by Cindi Madsen
I had to shove away my emotions so that I could focus on Mom’s and prevent them from spiraling out of control. “I want to know about your life, Mom. I just wish you’d date a while before moving in with the first guy you meet. And what about Savannah’s workshop? She’s offered you free admission countless times, and while I occasionally tease her about all her rules, she’s helped a lot of women. Her classes could help you decide if this guy is the right guy. One who’ll stick.”
“Sugar, they’re all the right guy until they’re not. Love’s a risk. I know you’re good all on your own, but most people need other people. I need other people, or I just get so sad.”
If only it were that easy. She needed to be adored, and the instant she felt like she wasn’t adored enough, she threw that relationship away. Sometimes the guys ended it, too, for a myriad of reasons. Then she’d crash and cry, and I’d have to pick her up and support her for a few weeks to a month. We’d been doing this song and dance for over a decade, and I wanted her to learn some new steps.
I had. At one point in my life, Mom wasn’t the only one who’d cried over the end of her relationships. I’d try my hardest to be strong for her, and then after she passed out, I would cry myself to sleep, grieving over the loss of stability, my makeshift home, and stepdads and stepsiblings.
The residual ache over the many losses through the years opened a pit over my heart, sucking the happiness I’d walked into the restaurant with a little at a time. I quickly shut down those thoughts and double-enforced my walls.
Needing people left you dependent, and I couldn’t afford to lose my independence. And I sure as hell wouldn’t let myself be reduced to someone who could hardly function without a man.
She’d gotten one thing right, though: love was a risk.
One I wasn’t willing to take.
…
“What’s wrong?” Jackson asked when I showed up at the house. I’d told him via text message that I couldn’t get there until the afternoon, but from the looks of things, he’d started early.
I swallowed past the lump still lodged in my throat, cursing its existence. “Nothing.”
Jackson tilted his head, but it would take more than a head-tilt for me to spill my guts. It’d take a crowbar and massive amounts of alcohol, and basically it wasn’t happening.
I peeled off the jacket I’d put on due to the light rain. For the past few days, I’d tried to stay out of Jackson’s path as much as possible to help with the temptation-to-cross-lines thing, which wasn’t easy considering the house wasn’t all that big. Choosing jobs that had taken me to the opposite end of wherever he was working had helped, but now I needed an all-encompassing one that would keep my mind and body nice and busy. “Give me something to do. Something challenging and labor-intensive.”
“You wanna learn how to tear down cabinets?”
“More than anything,” I said.
An hour later, my legs and arms burned from the squatting and lifting and lowering. I’d put on some music, and other than that, it was just the sound of our tools and the occasional grunts that managed to send my mind right into the gutter. Especially if I was also staring at Jackson as he moved a heavy box of wooden cabinet doors.
Drill in hand, I climbed onto the counter and fit the screwdriver bit on the screw of the last remaining section of cabinets. At first, all I got was grinding resistance.
“Careful to not strip the top of the screw or we’ll have a hell of a time with it,” Jackson said.
I shot him a look, conveying that was at least the tenth time he’d made that statement and I was on top of one stupid screw. I’d take a sledgehammer to this last section if needed. It’d be so satisfying to watch bits of wood fly. To do some major destruction.
Finally, the bit caught, and the screw came right out, a spiral of wood shavings along with it. I undid the last one, and the weight of the cabinet hit me, much heavier than I’d expected.
For a second, I got that free-fall sensation that proceeded a crash, but Jackson was right there, supporting the bottom and giving me a chance to catch my balance. “I’ve got it,” he said, and then he took it from me and tossed it into the pile with the rest. He swiped his forearm across his forehead and extended a hand to help me down.
I supposed it’d be rude to refuse, and considering the mess on the floor, jumping down could end badly.
I slapped my palm in his and slowly lowered myself to sit on the counter. Instead of scooting back to give me room to get all the way down, Jackson stepped between my legs, wedging them open.
He dipped his head, leaving him right at eye level with me. “Now that we’ve gotten some of that anxious energy out with destruction, how ’bout you tell me what’s up? You’re still all tense.”
“Am not.” It came out weak, and his immovable stance proved he wasn’t buying it. I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to be in control of the guys my mom chose and ensure she wouldn’t get hurt and end up in that dark, depressed place she lingered in longer and longer with each failed relationship. But that wasn’t an option, and I hated it.
I hated feeling like we’d repeat this pattern until…well, I didn’t want to think about how long. She’d probably be throwing weddings in the nursing home that we were both living in.
“Is it your mom?” Jackson asked. “Is she okay?”
I met his gaze, and my heart gave a painful squeeze. “She’s okay when it comes to…all that stuff. As far as I can tell, anyway.” The vice on my heart tightened as I remembered getting the call that she was in the emergency room because she’d taken too many pills. A possible suicide attempt they’d informed me, and while she had sad, blue periods now and then, I never thought she’d hurt herself. “I just worry. I mean, I’ve worried ever since that night in the ER, but I thought she was doing better and so well on her own. Now she tells me that she’s dating again, and I’m so afraid that if it doesn’t go smoothly, she’ll spiral. And none of her relationships go smoothly. All growing up, I kept thinking surely this one won’t end up like the last, but she chooses the worst guys, or if they’re actually good ones, she dumps them—it’s like she’s got blinders on in her relationships.”
“Want me to do some digging? Find out who this guy is and give him a shakedown if needed?” One corner of Jackson’s mouth turned up, telling me he was joking, but I also knew that if I told him I wanted him to, he’d make good on his offer.
While we still couldn’t agree on most anything, he’d always been a man of his word, and he was the kind of guy who’d defend people against bullies or step in if a situation got out of control. He wasn’t easily intimidated or deterred, and that was why he was the most dangerous guy I’d ever met. Unable to help myself, I ran my hand down the side of his face. The scrape of his whiskers against my palm sent tingles dancing across my skin. “Not yet.”
I reluctantly let my hand drop and gripped the edge of the counter so I wouldn’t be tempted to touch him again. “I can’t stop thinking about how nice it would be to just shrug it off and say, ‘Fine, date who you want. I’m out.’ And then just be able to ignore her as easily as she’s ignored me.”
The truth of my admission flayed me open, leaving me way too exposed. I shifted, attempting to move off the counter because it was too much, but Jackson put his large hands on my thighs, holding me in place. “But you can’t. And that’s okay. I know you want everyone to think that nothing gets to you, but it’s okay to have feelings.”
I shook my head.
He caught my chin and lifted my face to his. “It is. But it’s also okay to let go of what you can’t control.”
Shit. Tears were forming, and I couldn’t cry in front of him. I decided that between bursting into tears and showing the tiniest bit of neediness, neediness was better than weakness—after all, guys ran from needy women. Holding on to that weak consolation, I gave in to my impulse, threw my arms around his neck, and hugged him for all I was worth.
It was so familiar, being wrapped in his embrace. In
some respects, way too familiar. Him consoling me about my mom. Me losing my iron grip on my emotions.
I’d arrived at the emergency room that night all those months ago to find Mom attached to tubes and wires, so pale I could see every vein in her body. They’d pumped her stomach and said they had done all they could do and that it was just a waiting game. I’d been terrified I was going to lose her and had a full-blown panic attack. Savannah was out of town, and I didn’t know what to do, so I picked up my phone and called Jackson.
I wasn’t even sure why, but as soon as I saw his name in my contacts, I knew he’d know what to do.
He’d come to the hospital, and I’d flung myself into his arms, pretty much like I’d done moments ago. He’d held me as I’d cried against his shoulder, lamenting the fact that I hadn’t called her enough, and I hadn’t paid enough attention, and I felt so damn helpless, and tell me what to do, just someone tell me what to do.
He’d held me until I was completely wrung out, not a single tear left.
Clenching my jaw, I forced myself to stop feeling and managed to stifle the urge to cry. I lifted my head and got lost in a sea of green for a moment…
Got lost in the way Jackson looked at me.
He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, almost as if he were afraid I’d freak out and pull away. I teetered on the edge of what I should do and what I wanted to do, and then I fisted my hand in his T-shirt and pulled him to me.
I brushed my lips across his. “I just need to not think for a while,” I whispered.
“That can definitely be arranged,” he said, tension vibrating through his muscles as he fought to hold himself back. “Are you sure?”
I nodded even though I wasn’t sure of anything except that kissing him felt like the right thing to do in this moment.
I could feel the instant his control snapped, the change so palpable that electricity crackled in the highly charged air between us. He gripped my hips and pulled me flush against him as his mouth descended on mine. My legs automatically wrapped around his waist. One of his hands traveled up and tangled in my hair. Then he used his grip to angle my head and deepen the kiss.
As his lips moved against mine, his tongue dipping in for a quick taste, my thoughts went nice and hazy. Jackson kissed down the column of my neck and then pressed a sucking kiss over my collarbone. I arched against him the best I could, using the counter for leverage, but there still seemed to be too much space, too much clothes, too much everything and yet not enough.
His hands skimmed up the sides of my waist, his thumbs hooked on the hem of my shirt. We broke apart long enough for him to pull it over my head, and then I went to work removing his.
I sighed at the delicious skin-on-skin contact when we came back together, my desire flaring even hotter when he groaned.
Right as I reached for the button of his jeans, he pulled away. A protest was on the tip of my tongue, but then he undid my jeans, roughly yanked them off, and tossed them aside. He pulled me into his arms and crushed his lips to mine. I rewrapped my legs around his waist, and then we were moving.
“Where…?” Talking was more effort than I expected.
Jackson rounded the corner and started up the stairs. “Somewhere I can lay you back and kiss my way down your body.”
“Well, in that case, take me wherever.”
His lips found the sensitive spot under my ear, and his husky voice made goose bumps sweep across my skin. “I knew there was a way to get you to agree with me.”
He lowered me to my feet once we reached my former bedroom, and the break in contact and kissing gave me two seconds too long to think. I desperately needed an escape, but I didn’t want him to feel like I’d used him, even though I’d yet to meet a guy who cared about that when sex was involved.
“This…” I gestured between us and placed my hand on the center of his chest so I could keep him back long enough to get this out. It was entirely counterproductive, because his skin was warm, and I could feel his heart beating against my palm, the rhythm as fast and as hard as mine.
“We’re only having fun,” Jackson said, backing me toward the bed. He slipped his finger in the strap of my bra, and the exquisite drag of his rough fingertips robbed me of oxygen. “Enjoying it while it lasts. I’ve heard the speech, and this time, I get it. I won’t make the same mistake I did before.”
I wanted to argue that it wasn’t so much a mistake and say it was me not him, which was overused enough to put it in the least-sexy things you could say category. But then he yanked the strap he’d been toying with down off my shoulder, his carnal side taking over.
He gave the other strap the same treatment, nipping at the exposed spot where my neck met my shoulder as he reached behind me and unhooked my bra.
Shivers of need cascaded through me, growing even stronger as his heated gaze ran over me. He gripped my hips, his fingers digging into my skin.
Then he tossed me on the bed, crawled over me, and started making good on his promise to kiss his way down my body.
I let go of my inhibitions, succumbed to the delicious sensations traveling up and down my body, and decided to let myself have fun and enjoy it while it lasted.
And with Jackson, I knew that that could be a very long time…
Chapter Thirteen
I woke up alone, and for half a hazy second, I was almost offended.
Then I realized it meant Jackson did understand. Maybe we really could just have fun, no strings or messy complications. Heaven knows I needed the release.
I sunk into the mattress, enjoying the tingly soreness and the memory of the kisses we’d shared. Of his powerful body moving over mine.
If we hadn’t been alone in the house, the how-to-get-busted springs would’ve most definitely given us away. My smile spread across my face, reaching deliriously happy territory.
I’d forgotten how amazing sex could be. Like, I remembered it was amazing and I’d felt the lack of it in my life, but with Jackson it went so far above and beyond anything else I’d ever experienced. Last night was make-you-forget-your-problems-and-your-name sex.
I let out a contented sigh and then decided I should get up and moving. Since I hadn’t been planning on staying the night, I didn’t have any of my essentials here. Going home just to come back didn’t seem like a good use of the few hours I had before my bartending shift at Azure, so I threw my hair in a bun and got to work digging through the boxes I’d pulled into my bedroom when the living room seemed too far, the stairs too daunting. I still needed to sort which of the remaining ones needed hauled to Goodwill and which were the ones Dixie wanted me to keep.
The first box I knelt beside opened up with a puff of dirt, and I coughed and waved a hand through the air before diving in.
These must be her scrapbooks. Now that I twisted the box around, I spotted the label.
Dixie had tried to get me into scrapbooking with her, always saving ticket stubs and little mementos that marked our trips. Like the one to the Tybee Island Beach and that misguided camping trip to the Chattahoochee Forest. We so weren’t roughing-it girls.
The scenery was amazing, though. I recognized the maroon cover of one of the books and pulled it out—it had just the trip I was reminiscing about. I laughed as I studied the pictures: our fire pit with still-intact logs, marred only by a few scorch marks, as starting campfires wasn’t in our repertoire; eating our non-melted s’mores; and one of Mom running from a cloud of bugs that must’ve loved her perfume or hairspray, our leaning tent in the background.
I ran my finger over the last picture—one taken using the timer on Dixie’s camera—and tentacles of longing wrapping around me. It was the camping trip from hell, but the three of us were frozen in a moment of laughter. We’d had a lot of those in the good days—a.k.a., the days between Mom’s men. They were my favorite memories. Mom hadn’t been the same since the rift formed between her and Dixie. Nothing had been the same.
Instead of letting the sentimental wave pull me under, I lif
ted the book and studied the captions and cool effects Dixie added. She often spent hours perfecting one page. I didn’t have the patience to cut borders and do all the gluing and decorating. She took it to the next level with funky rivets and grommets and other things I didn’t even know existed before she’d pulled me up to the large oak table in her craft room one day. I always thought it was funny that we ate on a table that could barely accommodate the three of us, while the craft table was several feet long.
When I lifted out another book, a stack of loose pictures fell and scattered across the floor. As I gathered them up, I suddenly understood her fascination with recording everything. She had pictures of Mom and me squeezed into the tire swing that used to hang in the front yard—the neighbors thought it was an eyesore, which only encouraged us to use it more. Another set of pictures commemorated one of the yearly Fourth of July barbecues Dixie and Mom put on.
She even had pictures of me in a school play. The one where I was dressed like the palest Indian at Thanksgiving. O-M-G, what was I doing with my hair?
Half crimpy, half straight, and all WTH. I stacked them and set them aside, then lifted out a book I’d never seen before. It looked older, the material edges browned with signs of age.
The first few pictures were of Dixie and Mom, and judging from the styles and their age, it must’ve been from college. They’d lived in a small apartment near Georgia State University, where Dixie majored in English with a minor in photography—naturally—and my mom majored in attending school to find a man before eventually dropping out.
I flipped the page and came face to face with the man she found. My dad moved out of the house before I could talk in full sentences and relocated to the west coast when I was in elementary school. Phone calls between us were painful and closely resembled the type of jilted small talk perfect strangers would have, so we’d all but given up on them. I got the feeling kids had never been his thing, and from what I’d gathered from bits and accidental dropped hints, my mom thought a baby would save their rocky four-year marriage.