by Kat Catesby
He looks at me patiently yet expectantly and I know he’s not going to drop it.
“Their original color is…weird.”
“Weird how?” he’s like a rottweiler with a juicy bone.
“Weird like kids were mean in kindergarten…their parents too. So, my parents, fed up with seeing me in tears, switched me to a different school and got me contacts to give me a regular eye color. They were really supportive about it though and made sure I grew up accepting the way my eyes look and ensuring that I understood that I’m not hiding them because I’m ashamed, but just for an easier life.”
“May I ask what color they really are?” His curiosity is piqued.
“You can ask.”
“But you won’t tell me?”
“I’ll…think about it,” I concede.
“Why haven’t you laughed in weeks?” he hits me with another left-field question.
“I think I’m going to limit the number of questions you can ask if you’re going to continue this somewhat emotional interrogation.”
He ignores me completely. “You set the precedent for that question when you said earlier that you hadn’t laughed in weeks. If you didn’t want to be asked why you shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Wow. Because that’s the kind of comment that really makes me want to open up to you, not punch you in your smug face, at all,” my voice thick with sarcasm.
Jackson just sits there staring me down with those sexy eyes and predictably, I crumple first.
Damn him.
“The obvious answer is because I haven’t felt like it.”
“And that makes me sad, but you’re more than aware that my next question will obviously be: why haven’t you felt like it?”
I breathe in deeply, trying to work out how best to articulate my response.
“Emilia…” he warns, his voice impatient and demanding.
“Patience is a virtue. I’m thinking,” I huff.
He’s placated enough to whisper seductively, “I’m not known for being virtuous.”
Right. Because that will help me think faster.
I shake my head to clear it of any wayward thoughts. “Fundamentally, I haven’t felt like myself. I miss my parents, there are days where I haven’t felt well and I guess not having a roommate or that I haven’t made any other significant friends means that I’m…well…lonely.”
“You haven’t made any friends?” He seems genuinely concerned by this.
“I haven’t felt like myself enough to have tried.”
“You’ve been yourself with me.”
“But I’m not trying to make friends with you. Currently, Mr. Smoak, you are just the flirt I got paired with to write a paper.”
“You think I’m a flirt?”
“I know you’re a flirt – I’ve seen you around campus with your harem of beauties. You must’ve liked the cheerleader from last Friday…I don’t think you could’ve pushed your tongue down her throat any further if you tried.”
“Jealous?” he teases.
YES, the dirty half of my brain screams.
“Not to burst your self-important bubble, Jackson, but not all women dream of being the fleeting fuck that you and your super-muscled cronies have forgotten about by morning.” The nerve of this man.
“Speaking of dreams, why do you look so tired?” He changes track completely as if I haven’t just insulted him by calling him a blatant man-whore.
“Generally, people look tired when they are tired.”
“Then why are you tired?”
“Well, being tired is normally the result of a lack of sleep,” I’m patronizing him now, but I really am tired and don’t have the patience for this prolonged interrogation.
“Why are you being so awkward and evasive?”
“Because I’m tired and you’re wasting my time by not asking the right questions. If you want to know why I haven’t been sleeping then ask me why I haven’t been sleeping. Don’t dance around the subject,” I snap.
“Okay, why aren’t you sleeping?” His tone is softer now and it throws me off my argumentative balance.
“Are you trying to be my friend now?” I counter.
“Yes,” his indigo eyes burn with sincerity.
That throws me further.
“Because I’m having nightmares,” I admit quietly.
“Tell me about it?” And he actually sounds like he cares.
I breathe in deeply through my nose and say it in a rush. “I die…painfully. Covered in blood on a cold, damp sidewalk in the dark. Every night it feels more real than the last and it frightens me.”
Jackson’s whole demeanor changes; his expression stern, his back rigid and his eyes alight with something close to fear. He moves his chair closer and locks his eyes with mine. “Tell me everything. Don’t leave a single detail out.”
Something in his tone warns me not to argue.
The atmosphere between us has shifted and everything feels deadly serious all of a sudden and I’m compelled to tell him everything, even though I’m going to sound certifiably crazy.
“Every dream starts the same, with an image I saw when you first looked at me. It’s of you and me dancing around a pretty impressive looking ballroom – all fancy chandeliers and black and white marble, while a string quartet plays in the background. It feels very turn-of-the-last-century. You dance me around effortlessly for hours and for the whole night you never leave my side. Later, when you’ve walked me home, we…,” I swallow past the boulder in my throat… dear god, this is mortifying and Jackson just keeps staring intently at me. “…Well, we make out and it’s pretty damn hot,” I finish quickly.
Jackson manages a small smile and just waits for me to continue.
“I stand in my doorway watching you leave. At the end of the road, you turn and wave goodbye and then something happens and I don’t know how to describe it. The sensation is so strange. For a moment it’s not entirely unpleasant; I feel it in my neck and its deep and intense, but a split second later it’s agony. Burning agony and I’m screaming – I can’t stop screaming and there’s blood everywhere. It takes only a few moments before I’m covered with it and fall to the sidewalk. I’m vaguely aware that it’s cold and wet and that I can’t scream anymore as the blood fills my mouth and I start choking on it. I try to stem the bleeding with my hands, but there’s so much blood and it’s slippery and I really start to panic when I’m able to put my hand through a gaping wound into my neck. All the while you are shouting and sprinting towards me, but something stops you before you reach me. Everything starts to get fuzzy around the edges. I can see the pool of blood that I’m lying in – I’m practically swimming in it and you’re fighting someone and it’s ferocious, but you start to drift out of focus and I know I barely have any blood left to bleed. You finally get to me, but you’re already covered in blood and for a moment I fear that it’s yours. When you look at me, I can see the panic in your eyes as you tangle your hands with mine to stop the bleeding, but I have nothing left. My lungs burn for oxygen, my heart thumps so painfully in my chest, my eyes sting with the tears my body can no longer make and I fall…like the ground has lurched out from under me and everything disappears in one painful second. I wake up screaming at this point.” I take another deep breath to calm my heart rate and take the edge off the tears threatening to make an appearance.
Jackson looks like he’s seen a ghost. He leans forward and takes my face firmly in both of his hands.
“Show me your eyes,” he demands and his tone leaves me under no illusion; I don’t have a choice in the matter.
I’m not sure what relevance this has, but I lift my shaking hands to my face and try to tip my face forward to remove the lenses, but his hands are like a vice and I can’t move.
“Let me,” he whispers and with the softest flutter of his fingers across my eyes, he has my lenses out in seconds. I blink in surprise. Jackson just stares, captivated with his face closer than before. He is mere inches from me, his
fingertips caressing my cheeks with the silkiest touch as he holds my face firmly in front of his.
“They’re stunning,” he breathes and despite my jittery nerves and fraught emotional state, I’ve never been so desperate to be kissed in my whole life.
Jackson floods my senses at such close proximity, all I can see and feel and smell is him and it pushes me into sensory overload. Every cell in my body begs to be kissed and touched by him. I long to bridge the gap and plant my lips on his, but I still can’t move. I’m trying to read his face, but he’s so close I can’t focus my eyes; I think I see shock, surprise and some other intense emotion I can’t define.
I place my hands on top of his, the warmth of his skin seeping into mine as I try to pull so that he releases my face slightly. Reluctantly, he loosens his grip, giving me the opportunity I’ve been aching for. I lift my face to his and brush my mouth against his full, silken, utterly sexy lips. They’re hot and firm and the sound of his gasp does exquisite things to the muscles between my legs, but like a slap to the face, he pulls back and clasps my face firmly back in place…away from his.
“Tonight,” he pants and the sound sets my clenched abdominal muscles on fire. The burn is unbearable and the only way I can think to cool the flames is to have him touch me…I want his hands on me, soothing me, stimulating me…fucking me. Having him inside me is the only cure I want. I groan in protest – I don’t want to wait until tonight…I don’t t think I can wait until tonight.
What am I thinking?
Am I really that desperate that I’m contemplating hooking up with Jackson Smoak?
“We have a lot to talk about Emilia. I need you to come and see me tonight. I’ll give you the answers you want, but this isn’t the time or place for it,” he murmurs urgently.
I’m all for the part where I ‘come’ – my body is on fire…I don’t want answers I need relief.
My brain needs a serious reality check.
Jackson stands and picks up his laptop leaving my body vacant and bereft. He chuckles at my horny/angry expression.
“Here’s my address.” He hands me a piece of paper and begins to walk away but stops abruptly. Hope flickers through my raging fire of hormones.
“Oh, and Emilia?” I can’t answer him without making some sort of groaning sex-sound, so I just nod. “Don’t come around after nine o’clock.”
I frown at his odd request and am about to question him when he throws me a pair of sunglasses I hadn’t noticed he’d had in his t-shirt pocket. They’re completely tinted.
“So you don’t have any awkward questions or stares,” and as he turns to walk away again, I realize he’s walking off with my contact lenses. The man is a mixture of kind gestures and confident behavior that borders on arrogant.
“Until tonight, Angel,” he calls seductively over his shoulder.
Tonight suddenly feels a very long way away.
Chapter Three
The afternoon drags.
I can’t focus enough to study. I’ve got no friends to call or hang out with and my body vibrates with nervous anticipation for tonight. I give up on doing anything constructive and start rifling through my clothes to find something cute to wear this evening. I know there’s a lot that Jackson and I need to discuss, a lot of confusion that needs clearing up, but I still want to look good. I want him to be attracted to me.
I’ve always been reasonably happy in my own skin and kept myself healthy. I like my lean curves that have more strength than I let on, and I enjoy being on the taller end of the spectrum for a girl. I don’t know where my recent lack of confidence has come from, because if I look at myself objectively, I think I have a fairly decent body.
I laugh to myself at how big-headed that sounds, but I genuinely love the rounded swell of my perky breasts, how my waist pinches in revealing flat but subtly defined abs and then flares out down to my fairly toned ass and legs. I don’t mind how my face looks either. I have full, dusty rose lips and high cheekbones, and long, wavy golden hair. The only thing that doesn’t look right is my eyes.
Jackson said they were stunning, but I’m not convinced. They are a sort of speckled silver grey and from a distance, they look blotchy and like I was born without any pigment in my irises. But up close…perhaps I see what he’s talking about…maybe. They look like pure molten silver and if you really concentrate, you can see the color slowly swirl like melting metal with little flecks that shimmer with the movement. My irises are hauntingly metallic and it’s strange.
Time continues to creep by slowly until its time for dinner and despite not having any breakfast, I’m not able to eat anywhere near as much as I’d like.
I sit on my bed wondering when I should make my way to Jackson’s when the weeks’ worth of sleep deprivation finally catches up on me and I fall into the most peaceful sleep I’ve managed since I met him.
I startle awake three hours later and realize it’s 9.15 pm.
Shit.
I’ve really overslept.
I leap from my bed, run my fingers through my hair until it’s acceptable, grab my keys and bolt out the door, grateful that I put in another pair of contacts before dinner.
Walking to Jackson’s as quickly as possible, without exerting myself so that I arrive red-faced and sweaty, I wonder why he didn’t call me to see where I was?
Then I remember that I’m an idiot who still hasn’t given him my number. Stupid stubborn pride.
When I arrive at his place, I see why he said not to come after 9 pm; a frat party is in full swing, fuelled by alcohol and raucous behavior, the loud bass of music vibrating the street outside.
I’m a little disappointed when I realize I’m not going to get to continue the almost kiss from the library (there’s no way I’m doing anything with him if he’s drunk; I’m not that kind of girl).
Maybe that’s why he didn’t kiss me? I’m not his usual type; easy and out for a hookup. Maybe he really did just mean for me to come around and talk.
Talk about what?
In the harsh light of day, away from the atmospheric library, our intense conversation seems ridiculous. And what answers does he think he can provide me with? I’m having nightmares; I’ve had them before and they pass. These will pass too, given time.
The more I think myself into knots, the less I want to walk up the stone front steps and into his swanky looking frat house. I loiter on the sidewalk, weighing up my options. Just as I make the decision to bail, the front door opens and one of his housemates calls down to me.
“Hey, you wanna come in for a drink?” He has a husky southern drawl and I don’t appreciate how he looks me up and down like I’m something to be devoured. But then, that’s not a new look for him – he was one of the six guys hitting on the cheerleaders last Friday.
I’m starting to think that life for Jackson and his friends is just one long pussy parade.
“Hey, I’m just here to see Jackson,” I say awkwardly.
“Pretty things like you normally are. Come in, I’ll get you a drink.”
Hmm.
I don’t like the stab of jealousy I feel at his comment. I have no claim over Jackson, but I still don’t love the idea of all the ‘pretty things’ he apparently has time for.
I follow the Southern guy up the steps, through the ridiculously ornate oak front door and into a predictably large, dark wood-paneled foyer complete with a sweeping staircase. It reeks of old money. An exclusive men’s club. I expect there’s a stash of cigars and brandy not too far away.
Suddenly I’m uneasy and don’t want to go any further into the house full of drunken bodies and pumping music – I was never much of a partier even in high school.
“Where’s Jackson?” I ask, trying to get my voice above the music.
“He’ll be down in a bit,” he says with a cheeky smirk.
“Okay, I’ll just wait here then.”
He eyes me weirdly – no doubt he’s also used to having women fawn at his feet and follow him around. They really
are all disturbingly attractive and the women they’ve invited to this party look like they could all be contestants on America’s Next Top Model…I feel horribly inadequate in my skinny jeans, fitted white blouse, and black ballet pumps. The laughable part is that I thought I’d made an effort with my appearance.
“Alright, I’ll bring you a drink,” obviously, this guy isn’t giving up.
I wait at the bottom of the stairs like some awkward wallflower, staring down the creepy looking gargoyle, but in record time Mr. Southern Drawl is back with a potent smelling alcoholic punch.
He hands me my glass and takes a large gulp from the one he’s brought for himself. Looking around I can see that practically everyone is drinking this concoction. Not being a big drinker either, I take a seat on the second step, just in case the drink knocks me senseless, and take a sip. It’s not the nicest drink I’ve ever had, but it’s drinkable, so I take another sip.
“Good?” asks my companion with a lecherous smile that sends goosebumps prickling across my skin.
“It’s okay, I guess. Will Jackson be much longer?” this guy is making me increasingly uncomfortable.
“I don’t suppose so.”
“SHAUN,” yells a body from somewhere inside the throng. Mr. Southern Drawl looks towards the noise and waves his hand to say ‘two seconds’.
“Please excuse me,” he says to me.
Gladly.
I’ve wanted away from him since he first laid his sleazy eyes on me. The whole situation has me on edge and I want out of here as quickly as possible so decide to go looking for Jackson instead of waiting for him.
I quickly get to my feet, only for my brain to lurch causing me to grip the railing for support until the head rush passes. I only had a few mouthfuls of that stuff, but my body feels heavy and my mind fuzzy. I scramble to the top of the stairs before anyone notices me and make my way down a hallway, with no idea which room belongs to Jackson and tripping over my feet as I go.
I lean against a cool wall to support myself as I move further down the hall; my eyesight is starting to blur and that uncomfortable fainting feeling is hovering around the edges of my dwindling consciousness.