by S. Ann Cole
Snapping down the visor, he ordered, “Get on.”
What? I looked back to the house—I couldn’t just leave.
“Take a risk, Sassy,” he dared, revving up the bike. “Get on.”
Fuck it.
I pressed one foot on the side pedal and smoothly swung my other leg over, fixating it to the pedal on the other side. Bum sticking out, I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around his middle, ready to roll.
Jahleel glanced over his shoulder, “Didn’t even have to give you instructions. You’re the real deal, Sassy.”
Not quite.
When I was eighteen and a bartender back home, I used to fool around with an outlaw biker. Bad attitude, swore like a sailor, and loved having my arse perched out on the back of his bike.
But I preferred to let Jahleel think I was a ‘badass’, so I kept my trap shut.
He kicked up the stand, and took off with a jolt and a zing.
Thrilling!
Chapter Eight
Jahleel rode around with me without purpose for half-an-hour, and I got the feeling he wasn’t sure just what to do with me.
While I could come up with a million things he could do, I enjoyed being pressed up against him while we rode at blink speed, life passing in a blur. So, I relaxed and revelled in the moment, because only God knows if his mood would be this good and tolerable the next time I see him.
One never knew with Jahleel Kingston.
Each time we stopped at a stoplight, he glanced over his shoulder to ask if I was doing alright, and being more than alright, I’d nod in reply.
We ended up in Union Square, where he pulled over at a Levi’s outlet on the corner of Post Street, parking at the curb. Getting off at the same time as him, I made to remove the helmet, but he stopped me. “Keep it on.”
“What?”
Without answering, he took my hand and tugged me off into the store—me looking like an idiot with this helmet on. He made a beeline to the back of the store, to a section of denim jackets. Releasing my hand, he fingered through a few options before selecting a denim jacket two sizes too big with a black cotton hood attached to the collar.
“Wait here,” he mumbled, slipping off through the clothing aisles to the cashier.
He returned with the jacket tossed over his shoulder and reaching up, he took off the helmet and handed me the jacket. “Put this on.”
Eying the jacket with disdain, I scoffed. “Pssh.”
Biting back a smile, he explained, “I wanna have a drink with you.”
“So have a drink with me.”
An eyebrow winged up. “Do you want your picture blasted all over entertainment news with some lowly dancer?”
“You’re not—”
“Okay,” he cut me off. “Do you want it out that you’re sneaking roun’ with Tiara’s guy? She idolizes you, you know. It wouldn’t look right.”
A slap to the face. All I could do was stare at him open-mouthed, as he stared back at me, pokerfaced. Again, he was being a dick just for the sake of being a dick. No reason behind it.
There had never once been any kind of gossip linking JK to Tiara, so, clearly, he liked toying with me. It was him who didn’t want to be seen with me, for whatever reason. Protecting me, or protecting himself?
“Are you Tiara’s guy?”
“Next question,” he responded without so much as a blink.
Arrgh!
Fists clenching, I resisted the urge to punch him straight on the forehead and grabbed the jacket from him instead.
“This isn’t even going to fit,” I grumbled, angrily fisting my arms through the sleeves.
As if he was used to people moving when he moved, he stalked off, saying, “That’s the point.”
Like an obedient disciple, I followed as he made his way back out of the store. “It’s not even sexy. I look stupid.”
Jahleel suddenly stopped walking, and I slammed into his back. He pivoted to face me, “You’re not that girl.”
“What girl?” I asked, still peeved.
“The one who tries at being sexy.”
Another slap. “So you’re saying I’m not sexy, then?” I shouldered past him. “Gee, thanks.”
Grabbing my arm to stop me, he spun me back around to face him. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Tell me, then.”
“What I meant was…you’re a natural. And your rawness breeds this rabid attraction in…” Pausing, he shifted on his feet, or more like squirmed, “You have no idea, do you?”
Still unsure whether he meant I was sexy enough for him, or if he just admired my non-girly style, I pushed, “Tell me.”
He caught his lower lip and pulled it between his teeth, staring at me with this ‘I can’t believe you’re that clueless’ look. Which I was—where he was concerned. I needed to hear the words clear and straight from his lips: ‘Sassy, you’re fucking hot, and I want you.’
The muffled sound of DMX’s ‘What these Bitches Want’ went off between us, and Jahleel frowned as he dipped in his pocket and withdrew his phone. “Yeah?…Shit.” He glanced at his Richard Mille. “Aw man, I lost track of the time. Go ahead and start without me. Warm ups, then go over the routines with them….yeah…be there soon.”
When he ended the call, I shot him a look of revulsion. “Are you kidding me? That’s what you have as your ringtone? Seriously? Could you be anymore obnoxious?”
“It wasn’t me,” he protested, still frowning.
“And now you sound like Shaggy,” I murmured.
Jahleel barked out a startled laugh, and I bit back a smile. I loved when he laughed.
“Trust me. It had to be Krissy. She’s the only one who knows my password. She pulls shit like this all the time,” he explained, returning his cell to his pocket. “Look, I forgot I had a two o’ clock today. So drinks are off. Gotta make a quick stop by my house for somethin’, then drop you home, okay?”
“I can’t come with you?”
“Work’s work,” his tone brooked no argument. “Can I come on stage with you when you’re workin’?”
Though my heart plummeted in disappointment, I rolled my eyes and walked ahead of him.
Jahleel lived in Pacific Heights, where most of the homes were charmingly attached so close one couldn’t swing a bat. They were Victorian-style—which, despite their quaint simplicity, cost an arm, a leg, one eyeball, and a wisdom tooth.
Jahleel revved up a seriously steep hill as though it were no mean task. Leaving the claustrophobic clutter behind, the hill soon levelled out into a beautiful neighbourhood that rebelled against the rest of the community with its wide roads, modernistic houses and front yard space with driveways. Some real estate mogul was breaking tradition to make a statement, no doubt.
Jahleel pulled over to the curb of a detached split-level, more imposing than I expected, painted grey and white with all its square and sharp angles modernity. A well-manicured lawn flanked both sides, the driveway wide enough to fit more than two vehicles and parked on the left was a red topless, door-less Jeep—a Jeep I couldn’t picture anyone else driving but Jahleel.
I climbed off the bike at the same time he did, and he turned to take off the helmet as if I were incapable of doing it myself, mumbling a “Huh”.
“What?”
Using his free hand to ruffle my curls, which I assumed were flattened by the helmet, he leaned in, so close I was overwhelmed with his scent of bike exhaust, earthy cologne and…raisins? “I like havin’ you behind me on my bike.”
He swept a fluff of hair over my shoulder, and I shuddered at the light contact of his fingertips against my skin. “You grip… squeeze…and hold on so well. You don’t lean to the side when I make turns, and you don’t peek over my shoulder or beg me to slow down. You just hang on and enjoy the ride. It’s fuckin’ perfect.”
Wishing he would kiss me, I held my breath, lips quivering in anticipation. But he didn’t. He just kept his luscious lips hovering over mine, his finger idly twirling a loc
k of my hair.
Right in the middle of this sultry moment, the memory of this same finger twirling Jamie’s hair came to me, and my mood vanished, along with my wish.
“Uh, thank you?” I muttered churlishly.
His eyes remained on my lips a minute longer before he stopped touching my hair. He placed the helmet on the handle of his bike and started up the driveway.
I followed.
“How can you afford this?”
I instantly regretted the question. It was the kind that could only serve to spike him straight into a-hole mode.
But surprisingly, he didn’t sound offended when he answered, “Parents.”
Crap. I forgot his parents were famous Christians. The kind who air weekly on television, convincing millions of people to sow one thousand dollar seeds if they wished to see blessings and prosperity in their lives. I could even remember his father, Pastor Kingston, testifying to being anonymously gifted a private jet. Lucky servants of God they were, eh?
As he turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door, I remembered Krissy saying they lived together. “Is it divided?”
“Yeah,” he threw his response over his shoulder. “Krissy’s up top. I’m down here.”
“Oh.” I was relieved they didn’t actually live together. “Does she—”
“Too much fuckin’ questions,” he snapped, glancing at me over his shoulder. “Stay here. Be back in a sec.” Then he strode off down the hall.
Why did I continue to subject myself to this man’s awful treatment?
Oh, right, because I love him. At least, I think I did. Or maybe I suffered from a more subtle brain dysfunction than Ferbie. Maybe all the Days suffered it, and I just happened to be a tad more sensible than the rest of the lot. That could explain it—why I continued down this path.
I wasn’t some obedient child, or anyone’s pet, so I didn’t ‘stay’ as he ordered me to. Instead, I wandered down the hall to find it branched into two wings; the left wing ran into the kitchen—which also had a gap entrance by the front door—while the right wing led into a massive living area.
Taking the path to the living area, I concluded there and then that red was this man’s favourite colour. The space was decorated in a theme of red, grey, white and black, with red being the primary colour.
One large, pristinely white rug covered the centre of the hardwood flooring, and a low Chinese-style coffee table sat atop it. Two long, red suede sofas faced each other on either side of the table. Another sitting area was furnished with two grey sofa chairs placed side by side, each with its own round, black leather ottoman in front.
The place looked so spotless and clinical, it was impossible to believe the person living there rode sports-bikes, drove around in door-less Jeeps, wore ripped-up jeans and Timberlands, and used the F word like it was a prayer.
He was a bloody neat freak.
I hated those kind of men. They were the ones who made up the bed the second they rolled out of it, never left dirty dishes in the sink, kept the bathroom dry and arranged, folded the towels, colour coded the closets, and took off their shoes at the front door.
Well, I still had on my shoes, so I guess he wasn’t that bad.
A 60 inch flat-screen was installed inside the wall north, and the entertainment centre beneath it displayed neatly arranged CDs, DVDs, and a shitload of pictures with Krissy. Some of him and her, some just of her. Most were candid shots of Krissy in her natural, unguarded state. One even while she slept, her mouth hung loosely open.
The ones of him and her were casual, faces pressed together with his arm holding out the camera, smiling, laughing, happy. A Jahleel I didn’t know. Might never know.
Did I even stand a chance?
Those were the kind of pics he framed, and put on display, candid and open. The only other picture present that didn’t include Krissy was one with his parents.
How could she see those and not know he regarded her as more than a sister? She either knew and didn’t care, or she was just as much of a bitch to him as he was an a-hole to others.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up—I felt him before he even spoke. “You don’t follow instructions very well, do you?”
I spun around and took a startled step back when I realized how close he was, flipping a thumb-drive between his fingers. His jaw worked as he chewed something, and I knew it was his stupid raisins.
“I’m not Ferbie.”
“You’re right,” he nodded in agreement. “He can dance. You’re a fish. Even walruses dance better than you.”
“Uh, psssh. I can dance,” I protested, using my offended face.
With a slight smile, he reached up and softly pinched the centre of my top lip. I moved into it, but before I could get any closer, he nodded over my shoulder, indicating the photos I had just seen. “It’s her birthday today.”
What the fuck did that have to do with the price of rice? “Oh. You got something special planned, yeah?”
“Yep.” He turned to leave the room. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”
I was tired of these short clipped moments with him. I was tired of him kissing everyone except me. Tired of him being with everyone else except me.
Common gossip labelled Jahleel a man-whore who shagged anything with a vagina, yet I constantly fought to get his attention.
I was Saskia Day. I owned the fucking world. I shouldn’t have to follow him around, waiting and hoping he’d touch me, or realize that I, too, was a woman with a vagina between her goddamn legs.
And very willing to accommodate him, I might add.
As we got to the front door, I reached out and grabbed his hand before it touched the door knob. Slightly turning his head, he looked at me with his brow raised in question, and I shrugged.
There were no words available, so I tried putting it all in my eyes, because my mouth or brain never seemed to function whenever those gold irises were focused on me.
As he turned fully to me, I let go of his hand. “Sassy?”
My neck heated and my cheeks burned hot as flames, but I didn’t answer as he moved into me, backing me up until I was against the wall. He moved in even closer, until the space between us was non-existent.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Now if I could just get my lips to work. Oh, they would work alright, the minute his touched mine, they most certainly would, like a frog kissing a prince.
“What, Sassy?” he whispered. “What do you want?”
Swallowing past the golf ball size lump in my throat, I sighed back, “Kiss me.”
“You want me to kiss you?” he asked as his hips pressed against mine, now pinning me to the wall.
“Yes. Please.”
“Why, Sassy?” he demanded in a husky voice—a voice I assumed he reserved for moments like these. His right hand came up to brace against the wall, right next to my head, as if he needed a fulcrum, stability, something to keep him restrained.
“Because…” was all I could get out.
“Because…?”
“I just want you to fucking kiss me,” I snapped, full of sexual frustration. “You kiss women all the time, don’t you? Just do it.”
Using his other hand to grip my waist, fingers digging into my flesh, he leaned in even further so his lips were whispering against mine. “I thought you were feeling Chad?”
The hell? How did Chad get into this?
His searing grip on my waist was causing a heavy, unbearable pressure between my thighs. I wanted, oh God, I wanted him. Right now. Right here.
Hooking my thumbs into his belt loops, I yanked him even tighter up against me and raised my face to his, waiting. Waiting for his lips to touch mine. “No. You.”
“You playin’ games, Sassy,” he accused, his cool, minty breath caressing my aching ones.
I tried sounding convincing as I squirmed against the wall. “No, I’m not.”
“You think you can have both of us?” he bit out, his mood shifting. “It’s me today, him tomorro
w? That’s how you play?”
He watched my face closely, intently, searching for something. “One minute you want me to talk to him for you, the next you want me to kiss you?”
Dear God. He was reading this all wrong. I didn’t want Chad. I wanted him. HIM! Couldn’t he see that?
Tipping up on my toes, I tried moving in again to kiss him, but he drew back before our lips met.
I felt like screaming, crying, begging. “You, JK. You. Not Chad.”
Lips nearing mine again, he earnestly searched my face. The hell was he searching for? Just kiss me, dammit!
“Please. Kiss me.”
“No,” he whispered, even as his teeth nipped at my bottom lip.
“No?” My breath was coming in airy, ragged waves now.
He nipped my lip again, tugged and released. “No.”
Turned up to maximum heat, I frustratingly whined, “Why not?”
“Because I’m not the one you want, Saskia.” He drew back.
My thumbs were still hooked in his belt loops, so I yanked him back. “How can you determine that?”
Leaning in close again, eyes to eyes, nose to nose, lips to lips, his mouth moved against mine as he murmured, “Because your nostrils aren’t flaring.”
What the motherfuckingfuck?
Was he even being serious right now? Really? Because my ‘nostrils aren’t flaring’?
Before I could explain that Chad’s theory about my nostrils flaring was total bullocks—even though it wasn’t—the moment was aborted by a loud crash at the front door, followed by an eruption of giggles.
Jahleel jerked his gaze to the door, and judging by the look on his face, I knew it was Krissy.
Being too aroused, confused by the nostrils flaring comment, and intrigued at the depth of his feelings for his sister, I didn’t look their way, but watched Jahleel’s face instead.
“Oh my God, JK, I’m so sorry!” Krissy giggled harder. “I really ought to start using my own entrance.”
The way she emphasized ‘really’ meant it wasn’t the first time she’d walked in on him with someone.
Jahleel’s grip on my waist loosened as he removed his hand and, with said hand, raked his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes. His expression was that of utter confusion and conflict.