by Kat Catesby
“Enough,” I shout and move between the two men, facing Tristan and placing myself in the line of fire.
Tristan immediately lowers his gun.
Jackson can handle himself without needing my help, but it suffocates me to think of him in harm’s way because of me.
“Em…?” Tristan looks confused, although his prevailing emotion is definitely pissed.
“You don’t aim your gun at him, understand? What happened here isn’t his fault. He had Sophia returned to me.”
Jackson traces the small of my back with the tips of his fingers. All my muscles clench and stiffen as electricity sizzles through me… this is not the first contact I expected from him after my violent assault – I expected a black eye.
“Come on, Em. We’re leaving. Now,” Tristan looks like he’s sucking on a wasp and I know I’m going to pay for my defiance later.
Chapter Twelve
The ride home is painfully quiet.
Sophia is practically unconscious and sprawled across the backseat with her head on the lap of a security guy I think is called Miles. The other two men trail us closely in a black vehicle I barely registered as I climbed into the front of the SUV.
Tristan sits in the driver’s seat, making an ice age look like a week in the Caribbean; to say his mood is glacial is putting it mildly.
He hasn’t looked at me since we walked out of the loft room in Inferno and anything he’s had to say to me since then has been monosyllabic.
My patience is wearing thin – I have enough emotional shit to process without him getting pissy and acting like a patronizing sub-parent.
I huff and kick off my shoes. I want to be anywhere but here…and by anywhere, I mean with Jackson, in private, talking through everything that needs to be said and explained before we rip each other’s clothes off.
“What?” asks Tristan, too firmly for my liking.
“Don’t use that tone with me, Matthews. I am not a child, nor have I behaved like one,” – except perhaps when I was lashing out at Jackson – “and even if I had, I’m not your child. I thought we were friends, so stop being an asshole.”
“Not a child, huh? Barking out my surname when you’re on the defensive, like every other mollycoddled rich kid is real mature, Em. I am your bodyguard – you’ll do well to remember that. It’s the only relationship we have that counts and your parents pay a lot of money for it. Friends are what we manage when you’re not running off into a den full of vampires without telling me and then undermining me when I try to protect you.”
“I didn’t run off into a den full of vampires deliberately –”
“You are a dreadful liar, always have been. You knew exactly what you were walking into.”
“That’s not completely true,” I sigh. “I figured out what Sophia’s date was and I suspected there would be more of them and my assessment of the situation was that it was best to keep you – a human – out of harm’s way. They’re like me and I’m trained to deal with that, but I had no idea I was basically walking into a fucking orgy.”
“TRAINED?” he explodes, “You have no idea the training or the missions that I’ve survived. Making decisions regarding my safety is not your place and you have no right to assume that you know best. You don’t. My job is to protect you – why is that such a difficult fucking concept for you to grasp? And as for your training…if you had enrolled and spent several years in the corps then maybe I would hold your assessment,” – he spits the word – “in higher regard. But your skills are basic at best and you got lucky with your roof trick; you’re not mature yet, so your powers can’t always be relied upon to do what you want them to. Me and you? We are not equals, Em. Not in this. I am a professional. A professional who didn’t have the heart to floor Dee after her first punch, but if I thought for one second that by throwing most of our sparring matches so that she could look good meant that you didn’t take my ability seriously, I would’ve kicked the shit out of her before she even set both feet on the mat. Are you hearing me, Em?”
“Yes,” I whisper, preferring the single-syllable Tristan over this shouty version.
I hate that he has a point, I hate that he can make me feel so small and I really hate that my friendship is disposable to him and second to his paycheck. I’m starting to think I don’t know Tristan Matthews at all.
“And as far as undermining me –”
“Every time you point your gun in the face of someone who doesn’t deserve it, you can be damn sure that I will undermine you and I don’t give a shit who sees,” I fume.
Tristan looks like I slapped him.
“I thought he would hurt you again.”
“I hit him! Don’t look so surprised; my basic skills can still have an impact. And Jackson has never hurt me or laid a finger on me that I didn’t give him permission to do. And that’s not why you drew your weapon on him; you were both beating your chests and having a macho pissing contest; I’m not going to pretend to understand why. And cut it with the wounded expression already; as you said, we’re not friends, you’re my bodyguard. You value your salary above the friendship I offered, so don’t pretend that anything I say offends you.”
“Em, that’s not what I meant –”
“Just shut up and drive us home, we’re done talking.”
After what feels like a silent eternity, the car finally pulls up outside the sorority house. Matron Price is waiting for us, obviously one of them called ahead.
I don’t wait for Tristan to open the car door for me, as he normally insists on. I slam it shut and stalk towards Wilhelmina. Tristan automatically moves to put a hand on me but thinks twice when I scowl at him – it freezes in mid-air, looking stupid.
Maybe one day we’ll be friends again, but I don’t feel like it’ll happen anytime soon and I’m sure as hell not going to be the one mending the bridge he burned.
Miles carries Sophia inside and up to her room as Wilhelmina fusses behind them, Tristan and I locked in a frozen stand-off following behind.
Mercifully, Tristan and Miles don’t stay long once Sophia is tucked up in bed and a pint of water has been forced into her. I suspect that Tristan will report the drugging back to my parents, likely omitting the part where I gave him the slip and came face to face with Jackson; tonight has been shitty enough as it is, we don’t need to both be in trouble with my parents as well – we already yelled at each other more than they would anyway.
“I can take care of her, Emilia. You look like you should get some rest,” offers Wilhelmina.
I don’t argue.
I quietly walk back to my room barefoot with my shoes in my left hand, open the door and chuck them unceremoniously towards a corner. When I look up, the most beautiful man I will probably ever meet is sat on my chair with my sweater – his sweater – on his lap, the dim glow of my bedside lamp highlighting his handsome features.
My heart stops beating and I’m pretty sure I forget to breathe. My limbs are heavy and unresponsive and I’m pinned to the spot by his intense eyes – eyes that no longer look like they hate me.
“I found my sweater,” he says softly.
I swallow past the lump in my throat, “I’m quite attached to that sweater, please don’t take it.”
As I say it I realize how true it is; I remember all the nights that I slept in it, willing his scent to still be there, all the times I took comfort in it and realize that the only reason I could put Jackson out of my mind is because privately I clung to the sweater like it was him.
“I know. I can smell how much you wear it. Yet you run from me, shout at me and hit me?” His confusion slices through my erratic heart and I know that I’m too tired and exhausted to find the words to suitably explain myself so I don’t…I show him instead.
With tears filling my eyes I find the last of my energy and launch myself across the room to him. He stands in one fluid motion and catches me in his arms and holds me tight to his chest as the first of my tears drip down my cheeks.
“I’m so, so sorry.
I’m so ashamed that I hit you. When I see you it’s like nothing else exists but you and how you make me feel. It’s so overwhelming it makes me lose my mind, but tonight I couldn’t do that…” I struggle past a sob that’s stuck in my chest, making my shoulders heave against him.
“You needed to get your friend to safety,” he finishes for me. “It’s the same for me too, you know. Every time you push me away, I get this sick feeling that maybe it’s one-sided and I don’t affect you the way you do to me. When you said ‘Not now’ I finally got it – you didn’t mean you didn’t want me, you literally meant not now…you needed to take care of the most urgent issue before you could address us. But then you hit me –”
“I didn’t think you were getting it and I needed space to breathe and collect my thoughts,” I sob once more, aware that by now my make-up must be staining his sexy, crumpled shirt.
“I just always seem to lose you and it never ever gets easier to deal with. So when you hit me I nearly lost it.”
“Were you going to hit me back?”
“What? No, never. You could punch me in the face all day and I still wouldn’t hit you. Was I furious? You fucking bet, but I’d never hurt you like that.”
“Guess it’s just me who’s the awful, pain-inflicting bitch then.”
“I don’t tolerate self-pity, Emilia, so stop it. Maturity is a difficult time in a Supernaturals life, so I get it, especially given the shock of what you were presented with,” he says, not unkindly.
“But you looked so mad?”
“I was, but only because I’m dog tired of being obsessed with someone who doesn’t appear to feel the same, certainly when she’s hitting me. I was a second away from dragging you into a private room and fucking you into submission until you admitted how you really felt for me.”
It’s shocking to me how much I wish he had done that.
“That’s why I came here; to get the truth out of you and make you tell me how much you want me in any way I could. But then I found my sweater, soaked in your scent and I knew the only way for that would be for you to still be wearing it frequently…to still be thinking of me frequently. And then you walked in, your beautiful face scrunched into a frown, and I didn’t need to force you to admit anything; you did that last thing I ever expected you to…you ran to me.”
“Makes a nice change, huh?” I sniff.
“You have no idea,” he strokes my hair out of my damp face. “Why do you still have it?” he nods at the sweater.
“I wear it when I can’t sleep,” I admit shyly.
“You’re still having nightmares?” The concern in his voice makes my chest ache.
“Sometimes…but sometimes my mind is just blank, which is just as distracting. Other times I’m dreaming of you. Either way, wearing your sweater calms me enough to fall asleep.”
Jackson tightens his arms around me and leans his cheek into the top of my head. I could stand here with him all night if he let me and we do for a while until he tugs me towards the bed. He sits me on the mattress and picks up a pack of make-up remover wipes from my dresser and kneels in front of me, gently brushing the cloth across the blotchy remnants of my makeup.
“That’s the worst of it,” he says as he stands and discards the cloth and then makes light work of removing his jeans and now-smudged shirt. The sight of his taut muscles rippling under his smooth, tanned skin ignites the blood in my veins…I can’t help but want this man instantly. It’s like there is something fundamental in my DNA that fires up when it sees him, but I’m too raw to act on it.
Jackson reaches down next to me and picks up his sweater and pulls it over my head dislodging the comb in my hair. I push my arms through the sleeves as he removes all of the pins and runs his fingers through my hair, undoing the style so that it now tumbles over both my shoulders. I’m grateful that he’s taking care of me and seems to understand the sexual boundaries I need for the moment.
“Are those shorts comfortable to sleep in?” I shake my head and he pulls me effortlessly to my feet. As I undo the button and shuffle out of them, leaving me in my lacy boy shorts, Jackson pulls my quilt back and climbs into my bed and sits waiting for me to join him.
“Your top can’t be much more comfortable either, let me help you.” He reaches for me as I climb in next to him, his deft fingers tugging the tie apart around my neck and then moving his cool hands around my waist under the sweater, sending pleasant shivers up my spine as he undoes the tie around my back. The halter falls loosely and he pulls it by the hem out from under the baggy sweater and discards it on the floor. The feeling of the sweater fabric on my bare chest does strange things to my breathing.
“Lay down, Angel,” he pulls me back into his arms and lies down with me so that my head is cradled against his chest…he smells amazing.
“So, you’re obsessed with me?” I murmur against his flawless skin, remembering the words he said to me.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“I’m not sure,” I shrug. “You’re the only guy I’ve ever been bothered enough about to pay attention to, and we haven’t spent a lot of time together – at least not that I remember – and the only thing I know for sure is how badly my decisions regarding you have made me feel.”
“That’s because you run and it’s not just me that you hurt when you do that. I suppose at least I now know that it does hurt you too. So my recommendation going forward would be for us to avoid doing anything that hurts the other and by extension ourselves. If that isn’t clear enough; stop running, I’m obsessed with you.” A slow, sexy smile pulls at his lips and I mirror it, feeling warmer and more settled than I’ve been all evening.
“Well, I still wear your sweater, so I think you know where I sit on the obsessive scale; hell, I put myself between you and a gun and had a screaming match with my now ex-friend, the bodyguard.”
“Angel, if you ever put yourself downrange of a gun again on purpose, we will have a screaming match.”
“Hmm…a screaming match followed by epic make up sex? I think I could live with that,” I smirk.
“Put yourself in harm’s way deliberately, Angel and I will withhold the epic sex on purpose as punishment.”
“You wouldn’t,” I gasp in mock horror.
“To prove a vital point about your safety…watch me. Just because I didn’t show much self-restraint with you before – and I really should have – doesn’t mean I’m not capable of it.”
Jackson splays his hand across the small of my back and my muscles clench and incinerate beneath his touch, my breath hitching in my throat. He chuckles low and sensually, his point well proved; I respond so completely to him that I wouldn’t survive him depriving me sexually.
I try to distract myself from his touch.
“Why should you have shown restraint with me?”
“Maybe you wouldn’t have run if I had. You had a lot of information to process and I shouldn’t have overwhelmed you any more than you already were,” his voice is hushed, almost pained.
“I’m pretty sure I recall making it very difficult for you to keep your hands to yourself. You gave me what I wanted and that wasn’t why I ran; I could handle the revelations about you, but I had difficulty with the ones about me. That’s when the physical contact became too much and I asked to go home.”
“So why did you run the next day?”
“Having Sonya sent to watch me was a step beyond what I could tolerate. The idea of being watched by people I don’t know, given that I just learned I was once murdered…it just scared me and was more than I could handle. And having to find out about it from Sonya, as she was moving her bags into my room, instead of hearing it from you, felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Seeing how much she was enjoying the situation and how happy she was to use it to her advantage had me damn near passing out, but that may have been maturity making me ill. I hate her by the way…just so you know.”
“I’m not surprised. Sonya is skilled at making herself useful and over the years she�
�s made herself a valued and appreciated member of my extended social circle. She knows how to get what she wants and she’s not above manipulation. I need you to know that there’s no contest between you two; you win. Always. I will not put her needs before yours, so I’ll do my best to keep her away from you and I won’t go out of my way to socialize with her any more than I have to.”
“I hate that you feed off her and that you’ve been fucking her these past few years instead of me. Why did you do that? Why didn’t you get your blood from a blood bank?” tears threaten to fall again. I know it’s a double standard, but for someone so cut up about me running away, why has he been fucking someone else?
“I do. The whole time we’ve been apart, I’ve been using blood banks. I host Donor parties, but I don’t partake. I haven’t had sex with anyone since you. Sure, I wasn’t celibate before I knew you were alive again, but once I knew you were back, there was no other option for me but you. I know you’ve probably had lovers since me and tried to move on and I don’t judge you for that or resent you. But I need you to know that you’re it for me.”
“But earlier Sonya had fresh bite marks, looked barely dressed and came from behind the same drape as you. I hate that this is even an issue for me, but you can understand why I’m asking.”
“There are several seating areas behind that drape. She was fucking Shaun in one of them before he went off to find Sophia. Sonya dislikes you as much as you hate her –”
“I doubt that,” I say dryly.
“As far as she’s concerned, you’re the reason she lost me. She was angling to be more than just my Donor and when you crashed back into my life, she lost all possibilities of anything with me. Walking out from behind that drape and letting you think we were fucking is a deception Sonya isn’t above. If it hurts you, she’s game. It’s another reason I’m happy to keep her away. It’ll be easier when we’re both done with college and she won’t be around.”
I nod fractionally and burrow deeper into his embrace, with no words to describe the relief I feel that he will keep her away from me.