Forgiving Jackson

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  He started toward the door but came back and gave her an afterthought, closed-mouth kiss.

  • • •

  Emory didn’t see Jackson again before he left for dinner, unless you counted watching out the window when he and the others loaded up in the two rented BMW SUVs they had arrived in. And she didn’t count that.

  The Washingtons had climbed in the back seat of the second vehicle while Jackson opened the passenger door for Light Highlights C before he slid behind the wheel. She might not have made it across the hall from Jackson but by the end of the night she would probably have secured an even better spot.

  By the time Emory went to bed at eleven o’clock that night—after staring at the adolescent dossier for a few hours, eating a tomato sandwich at Gwen’s kitchen table, and flipping television channels for two hours—she had figured out what had happened.

  She understood completely why Jackson’s interest in her was waning. (Or completely gone, if she was going to be honest.) It was really quite simple. He’d been lonely and bored and now he had a distraction. And, for whatever reason, he had been committed to punishing her attacker and he was about to close the deal on that.

  What she didn’t understand was why she was surprised and disappointed. What had she thought was going to happen?

  She had been living in a playhouse—a lovely, safe place, but also lonely at times. And then she’d gotten a brand new, unexpected and very shiny playmate—indeed, the shiniest playmate in all the land—and she had loved the playhouse even more. Now that it looked like her playmate had gotten bored and broken out, her beautiful, cozy playhouse was feeling a little like a prison cell.

  Damn him and damn his silver-sage eyes, sweet whiskey voice, and hands that could play a magical melody on her skin better than on any guitar.

  And about that. He was probably getting tired of her inability to close that deal. They had gotten closer—very close, indeed. She could lie over him with open legs and move until she came and came and came and he spilled on her stomach—but she had not been able to cross that final barrier.

  Maybe she wasn’t meant to. And that probably wouldn’t be a problem for him tonight.

  She punched her pillow and tried to get comfortable. Had she forgotten how to sleep without arms around her and breath on the back of her neck? When she got up for a drink of water, it was all she could do to stop herself from looking out the window to see if the light pattern coming from the family wing had changed since she looked before she went to bed.

  She didn’t want confirmation of what she already knew, at least not yet. Hating herself, she removed her nightgown and fished the t-shirt he’d taken off last night out of the dirty clothes hamper.

  She had to get up at six o’clock—not a second later. This wedding was at two and The Enchanted Garden would deliver at eight and June would be here with the cupcakes at ten. As she slid back into bed, she looked at the clock. If she went to sleep right now, she would get four hours and thirteen minutes of sleep. That would be enough.

  But she didn’t go to sleep right then, or in the next thirteen minutes. Jackson was probably back. It wasn’t fair that she couldn’t sleep when he’d probably already had sex—real sex—and was sleeping. Probably, he was drooling and snoring just a little now and then. He would have kicked all the covers off by now, too, and then gotten a little cold and drawn himself into a fetal position.

  Light Highlights wouldn’t mind; it wouldn’t bother her a bit that he could be a little hard to sleep with, though she wouldn’t know yet that it was harder to sleep without him. She’d just smile and cover him with the sheet and watch him unfurl himself as he warmed and relaxed. Maybe he’d waken and pull her tight against him and let her feel him go rigid with desire against her.

  How many other women had lost sleep over him? How many would in the future? Emory summoned up a mental dossier of the women she’d seen in pictures with him. She dressed them all in unflattering, calf-length denim jumpers and made them leap over a sawhorse, as she counted them like sheep. Sometimes she made them trip and fall into pig manure.

  In spite of herself she laughed a little and began to settle down. Her last image before drifting off was of Light Highlights falling face first into the sloppy manure and falling again when she tried to get up. Emory dozed off and on but she wasn’t asleep when her phone signaled that she had a text message.

  She grabbed it from the nightstand like it was an oxygen tank and she was smothering—though it could be Teresa. It wouldn’t be the first time a bride had texted in the wee hours before her wedding. But no. It really was life-giving oxygen.

  On porch. Coming in. Hate to wake you but I don’t want to scare you.

  He had come to her! Not wanting to be caught wearing his t-shirt, she jumped up, threw it on the floor, and kicked it under the bed. After retrieving her nightgown, she got back in bed and tried to look like she was asleep. Then she waited. And waited. Just what porch was he on? One in Aspen, Colorado?

  Another text came in.

  Answer me so I know you’re awake. Don’t want to scare you.

  Smiling, she keyed in,

  I am. Come in.

  But before hitting send, she stopped.

  It had been a hellish night, but she had faced some things: This was ending and it was going to be hard. It could be tonight or it could be tomorrow or next week. He was going to do that concert and then he was going to get back to his life. The end might as well come tonight. She already had a head start on the heartache.

  She set her phone on the bedside table and lay back against the pillow. It was for the best. And she wasn’t pulling that t-shirt from under the bed either, no matter how much it smelled like him. She would get over this, and she would get started right now.

  Then, the front door opened and a moment later she heard barely audible footsteps moving across the floor. She turned and watched through one partially open eye as he crept into the bedroom, his shoes in his hand.

  She ought to send him away but she wouldn’t. It was too late for that head start now. He was unbuttoning his shirt and she was already gone.

  She sat up and yawned. “Hi.”

  He unzipped his jeans and sat on the side of the bed to remove them. “Sorry for waking you. I texted because I didn’t want to frighten you. When you didn’t answer I was walking back to the big house but I decided if you could sleep through two text messages, I could come to bed without waking you. I guess that’s not true.”

  “It’s fine.”

  He came under the covers with a weary little moan and pulled her into his arms.

  “Remind me never to go off with Gabe again without the means to get myself home under my own power. I thought about getting a taxi but that’s one of those things that would have made everybody uncomfortable.”

  He hadn’t wanted to be there! He had wanted to be here. Elated, she brought her mouth to his and they tasted each other a good long time. There was more sweetness there than passion and that was a nice.

  “You taste like bourbon,” she said when they parted.

  “That’s because I’ve been drinking bourbon. Turns out Tasha’s pregnant and wasn’t drinking. She told me to go ahead, that she’d drive back. Don’t think I didn’t need it.” He settled her head on his chest and stroked her hair.

  “So you didn’t have a good time at all?” To her surprise, she was sorry about that. Sort of.

  “I did,” he said hesitantly. “Up to a point. We ate at the Capitol Grille. Have you eaten there?”

  “No.” I don’t go to Nashville. Remember?

  “Gwen would have loved it. The chef grows his own vegetables and they tell you on the menu who raised the cow.” He idly let his hand slide down until it rested on her bottom.

  “That’s all the rage,” she said.

  “Yeah. Maybe Billy Joe and Robin ought to do that on their lunch menu. I can see it now. ‘Macaroni and cheese. Ronco, Velveeta.’”

  “What else did you do tonight?”
>
  “Oh, hell. You just don’t know. Except for Jamal and Tasha, none of them had ever been to Nashville. So they wanted to go to the music spots. Some of those women watch Nashville, the TV show, so we had to start out at The Bluebird Café and then move on to Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge. After that, we went to every place on Honky Tonk Row—at least the nonsmoking ones. We’d probably still be there if smoke didn’t make Tasha sick. We went to a couple of new places that I didn’t even know.”

  “But they knew you, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “Did you sing?”

  “Oh, yeah, on a full stomach with no guitar of my own. I was awful. And I hate running an act off the stage.”

  “I’m sure you made it all right for them, just like you did at the Café Down On The Corner. And there’s nothing that’ll make me believe you were awful.”

  “I tried. You know what? I think maybe Gabe brought one of those women here to hook up with me.”

  “You think so?” She tried to keep her tone neutral.

  “Yeah. Courtney?”

  “No. Courtney is with Gabe.” And she owned up in her head to what she’d known all along—she knew exactly who was who. “Carmen is with Troy—or thinks she is. I don’t know which. So that leaves Cameron, the one with the lightest highlights.”

  “Highlights? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Maybe I can hack Gabe’s Facebook page and pull some pictures of the C-Squad off and make you a dossier.”

  “I don’t need it,” he said around a yawn. Then he laughed. “C-Squad. That’s funny. Tasha calls them the C-Notes. I didn’t understand. My first thought was musical notes. She meant, as in hundred-dollar bills, because they’re all looking for a meal ticket. Except for maybe the one who’s a model. Which one is that?”

  Suddenly, Emory liked Tasha. “I don’t know. They all look pretty good.”

  “Mmmm.” That could mean, yes, no, or that he’d lost interest.

  “You’re exhausted.” Emory stroked his brow. “You should go to sleep.”

  “Yeah. You, too.”

  She thought he’d slipped away but then he covered her hand with his and spoke again.

  “Emory, I went to see Audrey Crawford today—when I went to Nashville to look at the Broadcaster.”

  “Audrey Crawford? I don’t know—”

  “Right. Audrey is Trace’s wife … well, widow.”

  That’s why he’d come home distracted and acting odd.

  “Oh, Jackson.” She hugged him to her and noticed how tense he was. “That must have been so hard.”

  “Yeah. But it was good, too. I wasn’t acting like much of a man. I needed to do it. I like myself a little better now.”

  “Then I’m glad.”

  “She thinks … that is, she said, that it can’t be just me at the concert. I have to call the guys.”

  No, you aren’t ready. I don’t know how I know that, but that’s what my gut tells me. You need to do this one step at a time.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I think it’ll be hard to go on stage with them again, with someone else playing drums and rhythm. But it might be best for everyone. That’s what Audrey said. Either way, it’s what I am going to do. I wanted to tell you.”

  “Jackson, you don’t have to—”

  “Shh.” And he silenced her with a kiss. This time it was more passionate than sweet. “How tired are you?” he whispered.

  “Not all that tired.” She’d be dead on her feet tomorrow but these times were numbered and precious. She could sleep when he was gone.

  Within seconds they were naked and desperately stroking and tasting each other. This was frenzied, frantic love.

  “Sorry.” Breathless and trembling, he pulled back. “I’ll slow it down.”

  “No.” She stroked his penis and he groaned. “I like this speed just fine.”

  “Thank the Lord!”

  When he rolled onto his back and would have pulled her on top of him, she stopped him.

  “No.” She moved to her back and held out her arms. “I’m still not ready for everything, but come to me like this.” He had never been in the dominant position with her but that was a step she was ready to take.

  In the moonlight she saw his brow wrinkle. “Are you sure, baby?”

  “Yes. I know you would never hurt me.” Not physically, anyway.

  “If you change your mind—”

  “I won’t.”

  He tentatively and tenderly eased on top of her, so careful and so apprehensive. It was sweet, but tentativeness, tenderness, and apprehension weren’t what she wanted right now—though she loved him for it. Of course, she loved him for everything, for every reason.

  She loved him? No! She couldn’t think about that right now; she could never think about that! But she had to stop that sweet, worried look in his eyes and she knew how.

  She lifted her hips, seeking his throbbing penis. When she couldn’t get it close enough, she reached between them, stroked it, and brought it to rest between her folds.

  And that did it. He closed his eyes and threw his head back. With that, raw passion chased away any former thoughts he might have had of trepidation.

  He pulsed and stroked against her, sometimes going still, while pressing hard and letting her move against him.

  “So good,” he whispered against her ear. “Yes. Move like that again. Again!”

  He kept her on the edge forever; never had it been this good. The edge was an incredible place to live.

  When she could stand it no more, she moved her hands from where they had been stroking the nape of his neck, across his back, and down his sides, and let them rest on the places that were always his complete undoing—on his hipbones.

  With that, he lifted high and hard against her and made sounds that might have been moans and might have been words of praise to heaven or curses to hell; it didn’t matter because she was falling apart, piece by piece, as a hot jet of liquid burst against her most sensitive spot, heightening the feeling and making her cry out his name again and again until the tears came.

  He moved off her and brushed the tears away. She knew that by now, he had come to expect them.

  “I’ll get a towel,” he said.

  But she pulled him hard against her. “No. I don’t need a towel. I just need you. It’s not long until I have to get up.” Or long until you’ll be gone for good.

  The clock told her if she went to sleep right now, she’d get one hour and forty-two minutes of sleep.

  And she did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Jackson made his way from the carriage house to the dining room in the family wing. It was closer to lunchtime than breakfast but breakfast was still laid out on the buffet, being kept hot with chafing dishes and warming trays. It hadn’t been touched. Small wonder, everyone was still in bed.

  Jackson picked up a plate and helped himself to egg casserole, cheese grits, and fried pork tenderloin. There were five different newspapers on the side table, no doubt Emory’s doing. He leafed through them but decided if there was any news he needed to know, someone would tell him.

  He’d wakened at ten o’clock and could have easily gone back to sleep if he hadn’t felt guilty. He didn’t know what time Emory had left the bed but he was pretty sure she’d been long gone for a while. What had he been thinking last night? He knew she would have to get up early but he’d barreled right into her bed and jumped on her like a horny fifteen-year-old.

  He trembled at the memory. Who could have guessed that the best sex of his life wasn’t even real sex? But damn, who cared? It had been nothing short of magnificent—for both of them. And there was a reason for that. Not completing the act had made him a better lover because he’d had to reach, think, and be creative. Not that he didn’t want to complete the act. He wanted it, all right. But when that time came, he promised himself he would never lose sight of giving Emory the very best of himself for the rest
of his life.

  Wait. Rest of his life? No. He didn’t mean that; he was just exhausted. Coffee was what he needed. He set his plate on the table and filled a mug from the big coffee urn. That’s when he noticed the assorted creamers. She needed coffee worse than he did. He filled another mug, but only two-thirds full, to leave room for the cream. After sweetening it, he starting adding creamers—mocha, hazelnut, amaretto, French vanilla, Irish cream, caramel. He put a little of it all. Maybe she needed something to eat, too. He’d seen her eat English muffins so he took one of those and put some egg and bacon inside. He eyed the grits, considering. Why not? Everybody put dressing on a turkey sandwich the day after Thanksgiving. It was the same principle. He added a spoonful of grits, wrapped the whole thing in a napkin, and headed out.

  He didn’t have to go far. She was standing outside the kitchen door waving goodbye as a van with Eat Cake painted on the side pulled away.

  She smiled—and it was that smile, the one that promised that everything was right with the world. It was a good thing she didn’t smile like that all the time or he’d never look at anything else.

  “You’re going to have to do your part to help me keep these people away from you,” she said.

  “I’m Jason Jackson, cousin to Jackson Beauford, who can’t play anything but the radio.” He held out the sandwich and coffee. “I brought you some breakfast. I invented it myself. I figured you wouldn’t have time to come in and eat with me.”

  “You figured right. The bridal party will be here any minute.” She opened her sandwich. “Did you put grits on this sandwich?”

  “Going to be the next big thing. I plan on telling Billy Joe about it. It might put The Café Down On The Corner on the map.”

  “I think you did that a while back.” She took a bite and looked surprised. “This is really good.”

  “Think it needs anything else? Onions? Jalapeños?”

  “It’s perfect like it is. And I’m starving.” She took another bite. Then she took a sip of her coffee and looked startled.

  “Good, huh? I invented that, too. I mixed all the flavors.”