I pull up a picture of Ryan on my phone and shake my head. This is exactly why he left. Everyone shields and coddles him, even me. If he said this is what he wants, then I should take him at his word. I was always so worried about coming between them, but in the end, Ryan was right. What they have is much stronger than that.
I try to take my mind off of Jude by heading to the bookstore to get the last of my books for this semester. School starts next week, and I’m almost ready. No more Shakespeare this year; I’ll be immersed in nursing classes and clinical work. It’s hard to believe that in ten months this phase of my life will be over.
When I get home from work, Sam is already at the hospital, so I make dinner for one and crash on the couch. It feels nice to veg, but by bedtime I’m restless again. I have the strangest urge to invite Jude over, but I stifle that. Instead, I get into bed and call him.
“What are you doing?” I ask when he answers. “Did I wake you up?”
“What am I, a priest? It’s ten thirty. Who’s asleep at this hour?”
I laugh. “I’m already in bed.”
“I would only get up before eight if there were a gun to my head, so I go to bed around midnight at the earliest.”
“Lucky you. I’m up by six thirty most days.”
“Elizabeth, why are you calling me?”
“My thumbs were tired from texting. This is much faster.”
He sighs. I can feel him resisting—aware that I’m breaching the wall he’s put up between us. I don’t just want him to scale that wall, I want him to blow it to smithereens.
“What are you wearing?” he says, but I can tell he’s joking because he’s nervous. Not sure I’ve ever heard him nervous before.
“It’s not that kind of phone call.”
“Fine. Then tell me something interesting.”
“Umm . . . Wolves can hear each other howl from ten miles away.”
This gets a big laugh out of him. “Yes, you probably know that because you had one as a pet.”
“No, although one of our dogs was part wolf. Does that count? Now you tell me something interesting.” I pull my soft, warm comforter up around my chin.
“Ok. I turn twenty-seven on Saturday.”
“You do? How did I not know this?”
“Because you were raised on Little House on the Prairie and don’t use Facebook.”
“Yeah. What a shame you won’t get a generic post from me on your big day, saying ‘Hope u have fun!’ How will you survive it?”
He chuckles. “Sarcasm. Wow. Maybe I have rubbed off on you.”
“And maybe I’ve rubbed off on you, if you’re thinking of celebrating your birthday.”
“I didn’t say that, Elizabeth.” His tone is stern.
“It was implied.” I switch to my side to get comfy.
“I hear your brain working. Just stop.”
I fake a yawn. “It’s so late. I’ll text you tomorrow.”
“I swear to God, Elizabeth, if you . . .”
I laugh as I hang up on him.
I immediately get a text that says, DON’T!!!
I was able to resist arrogant Jude and friendly Jude and even wounded Jude. But Lord knows I can’t resist playful Jude. And I’m done trying.
Jude
Ryan called today for my birthday. “Too bad you won’t be getting one of my homemade cakes this year,” he said, laughing.
“Yeah. That’s a damn shame.”
“Well. I really am sorry to miss it.”
“I know. But there’s always next year,” I told him.
“Have some fun.”
And then he told me he missed me. I miss him, too.
But now I’m gathered around a table at my favorite Chinese place with Megan, her boyfriend Steve, and my friend Matteo. And that feels pretty damn good, too.
“Someone special is coming your way,” I say when Megan makes me read my fortune.
“Well, now.” She winks at me, throwing her long blond hair over her shoulder.
“Thanks for dinner, guys,” I say, ignoring her.
“The night’s not over yet. We’re taking you to Inferno,” Matteo says.
My eyebrow lifts. “Why there?”
Megan might as well be wearing devil horns, her smile is so sly.
This has Elizabeth written all over it, and now my stomach is in knots and I’m lightheaded. Earlier in the day she sent a text that said, Hope u have a fun day!!! This was followed by lots of emojis. Smart-ass.
We park downtown and head toward the club. I haven’t had a lot of luck with birthdays, and the thought of people surprising me or making a fuss is giving me an anxiety attack.
“Just breathe,” I tell myself, and then I head inside.
I immediately see Sam, Angel, Elizabeth, and some friends from work dancing. Megan drags me toward them, and, as I get closer, I see they are all wearing some kind of festive headgear—hats, tiaras, rabbit ears. Angel has on a sombrero that is almost as tall as she is, which she calls “clichéd, but too awesome not to wear.” When I get close to Elizabeth, she puts a big headband on me that reads BIRTHDAY BOY and has dangly stars. I blink at her, and she laughs her ass off.
“Cheese,” she says, snapping a picture.
I have to admit, after the first few minutes, I start to have fun. People are buying me birthday drinks and taking turns dancing with me.
“Let’s give it a try,” Angel says at one point. “It’s not going to be pretty.”
Even in her big heels, she’s a foot shorter than I am, but I spin her onto the floor anyway.
When Angel and I head back to the bar, Sam buys me a drink.
“Not sure I’ve ever seen this much of your teeth. Happiness looks good on you,” she says. “Weird, but good.”
“I’ll drink to that.” I clink my glass to hers.
As the night wears on, people start to take off, all of them wishing me a happy birthday before they go. I am struck by how different my life is from a year ago. I know that’s what Elizabeth was trying to show me.
I’m standing near the bar, saying good-bye to this guy from work, when a slow song comes on. Someone taps on my shoulder, and I know who it is before I turn around. Elizabeth takes my hand and leads me to the floor. Up to this point, we’ve been sort of sidestepping each other.
As we move together, the feelings and heat and magic she generates come back to me, so I hold her close and savor it all. Her scent is so familiar, as is the silky texture of her hair under my hand, the sway of her hips as she moves. I remember how hard my heart beat that night of our first dance. Tonight is no different.
She gazes up at me, her eyes reflecting everything I’m feeling.
“Tell me how this ends,” she asks me again, like she did all those months ago.
“I don’t know.” If I missed a free throw and had to cough up an answer as to why I’m hesitating, I’d say it’s because I’m scared I’m going to fuck this up—so terrified, in fact, that sweat is beading on my neck, and I feel like I’m going to stroke out right in front of her.
She stares me down. “Nothing wrong with being choosy, and it’s fine if I don’t do it for you. But at some point, you’re going to want a woman to wrap her arms around you and never let go. The girls you run around with aren’t going to get that done.”
My forehead drops to hers, fusing us together.
“I’m sure right now I’m supposed to be ashamed about what a shit I was when we first met. But all I can do is calculate how fast you can get me the hell out of here and back to my house.”
“Pretty damn fast,” she says. And she’s right.
CHAPTER 19
Elizabeth
I lie in bed watching Jude, so peaceful with his eyes closed, his mouth soft. I brush a strand of hair back from his forehead carefully so I don’t wake him. I like the small scar he has near his left ear. It gives that pristine face of his more character. I can’t wait to find out how he got it. It’s going to be so fun exploring the details I w
asn’t supposed to notice before.
He looks his age lying here—not like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. I want to touch him, but I want to care for him even more, so I head to the kitchen to make breakfast.
As I stand in front of the stove flipping pancakes, I relive last night like a movie. Stumbling through the dark house—so eager to get to his room that we were frustrated by the time we arrived. Finally, finally feeling his hands and mouth on me, like they had always belonged there. Learning every inch of his beautiful body as I ran my fingertips over it. What a gift time is when it’s used for that purpose. My face goes hot at the thought of how good he made me feel.
But what I’ll remember most is the whispered secrets only the two of us will ever hear. The way he placed his big hands on either side of my face and sighed, like it was being ripped from deep within him. I felt the same sheer relief.
I’m wearing the boy shorts and camisole that I had on under my dress last night, as I wait for the batter to bubble and brown in the pan. The air shifts, and Jude comes up behind me. I would know if he walked into a room if I were blindfolded and wearing headphones. I can feel him ogling me, and I let him.
“Why aren’t you in bed with me?” he asks, and his voice is husky. Every hair on my body stands at attention, just like the first time I saw him.
I turn around, and I have to grip the counter for support. He is wearing only his boxers, and every defined muscle on his chest and stomach makes me ache. His hair is tousled, his beard longer. But it’s just not his appearance that makes my legs quiver. He is staring at me like a panther about to spring.
“I was letting you sleep in.” I turn back around, put the pancakes on a plate, and turn off the stove. I carry them over to the table and set them next to the syrup. “I wanted to make you breakfast.”
“You need to take those skimpy shorts and top off right now,” he says, his voice smooth, deep, and commanding.
“Why?”
“They’ve done their job, and they need a rest.” He backs me against the table and runs one fingertip down my collarbone.
“Jude . . .”
“Elizabeth, if you don’t take them off, I’m going to tear them off.” He kisses my neck so gently it stings, and my knees almost buckle. I pull the cami over my head, and he helps me get rid of the shorts. He lifts me up onto the table—effortlessly, which turns me on—and gently pushes me back so I’m lying down.
I know I should be afraid of all this. The intense emotion, the fact that this is all new for him. His past and mine. But I’m not afraid anymore. Not even a smidgeon. I can take whatever Jude can dish out—and then some.
“You’re going to get messy,” I say nonsensically as his lips begin to travel.
He takes his arm and sweeps the plates and the pancakes off of the table, where they clatter to the floor. “I could give a fuck.”
I arch my back as his mouth closes over my nipple.
“I really wanted to wake up with you this morning.” He bites me gently, and I cry out.
“Well, we can’t always get what we want,” I say, trying to sound bored, as I move my arms over my head.
“Ah. Is that how we’re playing today, then?”
I nod slowly, not sure I like the mischievous look in his eyes.
He reaches over my head to grab something, and then a cold, gloppy substance lands on my shoulder. I flinch. He has the bottle of syrup in his hand, and he begins to write something on my chest, my rib cage, my stomach. I smell sugar in the air.
“I can’t read that,” I whisper. He traces the letters to help me out, stopping every now and again to lick the syrup off his finger. I read along with his tracing: “Brace . . . yourself.”
Every nerve in my body ignites. He uses his mouth to clean me up, and the feel of his beard grazing my skin almost makes me come. Finally, he gets to the spot I need him to be, and it’s almost too much to absorb. I can’t control the sounds I’m making, or my body. But this is nothing compared to what happens when he stands up and moves inside me. I scream on the first thrust, and then he works me into a rhythm that begins to shove me toward the cliff.
“Jude,” I say, clutching at his muscular back, tugging him down to the table with me so I can feel the length of his body against mine. Instead, he pulls me up and hugs me to him, never breaking his rhythm.
Jude
I try to absorb every feeling from Elizabeth, as I claim her mouth and hold her flush against me. Out of all the versions of her—sassy, naive, smart, funny—this is the one that shatters me: when she’s vulnerable and open, completely unaffected, scared of the pleasure that is so intense it borders on pain. I understand, because I’m right there with her. She calls out my name, and I hate the uneasiness in her voice. Yet I’m exhilarated, because I know I can turn that into soul-crushing pleasure. So I hold her tighter and move deeper and harder inside her. The table scoots back and forth with our movement.
“I’m here. Let go and I’ll catch you.”
She does and I do. As her body spasms and clutches, I fall along with her. My body, my mind, my heart—all of them quake with the magnitude of what she’s done to me. Turned me inside out. Set me free.
We sit there, just breathing. Even this would be enough for me—as long as she’s next to me. I want her here forever, but I’ll take her for as long as she’ll let me.
“Elizabeth, last night was so . . .” I can’t finish because I’m too busy running my hands over her hair, her lips, her neck. There’s so much to say that it all gets caught in my throat.
“I know Jude, I know.” She kisses me again and again, and I feel warm and secure.
My hands cup both sides of her face so she can’t turn away. “Is this happening? Are you really mine?”
“I’m yours.” She pulls me to her and holds me for a long time in silence.
“This table is ugly, but I’m thankful right now that it’s so sturdy,” she finally says.
My funny, strange girl.
“It’s like a foot of solid oak. But let’s go buy a new one soon. It’s hideous.”
She smiles into my shoulder and then starts to write something on my back. It’s only three little symbols, so it’s not hard for me to decode.
“I love you too, Elizabeth,” I say.
With her, the future is about possibility, not punishment. I’ve become a damn cliché. I didn’t think I wanted love—didn’t know I needed it. And now, I can’t live without it.
Read on for an excerpt from
TELL ME NOT TO GO
Coming soon from SMP Swerve
CHAPTER 1
Sam
“Hey, Sam.”
Two small words, but they chug through my veins like ice cubes, making me want to clutch at my chest when they reach my heart. I’d recognize Luke’s voice anywhere, anytime.
I turn around, and there he is at the table next to me. The guy I once would have done anything to keep.
“Luke,” I manage to choke out as I fumble my latte and spill it on my hand. The pain helps me focus, and I see he has company at his table.
Emily. My former roommate . . . and friend.
“Hi, Sam.” At least she has the decency to look uncomfortable.
“How have you been?” Luke asks, like we’re old chums. I need to find a way to get out of this café, but it’s like I’m that girl about to get axed in a horror movie: I’m frozen. Right now, anyone watching me would be screaming, “Run, bitch!” And they’d be right. But I’m not myself right now.
“I’m fine,” my stationary alter ego answers.
“That’s great.” Luke keeps nodding like a dashboard Bobble Head. “We’re doing well. Emily is graduating this year. I’m at Santa Clara, finishing my MBA.”
I look at Luke. Then at Emily. Then at Luke again.
“I thought you wanted to go to Wharton?” I ask, pathetic ex that I am. But it had been a point of contention that Luke was going to move, and I—being an idiot—had been ready to tran
sfer wherever he ended up.
“He wanted to stay close while I finished school.” Emily’s hand is resting on a stack of magazines. I’m wondering why there are so many, and then I notice the fluffy white dresses and organza veils on the covers. Bridal mags. And on Emily’s birdlike ring finger is a rock that might as well be in the shape of a dollar sign.
There’s an open binder next to the magazines, filled with photos, spreadsheets, and notes. Her wedding organizer.
Shame races through me, jump-starting my heart. But like the pins and needles you get when your foot goes to sleep, the sudden rush of feeling is painful. Knowing me, I won’t be able to contain it for long.
Luke follows my gaze. “Uh, yeah, we’re getting married at the end of June.”
“That’s . . . well, that’s really . . .” I try again. But my tongue feels like a dry sponge, and the words won’t come.
Because the last time I saw Luke, he was in Emily’s bed—the one that was four feet from mine in our dorm room—buried deep inside her.
I had come home early from class, so I saw him and Emily right away when I walked into the room. There was no warning, no ominous foreshadowing—just the two of them tangled in the sheets and each other. And the sounds. I remember standing there covering my ears. Emily looked over and saw me, and in that moment, I knew she was sad but not sorry.
I turned and ran like the devil was at my back, and I never saw Luke again.
“You had an apartment,” I say now, because the memories are spilling out like rain from a storm drain. “Why did you two do it in my room?”
Luke goes pale, because I have breached the rules of etiquette that keep people from making scenes and embarrassing themselves. I have defiled the inner sanctum of this soothing coffeehouse, with its dark wood furniture and pleasant coffee aroma. But I never got to say one word to Luke after he cheated. Not about how my heart splintered into useless fragments. Or how I didn’t know what to do with all that anger. Or how, sick as it was, I loved him for too long afterward.
“Sam,” he starts, but he doesn’t know what to say, either, and his words fizzle.
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