Because she’s looking at me now like I’m dessert.
“I changed my mind. I’m hungry. Let’s go down to the Bean,” and before I can protest, she’s up and in the closet, changing.
“Okay,” I shrug, mainly to myself.
Walking out of dorm building, I automatically veer towards the Mustang, but then realize that maybe she wants to drive. “Your car or mine?” I ask casually.
“What makes you think I have a car?” she asks innocently.
I roll my eyes. “Please, you come from Manhattan; no way you came here without a ride.” I’m guessing here, but trying to sound as cock sure as possible when I do it.
“I do,” she nods in reply. “But I’d rather go in yours, just as long as I sit in the front seat this time. Last time I had to contort my body into shapes it doesn’t normally go in.”
She says this innocently, but my mind floods with images of her body in various compromising positions and my body reacts accordingly. Fuck! I walk purposely ahead of her as I desperately attempt to get my shit together.
A few times on the way there, she looks as though she wants to speak, but then loses her nerve. By the time we’re turning onto the street where the Bean is located, I can’t help but to ask. “What? Spit it out.” I grin.
She’s taken aback by my question. “What do you mean?” she asks.
“I mean, why do you keep opening your mouth to say something and then stopping? You’ve been doing it for ten minutes now. You’re starting to look like a fish,” I tease.
She rounds her mouth off in an “o” formation and narrows her eyes teasingly at me, feigning offense. And she looks crazy hot. Because that, gentlemen, that look is what dreams are made of, right there. And men who find a chick that hot can think of at least ten things to do with that look. I try to fill my mind with visuals of the century-old nude sunbathers I’m used to seeing on Atlanta’s beaches, to stop myself from thinking what I’m actually thinking. On the plus side, she seems comfortable now, and maybe, just maybe she’ll let go enough to have a little fun this evening. Fuck, stranger things have happened.
Maia leads us straight to the second floor, where the beanbags and bookshelves are, after we order our lattes. It’s pretty empty, because I assume on a Friday night, most people have traded up to the party scene. Truthfully, the old me would have been right there with them. Now, with Maia, I’m starting to appreciate my new, boring self.
“New game,” she turns towards me and places her coffee on the floor before flopping onto a beanbag. “It’s called truth or dare or bullshit.”
“What!” I choke back a laugh. “I’m thinking you’re making this up, but okay, I’ll play. What are the rules?”
“Simple,” she replies flippantly. “No rules. Ask anything. But, if the other person thinks you’re not being completely honest, they call bullshit. That’s where the dare comes in, and you can’t refuse.”
This sounds confusing as shit, not to mention dangerous as hell. Because underneath the studious, quiet girl in front of me, I think there may be a touch of crazy freaky hidden. I’d have chosen strip poker, personally, just to find out.
“Okay, I’ll go first,” she volunteers. “Why were you looking at my ass in the library earlier?”
And there it is. “What makes you think I was looking at your ass? A bit vain don’t you think,” I replying cockily, mainly to hide my surprise.
“Are you going to answer me or should I call bullshit?” she asks defiantly.
“Call bullshit,” I challenge, offering no further explanation.
“Fine, your dare is to go downstairs, find a girl who is clearly out of your league, and get her number. Oh and you have five minutes,” she grins at me with a smug expression. Maia is clearly enjoying this shit.
I shake my head ruefully. “Damn, and here I thought a clever girl like you was going to give me an actual challenge.” I shrug my shoulders and make my way down the stairs.
She knows very well that the last place to find bobble head women in rubber band dresses would be at a café like this, so it won’t be easy. I spot a leggy brunette sitting alone, reading a copy of some trashy romance novel at the coffee bar and introduce myself. I look up and notice that Maia is staring at me intently from the galley railing. We chat for a few minutes, and by minute three I have my phone in hand, dialling on the keypad. By minute four I’m walking back up the stairs. By four and a half she’s asking me to dial the number, to check that I actually did it. By four minutes and forty seconds, I tell her my phone won’t dial and ask her to prank call it to test it, praying that she has her caller ID on. By four minutes and fifty five seconds, Maia’s number appears on my screen. And at five minutes flat, I’ve created a contact with her name.
“So?” she asks me impatiently. “It clearly works, so call her.”
Grinning smugly I call her number from my contacts list. Maia’s expression is priceless when she feels her phone vibrate in her hand. I end the call and raise my phone to snap a quick pic of her slack jawed expression of disbelief. My shoulders shake with restrained laughter and she goes to open her mouth but quickly shuts it. I can’t resist being a smart ass about this one. “Never try to play a player, little lady.”
For the rest of the evening she stays away from difficult questions and I decide to go easy on her. Mainly because the only dares that I can think of for her involve the removal of clothing, and the two of us in extremely close proximity to one another. I manage to wow her again when she asks me to show her my favorite book, and I read her Annabel Lee, from Edgar Allan Poe’s complete works. I close my eyes as I recite my favorite verse, without even looking at the well-worn book.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
I stop reading. The last person I read this poem to was Shana. I shake myself out of the funk I’m about to land myself in and snap the book shut.
“Why didn’t you finish it?” she asks me softly.
Time to man up, screw this shit. “Poe’s depressing as hell.” I answer as nonchalantly as I can manage.
“Do you write poetry as well?” she probes.
Fuck. Just fuck. I’ve made it my life’s mission these days to avoid deep and meaningful reflections into my past. “Used to. Not a fan anymore,” I answer, the response coming out sounding shorter and more irritated than intended.
She’s silent for a few minutes, staring at me with those huge brown eyes of hers. “Bullshit,” she says softly.
“What?” I look up to meet her eyes. “I said, I call bullshit,” she repeats slowly, not taking her eyes away from mine. “As the rules of the game go, there’s a dare you have to fulfill as a result.” Her tone is playful but her eyes watch me with an intensity that could bring the strongest of men to their knees. “I dare you to read a poem, an original,” she continues.
Is that all? Fuck, I thought it was going to be much worse than that. Then she says it. “At open mic night here next Saturday.”
And there it is. Shit. You know when there’s something intensely private about something you do? Poetry is like that for me. My own fault, I guess when you come off as a cocky, self-assured ladies man; people think you’ve got confidence for days. But still, a dare’s a dare.
“Okay,” I answer thoughtfully, but this could very well work for me, too. “If, you answer a question that I have.”
She looks at me expectantly, and I swear to God I could drown in her eyes. I’m pretty damn sure I could die in her arms, as well. I try to maintain focus again. Dear Lord, this girl has me twisted in all kinds of ways. “What were you thinking when I was reading that poem to you?” I ask seriously.
She turns away slightly and replies, “I love poetry. You re
ad it well. I was just enjoying the words. Besides, you weren’t reading it for me.”
As she answers I walk over to the sofa she’s sitting on and lower myself onto the seat next to her. “Bullshit,” I smile. I reach for her hand. “I dare you to listen again. This time close your eyes.” She complies, shutting her eyes and I recite the verse again. From her hands in mine, I can feel her pulse quicken with each line. “Like I said, bullshit.”
She opens her eyes and leans into me, and before I can fully comprehend what’s happening, her lips are on mine. She tastes so incredibly sweet. Her hair brushes the side of my neck and the now familiar cinnamon and sandalwood scent is intoxicating. My hands grab her waist and I pull her into me as the kiss deepens. She moves a hand to my hip and though the kiss is soft and tender, there is something so urgently passionate about it that the heat it ignites threatens to rip a hole in my jeans. I break away with great difficulty to glance around and make sure that we’re still alone. Only because I know she’d care. Quite personally, whether it’s my raging hard on talking or not, I don’t give a fuck who walks up the stairs. I lean back in and crash my lips into hers, forcing them further apart. Her back arches in response, and her fingers make their way under my shirt and knead at my back. I pull back gently, before the urge to rip every item of clothing off of her body completely consumes me. The thought has crossed my mind a few times in the last minute. And believe me; it takes every fucking ounce of self-restraint I have to pull away. But she’s known me for three days and I get the sense that she really isn’t that kind of girl. She holds my gaze for a few seconds before averting her eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that behind the fiery lust I just saw there, she looks a little wounded.
Chapter 5
Maia
Driving back to Brown’s campus, Jackson and I barely speak to each other. But it’s not really an awkward silence; at least not for me, anymore. He has this way of making me feel completely comfortable around him. No one in my life has ever made me feel this at ease by just being there. Still, the negativity that is such a destructive part of my personality gnaws away at my peaceful disposition. The thoughts that I try in earnest to keep at bay threaten to surface. Questions like why Jade, who has known Jackson for the longest time, would tell me to stay away from him? Questions like whether or not there was something going on with the two of them Or had there ever been? Questions like why he pulled away at the Bean. And I don’t know the answer to a single one of them. The logical part of me says that he chose to get my number instead of using the easy out I gave him in the dare, and he chose to hang out after I absconded at the library. So the logical part of me tells me to stop overthinking this. Like I do with everything. And for the first time in my life, I wish I could stop using all of the defense mechanisms that I have in my repertoire. I wish I could just let go.
“You okay?” Jackson’s voice startles me out of the court case I have going on in my head. He places a hand over mine and squeezes it gently. I turn my hand upwards into his and run my fingers along the callouses on his palm. I love that looking at him, his face is model perfect, yet his hands show how hardworking he is. Such a pleasant change from the Upper East Side brats. But, I’m one of those aren’t I?
“Fine,” I reply as I meet his eyes. He holds my gaze for a second or two, until he realizes that to drive, one must watch the road, and refocuses his eyes forward. He could have called me out with bullshit for a lot of what I said tonight. I just skimmed the surface of what and who I really am, and where I actually come from.
Jackson slows the car in front of my dorm building. When he stops, he turns to face me with a wicked grin. “So, why do I get the feeling we’re about to have a Cinderella moment here? You race out of my car, leaving behind a glass slipper?”
“Why would you say that??” I ask teasingly. He traces a line up my arm and his finger leaves behind a deliciously warm trail.
“Well, because it seems the closer I get to you, the more I get the sense that you are holding back.” He leans forward and delivers a line of soft kisses to my neck, stopping just shy of my mouth. “And I’d rather you didn’t hold back,” he murmurs.
My head falls back as his kisses send heat radiating from my neck straight down to my thighs. Holy hell, this boy is definitely skilled! He pulls away, and my first instinct is to grab him by the collar and bring him right back again. His eyes meet mine as he continues. “But just so you know, I really think you may be worth the wait. I’ll walk you up.”
A thin stream of light was filtering from under my dorm door, which means Jade is back. I glance down at my watch for the first time tonight as we climb the last stair to my floor and baulk at the time. “Shit! Do you realize it’s two in the morning?” I say to Jackson.
“What can I say, time flies when you’re having fun,” he answers cockily. When we arrive at my door, he presses me against the wall and delivers one last and long goodbye kiss, before he walks off. My body screams at my brain to stop him. I unlock the door, unable to wipe the stupid grin off my face. Nothing on this planet can destroy my euphoric mood. Nothing at all.
Nothing, that is, until I walk into my room to find my mother sitting on my bed. I discard my bag on the chest of drawers and turn to face her. “What are you doing here?” I deadpan.
“I tried calling you,” she answers, rising to walk towards me. My mother is classically beautiful in an Audrey Hepburn kind of way. Her almost black hair falls just past her shoulder blades, and we have the same brown eyes. Although when I look at hers, I see that they are red rimmed and she’s made no attempt to remedy the bags under them. That’s unlike her. She wears her signature uniform, an expensive charcoal pants suit with bone-colored Christian Louboutins. As always, she represents the picture of a perfect society wife.
“I saw. I was going to call you tomorrow.” I lie, in part because though I know it was always my intention to call her back, I know I probably wouldn’t have actually done it.
“I need your help,” she looks up at me, tears welling in her eyes. “I need to leave, and I need your help.”
The desperation in her voice saddens me. But not for the reasons it should. In the last few years of high school, my mother had planned to leave my father at least twenty times. Each time, she was as determined as she is now, and each time she stayed. I sympathized the first ten times, but I gave up eventually, although she never did. Once I told her that we should just leave, just walk out the door and not come back. She told me that a father should never be denied the opportunity to say goodbye to his child. So she marched into his office and told him we were leaving. He asked her how an uneducated woman like her would support herself and a child. Told her that she had no hope in the real world, because useless women rarely did. Told her he brought her from the bottom to where she was now, and if she fucked with him, he would make sure that’s where she wound up again. She yelled that she didn’t care anymore. And to my utter shock, she stormed out of the door, pulling me with her. We left without a stitch of clothing and went to the Bronx to stay with Aunt Megs, mum’s best friend from high school.
By the time morning came, my father had suspended my tuition at St Bernadette’s, the private high school that I attended, frozen all of her accounts and credit cards, and changed the locks to our apartment. Aunt Megs tried to tell her that she didn’t need any of that. She cried for hours before borrowing what little money Megs had to catch a cab back to our apartment with me in tow, again. My father made us stand in the hallway, knocking for half an hour before he opened the door. He reeked of scotch, and before we could walk in he grabbed my mother by the hair, pulling her in and slamming the door behind us. He screamed that she was shit, and that he knew she’d come crawling back. Asked her why he should bother letting her back there when there were a dozen women lined up to take her place? That a man like him could have the world if he wanted it. He asked her if she was prepared to be a good fucking wife and do as she was told from now on. She nodded in fearful submission
, tears streaming down her face. He pulled her up the stairs by her hair and slammed the bedroom door behind them. By the following morning, my father had restored my place at St Bernadette’s. I went to school and blocked the events of the last few days from my memory.
Until she reminded me of why I ran away to Brown in the first place. Why I threw every check in the drawer and never cashed them. Why I refused to believe that any man on this earth would be nice to a woman if they didn’t want something in return.
“Why now, what’s different this time?” I ask bored, grateful that Jade is not here to witness the train wreck that is my family.
“This time I have to.” She looks up at me with sheer determination in her eyes, and for a moment I wonder if she may be serious. “I’m going to stay with Megs, she’s already agreed,” she continues. “All those other times I stayed for you, but you’re safe now, and I can finally leave for good.” She looks so overjoyed that her face appears almost manic.
Another memory flashes back. One of my mother asking my father to come to watch my ballet recital when I was seven. I stood in the hallway and listened to him tell her that she was the one who wanted a child, that it wasn’t in his plans. And to be grateful that he even allowed it. That’s all I was, a liability to him, and that he was far too busy making money to spend two hours in some fucking amateur concert. She came alone after that to every recital, every t-ball game, and never asked him again.
Megs is probably somewhere in the Bronx rolling her eyes, preparing for the house guest that is my mother to stay for a day again before racing back to our Central Park apartment. Just as I am while listening to her in Providence. I really want to believe her, but history is a motherfucker. The past almost always repeats itself.
Although I can’t bring myself to believe her entirely, I walk over to my bedside drawer and take out my second bankcard and hand it to her. Maybe if I make sure that she has money, he’ll have nothing to hold over her anymore, and she may just conclude that she doesn’t need to go back. She takes the card gratefully and wraps her arms around my neck, embracing me in a tight hug. As her daughter, I should hug her back; tell her that she’s going to be fine. But the most I can manage is placing my hands awkwardly on her back. I should tell her that I can take care of her, since my six figure trust fund from my grandparents landed in my account when I turned nineteen, and that I promise to keep her safe. But I don’t, because I can’t. How can I honestly commit to saving the soul of someone else when I can’t even fucking save my own?
Scared of Beautiful Page 3