by Kacey Shea
“Yeah,” she answers, and with that one word it’s as if she disappears. She avoids my gaze, looking a million miles away, and climbs off my body. “I’ll just . . .” She stares down at me, then the cuffs, before glancing toward the bathroom.
“Take care of yourself first. I’m good.” My lips lift in a grin and I waggle my brows in an attempt to put her at ease. “As long as you don’t leave me here all night.”
“Yeah.” She tries for a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and then she retrieves her clothes on the way to the bathroom without a backward glance.
Shit. She doesn’t regret being with me, does she? It was good for her, I swear it was. The second I felt her falling apart, her inner walls squeezing my cock, I let myself go too. But fuck, maybe I was overeager? That would be embarrassing. I no longer have the excuse of being a fumbling, inexperienced teen. Failing her twice would be a nail in the coffin of any chance of a future relationship or coupling.
What the fuck? We screw once and now I want her as my girlfriend? I don’t do relationships. Only, the thought of having Jayla as mine forever doesn’t sound bad. Not bad at all. In fact, it sounds glorious as fuck.
Damn it.
When Trent fell so hard for Lexi, I chalked up his obsession to weakness on his part. I mean, she’s a cool chick, but if this is what it feels like? If this is—dare I say it—love? Hell, I get why each of the guys toppled easier than a row of dominos.
The sound of the toilet flushing and the sink running pushes me to sit up on the couch. I’m making a mess all over these cushions, but I can’t even feel bad about it. Cupping my junk in my hands, I push to my feet.
I love her. I love Jayla. I always have.
The realization beats steady in my chest, filling me with a joy I can’t contain.
Jayla emerges from the bathroom seconds later. Fully dressed.
My excitement over my newly discovered feelings dulls at the sight of her reaching for her shoes and walking over to her bag. “Hey,” I say dumbly. “Where are you going?”
She digs into her bag and produces a set of tiny keys. “Back to my room.” She dangles the keys and presses her lips together. “But first, I’ll let you go.” She closes the space between us and I just stare, searching for some sign she’s bluffing. She doesn’t want to leave, does she? I don’t want this moment to be over. Not when we’re just getting started.
Her hands trail over my arms, caressing the skin around my sore wrists and scattering goosebumps in their wake. With two twists of the key, the metal restraints release and she drops my hands. I immediately mourn the loss of her touch.
“My bed is better,” I blurt out. It’s a ridiculous argument, but it’s the first that comes to mind.
Jayla’s gaze lifts to mine. “Austin, I can’t stay here.”
“You’re worried about the label finding out?”
“No.” She shakes her head once, and then nods. “Yes.”
“Jesus, Jay. You’re making me feel like shit. Was it—” I cup my junk again, all of a sudden feeling underdressed for this conversation, and maybe also a little inadequate. “Was it not good for you?”
“I just . . .” She exhales in a rush before meeting my gaze. “I don’t want to confuse this with what it is. We hooked up. Fine, we’re both adults. But we work together, Austin. Things are complicated enough.”
So, the sex was good. Thank God. “Because I swear you orgasmed first. I could have held off longer—”
She cuts me off with a short laugh. “Austin.”
“What?” I shrug. “I promised you a better performance than last time.”
“It was good.” She glances at my body and her eyes blaze with desire.
“Just good?”
“Best sex of my life.”
“Hold up. Let me get my phone so I can record it when you repeat that.” A shit eating grin stretches my lips.
She laughs heartily. “Oh, I’m never repeating those words.”
I hope she realizes the gauntlet she just laid down. Challenge fucking accepted.
“I need to go,” she says, and I can read the resignation in her eyes. As good as this was, she doesn’t want to stay here with me now. Fuck if that doesn’t hurt a little.
My mind races with a thousand ways to convince her how good we’d be together, but even I know that argument is better left for another day. Right now, I just want to be with the woman who rocks my entire world. “Stay for a while? We don’t have to sleep. I just don’t want you to go yet.”
She’s wavering. I can see it in the way she no longer eyes the door.
“Please.”
“I don’t know if I can.” The way she mutters those words . . . an irrational surge of protectiveness overcomes me.
“Why not?”
She swallows hard and glances at the floor. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I’ll stay.” The defeat in her features puts my entire body on edge. It’s not nothing. It never is.
“Come on.” I hold out my hand to her, relieved when she clasps it. I lead her into the adjoining bedroom, and then I let her go just long enough to retrieve a T-shirt from my bag and a pair of sleep shorts for me. “This’ll be more comfortable.” I hand her the shirt.
She holds it up, a laugh bursts from her lips. “I am not wearing this.”
“What?” I lift my brow; a surge of pleasure runs through my body at her laughter. “It’s a true statement.”
She scrutinizes the ‘I spent a night with Three Ugly Guys’ graphic tee. “People actually buy these?”
“One of our best sellers.” I grin.
She blows out a breath, rolls her eyes, and shakes her head, but in the end she ditches her shirt and slacks for the soft cotton. The fabric of my shirt hugs her curves and those fantastic breasts, but my favorite part is how it’s not long enough to cover her ass. I’m treated to a nice view of her butt cheeks, her sexy boy short underwear doing nothing to contain the luscious curves.
“Better?” I ask and plop down on the sheets. I prop the pillows at my back and then pat the empty space beside me.
She nods and climbs onto the bed.
The urge to hold her pushes my hand out to reach for hers. I smile when she doesn’t pull away. Turning onto my side, I study her gaze. My thumb traces soft circles over her hand, memorized by the contrast of my pale inked fingers against her dark skin. We’re opposite in so many ways, but we fit perfectly. “So, if the sex was good and you don’t totally hate being around me”—I lift my gaze to hers—“why’d you try and run?”
Her body stiffens. “I wasn’t running.”
“You know what I mean.” I go back to tracing patterns on her skin, letting the silence stretch between us.
“I don’t do sleepovers.”
But there’s more. She’s holding out on me. Protecting something or someone and I want to know. I want her to trust me enough to share. The vulnerability in her gaze is locked behind a fortress. By my guess, most leave before they make it through.
“Jayla. No more bullshit. Tell me. Why?”
Her jaw locks, and she pulls her hand from mine to wrap her arms across her chest. I wait her out, knowing she’ll explain when she’s good and ready. More minutes pass and my gut churns with fear. I won’t push her, but I won’t let her shut me out. Not anymore.
“It’s really hard for me to talk about,” she admits barely above a whisper. She pulls her knees to her chest, her back straight against the headboard. Her body is armed like a shield. But I can’t tell what she’s trying to ward off, me or something else.
“I’m right here.” I sit up, moving in front of her to sit cross-legged on the mattress.
She lifts her gaze. “I don’t want you to look at me differently. I don’t want your pity. This doesn’t define me. I’ve moved on. Done a lot of work to get to where I am.”
“Jay, you’re scaring me.” I hold out my hands and open my palms, hoping she’ll take them.
After a quiet moment, she does. “Don’t stop
looking at me the way you have been.”
“And how’s that?”
She blinks, emotion thick in her voice. “Like I’m perfect.”
Like it’s possible she could be anything but.
“Jay, I swear to you right now, I won’t ever stop looking at you like you’re perfect, because you are.”
She cringes at my words.
“You’re perfect to me. Always. It’s okay. Whatever it is. You can tell me.”
She takes one long look, as if she’s gauging me with a bullshit meter, and I must pass. When she finally glances away, she opens her mouth. From her beautiful lips she spills her secrets. Confesses everything in a voice so soft if I weren’t this close I might miss the words. In the safe space of this hotel suite, in the quiet of the night, she trusts me with her pain, her nightmare, her excruciating sadness, and I never stop holding her hands. I refuse to let them go because if I do she might realize she’s breaking my heart.
24
Jayla
Music plays, and my uncle swings his wife around the kitchen while the rest of the women laugh and cheer. My other uncle and his friends sit outside the open window with my dad. The small apartment patio makes the perfect place for them to smoke. The thick, humid air from early today is long gone, and the breeze cools the sweat along my neck. My cotton shirt sticks to my skin no matter how many times I pull it away.
“It’s late. Time for bed, Jayla.” My mama dismisses me from the room.
I longingly glance to where my older cousins crowd around the table with my brothers. Dealing cards, trading jokes, and having all the fun. After helping my aunt and Mama clean up from dinner, I hoped to join them.
“Can’t I stay up a little longer?” I all but beg, though it’s pointless.
Her lips tighten and form a thin line, the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth more prominent with her scowl. “No. It’s late. You need sleep for that test.”
My SAT scores are my ticket to a college scholarship. At least that’s my plan. Dad still hasn’t found work, but even when he does, it won’t be enough to pay for college. And after high school I need to do something that offers us a better life. I don’t want a future like my parents’, one of arguing, a mountain of debt, and having to move around so much. Mama and Dad haven’t stopped fighting even though we’ve been staying with my uncle’s family for over a month. I don’t understand why we even moved. Things were supposed to be better here, but they’re not. I miss my friends. I miss Austin.
“Fine.” I give off just enough attitude to let her know my dissatisfaction, but not enough that I’ll pay the consequences later. She’s right. I’ve studied too hard for the SATs and I can’t afford to fail. Begrudgingly, I stomp down the hall, sticking out my tongue, childish as it is, as my older brother Desmond grins. Boys have all the fun. He has to work early, but Mama won’t send him to bed for hours.
I change into clean underwear and a lightweight tank and shorts. It’s too hot for anything else, and in the room I share with my brother I’m not allowed to open the window more than a few inches. The neighborhood isn’t that safe. I dart across the hall to the bathroom, using the restroom and brushing my teeth before padding back to my room. I leave the door cracked, not because I’m scared or anything, but so I can hear down the hall.
I climb into bed and throw the covers off my body. Voracious laughter reminds me I’m missing out on all the fun. Stupid test. Stupid Mama. I’m not a child anymore. I’ll be seventeen next month, but, that doesn’t matter because they’ll always regard me as a little girl. That’s what happens when you’re the youngest.
The fan by my bed squeaks, the rhythm familiar, and despite my irritation and the party outside my room, my eyelids close with the heaviness of sleep. I don’t know how long they stay shut, but a prickle of unease pulls me to consciousness. The sounds of merriment down the hall mute as my door latches with a soft click.
There’s someone in my room.
My first reaction is to feign sleep. I can’t say why, other than I’m a little curious which of my relatives snuck into my room. Maybe it’s my brother? With my eyes closed, I focus on keeping my breathing even. I wish I weren’t sleeping on my stomach, or that my face wasn’t smooshed into the pillow. I’d be able to peek and see who it is.
My sense of hearing heightens but there’s no movement in my room, no sounds. I strain to listen and the click of my bedroom door lock practically slams in my ear. The same unease that woke me surges full force and sends goosebumps across my flesh. Desmond wouldn’t sneak into his own room. He certainly wouldn’t lock the door.
Get up! My mind commands, but my body doesn’t obey.
Not when the bed dips, and not when the weight of a hand presses against the back of my thigh.
It’s my leg. It’s his hand. It shouldn’t feel weird, but it does. I don’t know how, but I know it’s not my brother’s, or my parents’ either. The bed dips again. My heart beats hard and fast in my chest, so much I wonder if it might shake my entire body.
Whoever is here brushes my hair to one side. Breath, heavy and warm, blows across the back of my neck. It’s all I can do to not shiver. A body presses against my side, longer, bigger, stronger than me, but still doesn’t say a word. My neck grows hot from the stranger’s breath, and then a pair of lips presses down. They’re moist and move up toward my earlobe.
If I open my eyes I could make out his face. But I don’t. Instead, I hold perfectly still. So damn still. As if it’ll somehow stop this, or maybe I’ll wake up even though I know this isn’t a nightmare.
The kisses continue, and his body presses onto my back. I can feel his hardness. His arousal. I think I might be sick. The hand on my thigh skims higher, under my pajamas.
Get up! The command is loud in my mind but my muscles don’t move. He doesn’t go away, and I keep pretending this isn’t happening. Panic fills my lungs, making it almost impossible to breathe. His hands explore with sure movements. His touch is assertive, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing, and it only confuses me more. Why would he do this?
Scream! But my mouth doesn’t move. My eyes won’t open, either. I can’t bear to see his face.
Disgust coils in my gut, boiling and churning with each of his touches. But he doesn’t know. He can’t hear my thoughts, and he doesn’t stop. The pads of his fingers brush against my most private areas. My nipples harden, and the flesh between my legs grows wet. As much as I don’t want it to, my body reacts.
Shame. Heavy and thick, it douses my thoughts. Why can’t I push him away? I want to. I hate what he’s doing. I hate him for doing this, and all I want is for it to stop. But I’m mute.
I clench my eyes and block it all out. His breath. His touch. The audible squeak of the fan blades. I don’t want to be here anymore.
“Jayla,” Austin says.
In the safe space of this hotel room, I’m so caught up in reliving my nightmare aloud it takes the scrape of Austin’s voice to jolt me from my past.
“Don’t, okay?” I pull my hands from his, needing the space. “I don’t need your sympathy. It was a long time ago. I’m no longer that girl.” But that’s not entirely true. It’s why I don’t bring this up. Why I don’t ever talk or think about what happened. When I was telling Austin, it was as if I was back there again. Sixteen, frightened, and confused as my cousin assaulted me while my family celebrated unknowingly down the hall.
“I’m sorry for what you lost.” Austin swallows and the Adam’s apple of his throat bobs as if he’s fighting with his emotions. “What he took.”
“I didn’t fight him.” I brush off Austin’s concern with a whisper. I don’t want it. “I never said no.”
“No. Don’t do that. Don’t diminish what you lost.” His voice is rough. “You were a child.”
“He was only a few years older.” I swallow, my throat thick with the truth.
Austin levels his stare right in my face so I can’t miss his concern. “He didn’t have your consent.”
> I nod. Because that right there, it’s my why. It’s why I shut men out. It’s why I became a police officer. It’s why I agreed to making those damn videos with Austin.
“Did you tell your family?” He reaches forward, the pad of his thumb wiping a tear from the corner of my eye before it falls from my cheek.
I get a lockdown on my emotions. I don’t cry, not about this. The bastard who took my choice doesn’t deserve tears. He doesn’t deserve a second thought. I won’t give him that power over me, not anymore. “No. What could I say? They wouldn’t have believed me anyway.”
Confusion crosses Austin’s features. “Why? I thought you were close with your family.”
“Because”—I swallow the bitterness—“he was my cousin.”
Austin’s jaw tics with strain and he blows out a long breath. “Your cousin did that to you?”
I nod and recite the information I’ve long ago memorized. “Most sexual assault abusers are a friend or family member of the victim.” I clench my hands into fists, the pain of my nails as they dig into my skin keeping my mind in the present. “One in three girls and one out of every seven boys will be sexually assaulted by the time they turn eighteen.” It’s a sickening statistic. One I’m a part of, though more than likely it’s undervalued because most don’t report or tell. Like me.
“I’ll kill him,” Austin practically growls. His body is tense, muscles tight, and he’s obviously upset. His threat comes out more like a vow, and though it’s completely insane for him to commit murder for something that happened to me, a tiny part of me sighs in relief at not being the only person outraged about this.
“Hey, now. Don’t go making death threats with a former cop as witness.” My joke doesn’t bring even the hint of a smile to his lips.
“So, you what? Smile and give him hugs at Christmas?”