by Parker, Zoey
When he flipped the lights, I got a view of the entire package, or at least eighty percent of it. My elbow had been hurting like hell until that moment, from where I jammed it into his ribs and then into the wall when I rebounded from him. Then I saw him and the pain was forgotten.
Broad shoulders, bulging biceps. Defined pecs and an eight-pack leading down to his slim waist. Those “fuck me” lines were there, the ones leading diagonally toward his groin, so clearly etched. His strong, thick legs were clearly the result of a lot of bending, squatting, carrying heavy bags of mulch and soil. He was every woman’s fantasy come to life, plain and simple.
I even caught a glimpse of what looked like a fairly substantial bulge in his shorts. I’d half-hoped the fly would be open so I could get a peek at it before I forced myself to avert my eyes. The more I looked at him, the more certain I was that I needed him. I had never, ever felt such a strong physical need for another person. I never had to tuck my own hands under my crossed arms to keep myself from touching someone or something. It was lust, straight-up, and I was completely lost in it
I realized, at that time, that I was pretty much undressed. I felt my nipples harden from arousal and the cold and knew he could see them. Instead of being embarrassed, though, I was glad. I was desperately, wildly praying that Jax would make a move on me so I could give in to everything I was experiencing without feeling like a slut later on.
He didn’t, of course. He sent me to my room, like a child. That’s probably how he thinks of me.
But wasn’t he maybe, just maybe, staring at my chest? I thought he might have been, just before I turned back toward the bedroom.
Now, with the bright morning light streaming through the window, I’m a little cooler. A little calmer. More in control of myself. For now.
It’s almost painfully bright, actually, the sun reflecting off the fresh snow. This is a cheerful bedroom, very country style. Again, nothing like I would expect a man like him to own. Especially now that I’d seen the extent of the ink on his body.
There was a lot of it. That was one more aspect of him I found puzzling, especially since I’d never particularly been attracted to men with tattoos before. I always thought they were a little low class, a little common. Sometimes I’m a snob; I can admit it. On Jax, though, they looked natural. Defiant. Sexy. Not the sort of thing a guy would do after getting drunk and dared to by his friends. Not some stupid fake tribal symbol. Not a collection of Chinese characters the tattoo artist swears means “strength and honor” but which really translate to “chicken chow mein.” This was the sort of ink a man wears.
The biggest piece of all, covering much of his chest, depicted an angel surrounded by flames. There was no color, yet the vividness with which it was drawn spoke volumes anyway. She looked afraid, in pain or defiant—I couldn’t decide which. It was around that time I forced myself to stop looking for fear of leaving a drool puddle on the floor.
I roll over onto my side, away from the glare of the outside, holding a pillow close to me. A man like Jax probably has a lot of demons. I remember how pensive he looked when I pointed out the way he lives here alone. There might even have been sadness in him as he stared into the fire. There has to be a backstory to this man. He’s young and gorgeous, and I can’t help admitting that he’s pretty smart when he’s not acting like a prick. So why is he closed off from the world? Why shut down the way he has? Living with just a hound dog.
I can’t have anything to do with a man like this. Why does it seem like I’m always attracted to the guys with the shitty demons? I punch the pillow, frustrated with myself and the way life always tends to go. I keep getting led down the path toward guys like Jax…and my ex.
Tommy. Just the thought of his name sends a chill down my spine and leaves me feeling nauseated. At first, things with him had been great, wonderful, the way so many relationships start out. We were in the “puppy love” phase for a while, where nothing could convince me love was anything less than magical and beautiful.
Hindsight is twenty-twenty, though. Looking back, I see now the little things I missed then. The way he’d pout when I’d suggest spending time with people other than him. Back then, I told myself he loved me so much that he couldn’t stand being away from me. Then there’s the way he’d overreact, blowing up at the stupidest things. The car was running low on gas and we were running late. We’d go out to dinner and the waiter wasn’t attentive enough or the food took too long to get to us. Just stupid, little, everyday things like that were enough to send him into a tailspin. I told myself he was passionate, highly strung, used to having things his own way. I’d help him get past all that nonsense, I was sure.
But I didn’t. And before long, the puppy love was over and reality slapped me right in the face. Literally. I was left on the floor, hand to my burning cheek, staring up at him. I was too shocked to cry, even though my face felt as though it was about to explode. All I could do was look at him and wonder how he could hurt me like that when he told me he loved me. That first time, the sight of me on the floor was enough to snap him out of it, and he helped me to my feet with tears in his eyes and a million excuses on his lips. He’d flown off the handle, he’d never hit a woman in his entire life, it would never happen again because he loved me so much and now he was so ashamed of himself. I’d ended up being the one to comfort him, come to think of it. Holding him in my arms while he cried, wishing I had an ice pack to put on my cheek.
It had been six months before he hit me again, and the second time he wasn’t sorry as quickly as before. This time when I looked up at him, where he’d knocked me to the couch, he didn’t look ashamed and guilty. He looked angry. Disgusted. He made a move at me, as though he was about to hit me again. I flinched, drawing back. And I saw what I knew was satisfaction in his eyes. He’d made me afraid of him, but he wasn’t ashamed now. He was proud of himself.
Things didn’t get much better from there. Finally, I left him, after much too much pain and too many nights spent in tears. I moved away and bought a coffee shop and I’ve been happy ever since. Happy for me, anyway. I don’t think I’ll ever truly be happy unless he disappears off the face of the Earth. Because he’s still out there, still wanting me. Every so often he’ll text or call, just to remind me how I broke his heart when I left. Once, he left a vicious, drunken voicemail in which he promised to make me pay for hurting him. It’s knowing that he can contact me at any moment that robs me of any real joy. He’s always lurking in the corner of my mind, waiting to spring.
Tommy has his demons, and I have no desire to get to the bottom of them. That’s why I can’t get involved with somebody like him, somebody like Jax, though time and again I find myself drawn to broken men. Angry men. Hurt men. In the end, they always end up hurting somebody else. I won’t let it happen to me again.
I hear a loud bang coming from downstairs and know Jax has gone outside, probably to clear more snow. He must think I’m asleep up here, though the way that door banged tells me that he wants me to wake up and get my butt out of bed. Maybe he’s tired of playing host. I can’t blame him. If he’s not used to being around people, it has to be a shock to the senses. I’m sure he’s tired of me already. Maybe he even wonders why he bothered saving me in the first place.
I get out of bed and go to the window, peering through its white lacy curtains. There he is, plodding through the snow that had fallen overnight and covered the work he already did. It’s not terrible, though, and he’s making quick work of the few inches left over. I see a great hulking white blob in the distance and realize it’s my car, parked by the side of the road. I could be in there right now. Dead. I know now that if I’d stayed asleep, I would definitely have frozen to death. I hadn’t even had a blanket in the car, as Jax had helpfully pointed out. The jackass.
But I can’t call him that. Well, I can, but I don’t believe it in my heart. He saved my life. Even if I didn’t have a tiny crush on him, he’d always be special to me. He didn’t need to come and get me,
bring me to his house, sit me by the fire, and make sure I wasn’t on the verge of losing a toe or a finger. He didn’t have to take care of me. Demons or not, he has a good heart. He just does his best to hide it.
I move away from the window, shivering from the cold that leaks through the cracks in the frame. My nipples are painfully hard again, so hard they could have etched the glass. I brush my fingers over them, unable to help myself. Thinking about him. The way he looked last night.
Before I know it I’m on the bed, hands inside the boxers I’m wearing. I’ve been aching for touch since last night, wishing I could find some sort of relief. The moment my fingers reach my aching clit I can’t help sighing, not bothering to stifle the sound since I know he’s out of earshot. But what would happen if he walked in, right now, and found me like this?
My eyes are closed, my mouth open as I breathe heavily. I imagine him stripping down, lowering himself over me, sliding inside me without a word. I rub my clit, imagining the way he tastes, the sounds he makes as he slowly fucks me. He’s like an animal, rough, hard, pounding me mercilessly yet slowly so he can relish the helplessness I feel. He grunts every time he slams home, and before I know it I’m grunting too. “Do you like that?” he whispers, and I moan as my hand moves faster and faster.
Soon my hips are swaying in circles as I imagine himself grinding into me. He throws his head back in triumph as he howls, exploding into me. Then I explode, too, biting my lip to hold back the cries while waves of pleasure roll over me. I can’t help but smile, relieved. Now, hopefully, I can keep myself under control.
A while later, after washing up and getting dressed, I go downstairs. I explore a little, though there isn’t much to see. A living room with a wood burning stove in one corner. There’s a TV in here, fairly low-tech. A computer, also pretty simple compared to some I’ve seen. I guess he’s too busy working and keeping this place in one piece to spend a lot of time on technology. I’m the same way. By the time I get home from work, I’m exhausted—happy, but too tired to care what’s happening on whatever social media site people my age are spending their time on nowadays.
There’s a dining room that looks as though it never really gets used. I can see why—Jax doesn’t seem like the type who entertains. I can’t imagine him throwing a dinner party, or even a holiday meal. I don’t even know if he has a family. I remind myself that it doesn’t matter.
Then I’m back in the kitchen, which is clearly the heart of the home. The fire is blazing away, the dog curled up in front of it just as he was last night. I lean down to scratch him behind the ears. When I straighten up, I notice how hungry I am. There’s a pot on the stove over a very low flame, and a bowl in the sink. He’s already eaten. I take a look inside the pot to find oatmeal waiting for me. How thoughtful. The good, hot food warms me from the inside. I eat standing by the counter, watching Jax all the while. He hasn’t tired yet. I wonder if he’s planning to dig the car out next.
I remember something. My phone. Where did I leave it? I brought it in with me, I know that much, not wanting to leave it in the frozen car. I look around the room, in my coat pocket. Where is it?
I see it sitting on the counter, plugged into a charger. Thank God he has a cord that works with it. I turn it on, wondering if I’ll have a signal this time. There’s nothing where I’m currently standing, so I unplug and start walking around the house in the hopes it will help.
Once I get to the living room, it does help. The signal gets stronger, and suddenly my list of missed calls jumps to fifteen. I open the list to find that many of them were from my parents, before I called from Jax’s phone. They left several voicemails, too, increasingly frantic.
There’s one voicemail from a number I don’t recognize. I assume it’s a telemarketer or something similar, and press the play button.
“Hey, it’s me.” My heart skips a beat, and not in a good way. Immediately, my palms start sweating. Why the hell is he calling me now? I told Tommy I never wanted to hear from him again after the last time he called, begging me to take him back.
That’s what he’s after this time, too. “I don’t understand why you won’t give me another chance. I know I messed up, but one of the things I loved most about you was your forgiving nature. You’re such a good, sweet person. How can you do this to me? What’s come over you? Is there somebody else? I won’t let anybody come in between us. All I want to do is love you and be good to you. I know we can make it work this time, but you have to be willing to give us a chance. Please, let me be the man I know I can be. I know you’ll never be sorry.”
I’ve heard this all before, and I close my eyes. I’m trying to fight off the waves of nausea threatening to overtake me.
“Actually, you know what? Fuck you, you bitch. If you won’t even answer your fucking phone, I don’t see why I bother with you anymore. You think you can just break my heart and walk away like it doesn’t matter. Are you with somebody else right now? Sleeping with some other man, you slut? When I’m here begging for you take me back, like I did something wrong? Fuck you, bitch.”
He keeps rambling on. I take the phone from my ear and see that there’s another two minutes left in the message, so I delete it without listening to the rest. I don’t know why I started it in the first place.
It’s always like this. He starts off loving and apologetic, but eventually begins spiraling. I don’t even have to be in the room for him to blame me. And he always blames me.
I remember that last night together, the last time he hit me. The time I decided enough was enough. I had made dinner, his favorite: chicken parmigiana with homemade pasta and fresh-baked bread. I had spent all day on it, pounding the cutlets, breading and frying them. Preparing the pasta dough in my food processor, rolling it out and cutting it into strips. Kneading the bread dough, letting it rise until it was time to bake off. I even made a fresh marinara sauce. All for him, all to make him happy.
But the butter was cold. When he went to butter his bread, he couldn’t spread it because it was too cold. I’d forgotten to take it out to soften before setting it out on the table.
Before I knew it, the food was on the floor and I was against the wall. “Why can’t you do anything right?” he screamed in my face, his nose inches from me. Then his palm was against my cheek, hard. A flash of light in front of my eyes. I saw stars.
That was it. I’m still not sure exactly what about that experience was enough to prove once and for all that I had to leave. Maybe the way I’d tried so hard to please him. I’d worked my ass off all day. I’d even planned a special evening afterward, complete with lingerie in the hopes of getting him interested. He’d seemed to be less interested in me. Of course, that was my fault, too, just like everything else. If only I was sexier, thinner, thicker, whatever he felt was lacking in me that day. The cold butter and his reaction was enough to finally get through to me. Things were never going to get better. When he left my apartment, leaving me to clean up everything he’d thrown around the room, I knew I had to get out. So I packed what I absolutely needed into my car and drove away.
I stare at my phone now, standing here in the middle of Jax’s living room. I can’t help thinking that, no matter how far I go, he’ll find me. But I can’t keep running away forever. It’s over an hour before Jax comes back into the house. I’m in a terrible mood now, wishing I could punch something hard. Why can’t Tommy leave me alone and let me get on with my life? Other women break up with boyfriends and are able to move on. Why can’t I? I have my shop, and my customers, and I’m a part of the town. I really feel like a part of something for the first time in my life, like I’m adding to the community. Why can’t I have this little victory for myself?
I need something to do. Jax has plenty of books, more than I would have expected from him. But no, sitting still won’t do right now. I need to be on my feet.
Before I know it, I’m back in the kitchen, not giving a shit anymore about whether or not Jax cares that I’ve taken over. It’s either busy
myself cooking or rip his head off for no reason the second he comes back inside. It’s not his fault I spent so many years with a sick bastard who’s creepily obsessed with me. It’s not his fault my life is a fucking wreck.
I must be masochistic or something because I decide to make a soufflé. It’s one of the most difficult dishes to get right. The slightest hint of motion and the entire thing will fall. The effort it takes to whip the eggs is exactly what I need right now, though. I need to beat the hell out of something, even if it is just a bowl of helpless ingredients.
Just as I’m about the put it in the oven, Jax comes in—perfect timing, since if he’d come in and slammed the door while the soufflé was baking, it would have fallen. “What are you making now?” he asks, stomping the snow from his boots and pulling them off by the door.
“Soufflé,” I answer, “but I’ll wait until you’re finished. We have to be extremely quiet or else it won’t puff up.”
“Soufflé? Who randomly makes a soufflé in the middle of nowhere, on a snow day?” he asks with a laugh. When I don’t answer, he decides to dig further. “Besides, soufflé is girly. Why not make something you think I might actually want to eat?”
I slam my hands on the counter and turn to him. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself with the insults if you can’t stop being a jackass about my cooking?” He’s shocked, his eyes wide. I realize I’m snarling at him, and it’s not even really at him. Not entirely, anyway. I’m also snarling at Tommy.
“Wow,” Jax says, his voice suddenly very quiet. “I didn’t know you’d flip out on me like that. I was just kidding around.”
“I’m pretty sure I told you last night that I’m sick of your damned kidding around. You talk to me like I’m not even a human being. I don’t like being made fun of. I thought I could find some way to repay you for the nice things you’ve done for me, but I guess that’s not good enough. Maybe if you’d stop being so stupid and snide, I wouldn’t act this way!”