Fighting Jacob

by Shandi Boyes

  Grinning, Maggie nods. The pure joy on her face prompts me as to why I’m visiting a bar in the middle of the afternoon. After digging out the envelope Emily gave me earlier, I hand it to Maggie. She peers at it curiously before carefully prying it open. The more she scans the elegantly gilded document inside, the wider her pupils become.

  “They're getting married, and I’m invited!” She slaps her hand over her mouth in silent apology to every patron in Mavericks. She just pierced their eardrums. Her remorse is a forgotten memory when she scans the rest of the invitation. “They’re getting married next week—in Vegas!”

  She sounds as shocked as I was when Emily told me her plans. “Yes, next weekend. Noah doesn’t know – it’s a secret. Emily wanted to give you your invitation herself, but since she has to plan a wedding in a week, I offered to deliver it. She wanted me to tell you they would be honored if you could attend, but they understand if it’s too short of notice.”

  “I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it.” My eyes track her when she races to the side of the bar. “Ollie, I have to finish early.”

  Ollie mumbles something back, but I don’t catch anything he says.

  Once she has her jacket on, Maggie returns to my side of the bar. “Tell Emily I graciously accept her invitation.” With the giddy grin, she plants a kiss on my cheek before darting out of the bar like a woman on a mission. “I have a dress to buy!”

  I’m still smirking over her excitement when "G'day, Jacob" sounds over my shoulder.

  I swivel in my seat to face Flynn, lead singer of Wanting Wombats. “G’day, Flynn.”

  He laughs at my piss poor attempt at an Aussie accent before nudging his head to his bandmates sitting at the table that used to belong to Rise Up. “Wanna join us for a beer?”

  “Sure.”

  For the next hour, I share beers with Flynn and his bandmates. It took me a while to catch on to their Australian lingo, but after Flynn explained a few key pointers, I caught on. Sheila is a girl; having a root is having sex, and a ute is a truck. So when the bassist said, "You should have seen the Sheila I was rooting in my ute last night," he meant to say, "You should have seen the girl I had sex with in my truck last night."

  "What about that Sheila who used to work here? She was fine. Didn't you take her home one night?"

  Flynn rubs his hands together at Paul’s question. “Oh yeah, she was fine. Her rack still holds the number one spot in my spank bank.”

  I spit out the beer I just swigged. “You’re the lead singer of a band, so why do you need a spank bank?”

  “Don’t judge, mate. If you saw this girl, you would add her to your spank bank as well. She was an easy eleven out of ten.” When his eyes glaze over as if he’s recalling her in his spank bank right now, I relocate my barstool. His bandmates laugh, nearly drowning out what he says next, “She has a little butterfly tattoo tucked away, so only the privileged get to see it. It’s just down here.” He yanks down the waistband of his jeans before pointing to his right hipbone.

  I slam down the beer, almost cracking it in the process. I tell myself time and time again plenty of girls have butterfly tattoos on their hips, not just Lola, but nothing calms the storm brewing in my gut.

  “What did you say her name was again?” I stare at Flynn, silently fucking praying he doesn’t say Lola.

  “I didn’t, but her name matches her perfectly.” Time stands still when the name I’d given anything not to hear rolls off his tongue. “Lola.”

  “When?”

  Noticing the abrupt change in my composure, the hazy look into Flynn’s eyes switches to unease. “It was a while ago, mate, maybe last year?”

  With my heart close to tatters, I rocket out of my seat and storm toward the parking lot at the back of Mavs.

  “Or the year before?” Flynn yells just as I burst through the wooden doors as fast as Maggie did an hour ago.

  I punish my ignition with my key before taking out my frustration on my engine. My foot barely lifts from the floor of my car, meaning I arrive at Lola's apartment in record-breaking time. She still lives in Erkinsvale, but she moved into her own apartment a few months back. I thought her decision to move out of her parents’ home was for privacy—neither of our cars are ideal for our steamy hookups—but now I’m wondering if that privacy was solely for me or are other men occupying her time when I’m not around?

  After taking three flights of stairs two steps at a time, I bang furiously on her paint-peeling front door. My anger takes a step back when she opens the door with a beautiful smile on her face. “Hey, Jacob.”

  The lust detonating in her eyes frustrates me more than it comforts me. We had no plans to meet up today, so why is she pleased about my unannounced arrival? That's not the Lola I know. I risk having my nuts dissected with tweezers if I infringe on her "private" time, don’t I?

  I take two steps into her apartment before pivoting to face her. The hankering gleam in her eyes falters when I scratch my brow. “Is everything okay—?”

  “Did you sleep with Flynn?”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Lola

  I take a step back, shocked. With how much time has passed, I completely forgot about the time I left Mavericks with Flynn. Although Jacob’s anger is understandable, especially if he has the timelines confused, he has no right to question me. For months, I overheard play-by-play rundowns on the girls he “dated” when our friendship had a prolonged break, so if anyone has the right to be angry, it’s me, not him.

  “Did you sleep with Flynn?!” This time around, he asks his question so loud, half the population of Erkinsvale hears it.

  It also makes my anger skyrocket. “You need to leave.”

  With my gut a twisted mess of confusion, I move back to my foyer to show him the way out. He’s been here many times the past few months, so he knows the way, but I’m so close to snapping, I either show him out or kick him out forever.

  When I nudge my head to the hallway outside my apartment, Jacob shakes his head. “No. Not this time. I’m sick of your stubbornness. For once, answer my fucking question. Did. You. Sleep. With. Flynn?”

  Big, angry breaths separate his words, but it does little to quell my bubbling anger. “You have no right to question who I have or haven’t slept with! We’re not even a couple!”

  He moves to stand in front of me, his strides heavy and angry. “We’re not a couple?”

  “No, Jacob, we’re not.” I bite the inside of my cheek, hating the quiver my words were delivered with. “We’re friends, right? Friends who like to fuck each other. Isn’t that what you told the guys after we broke up?”

  My heart stops beating when hurt flashes through his eyes. My statement hurt him to hear as much as it pained me to say, but forever stubborn, I won't back down from my hostile stance.

  “This is more than fucking, Lola. We’ve always been more than fucking.”

  His eyes beg me to agree with his statement, to admit I feel more for him than any other man I’ve ever known, but I can’t. If I do that, one of us will get hurt. He thinks this is me being mean. It’s not. This is me showing mercy.

  Tears spring into my eyes when he murmurs, “If I leave, I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.” His blue eyes bounce between mine. “Is that what you want? Do you want me to leave?”

  I want to tell him no. I want to beg him to stay, but I won’t. I made promises to myself when I fled Callum’s house covered in bruises. The main one: I’ll never answer to any man ever again. Although some may say this is different, it isn’t to me. Jacob is questioning me. He’s believing gossip instead of seeking answers the right way, and he’s doing it in a hostile, demoralizing way—much like Callum did before he assaulted me. Jacob would never hurt me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need time to step back and evaluate things.

  After several heart-clutching seconds, Jacob whispers, “Goodbye, Lola.”

  When he storms out the door, slamming it behind him, I slide down the wall to sit on the ground.
Hot, salty tears are threatening to spill down my cheeks, but I fight with all my might to keep them at bay. That would be a lot easier to do if I had just told Jacob the truth about what happened that night.

  Flynn is a great guy, but I wanted to strangle him when we left Mavericks only for him to take me to Bronte’s Peak. I hadn’t been back there since the night I met Jacob. The lot was overflowing with cars, which wasn’t surprising since it was a Saturday night.

  Flynn and I were about to get “friendly” when my phone rang. When I glanced down at my open handbag, Jacob’s smiling face was lighting up the screen of my phone. I reached for my phone before I remembered he had stood me up, so I let his call go to voicemail.

  A few seconds later, my phone dinged with a text. I tried my hardest to keep my focus on Flynn, who was placing a trail of kisses from the band of my midriff top to my jeans, but my curiosity got the better of me. When my eyes flicked down to my phone, I discovered the text was from Jacob. It said he was at Mavericks, waiting for me. I missed him by minutes.

  Although Jacob and I had a mutual understanding about our “friendship,” guilt still engulfed me. I was only occupying my time with Flynn because I was angry. Neither Flynn or myself deserved that low level of respect.

  I was already having second thoughts, but when Flynn popped open the button of my jeans, exposing the butterfly tattoo on my right hip, I knew in an instant our night was over. Every single time Jacob and I had fooled around, he kissed my butterfly tattoo. He was the first person to do it, and for some stupid reason, I wanted him to be the last.

  After demanding that Flynn stop, I confessed I was at Mavericks to meet someone else, and that I only left with him because I was hurt about being stood up. It was the most awkward conversation I’ve ever had in my life, but Flynn handled my honesty better than expected. He acted like a true gentleman by driving me back to Mavericks.

  “If it doesn’t work out with that bloke, give me a call. I wouldn’t mind getting to know you a little better,” he told me before he reversed out of the lot and drove away.

  When I spotted Jacob’s car in the lot, I did consider going inside to see him, but with the lines of our friendship severely blurred, I went home to think instead. It’s typical, though, isn’t it? The one time I didn’t do anything wrong is the one time I get blamed for it.

  I stop reminiscing when I hear my cell phone ringing on the kitchen counter. After scampering off the floor, I dash for it, hoping it is Jacob wanting to apologize for questioning me. Disappointment smacks into me when I see it is a call from Emily.

  “Hello.” I hide the disappointment in my tone with a friendly greeting.

  “Hey...are you okay?”

  I roll my eyes, hating that my efforts were fruitless. “I'm all right, what’s up?”

  I’m the one who grows suspicious when Emily takes in several small breaths in a row. She only does that when she’s nervous or about to cry. I find out it’s the former when she rambles, “Noah and I are getting married next weekend. He doesn’t know—it’s a secret. We’re getting married in Vegas. Jacob paid for your flights and accommodations because he knows how badly I want you to be there.”

  “Hold on, what?” I ask when she stops to suck in much-needed air.

  “I know you think we’re too young, but we don’t agree. I love him, and he loves me, and this is something we want to do, so I want your support.”

  She said a similar thing when they announced their engagement the morning after Christmas last year. I nearly had a coronary. She was only eighteen... Well, technically nineteen, but that wasn’t the point. She had plenty of years to figure out what she wanted to do with her life, so she shouldn’t tie herself down so quickly. When I told her that, she shot daggers at me before she stormed into her room. Mom thought I reacted to her news too harshly. I didn’t agree. I was merely looking out for my little sis.

  “Why are you rushing this, Em?”

  “I love him—”

  “It’s not that simple. Life isn’t a fairytale. It’s messy and yuck—”

  “And more times than not, the good outweighs the bad. When you love somebody, you love them wholeheartedly. You give yourself to them and only them. Noah is that person for me. I want to share his last name; I want to be the mother of his children, and I want to spend every day of my life loving him how he deserves to be loved. When you know, you know. It’s that simple.”

  My chest rises and falls three times as I contemplate what she said. Is love really that simple? Emily and Noah dove into their relationship headfirst, while everyone around them watched with caution, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t discover greatness. Noah loves Emily—I know this beyond the shadow of a doubt—and she loves him, so maybe love is that simple?

  With my heart as murky as my stomach, I say nine little words I never thought I’d say: “What time do you need me at the airport?”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Jacob

  “What the hell are you doing in Los Angeles, Jacob?” Cormack dumps a heap of paperwork onto a makeshift desk in the studio Rise Up has been working out of the past six months to welcome me with a handshake.

  While he does that, I try to think of a legitimate reason as to why I’ve arrived in LA in the middle of the day. “Just visiting.”

  What? I’ve never been any good at thinking on the spot.

  “Where is everyone?” The recording booth is noticeably empty, considering Rise Up is mere seconds from greatness.

  Cormack slaps my back, his excitement uncontained. “I gave the boys the day off before their tour starts. Last I heard, Slater, Marcus, and Nick were at the hotel. I haven’t heard from Noah today. Would you like a ride to their hotel? I’m about to head that way.”

  “Sure, that’ll be great.” After gathering my bag off the floor, I follow Cormack to a shiny black BMW convertible. It’s a nifty ride that leaves no doubt to his wealth. I don’t think this make is even on the market yet.

  Noticing my prolonged gawk, Cormack chuckles under his breath. “Business is good.”

  “Clearly.”

  When he slides into the driver seat, I follow suit. I’m halfway through latching my belt when he asks, “Is everything alright? You seem a bit quiet.”

  I jerk up my chin. “Yeah, I’m good. Just trying to work out how I’ll untangle myself from this sardine tin once we arrive at the hotel.”

  Cormack laughs, but his suspicion remains high. I haven’t felt myself since I left Lola’s apartment two days ago. Even Dad noticed a change in my personality. He simply suggested: “Perhaps it’s time to let her go.”

  It hurt to hear, but I’m beginning to wonder if he’s right. I don’t want to be Lola’s friend; I want to be her everything, but that's not something she's willing to give me. I know she cares about me, and I understand her last relationship has made her apprehensive about trusting again, but we can't keep running on the same hamster wheel we've been spinning the past two years. I want her to be my girl and only my girl, but if she’s not willing to give that to me, maybe I need to move on?

  This weekend apart will do us more good than harm. We don’t spend every waking moment together like other couples do, but for the past month, we’ve seen each other daily. But space is good. Sometimes space helps...unless you’re being smacked with a bad bout of jealousy.

  I trust Lola. From what I've heard the past year, I'm reasonably sure that even during our six months' separation, she wasn't sleeping around, but all it takes is for one seed of doubt to be planted, and before you know it, you're infested with weeds of distrust. That's what happened two days ago. I let jealousy get the better of me.

  Lola's tattoo is a symbol of her strength. She got it after Callum assaulted her. It represents her metamorphosis, the re-growing of the wings Callum tried to pluck. I love her tattoo because it shows a side of her no one else but me sees. She's perfect yet fragile. Flynn saw that side of her, and in all honesty, I fuckin' hate it.

  Don’t misconstrue, I
also hate the way people misinterpret Lola’s warrior attitude as nothing but spitfire sassiness. But I don’t need any competition. I’m already facing an uphill battle. I don’t need more issues.

  My eyes float up from my phone when Cormack pulls into the entrance of an impressively large hotel. “If you need anything, let me know.”

  I thank the concierge for taking my bag with a head bob before turning to Cormack. “Thanks. See you around?”

  Nodding, he chuckles at my departure from his car. It’s as awkward as a woman squeezing into Spandex for a blind date. Legs and arms are going in every direction. As much as it’d be nice to have a sports car, I’ll never own one. They're too uncomfortable for guys my size.

  Once Cormack’s taillights blur into a sea of traffic, I enter the hotel Rise Up is slumming at. Obviously, their success is rolling in. This place is way too fancy for my polo shirt, cargo shorts, and Vans shoes combination. I feel underdressed just entering their lobby.

  I don’t know why when the first person I spot is Slater. He’s both shirtless and shoeless. “Jakeyboy, how the fuck are you?” He throws his arms around my shoulders before tugging me into his tattooed chest. “I would’ve picked you up from the airport, but Emily didn’t know what time you were landing.”

  “It’s all good. I found my way.”

  As I shadow Slater to the floor the band is occupying—yes, you heard me right, they have the entire story of a hotel to themselves—I take in the opulent surroundings. This hotel is massive. The chandeliers hanging from the raked ceilings are the size of my living room back home, and all the finishes are done in gold. With how many snooty people are in one spot, I wouldn't be surprised to discover the gold is real. I feel like I stepped into a real-life palace.

  When we enter their apartment-sized hotel room, Marcus greets me with a handshake, and Nick jerks up his chin in silent greeting.