by B. K. Rivers
“Careful there, sister.” My legs do a knee-jerk as her hand brushes over my Johnson. Intentional or not, that’s dangerous ground. Her cheeks flush as though she’s just realized where her hand actually is. She snatches her soda and places it into one of the cup holders.
“Sorry. There’s one in there for you too. Along with some chocolate.”
“I don’t think I’ve had a Sprite since I was ten,” I say when I pull out the green bottle, and then immediately regret it. Her lips form a tight line and I can tell I’ve disappointed her. “Thank you. This should be yummy.”
Yummy? Did I just revert to a six-year-old?
“So if we hurry we can make the eight fifteen movie at the drive-in. Wanna go?” There she is again, almost looking through me.
“I’d rather get to know you,” I say as I shrug my shoulders.
“We can do that too. Let’s go.”
As it turns out, the movie is an older one, The English Patient, which I’ve seen on more than one occasion.
“You know this is almost three hours long, right?” I ask as the movie begins. She nods and points to the screen.
“Shh. Just watch, okay?”
It’s not that the movie is boring, it’s just not a lot happens, other than the sexual tension between a couple sets of characters. Don’t get me wrong, the scene during the Christmas party had both Jemma and I squirming in our seats. When the screen goes black and cars begin to pull away, Jemma continues to stare straight ahead. Her hands are gripping the steering wheel and whether or not she knows it, she keeps chewing her bottom lip.
“Where do you go when you disappear?” It’s like Jemma climbs into a secret world and doesn’t see or hear what’s going on around her. She doesn’t answer so I try another tactic. “Maybe you and I can recreate that Christmas party scene.”
“What?” Her head snaps up and she turns to me with the rosy blush on her cheeks that suits her so well.
“You know, me and you, you up against the wall, my hands wandering to dark places…”
“Stop!” she cries. “That’s…I don’t. Just stop.”
“How old are you?” I ask. There has to be something to this girl that has her so wound tight.
“Twenty,” she answers.
I would have placed money on her being nineteen. “So you’re twenty years old and what, still a virgin?”
Her pink cheeks grow brighter and her eyes glisten as though she’s fighting tears. Her bottom lip trembles a bit and a single tear makes its way down her cheek.
Oh God. “Were you—?”
She cuts me off sharply. “No! It’s a long story,” she says softly. “I don’t talk about it…to anyone.”
“Maybe you should. Something’s got you so twisted inside you won’t even let me kiss you.”
The lights of a passing car flash in front of us and we both squint against the brightness. Jemma’s face is a mixture of something sad and slightly scared when she turns to me.
“You’ve wanted to kiss me?” Her question lingers as though she’s thought about it as well.
“I’ve tried to kiss you for two days. What did you think was happening?”
Her chest rises as she inhales deeply and then it falls as she releases her breath slowly. “You hardly know me,” she says, sounding like she’s trying to convince herself of something. “And there have been so many others.”
A laugh bubbles through my nose and I shake my head. There have been a lot—too many to count. More than one a night on occasion. “And you’re going to hold that against me?”
“Shouldn’t I? I’ve only been with one person and that was over three years ago. How many have you been with?”
A cough erupts from my throat. “Three years ago? Holy shit.”
There’s that pink blush on her cheeks again.
“I think it’s time to get back home.” Apparently it’s the end of the conversation as she turns away, purses her lips, and puts the car in reverse.
Chapter 20
Jemma
Back at home while I sit on my bed, I replay the events of the night and come to the decision it’s time for Jordan to leave. I’m dangerously close to ignoring my rules, and with Jordan, especially with Jordan, it’s too dangerous. He’s said he wants to go to rehab so I grab my laptop and search for clinics nearby, as well as in his hometown of Phoenix. I find two in-patient clinics in Warner and one outpatient clinic in Stafford, which is only about fifteen miles from here. There are more than a handful of clinics in Arizona, so he can choose from the pick of the litter. I print off the information for the three local clinics and then a couple in Arizona and leave the paper sitting on the printer. There’s no need to bring them to him tonight.
The house smells like nutty cinnamon and salty bacon when I wake up in the morning. Either I’ve slept late or Gran has gotten up early and made breakfast. Throwing day-old grunge to the wind, I shrug on a lightweight sweater over my tank and head downstairs. Gran is sitting on a kitchen chair near the window working a crossword, and Jordan is standing in front of the stove flipping bacon. My mouth drops open at the sight of the two of them having switched roles.
“Hey!” Jordan says, perhaps with a little too much excitement. “I thought the smell of gourmet bacon would get your lazy ass out of bed.”
“Language,” calls Gran from behind her crossword.
“Sorry,” he says, and then he flips another piece of bacon.
“You’re making breakfast?” I ask as I walk to the table and take a seat. I can’t say I mind watching him cook over the stove, even if he is using his broken hand too much.
“I thought I’d give it a shot. It’s been a while, but I think it’s all coming back to me.” He winks and my heart does a little dance in my chest.
Conversation is polite and pleasant during breakfast and I offer to clean up dishes when we’re through. After Gran goes to her blue chair in the family room I decide now is as good a time as any to bring up rehab.
“So, I printed up some information for you last night. It’s over there on the printer.” I point to the printer sitting on the counter.
Jordan laughs through his nose and shakes his head. “You mean the rehab clinics?” I nod, a little surprised he noticed them. “You’re that eager for me to leave, huh?”
“I just thought since you mentioned them the other day, I’d help you find some.”
“Sure. And it has nothing to do with what’s going on here?” he asks as he walks closer to me, gesturing with his hands as though there is an invisible rope connecting the two of us. I shake my head, trying to force myself to believe he’s wrong.
“Nope, nothing to do with…with…there isn’t anything going on here.” Biting my lip, I keep repeating those words in my head. Jordan steps closer. The tips of our toes nearly touch.
“Nothing?” He places his hands on the counter on either side of my hips. “Are you sure?”
Nodding and staring at his eyes while holding a dishtowel is not distracting enough. And when Jordan dips his head even more unbearably close, my sigh hits his lips and he closes his eyes. His lashes are so long and full they almost touch his cheekbones, and the scruff on his face is darker than what’s neatly combed on his head this morning. His lips part just enough it’s like a crack in his exterior, a small portion of him he’s opening up to me. My fingers tremble and I wrap them tighter around the towel.
A dry lump forms in my throat, and when Jordan’s eyes open, they focus on my lips, making me want to trace my fingers over them and feel their softness. I want the stubble on his jaw to scrape against my neck as he runs his lips over me.
Jordan wets his lips and draws his eyes back to mine. “Are you sure there’s nothing here?” His whispered question makes me weak in the knees. My head bobs somewhere between a yes and a no as I drop the towel. Rules, Jemma. Rules.
“I should go to the horses.” My voice is soft and slightly raspy as I steal one last glance at his blush-colored lips. They curve into a glorious sideways smile and
I have to put all of my weight on the counter behind me.
“They can wait,” he whispers, and then moves over me, leaving no room for air between us. My heart catches in my chest, and my body temperature rises by about fifty degrees. His cheek grazes mine, sending goose bumps all down my body. His lips brush against my ear, and my eyes close as he whispers, “You smell like the night and a cool breeze.” He inhales deeply, drawing me in. “It’s delicious.”
He drags his lips down my ear and then across my jaw. I shudder at his touch, at the not-really-a-kiss kiss. Jordan moves back, taking the heat with him, and I find myself leaning toward the space he just occupied, my lips parting, releasing a hungry sigh against my will. Stupid lips.
***
Over the next several days, Jordan has become more helpful around the house. He’s doing some cooking, light cleaning, and has even taken to helping me with the horses. Now when he enters the stables the four traitors nicker not only to me but to Jordan as well. Even Gran seems to be acclimating to him.
The papers I printed for him haven’t left the printer and I’m beginning to wonder if he really meant what he said about going to rehab. I know he has to be ready and actually have the desire to go. Maybe he’s just not there yet.
Every passing glance he gives me is filled with something that troubles me. I see his eyes reflecting what I feel: desire. Deep, heated, lustful desire that only leads to trouble and heartbreak. So I remind myself hourly he’ll be leaving soon and what I’m feeling is merely hormones and nothing more.
Gran’s refills are ready in Warner, which means it’s time for my every other Friday trip to the apothecary. As I kiss Gran goodbye I hear Jordan clomping down the stairs, his flip-flops flopping loudly behind him.
“Take him with you,” Gran says as she kisses my cheek. “I want to rest and I won’t be able to with him moping about.”
My eyes close and I stop myself from sighing. “Okay. You’ve been really tired lately, Gran. Should I take you back to see Dr. Hobson?”
Her lips curve into a tight smile. “No, dear. I’m just getting old.” She pats my arm and shoos me out the door. Jordan smiles and when we’re out of Gran’s sight he slaps my butt, making me squeal and jump out of his range.
“Don’t even start, mister, or you can stay in the stables with the horses,” I warn.
“Sometimes I think they would be better company,” he says with a smirk.
Even as I drive and try to keep my focus on the road, Jordan’s presence alone is distracting. The way he lounges on the seat, his legs stretched out in front, leaning on his elbow on the armrest—all of it swirls in my brain, causing my imagination to run wild. My fingers grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.
Halfway to Warner the radio DJ comes on and announces the next song and the mood in the car goes from charged with tension to sour.
“Well, folks, this next song is an oldie but a goodie. And considering the band’s current hiatus, it may be one of the last songs we’ll remember of theirs. Here’s “Blinded By You” from White Shadow.”
A part of me needs to stop the car so I can get out and be sick on the side of the road. The other part wants to take a hammer to the radio and beat it until the parts spill out of it like a box of noodles. Why that song? Why now, with Jordan sitting beside me in the car? Why was I so stupid at seventeen? Jordan looks as green as I feel and his hands are balled into fists. We’re both miserable for different reasons and neither of us knows how to help the other.
We pull into the apothecary and Jordan waits in the car while I pay for Gran’s prescription.
“See you in two weeks,” Angie says with her polite smile. “And let me know when you want to hang out.”
“Thanks, I will,” I answer back, and as I leave, the chime on the door echoes in my ears. I had forgotten she said something about getting together last time I was here. So much has happened since then, and I haven’t been in a place to hang out.
Jordan’s legs are bouncing in his seat when I get in the car, a habit I’m sure from times when he feels the urge to get high.
“You doing okay?” I ask when his bouncing doesn’t stop. He looks at me with his brown sugar eyes and then follows my line of sight to his legs.
“Oh, sorry. I’m having some major withdrawals right now.” Beads of sweat line his forehead, and when I offer him some water he shakes his head.
“How can I help?” Here we are again, at this place we can’t get around. Every couple of days he gets like this: antsy, full of angst, and twitchy. I wonder if it will ever fully go away. I wonder if he wonders if it will ever go away.
He tries to smile but he looks like he’s in so much discomfort that the smile looks more like a murderous smirk. “God, I don’t know what to do.”
Should I bring up rehab now? He hasn’t spoken of it in over a week and I’m not sure how it would go over if I mention it.
“I just need this all to go away. I can’t keep doing this.”
“Jordan, you’re scaring me.”
“Just let me out, okay? You and Gran have done enough.”
My hand lingers over the handle of my door and my mouth drops. “Jordan, let me help get you checked in at a rehab clinic.”
“And what am I supposed to do after rehab?” He slams his hands on his thighs and a groan from deep in his chest spills from his mouth. “I’m no good sober, Jemma. Don’t you get it? I can only make music if I’m high or drunk. No one is going to want me back if I’m useless.”
“You’re not use—”
“Shut the hell up, Jemma. You have no idea how the music industry works. I’m getting out of this car, so get your finger off the automatic lock.”
I hadn’t realized my hand had slid down to the lock and now my fingers are trembling and tears slip down my cheeks.
“Jordan, don’t do this, please.”
His hand reaches for the handle and the door pops open. He slides his legs out.
“It’s better this way, trust me,” he says as he closes the door. My body shakes with sobs I can’t control. When Jordan walks to my door, I throw it open and jump out. I pull out my cell and thrust it to his chest.
“You’re an asshole, Jordan Capshaw,” I say as his fingers wrap around mine.
Something flashes in his eyes. Guilt, maybe? It surfaces and then it’s gone in an instant.
“I thought I could do it, I really did,” he says as he cups my face in his hands. “If I was a better man, and not such a screw-up, I could have done it.”
My heart plummets to my stomach as Jordan bridges the distance between us and his lips crash against mine. My eyes widen in shock but close as a hunger unlike anything I’ve ever felt tears through me. His lips are persistent, and when his tongue finds mine all is lost. It’s like a long ago lost fire has suddenly been ignited with fuel and the heat is unimaginably intense. His hands drop from my face but hold firm on my shoulders as he pulls me closer, our bodies so close it’s as though we share the responsibility of breathing. My fingers rake through his hair and come to rest on the back of his neck. We stumble back against the car, and Jordan becomes more persistent, pressing himself against me. One of his legs wedges between mine and we’re tangled in a puzzle of limbs. His hips grind against me and I moan into his kiss.
“God, I want you,” he says against my lips. He drags his lips over my jaw and nips at my ear. My fingers slide down his back to his sides where I ball my hands into fists, tangling them in his t-shirt. I feel myself slipping away, wanting to forget the rules I created so long ago, wanting nothing more than to give in to this hunger. Jordan twists my hair around his long fingers and hungrily covers my lips with his again. My back is pressed up against the driver-side window and Jordan’s hips are pressing harder into me. His leg nudges higher and higher until a tingling heat forms at my core.
“You guys need to go get a room,” a man’s voice says from somewhere nearby. Jordan barely notices, but I pull away, noting how my cheeks burn not only from
embarrassment. Jordan leans back to kiss me, but I push against his chest with my palms.
“I can’t do this,” I say as I work to separate our bodies. “Especially here, in front of the pharmacy where I get Gran’s meds.”
The apothecary sits in the center of a small strip mall, and as far as I can tell, we just put on a pretty good show for several onlookers. I’m a nobody, but Jordan is still recognizable, though he has a much fuller patch of hair growing on his face. Even at this distance from the strip mall, people can tell who is standing in front of me.
“We should go,” I say, tugging on the hem of his sleeve. Jordan folds his arms across his chest and stares down at me.
“I’m serious,” he says gruffly. “I’m not going back with you.”
Chapter 21
Jordan
Jemma’s swollen lips beg for me to kiss her again, and with her cheeks such a bright pink, I almost do before she drives away in her Civic. She insisted I keep her cell phone, and I suppose it will come in handy until I can get my own. Which, thankfully, will be in about ten minutes. There’s a cell phone provider a couple doors from the apothecary, and since my last phone was through Verizon it shouldn’t be a problem telling them I’ve lost my old one. It’s a shame about all my contacts though.
After signing what felt like a thousand autographs at the Verizon store, I made my way out with a new phone and the numbers of three groping girls. At least I haven’t lost that ability. A cab comes to scoop me up minutes later. The driver rolls down the window, sticks his head out, and asks where I want to go. I stand back and appraise his posture and the way he avoids eye contact. His hair is buzzed along the sides by his ears and the top is longer so it forms a faux-hawk. His arms are sleeved in tats and he has plugs in his earlobes. This guy most likely knows where to take me.
I climb in the backseat and watch as the driver jerks his head in a double take.
“No way, man!” he says, and sticks his hand over the seat for me to shake. “I knew this job would pay off someday. Name’s Randy.” His grip is firm and his poorly groomed smile makes me like him even more.