by Everly, Liz
She thumbed through Chef’s book as she lay on her stomach, the sea air breezing over her skin. It was hard to concentrate. Was it the ocean calling to her? Was it the fact that Jackson was still in the hospital, lying there looking so horrible? She certainly wasn’t feeling like herself—maybe it was Chef’s death. Losing him brought back all the memories of losing her parents. And seeing Jackson lying in the hospital bed …
The truth was most of her life was about the work—Chef had pointed that out time and time again, and would often suggest she go home to Virginia to rest. But she rarely went home to Virginia anymore, since she lost her mother. She felt as if there really wasn’t a home to return to. Oh sure, she visited her brother and his family, which was fun. But still, it wasn’t home.
She stretched out on the beach, loving the heat, the sun, the sand.
Her waking moments were full of the addictive frenzy of her writing and the food. And then there was the sex. Was. She had never entertained any notions about love with Mark; they enjoyed one another. It had always been about sex and companionship. So, why should she feel so guilty? It wasn’t as if she actually had sex with Jackson. No. She was only thinking about it all the time. And mostly talking herself out of remembering the way his tongue sent her pulse racing when they kissed, his hands rubbing her feet, and the way she fit in his arms the night of the breakin. The way it felt like he was protecting her. Her. The woman who always prided herself on her independence. Maybe she was making too much of the working relationship thing. Maybe she should just sleep with him.
God knows she wanted to.
But then it would be all over the tabloids, she reminded herself. How embarrassing would that be? She was still uncertain about how her interrupted evening with Jackson was leaked on Twitter and then in the gossip pages. Okay, so her phone was tapped. Was that the leak? Or was it really the rakish Jackson? Of course, as she had gotten to know him, she was starting to see other parts of him—other than his extreme sexiness—and his extreme goofiness. She guessed it was a front—the way he slept with women and didn’t get close to anybody. Of course, she recognized it. But she was more discreet.
There was plenty on her mind, other than sex, which was unusual for her. Usually sex was lurking, always on her mind. The act of getting physical with someone was the one thing that gave her mind peace.
The loss of her friend Paul, the weirdness in Mexico and Honolulu, the almost touchable heat between her and America’s “most eligible bachelor” wormed through her brain and her heart. No wonder there wasn’t time to think of Mark—or to really officially break up with him, which she clearly needed to do.
Her eyes focused on the book. This mention of Chinese ginseng… Maeve noted it was a plant she saw over and over again in her studies. Always Chinese. Not American. Turns out they are very different plants with different chemistry and reactions in the body. She felt her eyes drooping and placed her head on her notebook. Just for a minute, she thought. Jet lag. She never got used to the time changes.
When she woke up, the sun looked like it was melting into the ocean; the sound of the waves and the cawing of birds plunged her into another kind of panic. Where was she? She heard the rustling of leaves, even though there was no wind. A thump of a foot. She sat up quickly. Was she alone here? She reached for and clutched the book to her chest, gathered up her things and shoved everything into her bag. The book—had it moved? Wasn’t it much farther away from her when she awoke? And jeez, what time was it? She quickly looked for her cell phone and couldn’t find it. She was certain it was there. Bother. Should she stand there looking through her bag like some tourist idiot and allow herself to be ogled? She decided not to and quickly tried to find the path to the house. But which direction had she come from?
She was still a bit hazy from her nap. She walked a few hundred feet to the left and still couldn’t see the house through the foliage. Hmmm. Well, it must be the other direction. Another thump of a foot.
Okay, this was supposed to be a private beach. Who could be in the stretch of forested space between the beach and the house? It must be a friend of Jack’s, she reasoned. Or someone who works for him. She tried to calm her beating heart.
As she walked, she suddenly saw the looming beach house in the distance. Okay. This was the right direction. As she turned to walk up the muddy-sandy path, she noticed a huge footprint. It hadn’t been made by someone barefoot. Looked like a boot print. Who would be wearing boots on the beach?
She clutched her beach wrap around her and walked to the house as quickly as she could.
Chapter 18
Jackson arrived two days later, about the same time as Jack, who had been in Honolulu on business with his restaurants, leaving Maeve to fend for herself once again.
“What r u doing in that big house all alone?” Jackson had texted her from his room.
“LOL. Working. I’ve written three blog posts. What else?” She texted back from her computer—her cell phone still hadn’t turned up, which was weird for her because she rarely misplaced anything.
She was a workaholic, that one. Here they were in Hawaii and she was probably in her room at her laptop writing most of the time.
The next day a whole team of people went on a hike to find the mushrooms and they struck aphrodisiac gold. Jackson was challenged by the lack of light deep in the forest, but he did get some good shots in—especially of Maeve. He loved the way the camera was picking up her sense of childlike awe, which was all over her face as she took in every bit of the splendor of the island. He found himself amused by this new quality he’d found in his partner—normally so cynical and world-weary, even at her young age.
Later, Jackson and Maeve helped themselves to Jack’s kitchen. Jackson chopped one of the fleshiest mushrooms he’d ever had his hands on. The onion and garlic sizzled as Maeve stirred the mixture around a bit.
“Jack found my cell on the beach,” Maeve told him. “But all of my contacts have been erased.”
“That’s weird,” Jackson said. “Maybe it was damaged.”
“Well, it seems all right, now. I just don’t have any of my phone numbers.”
The slippery mushroom gave off a pungent, earthy scent. He stood at the stove looking out the window into a backyard full of exotic flowers, the names of which he would never remember even if he asked. The colors and shapes were wild. Bright fuchsia, conelike things. Purple puffs. Orange. Crimson. Aqua. He’d take his camera to the garden in the morning, he promised himself.
He heard a scuffle behind him.
“Jackson, Maeve, you are here.” It was Jack, one of Jackson’s least favorite people, with someone—a woman. But not just any woman—Mulani.
“Jackson, you know Jack,” she said, with a gleeful look in her eye.
“Yeah,” He turned around to finish chopping the mushroom. “Last time I saw you, you had a needle in your arm. Now, looks like you’ve got little Mulani.” He faced them after putting the mushrooms in the pan, the searing sound permeated with a puff of smoke.
“Well, if I am going to try the mushroom, I think I will need a real man by my side. Just in case,” Mulani glared at Jackson.
“Hey, asshole,” Jack said. “I’m done with drugs. You know that.”
“Whatever,” Jackson said. Three cooks in the kitchen was never a good idea—and with these three here, who knew what would happen? Mulani smelled the mixture and wanted to add some salt; Jack wanted to add lime. Mulani picked out a mushroom with her slender finger and plopped the slimy meat into her mouth. “Mmmm. Tasty.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said Mulani, who seemed to suddenly see Maeve.
“Not officially, but I’ve seen you around,” Maeve said with a clipped tone, leaving Jackson to wonder exactly what she meant.
“I feel so bad about Chef. I was so sorry to hear it,” Mulani said.
“Thanks. How well did you know him?”
“Well enough,” she said. “He was quite a guy. Into some good stuff. Best I’
ve ever had.”
Maeve’s head cocked. “What do you mean?”
“Oh well, you know …” she said and turned away.
“Mushrooms!” Jackson yelled, holding up a plate.
When they finally sat down to eat, Jackson wasn’t sure how it would taste, but it was good. The mushroom didn’t taste like any others he had had—it almost tasted like an earthy seaweed. He swore he could taste the ocean in it.
“Mmmm,” Mulani said. “The gods must be pleased. First to be given the mushroom, then to be so privileged as to actually eat it.”
“The problem I see with this whole book you two are working on is that sex has so much to do with the mind. For example, I bet Mulani is hot right now just thinking about the mushroom and perhaps getting laid. So, how do you know if it’s the suggestion of getting laid or if it’s the effect of the actual food?”
“I am so glad you aren’t the publisher, who by the way, gave Maeve and me a shitload of money for this and is paying for all the research and expenses,” Jackson said.
Mulani sighed. Both of Jackson’s colleagues had surely dreamed of such a deal.
“It’s good to know how you feel about it, though, Jack. I guess the job you offered me before we went to Mexico is off the table, then,” Maeve said, looking from him to Mulani.
Jackson saw the exchange between Mulani and Jack. She had no idea, of course, that Jack had offered Maeve a job. Maeve was a smart cookie. He grinned.
“Absolutely not. The offer will always be on the table,” Jack said, ignoring Mulani’s glare.
Even though they didn’t have any wine, Jackson thought Mulani looked a little tipsy. Her eyes rolled. “It’s all about the sex. Sex sells. Look. He’s the sexiest bachelor in America,” she said and laughed.
“Ha. Ha,” Jackson said, taking another bit of the mushroom concoction. “You know I don’t care about that shit.”
“Yeah, but you are getting it everywhere, dude,” Jack says.
“Yeah, well, so did you. It’s over for you, though, right?”
“Not quite,” he said and reached for Mulani.
Jackson smiled wryly at Maeve, who was trying her best to ignore them. He didn’t like the situation, and thought about his options. He could walk away. But now, he was hot and hard, watching them go at it; Mulani appeared to be insatiable.
While the moans of his colleagues filled the kitchen, he planned his escape. If he could get out of here, he may never have to see them again. Their plane left in the morning.
“Don’t go anywhere. We are not through with you yet,” said a voice at the door. Two brown, almond-eyed women were standing at the door.
“I smelled the mushroom,” one woman said. “It’s making me go mad.”
“Me, too,” the other said. Jackson stopped in his tracks. It wasn’t as if he’d never had two women before, but the look both women had in their eyes held him. They were all over him in a split second—as he unwrapped himself from them, he saw Maeve take a heaping plate of mushrooms upstairs to her room.
“Wait,” he said. “Excuse me,” he said to the women. “I’m working here.” He raced up the steps, only to have Maeve shut her door in his face, after whispering a hoarse “good night.”
Chapter 19
Maeve sat the empty plate down on her desk. She’d never even liked mushrooms. She hated them. But there was something about these particular mushrooms—what did they call them? As they had sautéed in the frying pan, she found the scent alluring. So, while things were getting hot and heavy in the kitchen with the other couple, she took the rest of the morsels and finished them in her room, stopping herself from licking the plate. She was ravenous.
But was she horny? Hmm. The truth was she had been frustrated for several weeks—no time for sex, and no real opportunities for it, either. Plus, there was Jackson wandering around in shorts and tank tops, with those long lean muscles sliding beneath his gleaming skin. With him standing next to her at the stove, she’d already begun to feel something—a loosening below.
As she sat at the table and looked at Mulani, who was beautiful, simmering, sighing as if she were the star in a porn flick, and playing with Jackson’s mind as she kissed his nemesis, it was all Maeve could do to not straddle him right then and there. It was as if whatever she’d seen in him during their saffron-infused night had intensified. He was pulling at her ovaries, every minute she sat there and tried not to look at him. Maeve simply had to leave the room. It was the only option. Their agent and publisher made it quite clear. Jackson had made it quite clear after she coldcocked him on the plane. Hell, it was clear to everybody and everything that it was not a good idea—except for her wild libido.
She was in Hawaii with her partner-photographer, a world-class chef, and his assistant, a professional dream come true, and all she could think about was sleeping with Jackson. The air was charged with passion. How to explain it? Was it really the mushroom—or was it simply her state?
A low rapping came to her door.
“Maeve?” It was Jackson. Damn.
“Go away,” she said, weakly, realizing how sharp and intensified the colors in her room were becoming. What the hell did the mushroom have in it? She bet the damn thing was more than an aphrodisiac, maybe it had some trippy qualities to it—psychotropics?
Looking at the orange pillow on the sofa, it reminded her of the sun, no an orange, no a marigold. Oh no, it was just like a lollipop. Suddenly she began to think of tongues and lips.
“Okay, okay, But we’re supposed to be working on this together. C’mon.” Jackson interrupted her thoughts.
“I can’t let you in, Jackson,” she said, after what she thought was a moment more of considering the orange pillow.
“Why not?” He persisted in invading her thoughts.
“I feel strange. Those mushrooms … I don’t know.”
She took a drink of water, then went to the sink and wet her napkin, placing it on her forehead. She was actually sweating. A cold shower is what’s called for, she thought.
“Well … how do you feel?” he said, through door.
How do I feel? How do I feel? She wanted to scream. I feel like I want to ride you into eternity. I want to have sex with you until neither one of us can walk. I want to feel you deep inside me. I want to feel your skin on mine, your breath on my neck, breast, or thigh. She shivered at the thought.
“I’m going to take a shower,” she managed to say.
He laughed. “That bad, eh? Well … I could help you out. We don’t have to, you know … have intercourse. There’s other things …”
“Like I don’t know that?” she said. “Who do you think I am, some schoolgirl?”
She moved across the floor to the door, plastered her body against it. He was just on the other side. She pictured him there, not more than two inches between them. As she laid herself against it, she felt at one with the door. Oddest feeling. She felt as if she could feel Jackson’s heat through it. And the swirling, sinking, lightening sensation moved through her, about to take over and explode. Was she actually going to have an orgasm without even touching herself? That fucking mushroom.
“Go away,” she said. “Jackson, I’m not letting you in. I’m not feeling well. I feel kind of stoned, or something. ”
She thought about the shower, needing to feel the cold harsh water to get her back to her senses. “I need the shower.”
“Wait, wait,” Jackson said. “Maybe I can help you out another way then. I have a joke about ’shrooms for you.”
“Joke?” Okay, he was trying to piss her off, make her laugh, anything so she’d open the door. “Okay,” she said, lifting her shirt off and slipping out of her skirt. Clothes, man. She hated them. Her skin felt like it was steaming. It longed to be touched.
“So last week, my girlfriend and I decided to make love on magic mushrooms. So we each did a few caps and stalks and it starts hitting us. We begin kissing. She’s like oh my God it’s like firecrackers exploding out of every cell o
f my body!”
“Where’s this going, Jackson? This is really not helpful …” she interrupted, thinking she didn’t really want to hear these words coming out of the mouth of the man she was lusting over. The man she couldn’t have. Forbidden fruit.
“Don’t interrupt me,” he said. “So where was I? Um. Okay. She says ‘Quick, take your pants off I have to have you now!’ So I rip them off. Then she says ‘no, put them back on because—my God—your cock, it’s, you … you’ve got a cactus for a cock!’ ” Despite herself, Maeve felt a smile creeping onto her face. She slid down the door and sat on the floor. A cactus cock. Heh.
“I told her she was tripping, baby, it’s the ’shrooms, relax, it’s gonna be great. Trust me. Then when I looked down I was like—oh shit—I do! I’ve got a fucking cactus for a cock. So I tell her look, it’s a rather long and thick cactus—are you sure you won’t reconsider? Are you kidding me, she says, how would we get a condom on that thing?” He laughed.
Maeve tried to stifle a giggle.
“Okay, baby, I understand, but hey, would a blow job be totally outta the question? I hated to ask, but I tell you, Maeve, what a trouper. To this day, she’s still picking needles out from between her teeth. And Maeve, some advice, if you’re ever on mushrooms and need to suck cactus dick, don’t use your hands; it’s too painful. You kinda just have to go at it as if you’re bobbin’ for apples.”
A belly laugh erupted as she fell forward on her knees, and the next thing she knew, Maeve was rolling on the floor in her underwear, laughing uproariously, tears streaming down her face.