by Kylie Scott
"What?" My mouth fell open. "What do you mean, you're not risking it with me?"
"The coffee machine." He grabbed a cushion and stuffed it behind his fat head, changing through to the first channel. A cooking show.
"Keep going." I liked food. I just didn't particularly want to be the one to have to make it. My mom had always done the cooking at home, suited me fine. "I barely touched the coffee machine. That was some weird random mechanical fault on the part of the universe."
"Whatever."
Next was some old 80s made-for-TV movie. You could tell by the hair, it was so high and dry looking. What wonders a keratin treatment would have done for those poor women. And the ginormous shoulder pads, yikes.
"Keep going, please," I said. An old episode of Vampire Diaries flickered on next. "Ooh, Ian, you're lovely. But I've already seen this one so keep going."
"Thank fuck." Jimmy punched the button and on came a nature documentary. Or at least I hoped that's what it was given a shiny black stallion mounting a slightly terrified-looking mare took up the screen.
"Hey, it's just like that shirt you borrowed off Mr. Ericson!" I clapped with joy and a slight amount of malice. "Horses humping, that's beautiful."
"You like that, do you?" his sly voice asked.
With the press of a button, miles and miles of bare and bouncy flesh filled the wide screen. With the exception of the woman in the man sandwich's boobs. Those puppies stayed eerily gravity-defying still. And unlike mine, they weren't the least bit pointy.
"That's so sweet," I sighed. "Nothing says true love like D.P."
Jimmy sniggered and changed the channel, cars roared around a racetrack.
"Why is it so many men have the sense of humor of a smelly, pimple-faced, barely pubescent little jerk?" I pondered aloud.
"You don't find that charming?" He asked, brow raised.
"Weird of me, I know." I snagged a cushion and cuddled it to my chest. "I had this boyfriend once who thought it was amusing to ... actually, no. I don't want to tell that story. Ever."
"Go on."
"No. I'm happier pretending he never existed. Let's leave my shameful dating choices in the past."
"That's hardly fair," he said. "You know enough of my shit."
Before I could form a reply Formula One turned into Downton Abbey and I squeed with excitement. "Stop here. Stop!"
Jimmy winced, rubbing his ear. "For Christ's sake, use your inside voice."
"This is a great show." Two of the show's lovers were chatting, decked out in the usual glorious English-gentry-type gear. Awesome. "And particularly pertinent to our situation, I think."
"Huh?" Lip curled, he stared at the screen, distinctly unimpressed by the splendor. Plebian.
"It's all about life in a turn-of-the-century noble house in England."
"Yeah. The castle and what they're wearing kind of gave it away."
"Aren't the dresses beautiful?" I hugged my cushion happily. I'd live and die in jeans, but it was nice to dream. "See, there are the wealthy lords and ladies who have everything and their servants, who have zilch and have to run around after the lords and ladies, catering to their every whim with barely a thank you all day long. I mean, they're basically treated like second-class citizens and completely taken for granted by their bosses. Isn't that barbaric?"
My irony-laden comment garnered a lone grunt. Though to be fair, he could put a lot of emotion into a grunt, quite a variation of tone and character. The way Jimmy did it, it was almost a sentence, a story. He turned being a caveman into an art form.
"And that's Lady Mary." I pointed at the screen. "She says all sorts of horrible things that she doesn't mean, always hiding behind this snotty, rude persona. When really underneath she's got a tender warm heart and a conscience just like everyone else. Doesn't that sound similar to someone we know?"
"You talk a lot." He yawned. "We watching this or what?"
"You'll watch this with me?"
"It's kind of nice having the company." He kept his eyes on the screen. I thought I detected a hint of somber to his voice. Perhaps Ev had been right and he was lonely. Often the guys were coming and going during the day, but with Mal spending some time in Idaho with his family, the band was on a break. Jimmy had been more fidgety than normal, at a loss for what to do with himself. Even normally, however, nighttimes were quiet in the big house.
"Yeah, it is," I said.
We sat in silence for a while, both of us studying the screen. Well, with the exception of me occasionally slyly studying him. I'd be an expert in covert relations by the time I finally left Portland.
He'd shoved his hands back behind his head, face relaxed and eyes open. Interestingly enough, he apparently got caught up in the period drama. Went to show you shouldn't judge people. It was nice--companionable--sitting there with him as opposed to hanging alone in my room. I'd have to do it more often. For his sake of course.
"Sure you don't want to call David?" I asked.
The edge of his mouth turned downward. "I can put the game back on real easy if you like."
"None of my business, you're right. Let's just enjoy the show in silence, shall we?"
"Let's," he said in his deep voice.
# # #
Four days later ...
"Lena, you seen my old black Led Zep shirt?"
"Nope."
"You sure?" His brows became one dark cranky line. The scratches on his face were healing well, thank goodness. Though it didn't reduce my desire to throttle his mother on a daily basis.
"Yes. I haven't seen it."
"Can't find it anywhere..."
"And this is a surprise, how?" I slipped my hands into my back jean's pockets. "Jimmy, you own more clothing than Cher, Brittney, and Elvis, put together. Things are bound to go missing."
"Sure you haven't seen it?"
"For goodness sake, what do you think, Jimmy? That I stole it to sleep in or something?" I laughed bitterly. Sure as hell, the truth deserved a good mocking. I'd sunk so despicably low.
I hadn't even meant to steal the stupid thing, but the shirt had been mixed up with my laundry a few days ago. It'd been the first top I laid my hand on after stepping out of the shower, ready to go to bed. Without thought, I'd put it on and it'd been so soft, the scent of him lingering beneath the laundry detergent. Every night since, I'd found myself in it come bedtime. My shame knew no limits. And no, I still hadn't quit. The words still hadn't come even close to leaving my mouth.
He frowned. "No."
"That I have some deep secret longing to feel close to you resulting in my stealing your shirt like some creepy perv?"
"Course I don't fucking think that," he replied crankily, reaching up to grip the top of the doorframe. All of his bulging muscles stretched the arms of his white T-shirt in the nicest way. It was all I could do not to start drooling, my heart beat taking up residence somewhere down between my thighs. And who could blame it? Not me. Maybe if I got laid, this would go away and things would return to normal. It'd seemed safer to avoid rubbing up against any men just in case I got carried away and started dating again. This new situation, however, changed everything.
"Well, of course not! That would be crazy." And wasn't that the god's honest truth? Cray-zeee. Lock me up and throw away the key because it wasn't like I didn't know better.
"Just can't figure out where the hell it could be."
Angels couldn't have smiled as innocently. They might have tried, but they would have failed, the dirty-mouthed, winged, little liars. "Jimmy, I don't know where it is. But I'll look around for it later, okay?"
"Yeah," he said, and then added as an afterthought, "and stop looking at me weird."
"I'm not!"
# # #
Six days later ...
"No, c'mon," he cried. "I saw that. That was a look."
"What?"
"You looked at me." His pointy threatening finger sat beneath my nose.
I smacked it away. "I'm not allowed to look at you? Rea
lly? Is this like one of those strange directives you hear about famous people having? No one's allowed to talk to you or look at you, and there must be bowls of chocolate pudding everywhere you go from now on?"
His eyes narrowed.
I might have felt a smidgeon of guilt deep down inside. But this was about survival, I had no choice.
"I'm not on anything and I'm not gonna flip out again," he muttered.
"I know that."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"So then it's not me, it's you."
Sirens and alarm bells rang inside my head. "What are you even talking about?"
"Deny it all you want, but I'm right. Something's going on with you," he said in a low voice. "I don't know what the fuck it is. And I don't want to know. I just want it to stop. Got it?'
"Jimmy, seriously, nothing's going on." I wound up my long hair and tied it into a loose knot, keeping my hands busy less their shakiness betray my guilt, the bastards. "And have you called David back yet? He called again. I'm getting tired of making excuses for you."
"I've been busy." He turned his back on me, staring out the window. "And I pay you to make excuses for me."
"I think I'm going to start charging you extra for lies. Someone needs to pay for the stain on my soul."
No reply. His broad shoulders seem to be bent beneath some weight, his spine bowed. Not good. This was a mood I apparently couldn't joke him out of.
"You know you've been really tense lately," I said. "Why don't I book you a massage? Wouldn't that be nice? And then afterward, we could chill out and watch some TV."
He watched me over his shoulder, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Sure, sounds good. I'm going for another jog."
"It's raining."
"I won't melt." Without further ado he left, disappearing into the hallway. He was right of course, something was going on with me. What was going on with him and his brother concerned me much more.
# # #
Seven days later ...
"You're doing it again!" Jimmy stopped mid push-up, sweat dripping off his handsome face. "I'm not imagining it. You're fucking doing it again."
"Hmm?" I replied calmly, sitting at the kitchen counter. Black-and-white Italian marble because only the best would do for Jimmy. His house was expensively, luxuriously austere to a fault. Three levels of stark grey walls on the outside and black-and-white decor within. It basically looked like a post-modernist had thrown up in here and the decorator decided to call it a day. As if a splash of color would kill anyone. I was half-tempted to start buying obnoxiously bright rainbow-colored accessories, cushions, and a vase or two, and leave them around the house in protest just to see what he'd do.
"You are looking at me weird all the time."
"No, I'm sorting your email. A different thing entirely." I pried my gaze off his hot (in every sense of the word) body and returned it to the laptop. "Oh, look. Lingerie Girl has sent you another picture. A demi-bra this time, hot pink with tassels. I think the tassels are a nice touch. She's even attached a video of her making them swing. Such a thoughtful girl."
"Delete it."
"But what if she says something important?"
"She's a complete stranger sending me pictures of herself nearly naked dancing and bending over furniture."
I hummed. "Yes, today we have a washing machine. Very sexy in a domestic erotica sort of way. A powerful statement about feminism, I think. This woman is deep."
"Right." He resumed his exercising. "This woman is not gonna say anything I need to hear."
Outside, a bolt of lightning lit up the sky, making me jump. The crash of thunder came next.
"That was close." I watched him carry on regardless of nature's showing off. "Some of your fans are loco. Luckily, others are just delightful."
A grunt.
The problem with the push-up lay within the way it pretty much mimicked the act of sex. (Lay. Heh.) All the sweating, straining, and up and down of the pelvic region. It was disgusting, shouldn't be allowed. Also, I really needed to get laid or find someone willing to hold hands with me at the very least. Maybe I'd reached the limits of physical depravation and I was touch starved. God, I hoped that was all. Him holding me before the funeral had awakened certain needs I sadly couldn't meet on my own. Nor was spending more time with him helping. We'd pretty much fallen into a habit of hanging out together each night, debating who got to choose what we'd watch.
It was nice. Too nice.
Last night when I'd wandered into the living room he'd actually almost smiled and shifted about in his corner of the couch. Like he'd been waiting on me or something, anticipating my arrival. I had to be reading the signals wrong. I'd given him a clumsy grin, sat down, and endured a quarter of football before my wits returned, I'd been so surprised. Even if I was wrong, it might just be time to break the ban on men, sex, and romance. Or at least with regards to the men and sex parts. I couldn't keep mooning after Jimmy like a smitten teenager. Problem was, time spent with him just soothed something in me. Some need for companionship or a yearning for the friends I'd left behind when I'd decided to head out into the big bad world a few years back. When everything had gone to shit.
If only he wasn't so nice to perv on. I crossed my legs, squeezing my thighs together. Sweat darkened the thin cotton of his shirt and the material stuck to him outlining each and every muscle. Man, he had a lot of them, his arms for instance ...
"Lena!"
"What?"
"Stop it."
My mouth slammed shut.
"You're watching me all the time and it's fucking creepy. I can't take it anymore."
Oh God, he was right.
I watched him constantly, I couldn't help myself. And when I couldn't watch him, I thought about him. Mostly about how I didn't want to feel anything for him, but it still counted. I was losing it. Actually, I'd already lost it back in Coeur d'Alene to be brutally honest. My stupid heart stuttered as if to second the sentiment. All the sappy feelings for him in me were growing by the day, squeezing out every last vestige of common sense.
This couldn't continue.
I could not go through this again.
"I have to go," I muttered. The thought of leaving him was like having my heart dug out with a plastic spork, but what could I do?
He paused. "What?"
"I mean ... I'm tired and I work very hard. You think dealing with your fan mail is easy?"
"No one asked you to deal with my fan mail. You took that job on yourself."
"Well, I can't just follow you around all day doing nothing. I need mental stimulation."
With an exasperated sound, Jimmy jumped up in an overly athletic fashion. Show off. I bet he was amazing in bed. No, forget that, he'd be a selfish lover, too busy staring at himself in the mirrored ceiling to see to the business at hand. Between my legs just needed to calm the hell down.
Little lines appeared between his brows. "Explain to me how checking out pictures of chicks dancing around in their underwear is mentally stimulating for you. I need to hear about this."
"They're not all like that. Some of them are quite nice and just want a signed picture of you or a 'thanks for contacting me, glad you liked the album'. You were ignoring them. It was rude."
"Management can deal with them. And if you're tired, go take a nap and get out of my face with your weirdness." He looked at me like I was dwelling on the wrong side of the insane asylum walls. Fair enough, really.
"Fine." I jabbed at the keyboard, shutting the laptop down. "I will."
"Christ, you're moody lately. Worse than me."
I barked out a laugh. "Jimmy, did you just actually make a joke at your own expense?"
The side of his mouth curled up the tiniest bit. Good god, was that a flash of dimple? My pulse rocketed like it was the Fourth of July. I fucking loved dimples. They were so lickable, so divine.
"Lena," he growled.
Instantly, I got wet. "Sorry. I just ... what is that?"
I
stopped and sniffed at the air. There was a strange smoky smell in the room lingering beneath the musk of Jimmy's sweat and the remnants of his cologne. I thought my imagination must be playing tricks on me, but no. My heart sunk to the depths of my chest. As signs went, this wasn't a good one.
"What's what?" he asked.
"The cigarette smell." I stood, wandering around the table. "It's coming from you."
He sat back on his haunches. "Don't know what you're talking about."
"It's also coming from your jacket."
His gaze jumped to the item of clothing in question, left hanging on the back of a kitchen chair. It was a gray all-weather one, nothing fancy though I bet it cost a bomb. Perfectly suitable for skulking about outside to have a smoke. He licked his lips, eyes suddenly cagey. "Lena..."
"You've started smoking again, haven't you?"
"Don't require your permission. I can do what I like."
"Then why have you been hiding it from me?"
He jumped to his feet, brushed off his hands. "'Cause it's none of your business."
"Guess again, bud. You and your health is exactly my business."
Hand extended, he reached for the jacket. Sadly, for him, I was well ahead of the game there. I clasped the coat to my chest, rifling through pockets one-handed. It couldn't have been going on for long. Still, I should have been paying more attention, been on it the minute it began.
"Give it to me," he said, tugging on a stray sleeve.
I liberated the gold cardboard box from a side pocket and held it behind me, out of his reach. "No more, Jimmy. You've worked so hard to get healthy, you are not losing ground now."
"You going to bitch at me about drinking coffee next?" He tossed the jacket aside, well riled up. His damp hair hung in his face, eyes flashing fury. "It's just the occasional fucking cigarette. I've given up everything else. Hand them over, Lena."
"You know you shouldn't be smoking. That's why you look so guilty."
"I do not look guilty," he said, voice terse and face guilty as all god damn hell. "I'm a grown man and I repeat, this is none of your business."
"I care about you." I quickly dashed back away from him, putting some room between me and the angry rock star. The nice big eight-seater kitchen table made a suitable barricade. Though ideally an electric fence would have been best given the look on his face. A cattle prod wouldn't hurt either.
