by Clare James
Where’s a camera when a girl needs one?
I want to capture all that deep black ink that spreads across Foster’s toffee-colored skin along his lower left ab. Not that I haven’t seen it before. I have. Actually, I was with him when he got the tribal eagle tattoo. It’s a symbol to remember his dad, though he’s never really embraced his family history, not even after his dad died in junior high. But he’s trying to figure it out now. He’s trying to figure out a lot of things—usually over whiskey Cokes.
I’ve been up close and personal with his markings of guilt on a few occasions. And guilt is precisely what I’m feeling now as I stand here drooling over Foster’s body. It’s more than a bit shady—gawking at him while he’s passed out—but I can’t tear my eyes away.
His shirt is riding up and the fly of his jeans is open, telling me he tried to take off his clothes before passing out. But it looks like the booze won this time. He sent me a text from the bar about an hour ago, incoherent and needy—his telltale signs of being inebriated. Of course, I rushed right over.
When duty calls…
Foster sighs and his eyes flutter open.
“Come here, baby,” he says, reaching for me from a pool of drunkenness.
And I want to, believe me. Oh how I want to, but we’ve played this game too many times before, and what a girl needs is her dignity—not a purse holding her panties while she does the bull-legged walk of shame home in broad daylight.
I skillfully avoid Foster’s grasping arms, knowing I just have to keep away from him for the next few minutes. He always gets a second wind right before passing out completely. Trouble is, I don’t want to stay away. I want to climb in bed and lick him like a Popsicle.
Dignity is overrated anyway.
I want to take away his pain—at least for a little while. But I’ve been trying to do that for the last two years and nothing changes. We never move forward. We never get back to that place we were before the accident. Before everything went to hell.
It’s that thought that helps me pull away from those delectable abs to get the supplies I need. But when I move down the hallway, I swear Foster begins hissing at the sunray beating down on him. I can’t blame him. The afternoon light is annoying me as well. It’s glaring through the apartment as if to say, “Look around, woman! Look at this mess of an apartment, this mess of a man. What are you doing here?”
After I get what I need from the hall closet, I tell the bitchy sunbeam to zip her lip and then close the blinds in the tiny studio. Foster mumbles what I assume is a thank you from the futon. The sorry sack didn’t even wait until nighttime to hit the bar today, and I wonder what set him off because it’s been months since I’ve had to play Nurse Jackie.
I grab his blanket from the floor and drape it over his body, covering that damn tattoo.
There, that’s a little better.
Foster’s place is a dump, but it’s close to campus and it’s all he could afford after our friend, Noah, finally kicked him out last year. I don’t blame Noah in the least, Foster’s act is getting old. Even for me.
“Here, take this,” I tell him from the side of the futon, holding out three Advil and a glass of water.
Foster takes the water glass from my hand and sets it on the bedside table, but instead of downing the Advil like a good patient, he grabs both my wrists and yanks me into the bed with him. The pills fly through the air and he has me pinned under his body in less than a second.
“I’d rather take you,” he growls in my ear, shaking me to my core…in the very best way.
Holy hell.
It’s exactly what I was afraid of. His eyes are bloodshot, hair disheveled, and he smells like cigarettes and whiskey. Doesn’t matter, he’s still hot as Hades and I want him. This is the one area of his life where he knows exactly what he’s doing—and though I have, on occasion, reaped the benefits from his sexual prowess, it still pains me to know how he acquired such skill.
Foster runs the back of his hand along my cheek, and I swear I see the guy I fell in love with back in high school. The kind, funny, impossibly gorgeous—Foster.
“I’ve missed you, Jules,” he whispers, accentuating his full, kissable lips.
Instantly, my traitorous body responds. It cares nothing about dignity.
“Me too,” I tell him with a lump in my throat, because I have missed him. I’ve missed this.
“Maybe we could try again.” There’s pain in his eyes. “Maybe I could change.”
He brushes his lips across mine, an apology for so many things that have gone wrong.
“Maybe,” I say into his mouth unable to move my greedy body away.
I love the weight of him on me—the pressure, the heat. Foster’s mouth finds my neck and he nips and bites his way down to my collarbone, while I turn completely liquid.
My hands trail along his sides, under his shirt. He groans at my touch, and I look up at him as his chestnut hair falls into his face and obscures those telling eyes of his. His locks have grown out, so incredibly sexy, but too long, and right now I need him to see me. I fist my hand in his hair, pulling the strands away from those amber pools.
And, we’re good.
We’re better than good. I love when his eyes light up like this, almost glowing. It makes me feel like I’m the one who put the sparkle in them. And makes me want to do almost anything to keep it there.
His fingertips slide under my shirt and I whimper at the contact.
Then his mouth plunders mine. His tongue parts my lips, demanding attention. I let him kiss me because I hope his words hold some truth to them this time. I hope he can change and we can start over, but I’m not convinced he wants to. Not yet anyway.
Foster senses my hesitation. And in a blink, I feel him go back to the empty shell he’s become. He continues kissing me, but the sweetness is gone now. His hands move under my shirt, but they feel like a stranger’s. I roll over on top of him and grab his face in my hands, trying to reach him again. I search and search, trying to find the old Foster, the real Foster.
He’s gone.
Dragging my shirt over my head, he pulls me in. Skin on skin. There are almost sparks as we fuse together. Our bodies know what to do, even when our heads aren’t in the game. Soon we are diving into each other, maybe both trying to forget. Trying to get lost.
This is usually the point he passes out, but there’s no sign of that now. He’s frantic—touching, kissing, pulling, grasping.
I help him take my pants off and he pins me again under his weight.
And just as I’m falling into the moment and into him, a place I’ve longed to be for so long, he nestles my neck and says, “You feel amazing, Ash.”
Ash.
Suddenly, all the air in the room has been sucked out. I can’t breathe. It takes me by surprise, though it shouldn’t. This is Foster, and I’m so used to being disappointed by him. He’s gutted me more than once, still I never learn.
I shift under his body, this time unwilling to look at him. He’s screwed it up again, but my pain is short lived. The ache in my heart quickly turns to heat. My hands ball up into fists, my jaw clenches, and soon I’m boiling over with rage, ready for a fight.
Ash. The word echoes in my head. He actually called me by the wrong name. The. Wrong. Fucking. Name. It’s so low, even for Foster.
But this time, he’s not getting away with this shit. I want to make him to feel the same way I do, I want to inflict some pain his way for a change. So I do the only thing I can… I knee the asshole in the balls.
It feels damn good.
And while Foster’s grunting from the fetal position, I push off of him as a stinging sensation runs the length of me—head to toe. It’s grief, and sadness, and pain from letting him inside, something I vow never to let happen again. Then I pound my fists in his back as if to stress my point.
“You ruin everything, you asshole.” I let a few tears escape. It doesn’t matter, not like he’ll remember any of this tomorrow.
“Wait.” Foster sits up, flinching. “Don’t go.”
I shake my head and put my pants and shirt back on, unable to meet his eyes. I grab my sweater and pull on my boots, fighting the overwhelming urge to throw them at his head.
“You ruin everything,” I say again before walking out the door. “Everything.”
I stomp down the hallway, leaving a fiery wake in my path.
I suppose it could be worse; I could be toting my panties in my purse.
* * *
Chapter 2
Foster
* * *
I sleep it off for the next few hours. I guess more than a few hours. The sun is setting by the time I’m finally able to haul my ass out of bed, and I can’t help but wonder what Jules is doing after my stunt. Did she go home to cry? Did she light a cigarette even though she gave them up months ago? Did she say fuck him and decide to hit up one of the many end-of-year parties? Did she fashion a Foster voodoo doll and poke him with needles?
I did it on purpose, knowing it was an asshole move. I called out Ash’s name because I can’t say no to Jules on my own. I know I’m playing games, fucking with her. Pulling her in and pushing her away. It’s a constant fight between my head and my heart. I simply can’t think straight where Jules concerned. Today, I wanted to be near her. Just for a while. But then I took it too far and I panicked. Once again, I acted like a douche so she had to make the decision to stop because I couldn’t.
The truth is, I could never forget one thing about Jules. Her smell, her touch, her long dark hair—streaked with rainbow colors that change according to her mood. Or her tiny body with just the perfect amount of curves. Even her heart has its own special beat. I’d recognize her anywhere—no matter how drunk I may be. I’d never mistake my Jules.
But I had to do something. I couldn’t go through with it. She deserves so much more than what I can give her. I don’t want to contaminate her with my poison. I’ve let myself do it too many times in the past, the selfish bastard that I am. It’s just sometimes it’s almost impossible to not touch her.
Well, at least she got me back.
Still sore from her ball-busting, I limp to the kitchen for some water. I drink my fill and pour the rest down the drain, imagining spilling it all over Jules’ body and lapping it up.
Christ.
My poor junk doesn’t know what the hell is up. From blue balls to an assault, and back to blue balls. She’s been gone for hours and I’m still hard thinking about her. Her lithe body covered only in purple polka dot panties and matching bra. Spunky, that girl, even down to her underwear. And here I sit like a horny teenager, pining for someone I will never deserve.
I have got to get my shit together.
A knock on the door does nothing to pull me out of my condition—which is equal parts aroused and depressed. If it’s Jules, I don’t care. I’m taking her. Against the wall, on the counter, in my bed. I can’t go on like this much longer.
When I answer, however, it’s not Jules. It’s Ashley. Of course it is.
“Foxy Foster,” Ash says, walking past me into my apartment.
Ash is the opposite of Jules—girly, tall, and voluptuous. She’s wearing some workout outfit that looks like it’s designed more for causing a sweat than breaking one.
I should’ve expected her. This is our pattern. I hang out at the bar when the guilt and loneliness are too much to handle, and Ashley comes by after her shift to help me forget. It’s been months since I’ve been drunk though, and I know I should probably feel bad about giving in today, but I don’t. Not after what happened to one of the kids at the Center—my secret place of penance. I needed something to take the edge off.
Even so, I realize it was the easy way out. What can I say? I’m weak and destructive, and if I don’t want to destroy yet another person, I need to stop this shit with Ash too.
“I see you’re ready for my visit,” she says, tracing a finger down my bare chest to the opening in my jeans. She makes the mistake that my hard-on is for her. It’s for Jules. Always for Jules.
“About that,” I say to her, glancing down at the bulge in my jeans. “I can’t do this anymore, Ash. It’s not right.”
Ashley doesn’t seem to register what I tell her, and she surely doesn’t relent. Instead, she leans in and pulls my zipper down all the way. “I disagree,” she says, backing me into the wall.
“Don’t,” I start to protest, but I can’t deny her touch is exactly the kind of distraction I need. I want to get lost again and this is the only thing that can take me away and help me forget for a few minutes. Unfortunately, I know this from experience.
“Foster,” Ash says. “Don’t be so dramatic. Don’t you think I know you’re thinking about her when we’re together?”
My mouth drops open. Surely, I’ve been a better actor than this. I’ve always considered myself to be a player—all suave and sweet-talking. Damn, I can’t even do that right.
She lifts my chin and plants the softest kiss on my lips—even though Ash doesn’t do soft. With us, it’s always been hard and fast. “It’s okay,” she whispers on my lips. “You take away my pain too. And I need you.” Ash bites my bottom lip. “Now.”
She captures my lips and devours them. Like she needs me to breathe, to survive. I’ve done the same with her so many times. In some ways, she’s been exactly what I needed. A distraction with no pressure and no consequences. As if on autopilot, I pull her close and she wraps those long legs around my waist as I walk her to my kitchen counter. The bed is too intimate for us—always has been.
Ash then wiggles out of her get-up until she’s sitting on my counter, wearing only a thong. I cup her breasts, trying to let go. But I can’t get Jules out of my mind. Pretending that it’s her body writhing from my touch.
I think about what it’d be like to be with Jules completely. I’ve yet to make love to her. We’ve been drunk and we’ve fucked. It was fantastic, but I’ve never fully given myself to her. If I did, I could never go back to being just friends. She’d eventually learn the truth and leave me. For good.
That’s why I settle for what we have right now. I only have one year left with Jules. Twelve months together and then it’s over. She’ll go her way to her life, her future. And I’ll have mine—one where I float in the present, never moving forward, eating up time with girls like Ash—the fucked up and lowdown.
I have one year to keep up this charade. One year to ignore the way my body responds to Jules. One year to pretend. So I try to get lost in Ash again, but my mind races and my fucking heart squeezes in on itself.
I can’t do it.
“Sorry,” I whisper as I slowly pull away from her.
“It’s okay,” Ash says. “Take your time. I’ve got all night.”
That might be true, yet I know it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. I can’t do this anymore. It’s not about time, or booze, or distractions. It’s about Jules.
I shake my head, “No, Ash. It’s not going to happen.”
Ashley looks at me with one of her signature pouts painted on her face. It’s about as insincere as it gets. But her eyes show her truth from time-to-time, and right now they look a little hurt.
I rack my brain, trying to come up with something to say to soften the blow, but I’ve got nothing—because Ash is the least of my troubles at the moment.
No, I’ve got a serious problem, because if my old tricks aren’t working anymore, how can I possibly survive this last year with Jules?
* * *
**MORE THAN THIS is FREE for a short time, click here to continue reading**
Also by Clare James
The Impossible Love Series:
* * *
BEFORE YOU GO, a one-night-stand goes wrong romance, about a chance meeting, an unexpected connection, and a unique romance that survives the worst of situations.
A hook-up with a hot stranger from the local bar—what could possibly go wrong? Yes, I know how it sounds, but trust me, I've thought it t
hrough, and I've found the perfect place to begin—off the beaten path and, most importantly, far from campus. He's the one.
I know it as soon as I spot him--an intellectual type reading a book with wild hair, square jaw, and what looks to be very kissable lips. He's what I've been waiting for. But once I get my perfect stranger home and half naked? Nada.
And when I see him again, it's not any better. I soon find out that he's not only a student at my new university, he's also my student advisor. Worse? This time, he's the one with the plan.
NOT WITHOUT YOU, revisits Noah and Tabby (and Jules and Foster) two years later, where they are now discovering that life doesn't get easier after you leave campus. Noah and Tabby’s love story wasn’t typical … or particularly romantic. After all, he picked her up at a bar – or maybe she picked him up. Either way, he saw her naked before he even knew her name.
Tabby came to him broken, but determined. And Noah knew how to fix her. It was a meeting of the bodies. A retraining of the mind. A connection that soon infected the heart.
But after two years, Noah’s old tricks aren’t working, and Tabby is shutting down again. This time, he refuses to play games. He wants all of her, or nothing at all. And what began as a sweet story of love and redemption, turns into something dark, intense … and, at times, disturbing.
* * *
TALK TO ME is a stand-alone hockey romance about Finn Daley, who took the world by storm two years ago when he was drafted by the NHL. The young, handsome, high-scoring player quickly became a fan favorite. He had everything going for him: fame, fortune, a promising career, and his pick of women. But when he made an abrupt exit from the NHL, everything changed and he’s been in hiding ever since. Casey Scott plans to find out why.
After interning all summer at the top television station in the Twin Cities, Casey lands an on-air gig. Trouble is, the new role is Sports Girl—which means reporting from local bars and tailgating parties to create excitement for the hometown heroes. All while wearing tiny team jerseys that are so tight they leave little to the imagination.