Take My Breath Away

by Lari Smythe

  Chapter 17

  When I got home, I headed straight for my room and then a long hot shower to forget all the craziness from school. Mrs. Whitaker wasn't home, and wouldn't be until after nine o'clock according to the note she'd left Jason on the kitchen table. I felt a twinge of panic when I considered the possibility that she had gone to the police to try and locate the Faulkners. It did however, seem doubtful since she was in full protect Jason mode and he had made it very clear that if I left, so would he.

  I'm not exactly sure how long I was standing there, letting the water cascade over me like I did back when my tranquil, pool in the creek was my safety zone, when Jason's Jeep pulled into the driveway. I toweled off and slipped into a pair of linen shorts and top. I'd grown found of the way the coarse fabric felt against my smooth marble skin. By the time I opened my door, I caught just a glimpse of Jason's feet on the top step. A few minutes later, the shower came on. I was calm, relaxed, not a hint of thirst so I decided to wait for him. With his mother away, maybe we could talk things out. I flipped on the television and plopped down on the sofa.

  The shower upstairs shut off abruptly making the water pipes in the wall bang. "Freakin' great!" Jason grumbled. The bathroom door opened. "Izzy!"

  I hopped up as he started down the stairs. This couldn't be happening again—he was definitely angry.

  "Did you take a shower—" He stopped as soon as he saw me—a smile filling his face. He jumped down the last few steps almost losing his towel in the process. He was just standing there, gripping the knot at his waist, dripping and just smiling.

  "What?" I finally said.

  "I uh, don't remember those, something new?"

  "No."

  "The uh, washed out blue suits you."

  I was pretty sure he was blushing. "Did I do something wrong?"

  "No, cold shower's good." He started back up the stairs.

  "Your mother won't be home until—"

  "Got it." His towel dropped when all that was visible was from his knees down. "Saw the note." The bathroom door closed and the shower came back on.

  As I turned to sit, I noticed I'd been standing in front of the television screen. I glanced down at my shorts and although the fabric was thin, it was opaque. It wasn't until I pulled my shirt to the side and peered down that I realized my body had been silhouetted against the big screen. I guess he was blushing.

  His shower was short, the cold could do that to humans, but he lingered in the bathroom. Finally the door opened and his footsteps trailed off to his room.

  "Sorry about the hot water," I called up to him.

  "No big deal." Jason came bounding down the stairs in a pair of cutoff, grey sweatpants and white knee socks. He wasn't wearing a shirt and the dampness of his skin and hair glistened in the incandescent glow of the kitchen light. "I'm going to grab a sandwich—that okay?"

  "Knock your socks off," I joked.

  He grabbed the peanut butter from the pantry, the jelly from the frig and then went to the counter next to the sink.

  "So how was practice?" I said, getting up. I couldn't see him from the sofa, but I sidestepped the television screen.

  "Average." He looked up, but frowned.

  This was weird, like last night never happened. Maybe the guys had figured out what had him so on edge, but it didn't seem likely. "What do you mean by average?"

  "I've never been all that great at baseball—just can't get the hang of hitting, you know."

  "Would you be angry if I made a suggestion?"

  "No, why would I be mad?"

  "You know, it makes you feel—"

  "What's the suggestion?"

  "Okay. So you know when I hit that ball?"

  "Sure, what about it?"

  "Well, watching the others, I noticed that to the human eye, the ball must look higher than it actually is. Most guys were missing over the ball."

  "Okay, I guess I can see that." He dropped the knife in the sink and took a bite of the sandwich.

  "Try swinging under the ball."

  He put the peanut butter back in the pantry. "Nah, that doesn't work—ya just pop it up."

  "No, that's because those guys were swinging up. I'm not saying swing up at the ball. I'm saying a nice level swing under what you see. Not much, just a little."

  "Cool, I'll give it a try." He took a swig of milk from the carton and then closed the refrigerator door. When he turned toward me, his brow rose.

  I moved to the side realizing I had stepped in front of the television again.

  "You want to watch a movie or something?" He stuffed the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth and walked toward me.

  I glanced down at what he was wearing, and then the clock. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

  He looked back at the clock. "Yeah, I see your point." He stopped and then slid in just inches from me. "You smell great."

  "You too," I said cautiously. His closeness brought on a torrent of sensations. His heart was pounding wildly beneath his sculpted chest. There was a medicinal cologne smell, but beyond that distraction his scent was like I'd never experienced before. He had this innocent, almost naive expression on his face.

  "The cologne too much?" he whispered easing in slowly and then kissing me on the cheek.

  "You don't need it," I said.

  His lips fell to my neck. My nostrils flared and I inhaled deeply—big mistake. There was a momentary fire in my throat, but the warm, intense feeling in my abdomen took control. Fire—not thirst—swelled up inside me radiating down my arms and legs. His lips found my earlobe and nibbled gently.

  "Jason," I half warned, leaning back and rolling my head from side-to-side.

  His hands slid up the back of my neck and tilted my head back, bringing my lips to his. Our lips locked together in a passionate kiss.

  Somewhere deep inside, a tiny voice was crying, 'No Jason, No Jason,' but I wasn't listening, I wanted more. I wrapped my arms around him, his bare skin scorching my arms. I traced the outline of his shoulders, the bullet wound, until my hands were at the back of his neck and I pressed his lips even tighter against mine.

  Jason forced his tongue into my mouth and exhaled deeply—perhaps a sigh.

  I broke off the kiss—afraid I might kill him in that instant. The churning fire deep inside was surging, pulsing—my ability to control it fading in the passion of the moment.

  Jason's hands slipped under my top and he clenched my sides, sliding his hands to my back. I made a futile attempt to pull away, but he moved with me.

  I pressed my head against his shoulder. "Jason," I warned, realizing he wanted more—the more—the more we'd talked about—the more that could never happen. "Stop."

  His hands slid up my back until he grasped my shoulders. He pressed his abdomen against mine.

  "No," I protested, but pulled him tighter against me, gripping his muscular back.

  He buried his mouth into the nape of my neck, panting furiously. His hands shot down my back, beyond the string tie of my shorts and grasped my cheeks.

  "Ahh!" he grimaced, his teeth scraping against my neck.

  Then, I smelled it, blood! Jason's blood. I pulled him even tighter, but held up one hand out in front of my face. It was then I saw the blood from his back trickling down from my fingertips. My razor, sharp fingernails had pierced his skin. I jerked my other hand away from him.

  "No!" he cried. "Don't stop."

  I tried, but I couldn't stop my hand from slowly rising to my face as a tiny streak of blood wound its way through the creases around my knuckles. In a struggle as old as my kind, I fought to resist, but I could not. Jason's blood touched my lips with a splendor beyond description. I hesitated, letting the ecstasy spread though my body.

  "We both want this," Jason panted. He pulled my hips toward his.

  I shook my head, trying desperately to break the trance. Mustering all the resolve I had, in one fluid motion, I brought my hands to his chest and pushed. Jason went flying into the back of the sof
a. It flipped over from the impact sending him sprawling across the floor into the wall.

  "No!" he screamed. "We want this!" He hopped up and rushed toward me.

  I was standing there, trembling, hypnotized by the blood running down my fingers.

  Jason put one foot on the back of the sofa and the other hit the upright bottom in midstride. The sofa rocked forward launching him toward me. Without thinking—acting on reflexes alone—I caught him in mid air and threw him over my shoulder. Simultaneously, there was shattering glass, the air rushing out of Jason's lungs from the impact and a blood curdling scream from the kitchen as the room suddenly went black. I looked back toward the kitchen at the silhouette of a woman. I froze, still trying to regain control, but the bliss that radiated within my body was gone—replaced with only thirst and rage.

  An even more intense scent of blood crossed my nostrils and I inhaled deeply. Instinct drew me toward the source—toward Jason. I leaned over his crumbled body lying amid the pieces of the shattered big screen.

  The lights suddenly came on followed immediately by another scream. I wheeled around.

  "What are you!" Jason's mother gasped. She staggered, grasping at the wall and then collapsed.

  I caught her, before she hit the floor and gently laid her down. I stood and looked back toward Jason's crumpled body—he would need medical attention. Jason's mom gasped. I knelt down by her side and grasping the cord, drug the phone across the floor. I could hear the dial tone so I pressed 9—1—1.