by Naima Simone
Loving Jude.
Just that blasphemous thought whispering through my mind has me retreating, physically and emotionally. Panic grabs at me, its long, bony nails scrape over my heart, my soul. No, becoming attached to someone and loving them are two completely different things. And with as much as I’ve witnessed and experienced, there’s no way in hell I allowed myself to be so foolish as to fall in love with him.
He’s such a good man. God, he’s one of the best I’ve ever met. But I can’t let myself become so dependent on him that I lose myself. That I throw away my dreams, my goals just for his love, his attention. I can’t become a reflection of my mother. And it’s possible. He’s an addiction already; he’s my drug of choice. It would be so easy for me to convince myself that he’s all I need. And when he left—because he would leave, they all did—I would be shattered. Just unrecognizable pieces of myself.
No. I can’t do it.
Spying my phone charger on the bedside table, I swipe that up and head back toward the living room. The chime of the doorbell peals through the apartment. Frowning, I set my charger on top of my purse and cross the floor toward the front door. Can’t be Jude. He has a key, and not to mention, his shift at the shop ends at eleven tonight. Which is why I chose tonight, my evening off from The Rabbit Hole, to move. Sneaky and cowardly, yeah, but I own it.
I press my eye to the peep hole, then fall to my feet with a soft thud.
Seriously?
Dread and anger tangle inside my chest in a bright red and dirty brown, oily mix. The last thing I should do is open the door. Nothing good can come of it. I should just walk away until the person on the other side does the same, and then leave the apartment and not look back. Close this chapter like a mature, grown woman…
I unlock the door and yank it open.
Ana’s eyes widen before they narrow into dangerous slits. “What the hell are you doing here?” she snarls.
Blood pumps through my veins, speeding faster than a shopaholic on her way to a sale on Rodeo Drive. Yet I force a calm into my voice that belies the furious need to dropkick the bitch down the stairs she just climbed—unwelcomed and unwanted.
“Funny. I was just about to ask you the same thing,” I say, propping a shoulder against the door frame. Casual, and letting Jude’s crazy ex know in no uncertain terms that she’ll enter this apartment over my dead body. And I have zero plans of high-fiving ol’ St. Peter anytime soon. “I live here.” Well, I did. “You, on the other hand, don’t. And since Jude isn’t here, I’m going to assume you weren’t invited.” I shake my head, mock disappointment heavy in my tsk. “I would’ve thought your parents would’ve taught you better manners than to drop by somebody’s house without warning.”
“Who are you to question me?” Her glare skims down my body, taking in my faded T-shirt and equally worn jeans with holes in the knees. Her scorn deepens. “I asked around, and you’re not even with Jude. You’re his charity-case, bar-rat stepsister, that he’s obviously taken pity on and let crash. Because that’s how he is. So don’t stand there and make it seem like you’re more to him than you are. Just a stray he brought in off the street.”
Okay, that hurt. But damn if I’m going to let her see it. Straightening, I smile. Good, I’m glad the heifer took the gloves off. Contrary to how Jude seems to see her—fragile, unstable—this woman is just like those I’ve known in the streets of Chicago and in the corporate offices of California. Manipulative, catty, mean girls out of puberty. They give women—real women who don’t need to cut another down just to feel better about themselves—bad names. And since she doesn’t seem to have any issues showing me her true colors, I have none revealing mine to her.
“You’ve been busy, I see,” I drawl. “Well, you’re right, I am his stepsister, and yes, he did let me stay here. But get it correct. I’m nobody’s charity case. I take care of myself, do for myself, something a little girl playing at a woman who lives off mommy and daddy’s money would never understand.” This time it’s me who scans her up and down from her perfectly styled and curled hair, down the coat that costs more than two paychecks from The Rabbit Hole, to the tips of her expensive stiletto boots. “Another thing. If you think I’m going to stand here and brawl like some alley cat in heat over a man, then I hate to disappoint you. Not going to happen. But—” I step forward and into her space. With her boots on, she has me by a couple of inches, but that doesn’t mean a thing. “I will drag a bitch with truth. So today’s your lucky day.”
An ugly and totally unbecoming shade of red slashes her model cheekbones. “You’re trash who doesn’t know her place. Jude is mine, and I’m not about to let some whore come in and take him from me.”
“Jude isn’t your possession or some toy you can write your name on so the other kids won’t play with him. He’s a man. With feelings, and a sometimes too-big heart that selfish, manipulative people take advantage of. Sound familiar?” I get closer still and lower my voice, even though we’re the only two people on the landing. “He told me what happened with you.”
Her head jerked back, surprise flaring in her eyes. “He wouldn’t do that,” she shot back, but there’s a note of uncertainty in that haughty tone. Uncertainty and something else. Something that smacks of guilt.
“Only because he was upset after that display you pulled in the shop. But that was your intention in showing up there, wasn’t it? Embarrass him for not falling into line, playing on his sympathy, trying to guilt him into seeing you just one more time. You’re like a spoiled child denied her favorite doll. And you know what? Whatever floats your boat. But when you purposefully harass him by showing up to his job?” I bite out, edging even closer and backing her up a step. “You stalk him; you’ve gone too far. Look.” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. A wave of sadness swells and crashes over me. Sadness and compassion. Which I would’ve never thought I could feel for this woman. “I don’t often share about my family, but I know what it is to feel so alone and hopeless. I’ve also lived with a woman, my mother, who grieved the loss of a man who left her for another woman for thirteen years. And she never recovered from it. She’s a shade of who she was, and she’s never experienced all that life has to offer her because she can’t let go of the past. Can’t let go of my dad. It’s a miserable existence, Ana. Miserable for her, and for those she loves. Spending even one minute chasing down someone and trying to make them want you is one minute too long. You don’t want that for yourself. The people in your life—your parents, your friends—can’t want that for you.”
Her sneer deepens, and even though Why am I even bothering? floats through my head, I continue.
“I know I’m the last person you want advice from. And by no means am I a therapist or psychologist, but I’ve lived with a depressed woman. I’ve taken care of her, so that gives me some authority on the topic. Go talk to someone before you get too caught up in this. NAMI Chicago didn’t help my mom too much, but that was only because she didn’t try. It’s free and if you’d rather no one in your family know, it’s a good place to start. They have a hotline. Just give them a chance.” Shaking my head, I hold out my hands, palms up. “Look, being rich, entitled, and selfish—none of those make you a bitch. Having emotional issues definitely doesn’t make you one. But what you’ve done to Jude, the pain you’ve inflicted on him? And knowingly, consciously continuing to do it to a man who is selfless, kind, and just damn good? That does all day.”
The color drains from her face, and for once, that arrogance is gone. She blinks, her eyes glistening. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I would never—”
“Hurt him? You do every time you pull shit like this. Every time you put your needs before his. If you really love him, you would leave. And stay gone. Get some help to get over him, to move on, if that’s what you need. But leave. Him. Alone.”
She jerks her chin up, and for the first time, I believe the tears glistening in her eyes are real. “Whatever,” she replies, voice hoarse with those tears.
“I didn’t ask for your advice, or your help.”
“I know,” I murmur.
“I never meant to hurt him,” she whispers again, as if needing to not so much convince me as much as herself. “I never…”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she blows out an audible, heavy breath. Then, without another word to me, pivots and disappears down the staircase.
I stare at the empty space for several long minutes. Will she call NAMI? It’s freaking amazing, but I care. And I hope she cares enough about herself to contact them.
“Cypress.”
My head jerks to the side at the sound of that familiar voice. Jude stands at the top of the stairs he’d climbed so silently, I hadn’t noticed him. Or I’d been so lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed.
Oh God. Could he have overheard…? My mind rewinds the past ten minutes and hits play, rerunning the conversation between his ex and myself.
Jude isn’t your possession or some toy you can write your name on so the other kids won’t play with him. He’s a man. With feelings, and a sometimes too-big heart…
But what you’ve done to him, the pain you’ve inflicted on him? And knowingly, consciously continuing to do it to a man who is selfless, kind, and just damn good…
On instant replay, I sounded more like a possessive girlfriend than a roommate or stepsister. And while we are—were—lovers, I have no rights to him. My luggage just inside the door testifies to that.
Still, all I can do is stare at him. Visually trace the sculpted lines and planes of his face, the dark slashes of his eyebrows, the sensual curves of his mouth with phantom fingertips. Maybe he hadn’t heard any of that. Maybe… The breath rushes from my parted lips on a silent gust.
Oh yes, from the dark heat blazing in his eyes, he’d caught the conversation.
He shifts forward and, gently cupping my shoulder, guides me back into his home, shutting the door firmly behind us.
“You defended me,” he murmurs, that steady, too-sharp-for-comfort scrutiny roaming my face as if searching for the why.
I’m drawing a line at the people I love.
It takes everything in me to school my expression, not allow him to peer beneath the mask to see how his words have shaken me. Because they have. Inside, I’m a palm tree in a category-five storm, battered by the winds, bending to them, but refusing to break.
I can’t break.
I shrug a shoulder. “Not that it did much good. I’m not even sure she’ll follow through with anything I said. Maybe you moving thousands of miles away where she can’t get to you will get through to her.” Just mentioning his imminent trip to London scours my throat like a rusty, wire brush. It’s another reason why I’m leaving him first.
Watching him pack and walk away from me isn’t an option if I’m not here.
“Maybe,” he agrees. “Doesn’t matter anymore. I’m through. Are you—” The toe of his boot nudges one of my suitcases, and he glances down. My breath freezes in my lungs. The seconds tick by like tiny sonic booms, and my suddenly pounding heart adds to the cacophony. Slowly, he lifts his head and pins me again with that hooded stare. “Going somewhere?”
That calm, almost casual tone isn’t fooling me. Not when his eyes are gleaming like sharply cut jewels. “Yes,” I say, amazed my voice is steady, even when inside I’m shivering and fighting my instinct to charge across the space separating us and throw myself against him.
I briefly close my eyes, dipping my chin as the thought punches me in the chest. A painful, blunt, and stark reminder of why I’m doing this. Of why I have to—no, need to—leave. If I don’t, I’ll be Ana, begging him not to leave me.
Because they always leave.
“Yes,” I repeat, returning my attention to him. “I’m staying with Mom for a week or two until my new place is ready.” I have no “new place,” but he doesn’t need to know that. Besides, when the check from the condo sale arrives, I can easily afford first and last month’s rent along with a security deposit, even after taking care of Mom’s surgery and repaying Dan.
“I thought that wasn’t even an option,” he quotes me from that conversation in the ratty motel room. God, was it only a month ago? It feels like an eternity. And, at the same time, a moment.
“Then it wasn’t. But when you don’t have other choices, you find you can put up with anything. At least for a little while.”
“But you do have another choice, Cypress,” he counters, shifting forward a step, then pulling up short. That aborted movement slices through me, and my heart bleeds. “I don’t remember mentioning anything about you having to move out.”
“No… But I do have to.” I shake my head, spreading my hands out, palms up as if hoping the words I need will suddenly appear before me like some magic trick. “Jude, I…thank you for ever—”
“Don’t,” he growls. “Don’t you thank me for everything I’ve done for you like I’m some host or a stranger you met on the street.”
Now it’s my turn to plead. “Please. Don’t do this,” I whisper.
“Do what?” he snaps, his narrowed gaze glittering with anger. He turns away from me, his fingers plowing through his hair on the tail end of a harsh crack of laughter. The jagged splinters of that serrated chuckle prick my skin…my heart. “Force you to be honest about why you packed your bags and planned to sneak out of here behind my back? What were you going to do, Cypress? Leave a note? Text me? Yeah, I’m a real fucker for making you face me.”
Shame crawls over and through me. So I intended to leave him a note. And in it, write everything I couldn’t say in person.
“It was only a matter of time,” I murmur. “You’re leaving for England in days. What do a couple of weeks mean? And the longer we stay together, the higher the chance Dan will discover the truth about me. If he calls my mother again, he’ll undoubtedly make the connection to who ‘Jay’ is. I can’t risk him not paying Mom’s bills.” God, the excuse sounds lame to my own ears.
And to Jude, too, because he gives a rough shake of his head, slashing a hand through the air. “Don’t hand me that bullshit.”
Stalking across the distance dividing us, he halts only negligible inches from me. I check the self-preserving instinct screaming inside my head, ordering me to retreat, to insert more space between us so I won’t inhale his fresh, earthy scent. So I won’t be tempted to spread my fingers over the solid, comforting wall of his chest. So I won’t surrender to the need to take his mouth, drown in his taste, and not care to come back up for air.
But I don’t move away from him. Because this is probably as close to him as I will be again. And completely disobeying the blaring warning rebounding against my skull, I inhale his unique musk, trapping it in my lungs. Though I can’t touch him, I bask in the heat radiating from his body.
I’m capturing memories.
I’m punishing myself.
“You’re running. Again,” he says, blunt. I don’t quite manage to contain my flinch. “My heading to London, Dan finding out, your mom’s bills…they’re only part of the truth. This”—he flicks a hand toward my luggage—“has been in the works for at least a week. I committed the crime of getting too close, of being permitted to see the vulnerable side of you. Your pain. Your fears. Your heart. I scare you; what’s between us scares you. And you’re leaving me before I can abandon you.”
I blink at him, shock ricocheting through me. My lips part, the denial tap dancing on my tongue, but he sweeps the legs out from under it by cupping my face with a big hand. The gentle handling of me belies the green fire in his gaze.
“I know you, Cypress. People who’ve raised you, went to school with you, worked with you, and even loved you can’t say that, can they? Because some have hurt you too deep, and you refuse to allow the others the chance. So you make sure they don’t have that opportunity, by limiting their access to you or cutting bait and running. But you can’t with me. You let me in, and you don’t get to push me back out. Sweetheart, I’m not going anywhere.”
But
you are, I silently yell. And I can’t deny the anguish in that internal scream. He’s going thousands of miles away from Chicago, from me, and I know from personal experience, men can’t stay faithful when they’re down the block, much less in another country. And just the flickering, fuzzy image of Jude with another woman is enough to set off a trembling in my knees, a violent lurch in my stomach.
I step away, dislodging his touch from my face, and ignore the hunger to have his hands back on me.
“What do you want from me, Jude? What do you want to hear me say? That I want to end this first? Okay, fine, I do. Because, in the end, there is no ‘us.’ Let’s just put aside the very real problem of you being my stepbrother, and the very real likelihood that your mother and Dan would cut you off. Would that hurt me? Not so much since I haven’t had that kind of relationship with my father for a long time. But you? You love your mom too much to hurt her—”
“Don’t confuse me with Dan. Yes, I love Mom, but no way in hell would I choose her over you. She has her life, and I won’t allow her, or Dan, to dictate mine, or the woman I want in it.”
I can’t help it. I press my palm to my chest, covering the rapidly thumping heart and the pain burning there, searing me from the inside out. “Jude, you can’t say things like that to me,” I whisper, so close to begging. Shaking my head, I hold up my hand, warding him and his declarations off that are touching the heart and eternal hope of that long-ago girl who wanted to believe in happily ever after. Who believed people kept their word. Who believed people who loved you stayed.
A hard chest bumps against my palm, and warm, strong fingers wrap around mine in a tender grip. A sob crowds my throat, but I swallow it down. No. No. The images of Ana, of Mom, are too ripe in my mind. That’s love. That’s what love does. And Jude can so easily, without even trying, by just being himself, transform me into them.
“Why can’t I say them, sweetheart?” he asks, bringing my hand to his mouth. Pressing it to his lips. “Because you want to hear them so badly? And before you give me your second reason why an ‘us’ doesn’t exist, let me shut down your other reason. Yes, I’m committed to London. But did coming with me occur to you? I want you with me, Cypress.”