Wrong to Need You

by Alisha Rai

  “No one ever told me that.”

  “I wouldn’t have known either, if I hadn’t spent so much time at the café when I was young. My grandfather told me.” Jackson’s face softened. “They were good people.”

  “I’m sure they were,” she murmured. “I’m learning so much tonight.”

  He ducked his head. “I don’t realize sometimes that I haven’t told people stuff. I’m not being shady. You only have to ask.”

  Haha, what? Had she heard him correctly?

  All thoughts of apologizing for her snippiness flew out of her head.

  “I only have to ask?” She bit off each word. “Is that all I have to do?”

  His silence only made her angrier, and she clenched her hands tight against her side. “Then tell me. Why didn’t you ever respond to my emails, Jackson?”

  His mouth opened, then closed. “I was ashamed.”

  She had to lean forward to hear him. “Ashamed of what?” She was the one who felt ashamed. She’d written as if he was reading every word she wrote, telling him the things she would have told him if he had been at her side. She’d treated those emails as her sounding board and confidante. He could have come and helped her and hugged her and responded to her at any time, but he hadn’t.

  “I was ashamed of not replying. And then, after the first month went by . . . and then the first year went by . . . I thought it was too late.”

  “But why couldn’t you respond in the first place?”

  His face could have been carved from stone. “It was . . . painful.”

  “Painful to talk to me? Did I do something?”

  “No. You never did anything.”

  Her nostrils flared at the non-answers. “You know what? Fine. You didn’t say anything about me or when Kareem was born, and that’s bad enough, but how could you not at least contact me when Paul died?”

  Paul’s dead. Please come home.

  She’d sent that email five minutes after the police officer had left her house. Jackson had known before Tani, before Kareem. She’d had to write the words out, see them in black and white, in order to process them.

  His body seized up, and she almost took it back. Almost. Almost got to her feet, apologized for making him uncomfortable, apologized for her earlier snappishness, which was all she had come out here to do, and walked back to the house.

  No. Fuck it.

  She didn’t need to apologize. It was okay for her to be mad. This felt right.

  She clenched her hands tighter. “Do you know what it was like for me? I don’t even remember those days clearly. I could have used you.” The guilt, the grief, the crushing sense of loneliness. She’d needed her best friend. Livvy had been there, but Livvy and Jackson had served different needs for her growing up.

  “I couldn’t come.”

  “Nuh-uh. I need a real explanation. That’s not good enough.”

  He looked down at her. His black eyes were deep and unreadable. “I was in jail. In Paris. By the time I got out and got yours and Livvy’s messages, the funeral had already passed. Weeks had passed.”

  She recoiled. “In jail? What the hell? What happened?”

  His fingers drummed his knee. “I was involved in a protest. It turned ugly. I was the biggest man there and I got arrested. Took me a while to get it sorted out.”

  “What was the protest against?”

  “Police brutality.” The skin around his eyes tightened. “A young man was assaulted. It kicked off protests all across the country.”

  She vaguely recalled something about that in the news, but she’d been so splintered, she hadn’t been able to really pay much attention to what was happening across the ocean. “Why were you involved in the protest?”

  “Because it was wrong.”

  “That’s not even your country, though.”

  His brow furrowed, like he didn’t understand the words. “Principles don’t have borders.”

  When Jackson had been arrested for arson years ago, she’d spent those weeks in a full-blown panic. She’d known he was innocent, of course, but she’d also known the justice system didn’t always work perfectly.

  She’d gone to see him once while he was being held, but had spent most of their visit trying to be cheerful and not cry. After that day, he’d refused to see all visitors save for his sister and lawyer.

  Her breathing came fast now, thinking of him sitting in other jail cells. She hadn’t even known. “How many times have you been arrested since you left home?”

  “Three.”

  “Why?”

  He rolled his shoulders. At any other time, she might read his discomfort and back off, but not today. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. What were you arrested for? Were they all protests?”

  “One other one was a protest. In London. For living wage.”

  She’d grown up hearing the Kanes and Chandlers recite the C&O motto. People. Quality. Fairness.

  “What was the third?”

  He looked away from her and didn’t answer for a moment. “One of my staff was being harassed by his ex. I took care of the asshole. The cops came when we were fighting. They threw us both in jail, but the guy decided not to press charges.”

  She studied his stony face and ran this new information through her brain. From the moment she’d discovered Jackson had received her emails, she’d thought there would be no explanation for why he hadn’t, at the very least, come running home for his brother’s funeral.

  Jail was a pretty good explanation.

  And jail for these reasons? Perfectly in keeping with the Jackson she’d known, that every time he’d run afoul of the law, it had been in the pursuit of protecting and advocating for someone else. The only time he’d ever fought when he was young was when he was protecting her or Livvy.

  People. Fairness.

  “You could have called me when you got out.” Her tone was plaintive. Yearning.

  “I know. I didn’t know what to do, so I did nothing. I’m sorry. I regret it. I regret all of it.” The apology was plain, and without frills.

  Just like him. Like he’d always been.

  She may not have heard from him in ten years, and she still didn’t understand him, but right now, right this moment . . .

  She wanted to believe he was truly sorry. She wanted to believe he hadn’t changed from the boy she’d adored, not deep down.

  He was here, helping her. He didn’t have to be. He could have kept on not doing anything, even after she’d sent him that last furious letter. Maybe, in his own clumsy way, he was trying to make amends.

  It hurt to breathe. She looked down at his hand on his thigh. His fist was so tight, his knuckles had turned white.

  This time, she couldn’t bury her desire to comfort him. She placed her hand on top of his. A little tingle ran up her arm. His head jerked up. The whites of his eyes were too bright in the darkness.

  His skin was hot and smooth below hers. It was familiar.

  Jackson moved, and slowly, ever so slowly, his hand turned to cover hers. So weird, to feel the unfamiliar callouses on an otherwise familiar touch. The silence stretched around them, only the hooting of nocturnal animals keeping them company.

  Part of her wanted to run inside. Or get in her car. Or go work on her journal for tomorrow.

  All of those were rational, pragmatic ways to avoid Jackson and the tumult of feelings he’d knocked awake. With each stroke of his rough thumb, he tightened the crank of feelings inside her, giving her no outlet, except the one tiny acceptable one. “Can I hug you?”

  He stilled. “Are you still mad at me?”

  She reflected. “Yeah. Kind of. But I’m not embarrassed so much anymore.”

  “Why were you embarrassed?”

  “I wrote to you like I was writing in my journal. Wouldn’t you be embarrassed if someone you didn’t know was reading your journal?” She ran her finger over his. “I know you, though.”

  “Oh.”

  “So can I hug you? It’ll
make me feel better. But I won’t do it if you hate it,” she tacked on.

  The corner of his lips lifted, the most amusement she’d seen from him since he’d come home. He’d never been given to smiling much, but she was suddenly hungry for a proper grin. “You used to threaten to hug me, not ask.”

  “And you’d threaten to tickle me.”

  “You hated being tickled.”

  “Like you hated hugs.”

  “I never hated hugs. Not from you. I wasn’t good at them, is all.”

  Ugh. She wasn’t going to be mad at all soon if he kept this up. “It’s very easy.” She scooted closer and wrapped her arm around his back, her other arm going around his waist.

  He went still. “This seems awkward.” She swallowed the utterly inappropriate urge to laugh and craned her neck. Their heads were closer than she’d thought. She could count every individual lash on his eyes, the slight mark on his cheek from a scar he must have picked up at some point over the years.

  “Loosen up.”

  He relaxed marginally, scowling when she couldn’t stifle her laugh. “I told you I’m not good at this.”

  “Sorry, sorry.” She released him to hoist his heavy arm up and snuck under it, pulling and pushing until she was snuggled up next to him. “See?” She put her arms back where they’d been and smiled up at him, feeling lighthearted and young for the first time in a while.

  Oh it felt so good not to be enraged at him. She probably shouldn’t have relented so easily, and maybe tomorrow she would change her mind, but right now, right here, she simply wanted to pull him close to her. For a brief moment in time, she didn’t have anywhere to be, he was with her, and their friendship was perfect. “So easy.”

  He grunted. She thought he might have a smart retort, but his arms tightened around her and he pulled her even closer, until their upper bodies were plastered together. She laid her head on his shoulder and breathed deep, inhaling the scent of muffins.

  He smelled like her friend.

  “It would never have been too late,” she murmured, and he stilled.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  Jackson couldn’t move.

  He didn’t want to move, because if he did move, maybe he would discover that this was nothing more than a perfect, precious dream.

  He felt too large and awkward, unsure of what to do with his hands. He finally settled on resting one on her waist and one against her head, her silky hair slipping through his fingers. It was awkward hugging someone sitting next to him, but again, he wasn’t about to do anything to disrupt this.

  This? This connection? This felt . . .

  Like heaven. He closed his eyes. What if she stopped?

  Sadia’s fingers drifted over his side, rasping the cotton of his shirt over his too-sensitive skin. It couldn’t even be called a stroke, but it settled him. Her hair tickled his nose, carrying the scent of some sort of flowers. He wanted to bury his face in it, to absorb her so he’d never have to be without her. He wanted to coast his hands all over her, discovering every difference between the two of them. But that would be inappropriate. He’d always been acutely conscious of what was appropriate and inappropriate when it came to Sadia.

  When had he fallen in love with her? When they were ten and he’d protected her from a bully? When they’d been thirteen and he’d made sure she wouldn’t get in trouble for sneaking in late? When they’d been sixteen and he’d escorted her to their junior prom when her date had stood her up?

  He’d spent an hour at the florist, picking out her corsage, a perfect red rose, because red had been her favorite color and the color of the dress she’d worn when they’d first met as kids, a detail she’d probably never picked up on. A bright crimson. He could still remember how her eyes had lit up when he’d slipped it on her hand. You didn’t have to do that, she’d said shyly.

  Because they were going as friends, but he’d memorized how she’d looked in her gold and red dress in a way no friend would. By the time their senior prom rolled around, he’d been determined to be her proper date.

  Too late. His older brother had been the one escorting her to that.

  That brutal reminder—Paul’s, not his—splashed over him like cold water. Your heart only needs to beat. Stay alive.

  He could care, and he could owe her, but he couldn’t love her again. If he loved her, he’d hurt. Because this was and always had been a doomed love.

  His arms tightened around her.

  Finally she stirred and looked up at him, and he shifted at the same time, leaving their mouths within a hairsbreadth from each other. Her eyes were wet, her cheeks damp, and he realized with alarm that she’d been crying.

  “Why are you crying?”

  She bit her lip. “Because I missed you.”

  He lowered his head, and he wasn’t sure what his intention was. To kiss her cheek, maybe, or to rest his forehead against hers. But their eyes met, and there was a question in hers. She lifted her face, bringing her lips closer to his. He accepted the unspoken request.

  It was tentative, soft, the barest brushing of his mouth on hers. Jackson cradled her skull, taking his cues from her. When she pressed harder, he responded, flicking against her bottom lip. She opened up, letting him in. He swept his tongue inside, groaning when she shyly flirted with him. She tasted like mints. She’d brushed her teeth maybe, or ate one of the chocolate peppermints she used to keep in her purse. He’d tasted those mints plenty of times when she’d shared them with him, but never like this, on her lips.

  He hoped he’d smoked so little of that cigarette that she didn’t actually taste it.

  He bit her lower lip, laving it when she whimpered and moved closer, pressing her back against the stairs, cushioning her head with his palm. He had a second to have the presence of mind to wonder if they were visible to anyone, but there were no lights here. They’d hear anyone coming from the road or the house long before the people saw them.

  Her arms twined around his neck as he continued kissing her with deep, drugging kisses. He groaned into her mouth at her eagerness, insane with lust at how perfect and right she felt in his arms. His cock hardened, and it pulsed against his leg at this fantasy coming true.

  He bit at her lips, pulled them deep. He felt like a kid jumping from couch cushion to couch cushion, unable to touch the floor. If he touched the floor, lava would get him. If he stopped kissing her, he’d start thinking. Or she’d start thinking. Either way, they’d both stop feeling.

  He never wanted to stop feeling this, not in a million years. He’d waited so long for it. His whole life, or so it felt. He stroked his thumb over the arch of her throat.

  She froze, and then her hands were shoving at him. His eyes sprang open and he leapt back so fast, he almost banged his head against the railing.

  He knew what was coming. The lava.

  She stayed half-reclined for a second, blinking up at him with wide eyes, and then she was on her feet, jerking at her wrinkled blouse, all the while a steady stream of “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” fell from her lips. She ran her hands through her disheveled hair. “Oh my God.”

  “Sadia,” he began, but his voice was nothing more than a rough croak. He wasn’t sure what to say.

  Be smart.

  Ariel had given him some great advice. Instead, he’d gone and complicated everything with a kiss so perfect he couldn’t regret it.

  The sheen of wetness in her eyes killed his lust. “Don’t cry,” he said quietly.

  She swiped her hand over the back of her cheek like she was surprised to find tears there. “Oh God. What did I . . . what did we . . .”

  “Nothing. We didn’t do anything. I promise.”

  “I can’t believe I kissed you,” she whispered, and he stoically accepted the sting of disgust in her voice.

  “I kissed you. And it was nothing,” he repeated. That was right. He’d keep repeating that.

  “No, it was something. You’re . . . and I’m . . .”

&nbs
p; “It was a momentary lapse. We’re two healthy people, stress got to us, it’s natural.” He’d never tripped into a woman’s mouth before, but he’d say whatever he had to say to get that stricken look out of her eyes.

  He stretched his legs out in front of him, turning his body slightly away so she wouldn’t see his erection. “Do you want me to leave?” Please say no. Because if she said yes, then he’d go.

  “Leave? Leave what?”

  “The house? Town?”

  She blinked at him. He braced himself. It wouldn’t take him long to pack, because he’d never unpacked. He could call Ariel and be on a flight tonight. A flight to . . . somewhere.

  He’d leave behind Sadia and the nephew he wanted to know and the family he couldn’t talk to.

  Please say no.

  He didn’t love her still. But he couldn’t leave her.

  “That’s . . . No.” She shook her head. “No, I just stopped being furious at you.”

  “You did?”

  “I mean, not totally.” She looked down at the ground and shoved her hands in her pockets. “You’re not leaving. It’s okay. You’re right, this was nothing. We’ll forget about it. Okay?”

  “Yeah.” No. He’d never forget it, not in a million years. But she didn’t need to know that.

  “Okay, good. I have to . . . um. I have to go. Good night.” Before he could answer she whirled and paced away, her feet picking up until the gravel in the driveway flew.

  He waited until she was inside her house before climbing the steps to his apartment. It took him a minute to strip all his clothes off and step inside the shower. Hot, not cold, because he knew there was only one thing that could relieve his erection.

  He soaped himself up. Steam rose around him, fogging the glass, rendering him invisible, just the way he liked it. This was his secret shame. It always had been. He ran his hand down his belly and grasped his cock. He was thick with wanting the one woman he couldn’t have.

  He’d always tried to avoid giving his fantasy woman a face, because he’d known exactly who his subconscious would sub in. He couldn’t help it when Sadia crept in during his dreams, but he could when he was awake.