JAKE

by Juliette Jones

  She almost smiles, like she can’t help the sunny side of herself from shining through, despite what she’s just been through. “Crashed into you more like it.”

  “I was going to ask you if you’d have a drink with me.” I don’t mention the part about how I’d spent every second since I met her fantasizing about thoroughly, lewdly breaking my vow of celibacy all over her, letting the flood gates of my raging desire go wild. Or about how the small spark of my addiction, now that I’m near her, has bloomed into the purest wildfire rush I’ve ever known. “I was bringing you some flowers.”

  “Those were for me?” She blinks and I’m mesmerized by the sweep of her eyelashes and the unusual deep-blue color of her eyes. “I’m sorry I ruined them.”

  I couldn’t care less about the flowers. What I care about is making sure she’s safe. And warm. And mine. She’s shivering. I have this urge to pull her close. Which is fucked-up. I don’t pull women closer; I push them away. This is new territory. I shrug off my jacket. “Can I put this around you? You’re cold.”

  She allows this and I drape my leather jacket around her shoulders. She wraps it closer and shivers as the warmth envelops her. This does strange things to me. Knowing that my body warmth has affected her in this way sends feverish darts of need straight to my cock. She smiles at me. “Thank you.”

  Don’t mention it. I’ll do anything for you. I never want to be separated from you. Ever. Your beauty feels too good.

  The things that are going through my head sound crazy even to me. I don’t want her to think I’m some kind of psycho. So I keep quiet.

  “You don’t need to buy me flowers just to get some more pie,” she says. “I’ll give you the next one on the house. For saving me from that jerk. And from a viral nightmare. And from hypothermia.”

  “He’ll never come near you again,” I say, the beast inside me feral with protective rage. “I’ll make sure of that.”

  She blinks at me, and smiles a little. Not warily, exactly. More like she’s wondering why I would care so much about her well-being. Since she is, after all, a perfect stranger. Perfect being the crucial, key element to this entire fucked-up scenario.

  “I’m going to take you home and get you warmed up,” I say.

  This is not just a first but more like a shift in the goddamn space-time continuum. I’ve never even told anyone besides my own brother where I live. And now I’m determined to not only take this goddess home with me but to keep her there until she insists on leaving. Then I’ll follow her wherever she goes.

  “My apartment is just a few blocks further down Fifth,” I tell her. “We’ll call whoever you need to call. And we’ll put some ice on that shiner.”

  She touches her fingers to her face and winces. “I can’t believe what that bastard did to me.”

  “Is that your … boyfriend?” I ask, and my blood goes cold. So this is what jealousy feels like.

  She laughs, quietly, just a small, tired exhale. Even so, a thrill of … something – maybe happiness, or triumph – floods through me. It’s crazy but all I can think is: I made her laugh. This is what I want to spend every second of my life doing: making her happy.

  “Not even close,” she says. “He’s my mother’s soon-to-be fourth ex-husband.”

  The taxi pulls to a stop outside my apartment.

  I hand the driver a hundred dollar bill. The last thing I want to do is fuck around with correct change. I open the door and I gently lift her into my arms. There’s no way I’m letting her feet touch the cold ground. I’m relieved when she doesn’t protest.

  The taxi pulls away and I carry her towards the door of my building. “I should probably just get a cab to my restaurant,” she says, and her lightly-husked, bell-toned voice sounds not just tired but weary. “I’ll be fine.”

  I make no move to put her down. I summon every ounce of gentleness, if there is such a thing inside my own black heart, and force it to override my panic: I don’t want to let her go. “Please,” I say, and it feels strange to say that word. I can’t remember the last time I said that word. But by this point I’m suffering from a full-blown addiction. To her. To making sure she’s safe. There’s no way in hell I’m letting her walk into the night dressed like this, cold, scared, bruised. She needs me. “Please believe me when I say you can trust me. I’m going to make sure you’re okay. I’ll take you wherever you need to go once we’ve iced up that eye and you’re dry and warm and fed and you feel safe and strong and not afraid. I promise. On my life. Please believe me.”

  She’s watching me with those heart-breaking blue eyes and it’s a few seconds before she answers. “Okay.”

  I don’t know where all this white knight compulsion is coming from, but I’m feeling it. Right down to my heart, where something hot and dazzling and beautiful is forging there: this. Her. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore,” I say. “I’ll take care of you. You’re safe with me.”

  Please, God, let that be true.

  Jesus, what a night I’m having. I’ve been assaulted by my mother’s creepy fifth husband, filmed in the shower, threatened with blackmail, and now, as though karma’s playing some sick joke on me, I’ve literally been swept off my feet by the sexiest, most drop-dead gorgeous man that may ever have walked the goddamn earth. Looking at Jake Wolfe’s face is like staring at the sun. He’s so beautiful it actually makes my eyes water. Or maybe my eyes are watering because my face is so sore after my punch-up with A-hole Flint.

  Either way, all I’m thinking is: karma, you bitch. For years I’ve been waiting for true love to storm into my life. Years. And on the exact night I finally lay all those hopes and dreams to rest, you send me this: an arrogant playboy who’s not only rich and ridiculously well-hung (I’m doing my best not to stare but that gigantic thing in his jeans could quite possibly be classified as the eighth wonder of the world, not that I’ve had much experience with stuff like that), but also the dreamiest, most gallant, kindest person I’ve ever met.

  He’s also a criminal and a playboy, from what I’ve heard, both of which are the very last thing I need right now. What I need is some hundred-proof love at first sight, not just lust on super-strength steroids.

  How do I know he’s a playboy? I’ve heard of Jake Wolfe. There were some articles in the paper recently about his arrest, along with an unfocused photo of a man with his face partly shielded as he came out of a courthouse. I never made the connection that night he came into the restaurant but I remember the articles. They went into depth about how he had a criminal record and spent time in juvie as a teenager. But then he’d redeemed himself in the world of business. He got a slew of high-powered degrees and made a ton of money. And he’d left a trail of broken-hearted women in his wake. One of them had even been interviewed by a society gossip column about his flawless beauty, his sexual prowess and his inability to commit. I couldn’t help noticing those society articles were outdated, though. I’d scanned for something recent (just out of curiosity) but all of them were written at least three years before his arrest.

  So I’d kept reading. Apparently he was a reformed playboy. One society blogger had even called him ‘The Most Eligible Yet Now Apparently Unattainable Badboy Bachelor in Manhattan’. He’s loaded, he’s hot as sin, and now he’s elusive as hell, ladies. The Mysterious Jake Wolfe has retreated into his man cave alone. Who will be the lucky one to lure him back out?

  He’d obviously been a player and one of those serial one-night-stand kind of guys once upon a time, but had retreated from the dating scene years ago.

  But why?

  Between recalling his past demeanors and trying not to notice how tall or gorgeous or warm he is or how huge his muscles are as he carries me, I can’t help noticing how over the top his building is. The black marble lobby has Greek-style urns and even a waterfall. He carries me over the threshold and past the doorman, who eyeballs me before he can stop himself. The look he gives me makes me wonder if my face looks worse than I thought.

  I do feel s
ore. I’m looking forward to that ice. And I’m tired. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. The make-shift bed I sleep in every night under my desk isn’t quite big enough. And the floor is pretty damn hard but I try not to think about that.

  So I think about Jake, and something occurs to me. Things happen for a reason. Karma is very clearly trying to tell me something: there’s no such thing as true love. This is the universe’s way of confirming my doubts. It’s my cue to have a wild fling. This rich, beautiful, well-hung Mr. Mysterious Muscular Badboy Bachelor is my proof. The tool I can use to literally screw all that nonsense about knights in shining armor well and truly out of my system.

  So that’s exactly what I’ll do. Karma’s not a bitch at all. She’s a realist. It’s time for me to wake up and smell the coffee. I’m twenty-three years old and I’m still a virgin. Not that I haven’t had opportunities. I have. But they were never perfect. They were never as good as what I’d hoped they’d be. So I saved myself. Because I’m a fool, that’s why. A naïve, hopeless romantic.

  Not anymore. I just escaped having my virginity stolen by a lecherous jerk only because of some quick thinking and a powerful knee-to-the-groin manoeuver. I can only hope he hadn’t already uploaded or copied his video of me before Jake managed to take his phone. He probably didn’t have time, what with the regaining feeling in his ball-sac then hobbling down the stairs in hot pursuit. Of me. There really wouldn’t have been that much opportunity, if you think about it, for him to do any uploading. At least I hope not. I’d be humiliated, business would suffer and I’d probably have to return to Georgia and hide away until I’m old and gray. I could live out my days alone amongst the peach trees, crying on Grandma Mae’s shoulder as we watched her house crumble around us. I’d be known not for my cooking or baking skills but for my shower scene.

  My rudely-interrupted shower scene.

  That asshole. For what he’d done.

  I hadn’t even been able to finish… thinking about, well, the beefed-up alpha who’s not only carrying me into his apartment as we speak but who’s also, if those outdated articles are to be believed, A-list sex on a stick.

  So I make a decision.

  The elevator bings and the doors open. Mr. Alpha A-List carries me into his apartment.

  Huge windows display views of the treetops of Central Park and the streets far below. The space is decorated with two massive, plush couches, a low square coffee table and an excessively large, curved state-of-the-art t.v. There’s no sound except the one that’s hard to describe. Perfectly-cocooned wealth, climate controlled to a temperature that’s as warm as a tropical seabreeze without the breeze. The hum of comfort, soft carpeting and clean, expensive fabrics. The glow of low city lights, its reflection on panes of unstreaked glass and a single small spotlight that illuminates a carved wooden wolf who stands on his little pedestal on a black floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that’s lined with neatly-displayed books, knick-knacks, art.

  If I’m going to return to Georgia in a cloud of shame and failure, I’m going to return to Georgia in a non-virginal cloud of shame and failure. I’m going to make the most of this crazy twist in the plot of my evening.

  I’m going to be the one to lure Jake Wolfe out of his cave.

  I set her down on my couch, carefully, like she’s made of fine china. I grab a down comforter from the closet and wrap it around her as she watches me. I go into the kitchen, open the freezer. I grab an ice pack and wrap it in a clean dishtowel so it won’t be too cold to the touch. I get two Tylenol from a bottle in the cupboard and fill a glass of water. Then I walk back into the living room and sit next to her. Her head is resting against the back of the soft leather couch, her spectacular hair cascading in silky curls over her shoulders. Her eyes, her hair and her skin glow with the healthy, gilded colors that are so unique to her. She’s dazzling me, like she did the first time. It’s like having a fallen angel land in your apartment without warning. It changes everything. The world fades away and the only thing you can see is how beautiful she is. The only thing that matters is being close to her and being infinitely careful with her perfect body and her glittering soul.

  Very gently, I hold the cold pack to her bruised cheek. I hand her the glass of water and the pills and she takes them. I take the water glass when she’s done and set it on the table.

  She’s still clutching that asshole’s phone in her hands. I gently pry it free and I place it on the table. “We’ll leave it here until we figure out to do with it. And how you want to handle everything, okay?”

  She nods.

  She’s relaxed a little, now that the fear of the chase has faded away. Somewhere between the taxi and the couch, as I carried her in my arms, she seems to have accepted me as a safe haven. I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure I am. I want to be her rock and her savior. Her lover and her soul mate. Because it’s happened, just like that: what I thought never would. I’ve fallen. Hard and fast and deeper than I ever thought I could. I don’t care that I don’t know her or that it’s ridiculous to feel this way about someone you’ve spoken to only twice. I don’t care. I’ve never felt anything as good as being close to her, not by a long shot. I can feel my own heartbeat and it’s heavy and hot with need and with rapt, total enchantment.

  “There’s a doctor that lives in my building. I think I should call him so he can take a look at you.” I phrase this carefully. I’m used to issuing orders, calling shots. But I don’t want her to think I’m trying to push her around or control her. I’ll give her everything, but I’ll do it on her terms. At least as much as I’m capable of.

  “I don’t need a doctor, Jake.” My name, spoken in her angel’s voice, kills me a little more. I love the sound of it so much, like a soothing tonic to my battered psyche. Like a healing elixir than can begin to repair the damages so deeply etched. “I’m okay. It’s just a bruise.”

  “Your neck’s bruised, too.”

  She touches her neck like she’d forgotten about that. Her violet eyes are wide when she says, “He tried to strangle me.”

  The rage inside me is jagged, like pointed little knives of fury. I’ll kill the fucker. “Did he touch you anywhere else?” I have to ask it but I brace myself for her reply.

  “No. I kicked him in the balls before he could.”

  At this, I can’t help laughing a little. Relief floods through me, so strongly I feel dizzy from it. “Good girl.”

  My resolve is steely and real: he’ll never touch you again.

  She’s watching me. I get the feeling she’s happy she made me smile and this touches me even more. A little connection between us is forming and deepening. Even so, I don’t think she’s ready to hear about the rawness or intensity of my determination. To have her. To keep her. So I steer the conversation back to her. “Do you want to talk about it? Tell me what happened?”

  Seeing her snug and warm, wrapped in my duvet, it calms me. She’s safe now. He’ll have to get past me. It’s already decided. I’ll kill or die, or both, to protect her. “You really want to hear this?”

  “I want to hear all of it.”

  So she starts talking, about how her father was killed when he was hit by a truck a long time ago and how her mother married a string of sugar daddies to keep them afloat. How it was her fourth stepfather who did this to her. “I couldn’t believe that he would walk in on me like that,” she says. “But I can take care of myself. The worst part about the whole thing is that he filmed me. He was going to try to blackmail me into giving him … what he wants. I won’t, of course. But now he’s angry. I just hope he doesn’t try to ruin me out of spite or something. I don’t really want to go back to Georgia with nothing. I was hoping I could save up enough to do up my Grandma Mae’s house for her. It’s such an amazing house. It would be so spectacular all fixed up.”

  I keep my cool as she lays it all out, but barely. I’m going crazy for about a hundred different reasons. “Grandma Mae?”

  “You’d like her,” she says,
and it’s the strangest thing: I want to meet her grandmother. I already know that I’m going to be the one to fix up Grandma Mae’s house. I’ll make a few phone calls as soon as Sugar’s feeling better. Send some contractors to do everything her grandmother tells them to, exactly the way she wants it. The way she’s always dreamed it could be. Because just sitting here next to Sugar Malone, listening to her talk as I give her sips of water, watching her eyes sparkle when she smiles – it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s the calmest I’ve ever felt. “She taught me how to cook. And bake. She lent me the money to start the business. And now, well, if the video does get out somehow … anyway, I’ll still pay her back. It just might take a little longer.”

  “What’s your stepfather’s name?” I ask her.

  She hesitates. She’s not sure she should trust me with that kind of information. Like she’s afraid I might track him down and kill him. Which I might.

  “I want to know,” I say.

  “Jake, you got the phone from him. That’s all that needed to be done. It’s pretty unlikely that the video went any further. And I don’t want you doing anything that might get you arrested again.” She smiles that smile, the one that makes my heart thud like it’s about to break. Half-shy, half-teasing. She can’t stop the sunny side of herself from shining through. It’s too much a part of her personality, always bubbling up to the surface.

  I’m a guy that hardly ever smiles. I usually don’t have much reason to. So I let myself bask in some of her influence. And I feel the hard heart of me soften the smallest bit, like she’s shining her light into my darknesses. “It hardly matters at this point if I get arrested again.”

  “Of course it matters,” she says. “We wouldn’t be able to have that drink together. And I’d have to deliver your pie to the prison. Which wouldn’t be much fun.”