True Divide

by Liora Blake

  Jake grunts into my ear, the sound of him prompting me, and despite knowing how easily we could do this, how amazing it would feel—I can’t.

  He’s leaving the minute this storm clears and the snow has stopped, which means tomorrow morning the clouds will have lifted and Jake Holt will be long gone. If I take him home, or just let him do this right here, tomorrow will come on harshly. As much as I want to take this night and enjoy the hell of him, I know myself too well.

  Worse, just the distress of watching him go after what I’m pretty damn sure will be spectacular sex could lead me to dyeing my hair black, wearing nothing but oversized shapeless shift dresses in drab colors, and refusing to leave my home until I’m certifiably old enough to be called a spinster and not give a damn. It’s distinctly possible the naked shenanigans would be that good.

  I pull my hands from around Jake’s neck and drop them to cover the tops of his, ceasing the movement of his callused thumbs across my thighs. I don’t want to tell him to stop or say the words aloud, even though I probably should. That’s what I should do. Leave no ambivalence to wander toward, by way of his hands lingering or the opening of my legs against his waist. No space where either of us might think that if he simply nudged closer, he could prove how much he wants me by tipping my body back across the seat and letting his fingers soothe every tight, aching spot on my skin.

  All I can communicate with my hands over his is one thing.

  I can’t.

  Jake lets out a pent-up breath, relief and disappointment in the sound of it, and puts his lips to my temple with nothing but gentle pressure. Not a kiss, not even a slight pucker of his mouth, simply the admission that he is so close, but any second now, he won’t be.

  When he pulls away, I turn and bring my legs into the cab of the unbearably cold truck, and the sound of him shutting the door makes my head hurt. We drive back to town in silence, with me pressed to the passenger door, head resting against the glass, and wondering if I’ve just made a pointlessly dumb decision. Considering the way my entire body is thrumming with dissatisfaction and a restless tingling sensation, I think I did.

  Jake does nothing but drive and crank the heater up, turning all the vents toward my side. I take one glance at him when he turns down my street. His jaw is clenched tight, his one hand on the wheel to steer, the other propped on the trim panel so he can rub his left temple.

  He doesn’t even try to convince me to invite him inside. For a nightcap or whatever he might call it. He probably wouldn’t even sugarcoat it with innuendo. Instead, he might just blurt out the obvious. “You going to let me in so we can fuck like mad until the sun comes up?” And if he did, there is a strong chance I’d agree before he got all the words out.

  But he doesn’t. He pulls to a stop in front of my house and leaves the motor running, then turns to me with the saddest, weakest half grin I’ve ever seen, and says good night. I have to open my own goddam door and walk myself to the house, which compounds my annoyance. Until I remind myself this wasn’t a date.

  I turn back, considering that the idea that flipping him off and shouting, “Good riddance,” might not be out of line. Only to observe him sitting there with the cab light on, pressing his palms against his eyelids and heaving out what appears to be an enormous sigh. Then I kind of want to throw the truck door open again and crawl over the seat until I’m in his lap.

  Given my perusal of his naked lumber out of the springs, I’ll grant him a win. But I’m still up by two for the evening, although the way both of us look hollowed out and frustrated, it seems no one’s taking a trophy home tonight.

  4

  Sleep finally came at around three a.m. Only after watching four back-to-back episodes of an outdated crime procedural show on cable, plus doing one hour of methodical eyebrow plucking and other associated beauty rituals. All in a futile attempt to distract my mind from everything that happened tonight: Jake’s hands, the way I wished I hadn’t stopped him from touching me, the idea that just chucking conventional wisdom out the window would have been worth it. Even for one night.

  Still, none of the diversions worked particularly well. There was an awareness humming over my skin, my body making its many forms of discontent well known. I heard it all—loudly, and on repeat.

  I also made a halfhearted attempt at a reasonable dinner to soak up the alcohol. But as evidenced by the menu—one cup of piña colada–flavored yogurt, three spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar, half of a frozen fruit sorbet bar, and a miniature bag of microwavable popcorn—“reasonable” left the room the minute I tipsily entered it. Seven hundred empty calories later, I went upstairs and hugged a pillow, my knees clamping on to it as an anchor.

  Just before I zonked out, I realized where the blame should fall. My car. That unreliable beast was responsible for the fact I was walking in the first place, out on the street, where Jake could drive by and dangle his tequila-soaked charms in front of me. Tomorrow, I’m getting that car fixed, no question.

  Four hours later, I wake to the incessant ring of my doorbell. Without a break, it rings and rings. I pull a pillow over my head and try to think for a moment. Will the bell ringer end up with only a broken finger? Or should they also be subjected to a round of me chasing them down the sidewalk with a broom? Regardless, somebody had better be dying or aliens better have landed in the town square.

  Shoving the duvet cover off, I head downstairs, pausing midway on the staircase when the ringing stops. The silence stretches out for another few moments. Excellent. Perhaps I’m off the hook.

  I start back up the stairs, backward, but only make it a few risers when loud knocking begins. Three quick, forceful raps at a time. Thump, thump, thump. Thump, thump, thump.

  “Jesus! Hold on. I’m coming!”

  When I swing the door open, a rush of brutally cold air hits my body, the very tiny pink-striped sleep shorts and cropped white henley tank I have on doing nothing to protect my bare skin from the assault. Before I can process what obscenities or insults to hurl, Jake slumps against the doorjamb and grins.

  “Sweet hell. Is that what you sleep in?”

  I cross my arms over my chest to hide as best as possible, then slant my eyes toward him. “No, I was just heading to church. Yes. Obviously, this is what I sleep in. Or, rather, was sleeping in. Until you started doing quality-control testing on my doorbell. It works, by the way.”

  Jake leans forward a few inches with his shoulders. “Cold morning, huh, Shoelace? So. Very. Very. Cold.” His eyes drop and fix over my breasts.

  Damn nipples. Turncoats to the cause. I shift my arms to cover them and curl up my lip with a snarl. “You better have a good reason for waking me up like this.”

  Thumbing over his shoulder, Jake shoves his body up from the doorjamb and steps aside a few inches. My car sits parked on the street, every window scraped clean of frost and all the snow brushed off the hood, roof, and trunk lid.

  Yet again, it seems the vexing heap of metal has brought Jake my way somehow. No tequila this time, but even without it, the man still manages to tempt my sensibilities. He’s dressed in his fancy-looking pilot garb again; a dark gray peacoat on over a starched white dress shirt with a skinny navy-blue tie, plus his face is freshly shaven. A pair of black ragg wool fingerless gloves is on his hands, and seeing a smidge of grease on his exposed fingers, it becomes incredibly difficult to decide which Jake I find more enticing. Last night’s version? The scruff and unkempt appeal of a man with coarse, demanding hands? Or this morning’s pleasant diversion of clean skin, the smell of soap and aftershave on a guy who, oh, look, can fly a plane.

  “I fixed your car. Just needed a jump, but I let it run for a while to get the battery charged up. I cleaned the cables so the connection is better, but you need to get a new battery.”

  I’m not sure whether to complain that I don’t need his help or drag him by the collar into my house and thank h
im enthusiastically. But the fact he got up, in the dark most likely since the sun has barely crested the Bitterroots in the distance, to trudge over to The Beauty Barn and fix my car is so . . . sweet. The exhausted irritation I left with last night seems to have disappeared and I’m quickly trending toward the scenario in which I’m loosening his tie and shoving my cuddle pillow off the bed to make room for him. Not good, especially since his attire seems to confirm that he is indeed about to bolt from town on a jet.

  Jake steps forward a bit and blocks my view of the car.

  “You didn’t have to do that, Jake.”

  “I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to. Don’t care for the idea of you hoofing it around town in the middle of winter. But promise me you’ll have the guys down at the auto-parts store put in a new battery today. Don’t fuck around and forget to do it. Today, Lacey.” Jake raises his brows and sends a beseeching look my way.

  I release an exasperated snort. “Oh, trust me, I’m one step ahead of you on getting that thing fixed. But how did you even start it? I have the keys in my purse.”

  “I took a chance that you still keep a spare key hidden up under the rear wheel well. You do.” A look of amusement crosses his expression before he shakes his head softly. “Some things never change.”

  “Apparently not.”

  Our eyes lock and if he wasn’t getting ready to leave, I might say more. Add a few words about how entirely confusing and inconvenient and maddening it is to realize how little has changed. Jake’s shoulders droop a bit and he reaches out to run his fingers through my messy, sleep-tousled hair.

  “Look, I don’t like how we ended things last night.” When his hand leaves my hair, he places it gently to my waist and tugs until I’m close enough to see the details of the stitching on his coat. “I’d forgotten how easy it is to be with you. Talk to you. I’d like us to keep in touch.”

  Keep in touch. Sounds like something you might say to anyone you went to high school with. The banal lines we feed each other to avoid simply saying good-bye and nothing else. I suppose it’s better than the last time he left town, which included no good-bye whatsoever, nothing but me standing in the town square and realizing with devastating clarity that he was gone.

  This, unfortunately, is an upgrade.

  I look up to his face and shrug. “What, you want to Facebook me? Send me pictures of your future babies and family trips to SeaWorld?”

  Jake cringes. “No way. I don’t do Facebook; that shit is the work of the devil. Give me your email and your phone number, and we’ll take it from there.”

  He wants to be digital pen pals? I’m standing here half-naked and hungover on the past, present, and future of this man, and he probably wants to forward me a few jokes or emails about puppies. I have enough of those cluttering my inbox already, and if that’s what he’s after, I’m not interested.

  “So you can do what, exactly? Email inspirational quotes and political rants my way?”

  “No.” His hand leaves my waist and returns to my hair, where he takes a few strands and twists a length of it around his index finger. “I want keep doing what we did last night. Talk. About whatever. I just don’t want to lose track of you again.”

  I consider reminding him how easily he could have tracked me down this whole time, since I was right where he left me, but instead I step away and make toward the living room to find a piece of paper. Because as much as I know I should shut the door on this, on him, the idea of more with Jake makes my heartbeat all wobbly and erratic. Hoping to avoid succumbing to that sensation and thus swooning all over him, I wave him inside to follow me.

  “Come on inside, it’s freezing.”

  Jake shakes his head and stays put. “Can’t. Clear skies finally, so I have to head out. And if I come in there with you dressed like that, looking all pretty and warm, I’ll end up staying until I’ve convinced you to show me what your sheets look like.”

  He’s standing at least fifteen feet away and still, despite that distance, those words are enough to warm every inch of my skin. Wobbly heart and skin fevering up? Not a good combination when you’re trying to remain clearheaded. I shuffle through a stack of mail and tear off the edge of a junk-mail envelope, scribbling my email and cell on it with a shaky hand. This might be a terrible decision: reconnecting with him, even if it’s only with words pecked out on a keyboard, because if I do and he pulls me in without offering more than a bunch of winky emoticons or digital pleasantries, it will sting far more than I would like to admit.

  Returning, I tuck the scrap of paper into the breast pocket on his white dress shirt. Jake tilts his head and catches my hand before I can pull away, pressing it there until I can feel the exact cadence of his heart thumping away.

  “I really have to go, Lace. I left Kate’s truck at The Beauty Barn and I need to get it back to her so I’m wheels up before the weather turns again.”

  Nodding, I draw my hand away and step out on the porch, pulling my front door closed behind me, to watch him start slowly down my sidewalk. I linger before going back inside. Waiting for him to do something as confirmation I haven’t just given my contact info to a man who might wash that shirt later and forget the scrap of paper is even in there. What I want is a touch, a kiss, a companionable hug, even. Anything to prove that leaving things as we did last night made him crazy, too.

  But he’s already halfway down the walk and despite the slow shuffle of his gait, nothing else indicates he’s about to make any kind of a move. Honestly, it’s annoying. I know I put the kibosh on last night, but it’s not like I pushed him away. My silly legs were nearly wrapped around him, dammit. I mean, one measly nice to see you again, you look so good I can’t bear it kiss never killed anyone, did it? I thought he said he wanted to stay in touch. Kissing absolutely equals touching.

  With a quiet huff, I give up hope and turn back to head inside. Just as my hand reaches the doorknob, I hear the heavy shuffle of his boots again, the stomp of him up the porch stairs. Then he’s behind me, shoving the front of his body against my back and thumping his hands flat to the door, just above my head. I freeze. His mouth comes to press gently into my hair at the crown of my head.

  “I know I pushed my luck last night and things didn’t end well, but”—Jake takes a slow inhale—“if I leave here without kissing you, I will lose my fucking mind, Lacey. You don’t want that, do you?”

  Barely, I manage a shake of my head. I’m a compassionate woman—of course I don’t want him to lose his mind. Call me Mother Teresa, because I’ll give him whatever he wants to save that brain of his from certain demise.

  “Then turn around so I can get a taste.”

  Oh, wow. Here we go. Grown-up Jake wants to play, and I’m immediately scared to death that I won’t be able to keep up. Desire manages to trump that fear and I turn slowly, slumping against the security of the door to keep me upright, pressing my palms behind me so they lie flat to the cold wood of the door.

  No second wasted, Jake shoves his hips into mine and latches his lips to the side of my neck, then up to trace my jaw, his hands gripping around my waist, cold fingertips against the exposed skin between the top of my shorts and the bottom hem of my tank. The cold of our skin, the heat of his mouth finally finding mine, collide together, and in some twisted pathetic effort to warm the rest of my body to his, I snake one leg around his. When I hitch that leg up a bit, my hips open enough to let one of his thighs nestle between mine. Jake groans at the contact and thrusts forward so roughly I end up echoing his groan with my own.

  When his hands jerk from around my waist and slip up under the back edge of my shorts, his hands demanding against the bare skin of my ass, I nearly throw my other leg up and pray he might just, I don’t know, screw me against the front door? That idea sounds perfectly reasonable right now.

  He doesn’t, but his hands knead the flesh, cupping and grasping until my sanity returns enough to re
mind me of basic propriety. We’re standing on my front porch, basically dry humping where anyone in town could see us. My high school history teacher. My ex. The pastor who lives next door. Anyone.

  I tilt my head over to break the kiss, but Jake merely finds the skin on my neck and proceeds to lick and nip the flesh.

  “Jake,” I whisper. He grunts at the sound of his name but doesn’t let up, his hands gripping even harder. “Jake.”

  Heavy exhales leave him as he pulls his mouth away, his warm breath covering the heated skin of my neck. “Pushing my luck again? Sorry.”

  He loosens the grip of his hands and begins to disentangle our limbs from one another. I wrap my leg tighter to stop him. Jake’s gaze finds mine.

  “No, that isn’t it. It’s just we’re outside, on my front porch. Anyone could see us.”

  He laughs. “You shouldn’t worry so much.”

  Dropping his forehead down to mine, he lays a brief kiss to my lips.

  “Besides, you’re the one humping my leg. People probably can’t see my hands all over your ass, but they sure as hell can see you trying to mount me, you little minx.”

  Oh hell. Between the press of our bodies, the thump of blood rushing away from my heart, and the fact I can’t help but laugh at being called out for minxy behavior, I realize one thing: Jake Holt is back. Technically, right now he might be leaving, but . . . he’s back.

  TO: laciegracie93

  FROM: jake.holt6239

  SUBJECT: Hoping you didn’t scam me

  This email had better not bounce back. Otherwise, I’ll end up having to fly back to that pissant town to straighten you out if it does. Even though I considered turning around about five thousand times anyway, just to see what those sheets of yours look like. But my boss wouldn’t find it very amusing that I grounded his moneymaker of a jet to get laid.