushing into my mouth, my throat. I relax my jaw and do my best to take him deep as his hips begin to pulse forward. Soon, he’s thrusting freely, his head thrown back as he fucks my mouth. One of his hands cradles the back of my skull as his pace quickens. I love the feeling of being used like this, after coming so hard, returning that pleasure to him is all I want in the world.
“I’m going to come. Your mouth is so fucking sweet—ah!” He shouts as he comes, and the bitter saltiness of him splashes on my tongue. I close my eyes and swallow, trying to take it all. Then he’s kissing me, his tongue sweeping through my mouth. I feel almost dizzy as I wrap my arms around him and hold him close.
We lie together for several minutes, running our hands over each other’s bodies as if to reassure ourselves that this is real.
But the air grows cool against my skin, and I reluctantly sit up. I cup his face in one hand and smile down at him.
“I have to go,” I say softly.
He nods. “I know.”
“Do you want to talk about this?”
He shakes his head. “Not tonight.”
“Okay. I love you.”
I gather my clothes and dress in silence as he watches me. When I slip on my shoes, he finally speaks. “Ritchie—”
I look up at him.
“I love you too.”
I lean over the bed and kiss his forehead. “We’ll talk soon.”
I can feel his gaze on me as I let myself out of the room. I shut the door behind me, only to run into Bex in the hallway. My face flushes deep red as her eyebrows arch up in surprise. She puts her finger to her lips and drags me into the kitchen.
“Were you and Jacks…?”
I can’t hide my smile.
She grins back. “I’m pulling for you, Ritchie.”
Chapter Sixteen
Chanda watches me quietly as I explain the events of the last week.
“Do you think I was wrong to go out with Sarah?”
She purses her lips. “Do you?”
I shrug. “I like her—and I didn’t know Jacks and I would—I don’t know. I feel bad. Guilty. Like I led her on.”
“You apologized to her for that. You still feel bad?”
“A little.”
“Tell me about Jacks.”
“He’s all we’ve talked about for weeks.”
She smiles. “Not really. We’ve talked about you. We’ve talked about Britney. We’ve talked about music. We’ve talked about the way you grew up with a single dad who you don’t talk to anymore and why. We’ve talked about Glitter Guerrillas and Vertical Smile.”
“There’s no way to talk about me without talking about Jacks,” I say. When she gestures for me to go on, I add “He tried to kill himself.”
“You told me that before—and that you think that was your fault?”
Do I? I know that I did—for months, I was sure it was my fault. That my hyper-vigilance had faltered. That when I noticed the razor blades in the medicine cabinet, I could have—should have—done more than ask him if he was okay.
“I did. I don’t know if I still do.”
“Why did you think it was your fault?”
“Because I missed it. Whatever the depression was doing to him, I didn’t realize. I was too absorbed in what was going on with the band and Natty and her stupid fucking job that kept her in this tiny box, that I missed the love of my life falling apart.”
“And now?”
I shake my head. “He told me last week that he kept it from me. That he was scared of losing me, so he let me think he was okay when he wasn’t. He’s in therapy now and on medication. He was honest with me for the first time about what his depression does to him.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I understand that it’s easier to miss something that’s being actively concealed from you.”
“Okay, great, but you didn’t answer the question.”
“I’m angry—but less angry than I was. I’m sad. I’m hurt. I don’t think the pain of almost losing him will ever completely go away. I love him. And I’m absolutely terrified that one day he’ll have a day so bad he can’t free himself from it without leaving a Jacks-shaped hole in my life.”
“Do you trust him to speak to his doctors and his therapist before it gets that bad?”
I blow out a breath and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t know.”
“Fair enough. We’re almost out of time. Obviously, this is up to you and Jacks, but I think it would be helpful if Jacks joined you for your next session.”
I glance up at her in surprise. “Like a couples session?”
“
I think you need to address some of the issues in your relationship in a mediated environment.”
“So we don’t end up fighting or fucking because we’ll be on our best behavior?”
Her smile is genuine. “You said it.”
“Okay. I’ll ask him to come.”
I’m getting ready to head to work that afternoon when the doorbell buzzes. Britney barks at the sound, taking me by surprise. I’m not expecting anyone, and the only people who drop by unannounced have a key.
I glance through the peephole and it’s a chubby old white guy I don’t recognize. I open the door enough to speak, holding Britney back with my foot.
“Can I help you?”
“I certainly hope so. I’m looking for Jackson Williams. This is his address of record. Is he home?”
Interesting that the guy knows I’m not Jacks. “Who’s asking?”
He holds out a business card and I take it. James Cornell, Esq.
“You’re a lawyer?”
“Yes. I represent the estate of Jackson Williams Jr.”
My blood rushes in my ears. Jacks is a third. I knew that, but I hadn’t thought about the fact in years. And his father is dead. I open the door. “You’d better come in then.”
I grab Britney’s collar and hold her back as he comes inside. “Jacks isn’t here. Honestly, I don’t think he’ll want to talk to you.”
The man sighs. “I’ve known Jacks Williams since he looked like a beach ball under his seventeen-year-old mother’s sundress. I’ve known his father even longer than that. I empathize with your friend. I would like to wash my hands of the whole damn family for once and for all. Finding Jacks is imperative. Can you have him meet me here?”
“He tried to kill himself the last time he saw one of his parents. He won’t care that his father is dead. He never wanted to see any of them again anyway.” I watch his face, notice how he winces but doesn’t seem surprised by the suicide attempt. I continue. “I’ll pass along the news. You can go back to New Jersey and retire for all I care.”
“You don’t understand. I represent his father’s estate.”
“So?”
The lawyer scowls at me. “Jackson’s parents divorced three years ago.”
“So fucking what?” I seriously want to deck this motherfucker if he doesn’t just say what he came here to say.
“Jackson is the decedent’s sole living relative. Under New Jersey state law, he inherits his father’s estate in its entirety.”
“Oh.” Holy shit.
“Can you have him meet me here? Or at my office?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you tell me where he is?”
“Fuck, no. I’m not letting anyone ambush him. Not even for a million dollars.”
The lawyer’s lips twitch in a smile. “The estate is significantly larger than that, but I’d also prefer not to ambush him. You have my card; you’ll give it to him?”
Significantly larger than a million dollars. My brain short circuits on that for a moment. Jacks is rich rich.
“One question—why would Jacks’s dad leave him everything? He could have named anyone in his will.”
He smiles. “Mr. Williams hadn’t updated his will in many years. Everything was left to his wife, but the divorce negates the spousal claim, which means everything goes to his closest living relative. That’s Jacks.”
“I’ll talk to him. I’ll give him your card. That’s all I can do.”
“Thank you.”
After he leaves, I sit on the bed for a long time, staring at the card. Jacks is a millionaire. I can’t wrap my brain around what that means. Ten years ago, we were both sleeping on sofas. Then it hits me even harder: his father is dead. Jacks will never have to see him again. That thought sends a fierce satisfaction through me.
I call Jacks.
“Hey, what’s up? You never call like this.” Without texting first, he means.
“We have to talk—and I think you should bring Bex.”
“What? Why?”
“I have something important to tell you, and I don’t want to tell you over the phone.”
“Is everything okay? Did something happen? Are you okay? You’re scaring the shit out of me, Ritchie.”
“Everything is fine. I’m fine. Don’t be scared.”
“Fuck that. You call me up and tell me we have to talk, and I should bring the only lawyer we know—”
“Jacks. I’m not leading you into an ambush. Just meet me at Bridgeview, okay? I’ll be there helping Farrah with the inventory this afternoon.”
“Are you sure everything is okay?”
“I promise. Text me when you’re on your way, and I’ll let you in.”
It’s almost four o’clock when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Jacks: we’re here.
I open the door to the bar, and we make our way back to the green room. Jacks is prickly and annoyed with me, every line of his body rigid. I don’t blame him, but I also couldn’t tell him that his father died over the phone. Bex looks curious, but her expression is grave as she meets my gaze.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Jacks demands as the door shuts behind him, crossing his arms over his chest.
There’s no easy way to tell him. I can’t lead with condolences because I’m not fucking sorry. Damn it.
“Your dad is dead. His lawyer came looking for you.”
He freezes, his body rigid, his face pale. Did I do this wrong? He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and then he sits down on the couch and lets out a heavy breath. Bex sits next to him and takes his hand.
“Good,” Jacks says quietly, and I’m filled with relief. The hard part is over. I’m not sure whether I expected him to freak out or cry or what, but his quiet acceptance reassures me.
“There’s more. You need to speak to his lawyer, Jacks. About his estate.”
Bex looks up at me, understanding on her face. She murmurs something in Jacks’s ear, and he shakes his head.
“Fuck his rotting corpse. I don’t want anything.”
“Jacks, it’s all yours. Everything.”
“I don’t want it. I don’t want his money or his house or his companies or any of it. I don’t want it.”
“It’s not that easy, Jacks.” Bex says softly. “Whether you want those things or not, they legally belong to you.”
He stands and starts pacing, periodically stopping to glare at me. “What about his wife?”
I note that he doesn’t call her his mother. I can’t blame him for that. “They divorced three years ago.”
A storm of emotions scatters across his face. “What am I supposed to do? I don’t know what to do, Ritch.”
I reach for him, and he moves into my arms. He’s not crying, but his whole body shakes with emotion as he wraps his arms around me. I run my hands up and down his back, gentling him.
“You can take the money and do good things he would hate with it,” I suggest. He laughs weakly, then steps away from me.
“This is real, isn’t it?”
I slip the lawyer’s card from my pocket and hand it to him. “I’m afraid so.”
“James Cornell.” He scowls. “Do you remember him? From the emancipation hearing?”
I think back to that day, how scared Jacks had been to face his parents. But they’d only sent a lawyer. A lawyer who had referred to me as trailer trash dick. The shame and defiance I’d felt in that moment came rushing back.
“Yeah. He looks different now. He’s an old man. I didn’t recognize him.”
“It’s hard to forget the face of the person who tells you your parents don’t want you. Not that I didn’t already know.”
I pick up his hand and trace my fingertips over his wrist, and the word etched on his skin in my own handwriting. Freedom.
He meets my gaze, and his face crumples. I hold him tightly as sobs wrack his body. I know he’s not grieving the man who had every chance to be a father to him and failed, but he�
�s grieving something all the same. I take the storm of his grief, shelter him with my body, and tell him I love him. I whisper it in his ears and murmur it in kisses across his face. I run my hands along his shoulders and rub his back until his sobs quiet and he sighs against my neck.
When he steps away from me, his eyes are red, but his face is calm. “Thank you.”
He looks behind me at Bex, who sits quietly with her hands folded in her lap. “Can you practice law in New Jersey?”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Can you handle this for me?”
“I can.”
He hands her Cornell’s card. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know what I should do. But I like Ritchie’s idea of doing good things he would hate.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” She stands and puts a hand on the side of his face. “I’m very good at that kind of thing.”
“Thank you.”
She hugs him then, and he hugs her back. I’m glad she doesn’t offer him condolences—Bex understands what it’s like to have a toxic relationship with a parent, even if she did reconcile with hers. “I’m going over to the Thorns to borrow an office so I can get started on this. Call me if you need anything.”
“Okay.”
On her way out, she stops and squeezes my hand without saying anything. I squeeze back.
The door closes behind her. Jacks sits on the couch and stares at nothing, or maybe everything. All I know is that whatever he sees isn’t in the room with us. I sit next to him.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to talk?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“No.”
So we sit, in silence, while he absorbs all the ways his life is about to change. Gradually, his arm comes around my shoulders and his head rests against mine. “I never have to worry about seeing him again.”
“No, you don’t. Jacks—” I pause, uncertain how to ask the question on the tip of my tongue. “You told me once you don’t believe in regrets. The last time you saw your father—”
“The last time I saw my father, you threatened to break his nose. I still don’t believe in regrets.”
Out of Sync Page 18
