by Ney, Sara
“All right.” He doesn’t push, returning to his task. “You sure you want this to say zero fucks given?”
“Yes?” It reminds me of a gold bracelet I have that I sometimes wear when I’m feeling sassy. It makes me feel rather empowered when I wear it, though not many people ever stop to read what it says.
“Where we puttin’ this?” Jackson stands up and goes to a drawer, rummaging around and returning to the table with a black marker. “You wanna do the honors?”
“Sure.” I take it from his fingers, brushing mine against his on purpose. When he repositions the pumpkin so it’s in front of me, I carefully write the phrase in block letters on the slippery skin, large enough so it will be easy to carve.
Z E R O
F U X (I change the spelling so it’s not as offensive.)
G I V E N
There. I sit back and study my handiwork, spinning the base so Jackson can see it, too.
“How does it look?”
“Fine.”
Fy-ne. The word makes me smile. They all have today—I don’t know what’s gotten into me.
He smells good, too; when he stood up and sat back down, I caught a whiff of him. Masculine and clean, like a man should smell. Like a shot of testosterone. Like I suddenly want to sit in his lap and run my nose up the column of his strong, thick neck.
Our eyes meet again, and this time he doesn’t ask what my problem is.
Jackson doesn’t say anything—he just reaches forward and pulls the pumpkin toward him, positions it just so on the table in front of him, and takes hold of the knife.
“Here goes nothin’.”
I nod dumbly, and this time, he does say something, talking toward the pumpkin as he makes the first cut.
“Sure you’re all right, Charlotte? You’re lookin’ a little red.”
He and I both know why my cheeks are flushed, but he’s going to be an ass and tease me about it. A gentleman wouldn’t do that; then again, no one has—or will ever—accuse Jackson Jennings Junior of being one.
“It’s a little hot in here.”
“Try takin’ off your jacket.” He grins, pulling the knife from the pumpkin’s ribs with a grunt. Stabs it back in. Yanks it out.
In. Out. In. Out.
Forming the small notches comprising the words I wrote.
His concentration makes me wonder if he’s got laser focus for everything he does, or if it’s just football and small tasks. I have nothing to do but wonder and stare, so I do while he whittles away.
Jackson Jennings is a virgin.
The thought randomly pops into my mind on its own, with no prompting.
I look at his hands…his big, mammoth hands. Long fingers that can easily grasp an entire football. His nails are clean and blunt—he doesn’t bite them. There’s a smattering of light-colored hair on his knuckles that I find oddly attractive, and my mind wanders to his chest.
My eyes follow.
His polo shirt is buttoned almost to the top, and I struggle to find signs of hair lingering at the open button, doing my best to be coy about it.
Hmm.
Is he hairless or does he shave? Does he groom himself or let it grow wild?
My mind strays farther down, down to what’s tucked into the fly of his jeans, not giving a crap that my thoughts are in the gutter since he’s not paying me one bit of attention.
Jackson Jennings is a virgin.
How can that even be possible? What does a girl do with that information? Better question: what does a girl do with a guy who has never had sex before—especially one like this?
Well. I’m not likely to find out, am I? It seems like he has his shit locked down pretty tight and isn’t giving it away any time soon.
If he doesn’t want to see me after tonight, that’s on him. I wonder if he only asked me out because he knew it would be a challenge, knowing full well guys like Jackson Jennings Junior thrive on competition. They live for the pursuit. The hunt.
But I sure hope I’m wrong and still doesn’t answer the question: What does he want from me?
Companionship? Friendship?
It’s entirely possible.
Friends with benefits would require getting handsy, since that’s literally what it means. So, he can’t possibly want to bang me…
…although I wouldn’t mind his hands on my body.
What’s it like having sex with a male virgin? Would he know where to stick it? He must watch porn—a guy his age has to get the lead out somehow, right? So he has to know which hole his dick goes into…right?
I lean back in my chair, really diving into the subject, alone in my mind.
Nature must take course, instinctively. It has to.
Even I knew what to do when I slept with Aaron Fletcher, my boyfriend of eight months as a senior in high school. I might never have had sex, but my body knew it was going to hurt when he pushed in for the first time and how to move my hips once it no longer did.
I smile, remembering how I did a slight crabwalk backward, scooting along the mattress when Aaron tried to jam his junk into my lady business—I have no pain tolerance, and it pinched. Plus, I’m a huge baby. My body rebelled, naturally.
But. I wanted to get the deed done; just shy of my eighteenth birthday, I hadn’t wanted to leave for college a virgin.
How dumb I was. Sex with Aaron meant nothing, wasn’t the greatest, and made me not want to have it again since. This time, I’m in no rush.
I’m going to be crazy for my next boyfriend; he’s going to give me butterflies and send my life into a tailspin. I want to be the first thing he thinks about when he wakes up and the last thing he thinks about before falling asleep—if I’m not sleeping beside him.
Jackson hacks away with the knife, seemingly lost in his own little world, tongue peeking out between his lips, not paying attention to me.
Not until a low hmm escapes from the back of my throat.
“I know you said it was nothin’, but I can hear you thinkin’ without even lookin’ up.” His arm pauses, knife still, stuck inside the letter F.
Zero fux given.
“I was just wondering what we’re doing.”
It’s too soon to have a relationship talk; I know this, but it doesn’t stop me from being confused, and my mind isn’t going to let this go. I have to know what Jackson wants from me or it’s going to drive me insane.
“We stuffed a scarecrow, then we ate caramel apples, now we’re tryin’ to carve this pumpkin before them idiots get back with theirs.”
Ugh, he’s deliberately being obtuse. He knows damn well what I’m asking.
“No, I mean what are we doing.” I can’t make my lips say the words I’m thinking: What do you want with me, Jackson? If you don’t want to date me then we shouldn’t be spending time together.
“Hanging out.”
Oh god. It’s worse than I thought. Hanging out?
Hanging.
Out.
That’s what guys say when they’re stringing along someone they most definitely don’t have any intention of dating. I’ve seen it a million times before; they won’t use the word date, and they won’t say “just fucking,” so they tag the status as “hanging out” so they never have to explain the situation. Or their feelings.
I know he’s not stringing me along; he’s already told me he isn’t going to date me.
But this is a date. He said it was.
I just want to know what comes next. Tomorrow. Next week.
I want to prepare myself to forget all about Jackson Jennings Junior after tonight and move on to someone who wants me to be somethin’—not a nothin’.
I won’t stalk him on social media. I won’t go to his football games. I won’t see him if he wants to hang out again.
Because all I’ll end up doing is liking him; I can already feel a crush coming on. It took root the second he took me to that farm, helped me into that hay wagon, and walked around a pumpkin field with me.
Watching him stuff Biff M
cMuscles, the scarecrow version, into his truck…a hulking, overgrown boy of a man…that did something to me. Something warm and melty like the caramel on my apple, sweet and salty and just the thing I didn’t know I needed.
* * *
Jackson
I know why Charlie is looking at me that way, but I’m doing my best to avoid her question by playing dumb.
This was a bad idea.
She didn’t want to come out with me in the first place, but I couldn’t resist the fucking challenge, and now she’s sitting in my goddamn kitchen, at my goddamn table—in that dress and those shoes, with that hair and that smile.
The blush on her cheeks make the freckles across the bridge of her nose brighter.
So I say the only thing I can think of to avoid softening those blue eyes any further.
“Hanging out.”
Her full lips turn down and I know I’ve disappointed her, but shit. Emotionally, I can’t afford to actually date her—I can take her on dates, but that’s it.
One date here, one date there.
When I have time, which is rare.
Girls always want more. Expect more. Demand more.
Time, energy, attention.
Everything.
I watched my mama do it to Pops for years—it was never enough attention. He was just too busy, obsessing over football from the time I could walk, and raising me to be a star athlete, like he was in school. When I showed promise, my daddy found his passion: getting me on track to play pro ball, something he could never do himself.
They fought. She cried. He left.
They fought. She cried. He left.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
“Hanging out,” Charlie repeats. “Gotcha.”
She pushes her chair back and rises from the table, taking the cookie sheet of seeds along with her, walking to the counter. Back to me, ramrod straight.
Legs, tan and smooth.
Ass, firm and round.
She’s removed her jacket, pushed up her sleeves, shoulders baring, hair falling to one side of her neck, long and silky.
I clear my throat and get back to my task. “This was fun, yeah?”
“Yup.”
Shit. I know that particular version of yup—I’ve said it a dozen times myself, in that tone. She’s pissed, but she’ll deny it now that I’ve soured the mood with the truth.
What does she want from me?
I watch her at the counter—my counter—I feel…
Guilty as fuck.
I should never have asked her out. She’s going to develop expectations, and I might not have the balls to shut her down completely when it turns out, I’m not ready.
Not really.
I have no practice dealing with women. Guys, yes. Girls? No.
I’ve never dated a single soul. Never taken a date to a high school dance, never made out with anyone in the back of a car. Or my truck. Or a cornfield.
I have felt tits before, but they were on a stripper, during a guys’ trip to the strip club for a teammate’s twenty-first, out of town and past the city limits so we wouldn’t get caught—though every single person there had to have known who we were.
Man-children the size of giants don’t waltz into gentlemen’s clubs every day of the week.
Fake tits I paid to feel.
Not my finest moment.
“Want help with those?” I offer, desperate. The last thing I want is for her to be mad; we were having fun, and now…we’re not.
“Nope. You keep doing what you’re doing.”
Shit.
I set the knife down, resting my hands on the table’s surface, debating. Wipe my palms on the thighs of my jeans, tapping my fingers on the fabric.
Debating.
Before I can think twice, I’m standing and crossing the small space. I stand behind Charlie, my body pressed against her back, hands poised on her upper arms.
She stills.
Waits.
Hands threaded in the mush on the cookie sheet, separating pumpkin guts from seeds, an ooey, gooey mess.
“Don’t be mad.” Eventually my palms quit hovering and land on her shoulders.
I feel her stiffen, feel her intake of breath.
“I’m…”
She’s going to deny it, but we both know it would be a lie.
I move my hands slowly, reveling in how smooth the skin on her shoulders is, so unlike mine. Watch as my calloused fingers trace along her bare flesh, over the soft curve of her neck.
“I’m just…”
Charlie’s neck tilts the barest fraction to the left.
I stare at that spot—the one that no doubt smells like her. Fresh and feminine and perfect.
She’s not short, and she’s in heels; I’d only have to lean down slightly to place my lips in the crook of her neck. I’ve never done it before; I’ve never done lots of things guys my age have done, and for a split second I regret being so regimented.
It wasn’t because I wanted to be; it was because I had to be.
Because of Pop’s drive and determination.
I have drive and determination of my own, and most of it matches his, but am I my own man if everything I do is because he demanded it of me?
Because of everything he denied me?
Women make you weak, son.
Women make you lose.
I don’t feel weak standing behind Charlie. I feel strong and virile and hard.
Sensitive.
I dip my head.
Rest my lips on her neck, right in the spot God intended them for.
When her arm comes up, when her goopy fingers thread through my hair, we both moan.
My hands drag down her arms and to her hips, palms grasping at her narrow waist, pulling her in against my body.
She smells so damn good, better than I was imagining but nowhere near as good as she feels. Pumpkin spice and vanilla and whatever this shampoo is that she uses—fucking fantastic. Cherries and almonds.
I can’t stop my hands from exploring. They’re so much bigger than she is, cover so much ground with little effort, and Charlie lets me.
Gently my fingers press into her hipbones, make a triangle like they’re catching a football and go farther down to that V between her legs. Slowly up over her abs.
She’s soft in all the right places.
Charlie withdraws her pumpkin-covered fingers from my hair and turns, her back pressed against the kitchen counter. Eyes widen when they rise to my hairline.
“Jackson.” Just my name, but said in a way that speaks volumes: What are you doing? Why did you kiss me? Are you going to do it again? Will I let you?
“Charlotte.” I have no idea what else to say—not when she’s staring up at me with those big, bright blue eyes. They’re searching mine, a bit confused and honestly, so am I.
I’m confused as fuck.
“You have pumpkin guts in your hair,” she says at last, reaching up with her gunk-covered fingers to pull out a seed that’s stuck in the strands.
“I don’t fuckin’ care.” I like her touching me, dirty hands or not.
“Someone is going to notice.”
“I don’t fuckin’ care.”
“You’re so…” Her voice trails off, catching when she finishes with the word, “Cute.” She breathes it quietly, as if it’s a confession and not a statement.
So. She thinks I’m cute.
Obviously, or she wouldn’t be with me right now, though I’m far, far from it. I haven’t been cute since…well, probably never. I was nine pounds when I was born and wearing one-year-old clothes by the time I was six months.
Not a single soul has ever called me cute before.
A big baby, now a big boy.
I’m more lummox than male model, but Charlie seems to have her rose-colored glasses on. Huge. Stubborn. Ruthless.
Handsome? Rarely.
Cute? Never.
“You think so?” I ask, just to be sure. Or to hear her say it again. Whichever.
She bites her lip, back still pressed against the counter, chin still tilted up in the most fetching way. “Yes.”
“I think you’re cute.” God, what the hell am I doing? Listen to me—I sound ridiculous.
I don’t know what’s possessing me, but I want to boop her on her adorable, perky little nose; instead, I kiss it. Keep my head bent so I can kiss the small indentation in the corner of her lips.
“Jackson.” She sighs as she says it.
She purses them in a slight pucker; they’re so fucking soft. So, so soft—I can’t for the life of me think of a better word than soft. Stop it right now, Jackson. And full. Pouty and pink.
They part slightly, like lips that know they’re about to be kissed, and I take a few seconds to appreciate them before bringing my head all the way down.
Finally—finalfuckingly—our mouths meet.
Gentle and tentative and a little unsure.
Once my tongue is in her mouth, there won’t be any going back; I’ll be fully committed to seeing this thing through with her.
The thought doesn’t make me want to vomit or scare me shitless like it has in the past. Doesn’t have me pulling back or pushing her away.
How could it when her pumpkin-gut-covered hands are sliding around my waist and lowering to my ass? How could it when her tongue tastes like sour apple and caramel? How could it when she moans my name?
Moans my name.
No one has ever done that, either, and the sound has me pulling her in tight, with no room between our bodies for negotiation.
I’ll have the insides of our jack-o-lantern all over my clothes and in my hair by the time we’re done kissing and I. Don’t. Fucking. Care.
Since I’m out of practice, I feel myself fumbling, our lips not quite in sync.
It’s distracting; I don’t want Charlie to think I’m freaking terrible at it when I’m good at everything else. And I don’t want her talking shit about me either. I can hear it now: “You know Jackson Jennings? He’s the worst kisser. His tongue was everywhere and he had no clue what he was doing. It was disgusting.”
I pull back and give my head a shake.
Charlie’s hand goes to her mouth, fingers pressing against her lips. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m so fuckin’ bad at this. I’m sorry.”