by M. Leighton
THIRTY-FOUR: Jet
I’m in the floor, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. Violet is stretched out on top of me, having collapsed onto my chest after we both came. Neither of us are ready to move yet.
I don’t know if it was all the anticipation or the fact that she was a little hard to get, or if it’s because I haven’t had sex in a few weeks, but that shit rocked me. You’d think after amazing sex with a hot woman, I’d be feeling sublime. And I am—mostly.
Part of me is pissed, though. Pissed at myself, for what I’ve done and the pretenses under which I’ve done them. Again, I’m reminded that Violet would hate me—even more so now—if she knew what I’m capable of.
When she finally stirs, leaning up to look down at me, her flowery-smelling hair falls to one side, tickling my face. Her eyes are soft and dreamy, her lips are slightly curved. She looks happy. Satisfied.
I smile up at her, running my palms down the smooth skin of her back and over the round globes of her ass.
“That was incredible,” I tell her.
She smiles and her cheeks take on that rosy hue I love to see. “Really?”
“You didn’t think so?”
“Well, yeah. I thought it was awesome, but . . .”
“But what?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “I didn’t know how it would seem to you. I mean, it’s been a while for me.”
“It has for me, too.”
As I watch, like clouds rolling in over a turbulent sea, her eyes darken and her expression sobers. She doesn’t say anything, just closes her eyes and leans her forehead against my chin. I reach up to stroke the silky hair at the back of her head.
“What’s the matter?”
She waits for a couple of really long, uncomfortable minutes before she speaks. And when she does, she looks up at me with tears in her eyes.
“This was so selfish of me.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“You needed my help, and this is what I give you. A setback.”
“This is not a setback, Violet. This was . . . different.”
She rolls off me and stands, holding her hands to either side of her head. “Oh God, what have I done? What have I done?” she says quietly, over and over.
I get up, walking to where she’s pacing, and I stop her, taking her face in my hands.
“You haven’t done anything. We did this together. We’re both consenting adults. We both know the score.”
Words that were meant to calm her only seem to worsen whatever bullshit guilt she’s feeling.
“No, we don’t. You don’t know the score,” she groans, turning away from me. There is misery in her voice, and I have no idea why.
“Of course I do. We both wanted this, Violet.”
“Yes, but you . . . you . . . of course you wanted it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She finally turns back to face me. Her eyes are as miserable as her voice. She’s torturing herself over something.
“Jet, there’s something I have to tell you,” she begins, wringing her hands.
“What is it? You can tell me anything.”
Her chin trembles at my words and she looks up at the ceiling. “Oh, God! Please don’t be so nice. I don’t deserve it.”
“Violet, you’re being ridiculous. Of course you deserve someone to be nice to you.”
She squeezes her eyes shut, like it hurts to look at me. “Jet, I’m not a sex addict,” she mumbles. Her voice is so low and quiet, I’m not sure I heard her correctly.
“Say that again.”
When she opens her eyes and they meet mine, they are shiny pools of tears and anguish. “I’m not a sex addict.”
I shake my head, trying to understand what she might mean by that. “What? What are you talking about?”
“I went there for Tia. She’s my best friend, not just someone I sort of sponsored. She has a problem, but she doesn’t think so. She would never go unless I went, and she was getting ready to lose the trust of a really good man. So I went to support her. Only she never showed up that first time.”
I take a step away, my mind scrambling to catch up. “So you lied about being a sex addict?”
She nods once. “I didn’t want to just . . . just . . . leave, so I stood up and said the same thing everyone else was saying.”
“So all the . . . everything you said . . .”
“Was a lie.”
It’s hypocritical as hell for me of all people to be pissed off by her confession, but I am. All this time, I’d thought . . .
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” I ask, feeling betrayed, which is a load of shit.
“I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want you to feel like the one place you went for help, the place that should be a sanctuary, was anything less than that. I knew how damaging it would be if anyone ever found out. I swear I didn’t do it maliciously. I was just trying to help my friend.”
“And were you trying to help her when you made up that crap about being a sponsor?”
“I didn’t say that,” she defends. “Tia made that up. Not me.”
“And why the hell would she do that?”
Violet casts her eyes down, tucking her chin against her chest. “She thought you were hot, and she thought I needed a social life.”
“You’re shitting me?”
She looks up at me and somberly shakes her head. “No, unfortunately, I’m not. This is the God’s honest truth.”
My laugh is bitter, even though I have no room to be anything less than forgiving. But I don’t feel forgiving. I feel deceived. And angry.
“How am I supposed to believe anything you say?”
“Why would I lie now? There’s no point. The damage is done. Ask me anything and I’ll tell you the truth. Anything.”
“Why?”
“I told you why.”
“Then tell me again,” I snap.
“I help people, Jet. It’s what I do. It’s who I am. My friend needed my help, even if she didn’t know it herself. And I wanted to give it to her.” Her voice breaks as she continues. “And then I met you. And you needed help, too. I knew that telling the truth would hurt so many people, including you and Tia. But keeping the secret would only hurt me. So I chose to keep it to myself so that I could do more good than harm.”
“So how does it feel? Does it feel like you’ve done more good than harm? Because I sure as hell don’t think so.”
With a sob, Violet buries her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry, Jet. I never meant to hurt you.”
A wave of sympathy is overwhelmed by bitterness when I think of the full implications of what she’s done, even though she doesn’t have all the facts either. “So you slept with me tonight, knowing that you could just get up and go on with life in the morning like nothing happened, while I . . . the addict . . . might suffer a huge setback because of it?”
She crumbles onto the bed like her legs just stopped holding her up. “Oh God, oh God, oh God!”
“Miss High and Mighty, looking down on the rest of us for our weaknesses. But not because you overcame yours like the paragon of strength you pretended to be. No, you’ve never even felt weakness. You have no idea what it’s like . . .”
“But I do,” she moans. “Now, I do. I’ve never wanted something so bad that it has had control over me. Never. I’ve seen it so much, all my life, I avoided anything that could be dangerous. Until you. Don’t you understand, Jet? You were my weakness. You are my weakness. I did horrible things to be with you. I told myself horrible lies, too. Just to be with you. Just to let myself think, even for a minute, that it was okay to be with you. Please don’t hate me, Jet. It was selfish and cruel, but I swear on my life that I never meant to hurt you.” She drops her head again. Her last words are so soft, I barely hear them. And I’m not sure she wanted me to. “I never meant to fall in love with you.”
THIRTY-FIVE: Violet
My heart is being ripped apart! I should’ve told him sooner. C
ertainly before we had sex. I kept telling myself that I was doing it all to help him, but now I see that I was just afraid.
Afraid of losing him.
But by waiting, that’s exactly what I’ve precipitated. That’s exactly what is happening. And I deserve it. God help me, I deserve it.
I feel like the lowest of the low. Who would lie to a person with a true addiction? Someone seeking help? Someone who trusted you with his secrets? What kind of person does that?
An awful one.
I flinch when I feel Jet’s hands. They settle on my shoulders and are still for a few seconds before they travel down my arms, tightening at my elbows. Gently, he pulls me to my feet.
I can’t look up. I can’t face him and the heartbreaking betrayal I know I’ll see in his eyes. When he puts a finger under my chin and lifts, I keep my lids squeezed shut. I can’t take the sight of what I’ve done. I can’t bear the wreckage.
“Violet, look at me,” Jet demands, his voice not as harsh as it was.
Against my better judgment, I slowly open them, focusing on his face. I don’t see the hatred I expected. Or the disgust. Or the devastation. I see a quiet, hesitant tenderness.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“I’m so sorry I waited so long,” I blubber.
He places a finger over my lips. “No more apologies.”
“Please forgive me. I—”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I know you didn’t do it on purpose. That’s not the kind of person you are. And I know that. I was just . . .” Jet sighs. “I was just a little hurt. And surprised. Even though, in retrospect, I think I should’ve guessed.”
I frown. “Why do you say that?” I ask.
Jet’s lips curve into a small smile, and he brushes away the strands of hair that have stuck to my wet cheeks. “You don’t look anything like a sex addict.”
“What does a sex addict look like?”
“Not like a librarian. Even if it’s a sexy as hell librarian. The first time I saw you, I thought you looked innocent. It was hard for me to picture you being some uncontrollable sex fiend.”
I know it’s insane that I might take offense at that, but still, his words sting. “I’ve never even enjoyed sex before. I can’t help it if that shows.”
“Never really enjoyed it? You mean . . . have you never had an—”
I feel humiliation roll up from my stomach to choke me. “No. And I’d rather not talk about it.”
I start to turn away from him, but Jet stops me. “That’s not your fault, Violet. It’s nothing for you to be ashamed of. That’s strictly your partners’ shortcoming.”
“That should be singular.”
“What should be?”
“Partner. Only one.”
“You’ve only been with one other man?”
I nod, feeling worse about this entire trip by the second.
“God, what a stupid asshole he must’ve been to give you up.”
“I doubt he’d agree.”
“That’s why he’s stupid. You’re smart, witty, gracious, kind. Gorgeous. And your body . . .” Jet trails off, stepping away from me so that he can see me more clearly, an action that has my cheeks flaming up within seconds. “How responsive it is to touch.” I gasp, in both surprise and a little bit of arousal, when he drags the backs of his fingers over one nipple. I feel it come to a firm, tingling point. “I’ve never been with a woman like you. I’ve never felt with someone else what I felt just now.”
His voice is low. When I look up at him, his eyes are dark and heavy.
“Jet, I—”
“Don’t ever sell yourself short, Violet. Any man would die to have this just once.”
He rolls my nipple between his fingers. I hold my breath, willing my body not to respond, wishing I could just disappear.
“You weren’t fighting it earlier. Don’t start now,” he says, bringing the tip of one of his fingers to his lips, wetting it with his tongue, then drawing a damp circle around my other nipple with it. “There is nothing sexier than a woman who just lets go. Watching your reaction, knowing how much you like what I’m doing to you is the most intoxicating thing in the world.” Jet leans in to whisper in my ear. “Don’t fight it, Violet. Don’t fight me.”
He skims his lips along my jaw, bending to press them to my throat before dropping to his knees in front of me.
“This is beautiful,” he murmurs, tweaking one nipple and making it furl into an even tighter bud. “God, that makes me ravenous. For you, Violet. Just you.”
In his eyes, I see the truth of his words. And in my body, I feel them. I can’t fight him. Because I don’t want to. I stopped wanting to a long time ago. I just never admitted it to myself.
“Let me have it, baby,” he says, leaning forward to trace one aching peak with the tip of his tongue. “Let me have it all.”
When he draws my nipple into his mouth, his eyes still holding mine, I know it’s pointless to fight it. Whatever is between us, however we arrived here, it’s consuming. And I want to be consumed.
Jet lets one hand slide down my stomach to the increasing ache between my legs. I feel him slide a finger down my crease and back up again to massage my most sensitive part. Air sticks in my chest. Time stops on the movement of his hand. When he pushes that finger into me, I exhale a shaky breath. Jet closes his eyes, groaning as he lets my nipple pop out of his mouth. “That’s it, baby. Just let go.”
So I do.
* * *
My head is filled with junk on the trip home. After a night, morning, and part of the afternoon full of the most fulfilling, creative lovemaking I’ve ever heard of, I thought I would feel more . . . connected. And I did. Right up until a few minutes before we left.
I glance over at Jet again, still mourning the loss of what we had in New Orleans. “Is everything all right?” I ask for the thousandth time.
And for the thousandth time, he replies, “Of course.”
There have been variations to the dialogue—yep, everything is fine, why wouldn’t it be—but essentially both the question and the response have been the same. Yet, my feelings of unease are only getting worse.
I want to ask him specifics, but I’m afraid to. I’ve searched every corner of my mind trying to figure out what happened. Whatever it was, it had to have happened right before we left, but I just can’t think of what that might’ve been.
I think back, once more, looking for the trigger.
After having some marathon sex followed by a very late breakfast, I decided to take a shower, the first half of which was deliciously interrupted by Jet. It was when I got out that I noticed he just seemed . . . off. I asked him then if something was wrong. He denied it with a faint smile and a kiss to my forehead.
My forehead.
I wondered if it was because he hadn’t heard from the guys with Kick Records, but I didn’t want to bring it up in case it made things worse. So here we are. Hours later, and I’ve made zero progress on discerning what is wrong. I just know that something is.
I don’t want to pry when he seems reluctant to tell me what’s going on. And I don’t want to push, because I feel like I’d be digging my own grave if he’s feeling a relapse of hurt or aggravation over my deception.
So, in the absence of pushing him, I just keep asking. And he just keeps denying.
“Are you hungry?” he asks when it’s close to suppertime.
I shrug, food not the least bit appealing since my emotions are so up in the air. “If you want to stop, that’s fine. I can do whatever,” I answer agreeably.
Jet’s quiet for a few seconds before he declares, “Let’s just drive on through. I’m anxious to get home.”
I give him the brightest smile that I can, which isn’t very bright at all, I’m sure. I turn to look out the window, wishing now that this uncomfortable ride could just be over. I need time to feel in private. I suspect that there might even be tears in my future.
By the time the headlights of Jet’s car are
illuminating the signs for Summerton, I’m emotionally exhausted. I’ve known a lot of people who have gotten inside their own heads and turned completely manageable situations into train wrecks, so I know the danger of thinking too much, in overanalyzing. But I’ve never been prone to doing it. I’ve always been able to let things go, just put them out of my mind until they can be resolved in a pragmatic way.
Until now. Until Jet. Until I came face-to-face with my one weakness. And now it’s tearing me apart, turning me into the very kind of person I’ve secretly abhorred all this time.
Maybe this is just desserts. Maybe this is what I get for looking down my nose at people who can’t control themselves. Maybe this is life’s way of making me better able to relate to my clients, my friends, my family. I’m getting a little taste of what it feels like to want something so much it hurts, to obsess about it and not be able to stop. And to feel the agony of having it slip right through my fingers, to feel the frustration of driving myself crazy trying to figure out what went wrong and how to go back.
I relax my head against the seat, trying to clear my mind and lose myself in the melancholy notes of the song on the radio. But that doesn’t help. It seems only to underscore my misery, making it feel nearly unbearable.
Jet’s phone rings and I’m grateful for the interruption. The tension in the car is driving me bonkers.
I only hear Jet’s end of the conversation, but I can still make out the gist of the call.
“Hey, man, what’s up?”
“Yeah, I’ll tell you all about it.”
“On my way back now. Why?”
“Nah, my schedule’s clear Wednesday. Where is it?”
“Is that the club right down from Brass?”
“Yeah, yeah. I know the place. So what time? Seven?”
“Cool. Let’s get together sometime tomorrow. I wanna practice something new to add to the first set.”
“You’ll let ’em know?”
“All right, man. See you tomorrow.”
When he hangs up, he glances over at me and smiles a crooked smile, but says nothing. I return the gesture the best that I can before, once more, turning to look out the window at the dead, lifeless night passing me by.