Rev It Up

by Julie Ann Walker

  Okay, and maybe she should seek some pharmacological intervention. Because it wasn’t normal to feel randy as a teenage boy one second and sad as a circus clown the next, was it?

  Of course, she figured she could blame some of her hot/cold emotional seesawing on the fact that about a hundred tons of fear and worry and adrenaline had poured through her system at some point that night. Then again, she knew that was only part of it. Because even under the best of circumstances, she wouldn’t have been able to listen to Jake make a list of all her redeeming qualities without suffering a sharp, dizzying stab of guilt.

  “Yeah, right,” he scoffed, and she could only shake her head helplessly. “Anyway,” he went on, “I wanted to call a truce, okay? I’m supposed to be here as your bullet-catcher, and that’s all I’ll be until this thing with Boss is over. There won’t be any more shenanigans. You have my word on that.”

  She couldn’t help but notice he made no promises about how he’d behave when it was over. Of course, by then she hoped to have convinced him that he didn’t really want her, didn’t really love her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered and took the hand he offered.

  A jolt of awareness passed from his large palm into hers, but she chose to ignore it as she quickly withdrew her fingers. Ignoring the hard glint of desire in his eyes was impossible, however, as she quickly and quietly shut the door on his damnably handsome face.

  ***

  The next day…

  Jake watched Franklin working with the industry of a three-year-old, tongue held between his teeth, little brow beetled in concentration as he rolled a huge wad of mismatched Play-Doh into a giant, multicolored snake on the coffee table in Shell’s cozy living room.

  He’d never before thought of himself as the kind of guy who’d enjoy having kids around. But after spending the day with Franklin, following Shell from one appointment to the next, he had to admit, he could get used to the idea.

  He actually liked reading those silly Dr. Seuss books over and over again. Playing Transformers was surprisingly fun, especially since Franklin seemed to get such a kick out of his Optimus Prime impression—not to mention all those questions he’d forgotten to contemplate as an adult, but that occurred with regularity in mind of a child.

  Why is the sky blue?

  Why does the sun follow us when we’re driving?

  Why do the birds sing?

  He’d marveled at Shell’s ability to answer each question patiently and honestly and with just the right amount of complexity for a three-year-old to grasp. If he planned to stick around, which he most certainly did—despite the anxious, uncertain looks Shell had sent him all day long, God love her—he’d have to learn her technique.

  The only time Franklin turned to him with a question, Why does the Tooth Fairy want so many teeth?, he’d sputtered and looked around the doctor’s office they’d been waiting in, and was saved from having to come up with an answer—thank the Big Kahuna—when another little boy came over to play.

  “Yo, little dude,” he said now, ruffling Franklin’s soft hair, “where’d your mama run off to?”

  “She’s putting on whipstick,” Franklin replied, concentrating on getting the snake’s tail just right.

  Whipstick? What the hell is whipstick?

  “But you can’t have any,” Franklin continued, turning to him seriously. “It’s not s’posed to be used to color, and it’s only for girls anyway. And even though it smells good, you’re not s’posed to eat it either.”

  “Do you mean lipstick?” He gestured to his lips, smiling when he realized how Franklin must have reached the conclusion about the non-edibility of lipstick.

  The kid was a handful, no doubt.

  Franklin ignored him as he grinned, flashing those sweet little boy dimples, and pointed at the clay snake. “Look. It’s like your tattoos.”

  “Just exactly like,” he said, pushing up his sleeves to once more show Franklin the twin vipers curled around each of his biceps. The boy had been fascinated by them all day long, constantly shoving up his sleeves and tracing them with a pudgy finger—that is when he wasn’t coloring, jabbering, or crashing toy cars into one another.

  “When can I get tattoos?” Franklin asked, his big gray eyes, so much like his mother’s, staring up at Jake hopefully.

  “When you’re eighteen,” Jake replied, hoping that was the right answer.

  Where’s Shell when I need her?

  Franklin sighed heavily and made a face that said Jake might as well have told him he’d have to wait until he was 150. Then he turned back, frustration worrying his little brow, as he attempted to refine the colorful Play-Doh serpent.

  So…why was Shell upstairs putting on lipstick? Was she primping for him?

  The idea had warmth settling in his belly along with a heavy dose of satisfaction.

  She might claim to have no feelings left for him, she might say things were finished between them. But they weren’t. Not by a long shot.

  And she knew it, too. Why else would she be upstairs putting on makeup? A woman didn’t apply lipstick unless she was trying to impress a man, right?

  Right.

  Okay, so this is good. This is very, very good.

  And why should he be surprised, especially after last night?

  Yo, mama! He should’ve been surprised if she wasn’t primping. Because, it was obvious the fire that’d raged between them four years ago had turned into a freakin’ inferno. And no human on the face of the planet, not even Miss Self-Possessed Michelle Carter, could resist the allure of that kind of heat. Like moths to the flame, humans were irresistibly drawn. It was biological. Some sort of throwback. A compulsion wired into everyone’s lizard brains to ensure survival of the species or something.

  And you better believe he was grateful for it.

  “I’m gonna go check on her,” he told Franklin, pushing up from the sofa just as the boy grabbed his round little belly, his nose wrinkling. “What’s up, buddy?” he asked, instantly concerned.

  “I think I ate too much pssscetti for lunch,” Franklin said and, dude, Jake could believe it. The rug rat had Hoovered two plates of spaghetti and two adult-sized breadsticks. He highly suspected the kid was in possession of a hollow leg.

  “Do you need to take a growler, little man?”

  Franklin glanced up at him in confusion, his brow wrinkling. “What’s a growler?”

  “It’s a…” he hesitated and rethought his response. “Taking a growler is another way of saying you’re going to the restroom.”

  Franklin giggled. “No.” He shook his head. “I don’t need to take a growler.”

  Oh hell. Way to go Sommers. Shell’s gonna kill you.

  “Are you sure?” he pressed.

  “Yes.” Franklin nodded earnestly. “It’s gone now.”

  “Okay, then I’m gonna go see what your mom’s up to.”

  “Okay.” The kid said, then set about beating the hell out of the snake he’d just finished perfecting.

  Little boys. Ya just gotta love ’em…

  Jake quietly climbed the stairs and followed the sound of soft music to Shell’s open bedroom door. Leaning against the jamb, he tilted his head and watched as she sat at her vanity in the same pink robe she’d been wearing last night, brushing her long, lustrous hair.

  He remembered what it was like to run his fingers through all that living silk, what it was like to pull the fastener from her ponytail and let it spill into his hands. He had a very vivid fantasy about holding on to all that luscious, dark hair with both fists while she was on her knees in front of him, her gorgeous mouth—

  Fuck a duck! Get your head in the game, Sommers! And remember the promise you made just last night.

  “You don’t have to go to all this trouble for me and Franklin,” he finally managed, not surprised when his voice sounded like he’d been swallowing glass, all rough and breathless.

  She leaned in to swipe mascara over her long, curled lashes, doing that whole open-m
outh thing that women do. The one guaranteed to drive every hetero man in the world absolutely batty. The one that once more had him envisioning her down on her knees…

  Dude, and now he had to adjust his stance or do himself harm.

  “I’m not doing this for you and Franklin,” she told him. “I’m doing this for Chris.”

  Everything inside him stilled, the warm glow he’d been feeling chilled in an instant and the wood he’d been sporting shriveled like a popped birthday balloon.

  “Who the fu—” he caught himself before he let loose with the granddaddy of curse words. Franklin had ears like a cat. Taking a breath, he tried again, “Who the heck is Chris?”

  “Dr. Christopher Drummond. He’s my date tonight.”

  Okay, and the fucker, yes fucker—fuck, fuck, fuck!—obviously had a death wish.

  “You said you weren’t seeing anyone,” he growled.

  “No.” She spun on her stool and stood, hands on hips, three-inch pumps making her look like a Amazonian goddess in a thin satin robe. All that was missing was a strand of pearls around her neck, a metal breast plate, and a spear for each hand. And when she loosened the belt and started walking toward him? Good grief, he nearly swallowed his tongue. “That’s what you said. I just said it was none of your business.”

  Fortunately, she was dressed under that robe. He might’ve had a coronary on the spot if she wasn’t. Quite a few of his favorite daydreams involved her in a pair of heels…and nothing else.

  Unfortunately, what she had on didn’t leave much to the imagination. The gathered silk of the little black dress clung to her like a second skin, and the sight of her rated a perfect 10 on his curve-o-meter.

  The woman was straight-up slammin’! Jessica Rabbit in the flesh.

  “Since you’re here, can you help me with my zipper?” She presented him with her smooth back as she let the robe droop around her elbows. He could see her bra strap between the halves of her dress.

  It was black.

  And lacy.

  And now he was determined to kill whoever this Doctor Chris was before the asshole got the chance to see her in it.

  Yup. Death. That’s what awaited the good doctor, the poor, clueless sonofabitch.

  “I can’t believe you’re going on a date after what happened between us last night,” he said, clenching his hands at his sides lest he be tempted to use them, not to zip her up, but to reach inside her dress to run them over all that pale, warm skin.

  “Nothing happened between us last night but a couple of kisses, Jake.”

  “It wasn’t nothing, and you know it,” he grumbled, trying and failing to rein in his temper. A red haze edged his vision. “I may have called a truce for the time being on any sort of physical contact between us, but that doesn’t mean the heat isn’t there. Try to deny it.”

  “Deny it?” She glanced over her shoulder, her profile a work of art, as beautiful as a perfect breaking wave. “Why would I deny it?”

  He lifted his chin and some of his tension slid away at her easy acknowledgment. Okay, so at least they could agree on one thing. It was a start.

  “But it’s just chemistry,” she continued, “a biological compatibility.” Yeah, okay, that’s what he’d been thinking not ten minutes ago. “But if chemistry was the only thing needed to make a relationship work, everyone would be in a relationship, and the divorce rate would be a tenth of what it is.”

  “What about love?”

  “You don’t love me. Not really.”

  Damnit. That was it!

  He grabbed her shoulders and spun her, causing her hair to whip across his face and the smell of vanilla to tunnel up his nose until he had to grind his jaw to remember his promise and to keep from shoving her back against the wall, engage in a little repeat of that scene in the Clover Bar and Grill.

  Only this time, he wouldn’t stop…

  “Don’t you tell me how I feel,” he hissed, his nose barely an inch from hers. Her dove-gray eyes were wide and unblinking, and her plump lips, which she’d slathered in berry-red lipstick, parted in a little gasp.

  His gaze slid down to her mouth and the flash of tongue inside.

  Sonofabitch! He almost lost it. Almost threw his promise right out the window and pressed his lips to hers.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling out of his grasp. It took everything he had to release her. “I’m not trying to upset you. I swear I’m not. It’s just that I don’t believe you, Jake. I think you’ve confused lust with love.”

  Um…ouch! And that hurt worse than her assertion that she didn’t love him, that maybe she’d never loved him. Because he’d known when she said those things she was lying. Shell wasn’t a very good actress. She couldn’t hide her feelings the way most women could. They were always right there, sitting on her sleeve and waving around at everyone passing by.

  She had loved him once upon a time. So even though it’d stung—oh, buddy, how it’d stung—when she tried to contend otherwise, it hadn’t hurt nearly as badly as having her throw his profession of love back in his face.

  Because he could tell by looking at her now, she wholeheartedly believed what she was saying.

  She didn’t believe he loved her.

  Goddamnit!

  “And this Dr. Chris?” He ground his jaws together so hard it was a wonder he didn’t break a tooth. “Do you love him?”

  If she said yes, he didn’t know what he’d do. No matter how satisfying the series of pictures that flashed through his brain, no matter how much he might like to, killing the good doctor was out of the question.

  Although, in theory—

  “Not yet,” she said, and his heart was able to beat again. “But given time, I could I suppose. But what does that matter? I don’t need to love a guy to go on a date with him.”

  Uh-huh. And now for the next important question. There was that whole lizard brain thing to contend with after all. “So, do you lust for him?”

  “No! I just—”

  “Then what’s the goddamned point?” he demanded, wincing and stepping farther into the room when the curse reverberated around the hallway. “You don’t love him and you don’t lust for him, so there’s nothing to build on.”

  “Would you listen to yourself? To what you’re actually saying?” she demanded, her eyes hot though her expression was still sad. Sad and a little desperate. “Of course there’s something to build on. There’s stability and consistency and reliability and—”

  “You’ve got to kidding me!” He threw his hands in the air. “Those are the reasons you choose a car, not a husband!”

  “Oh, for goodness sakes! We’re not animals! We crawled out of the jungle a long time ago, and no longer choose mates based solely by their muscle mass or how well they fight. Now, we have the ability to use that big round thing that sits on our shoulders and make an intellectual decision about who we want to spend the rest of our lives with.”

  “That’s why you want to go out with this doctor guy? Because he stimulates you intellectually?”

  “Yes!” she nodded, her pulse hammering at the base of her throat. “I’m not like you.” Or my father. She didn’t have to say the words; they were written all over her face, and he felt ready to pop an aneurism. “I don’t base my relationships on the thrill of the moment, because it doesn’t last. It burns bright for a while, then it fizzles out. I want something more than that, Jake.”

  He opened his mouth to tell her, yet again, that he wanted more than that too, but she cut him off.

  “We’re done talking about this.” She sliced a hand through the air—at some point she’d painted her nails bright red—and now he was growling in earnest, so much like the jungle animal he was supposed to have evolved past. Because he knew what that particular color meant. Boss always referred to it as screw-me-cross-eyed red.

  “You’re not going,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, surprised there wasn’t steam pouring from his nostrils.

  “You can’t stop me,”
she insisted, an angry flush climbing up her throat into her cheeks, making her all the more beautiful.

  Fierce and beautiful.

  And no way was he letting her go out with some ass-hat of a doctor looking like that.

  “Wanna bet?” he smirked, reaching for his phone. “How ’bout I make a little call to your brother. Tell him your plans. See what he has to say about you toddling off, unprotected, with this stable, reliable, consistent doctor while I stay here keeping an eye on Franklin. Have you forgotten that there may be some really nasty characters out there ready and willing to put a bullet in your brain? Because I bet Boss hasn’t.”

  “You yourself said the risks to me and my son are small. But even so, I don’t intend for you to stay here watching Franklin while I,” she rolled her eyes and made the quote marks with her fingers, “toddle off alone with Chris.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, what I mean is you can if you want. It’s your choice.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, woman?” His head threatened to explode right off his shoulders, but only after his scorching ears exploded right off the sides of his head.

  “Frank should be here soon, and it’s up to you whether you want to stay here babysitting Franklin, or whether you want to follow me on my date. He’ll fill in whichever position you don’t.”

  “Boss knows about this harebrained scheme?” he asked in disbelief.

  What the hell happened to, I’ll do what I can to help you with Shell?

  Because if Boss’s idea of helping him with Shell was endorsing her idea to go out with some fancy-schmancy doctor, Jake sure as shit didn’t want see what the guy’s version of hindering him would be.

  “It’s not a scheme. It’s a date. And, yes, he knows. And he’s…” The doorbell sounded, a trilling call of three separate notes that reverberated around Jake’s head like a funeral dirge. “…right on time,” she finished.

  He stalked to the top of the stairs as Boss pushed through the front door, easily catching Franklin who jumped off the back of the sofa straight into his good arm.

  When Boss glanced up, Jake sent him a look that succinctly conveyed, Yo! What the hell, dude?