“Possum Kingdom”—The Toadies
Ever since dinner the other night, Edwin has been—well, not very Edwin.
This morning, he's been overly nice: pulling out my chair every time I sit to write, making me coffee, and he hasn't mentioned the word "fate" a hundred times. To be honest, had I not spent time with him prior to today, I would probably think he's a charmer, but this is such a drastic change it's nothing less than unnerving.
Constantly staring at me, he's always trying to make eye contact, and I can't stomach it because those eyes of his, they're—I wouldn't call them demonic. No, they're dead. Empty. Absolute voids of nothingness. And the way he watches me with that slight smirk… it's as though he's sizing me up, trying to determine how he can go about using me only to destroy me. Maybe I'm paranoid or losing touch with reality. I am wired to jump to the most morbid of conclusions. I mean, James in the bookstore—I was convinced he wanted to kill me at one point.
I pace the length of my bedroom, trying to sort this out because I can't concentrate enough to write a single sentence with this pile of shit buzzing around in my head. Just because the man is being nice—and comes across creepy as hell while doing so—it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't.
I've spent the better half of the afternoon avoiding him, trying to convince myself that I've just let my overactive imagination run wild with me. Telling myself I only feel so uneasy being alone in this cabin with him because I don't allow myself to ever trust anyone—that I’m the one with a problem, not him. But this knot in my stomach, the way my hair stands on end when he subtly brushes his hand along the small of my back in passing, I don't know how much longer I can ignore that. Gut instinct is there for a reason—a deep, ingrained survival instinct that is probably not wise to ignore for as long as I have. I just need to get out of this damn cabin. Clear my head. Escape… stop it, Miranda!
Taking a deep breath, I open the door to my room and head down the hallway toward the kitchen. The stereo's blaring in the living room. Edwin's in the kitchen singing along to The Toadie's "Possum Kingdom," and—I swear—he gets louder every time the word "die" comes around in the chorus.
I turn the corner, only one foot across the threshold of the kitchen, and I find Edwin leaning over the counter. His white apron is splattered with blood, a huge, wet stain to the right of the smiling cartoon lobster printed over the middle. A carving knife is clutched in his right hand. Shocked, I grab the wall to steady myself, a small gasp leaving my lips.
He's still bent over the counter when he slowly turns his head to look at me. A sly grin inches across his mouth as he straightens up a touch, takes the knife, and places it over a chunk of blood-soaked meat. "You sure do startle easily." He glances back at the mess on the counter. "It’s just a fresh kill." There's a long pause. The grin on his face deepens—I think, or maybe I imagine it. "Venison has the highest level of iron out of all meats, you know?"
My heart sits in my throat. With each hard pound, my vision pulses. My mouth has gone dry, and I swallow before I clear my throat. "Is that so?"
He arches his brow and nods as he works at cutting a filet, which he drops on the counter. The wet, slapping sound makes my stomach lurch.
"Did you need something?" he asks.
"Uh…" Another quick swallow. "No, I just, um…" My gaze darts to the phone on the wall beside him. "I was just gonna call Janine."
He stops cutting the meat and glances back at me, his empty eyes boring into me.
"Just, uh…" I stall. My breathing grows ragged. Uneven. Think, Miranda. Fucking think. "I just need some stuff from the market. I'm out of, um… out of toiletries and stuff like that. Want me to pick you up anything?"
One side of his mouth kicks up. "No, dear." His eyes slowly drag down my body, and chill bumps sweep across my skin. "Don't need anything from the market." And he goes back to hacking away at the meat, singing along to the song.
Nodding, I scoot behind him, my nerves on edge. I take the receiver from the wall and quickly jab Janine's number into the keypad. Adrenaline is pumping through my body, and my senses are heightened. I guess that's why I can literally hear the shredding sound of that knife tearing through the meat. For a fleeting moment, while the phone is ringing, my mind gets away from me. All I can see is Edwin in his damn apron, going at me with that knife as his dead eyes stare into mine. I imagine he'd be shouting for me to look at him. Angry. Filled with rage—
"Hello?" Janine's voice is a welcome distraction from my thoughts.
"Hey, Janine. Would you be able to take me into town for a few? I, uh, I need some stuff from the market and maybe some Starbucks or dinner or something." That feeling that someone is staring at you washes over me, and I cut my eyes to the side to find Edwin watching me, twirling that damn carving knife.
"Absolutely, honey. Give me half an hour to get washed up, and I’ll head that way."
"Okay. Thanks."
I hang up the phone and turn around just as Edwin tosses his head back and holds up a piece of raw meat, dangling it between his thick fingers. He opens his mouth. The chunk of meat falls inside, and a satisfied groan rumbles from his throat. Dropping his chin, his eyes lock with mine as he chews then makes an exaggerated swallow. One brow arches as he sticks his fingers in his mouth—one by one—to lick the blood from them.
"Jesus… Jesus…" he sings along with the song, and the blood drains from my head down to my toes, that weightless feeling nearly knocking me to the floor.
"So I'll be back later. We may have dinner in town, and I'll just, uh…" I skirt around him, and he turns, following my every move like a fucking predator stalking prey. "I just need to decompress. Can we pick up on writing tomorrow? I mean, if that's okay with you?"
I'm to the doorway by the time he answers. "Anything you want, my dear Miranda, is more than fine with me."
"Thanks," I blurt as I make my way through the living room and down the hall.
I gently close the door to my room, locking it before I take a deep breath. Anything can seem creepy as fuck if you make it. Anything can seem like a scene out of a book if you want it to. But that—that little encounter—was too much like the stories I've fallen in love with.
I grab my purse from the dresser, stopping to stare at my reflection. All the color has washed from my face. My eyes are wide with fear, my chest rising in uneven swells. It's only fiction. Just words. Only words…
I stare at the bottles of shampoo in a daze, replaying the sight of Edwin and that piece of raw meat in my head. A woman in an oversized T-shirt reaches in front of me for some shampoo, and that snaps me back to reality for the moment.
"Honey, it's not that hard of a decision." Janine grabs a pink bottle, pops the top, and inhales, her eyes fluttering back in her head. "I go by smell and smell alone. With my shampoo and my men." She laughs and places the shampoo back on the shelf then grabs another bottle. "Oh, or you can go by the name. 'Big Sexy Hair.'" She smiles. "Anything with sex in the name sells me." She tosses the bottle into the shopping cart. "There you go. All done. We can leave now."
Using her hip, Janine nudges her way between the cart and me and starts down the aisle toward the checkout. I grab the buggy, pushing it beside her, watching men eye us as we pass by. Janine pulls off the professional workingwoman thing when she wants to, but she does so with a touch of sexuality. Her blouse is always undone one button too low. Her pencil skirts are tight, clinging to curves most women would die for. And she has that fuck-me glance down.
We stop at checkout line nine. Janine snaps her fingers. The bag boy runs around the counter, immediately unloading the items from the buggy onto the conveyor belt, a huge smile plastered over his face as he stares at me. Why me instead of Janine, I have no idea…
"So you just wanted out of that cabin, didn't you, honey?" A knowing smile crosses her face, and she shrugs. "Has he been an asshole again?"
"Uh, no. Actually, he's been nice, like overly nice."
Her brows knit together. "Nice? EA… nice?"
I nod, my gaze drifting off to the rack of tabloids. There's a moment of silence, with the exception of the constant beep from the cashier scanning the groceries.
"Huh," Janine says, placing her hand on her hip and turning around to face me. I glance at her, and she's giving me a once-over, a slight grin creeping over her red lips. "Well, EA, maybe you aren't asexual after all." She chuckles before spinning back around.
I push the cart to the end of the line. "What?" I take my wallet from my purse and hand the cashier my debit card.
"I thought he was one of those guys who just didn't have sex or, you know, maybe just was happy using his hand, a bottle of Vaseline Intensive Care, and a sock."
"Oh, God, Janine…"
The cashier's eyes widen. She glances between Janine and me as she hands me the receipt.
"Wonder what kind of porn that one's into."
"I don't want to know. I don't need to know." I shake my head.
The bag boy takes charge of the shopping cart. Janine and I follow him out of the automatic doors to the parking lot. The sun is just beginning to lower in the gray autumn sky, and the chill in the air makes my skin prickle.
"Look at you." Janine elbows me in the side just before we stop behind the trunk of her car. "Catching the eye of Mr. Happy himself." She giggles so hard she snorts. "I mean, he may be an asshole, but he is a good-looking man. Can't deny that. And the quiet ones are always the ones that'll pull your hair and give you a good choking."
"There's no way in hell—"
"Oh, come on."
"Shit, Janine. Have you slept him or something?"
"I mean, I won't say it didn't cross my mind a time or two after a bottle of vodka." A snarl slowly forms over her lips. "Debated it heavily one time. I blame tequila for that one, but I don't shit where I eat, you know? That causes way too much of a mess." She shrugs. "You? You write this book with him, and you don't have to ever see him again. You could fuck him the last night you're there. Tell me if it's any good then go on your merry way knowing you got piped down by a New York Times best seller. I mean, it's just sex, you know? And if it's good sex…"
"Yeah, I'll pass," I mumble, staring at her. I'm amazed at how blunt she is, but I’m more confused by the fact that she's trying to talk me into sleeping with the creeper.
The bag boy finishes unloading the groceries then slams the trunk. “You okay, ma’am? Need any more help?”
I shake my head, hand him a ten, and he leaves with a smile.
“I don’t feel like driving. I’ve got a headache from hell that only alcohol can cure.” Janine moans and tosses me her keys. “Do you mind?”
Shaking my head, I climb into the car and crank the engine.
Janine slams the passenger side door and gently squeezes my thigh, a deadpan look on her face. "Tell me, are you asexual, honey?"
"What?"
"I mean, you've been up here for a few weeks. EA's got a hard-on for you, and you aren't interested. Then that sex-on-legs in the bar—Pax, Jax, whatever the hell his name was—was it Jax?"
I nod.
"Well," she says with a snort, "you couldn't have seemed more disinterested."
I shake my head. "What? I don't know how I could've been more obvious." I think back to the blatant way I was staring at him, and my cheeks grow warm with embarrassment.
"Really? Oh, honey." She pats my face. "Going all googly-eyed at a man? Is that the best you got?" She sighs as I put the car in reverse. "You authors are such a weird breed. You'd think with overactive imaginations like you people have to have that you'd be able to woo the robe off a Tibetan monk." She sighs. "Jesus, I could only imagine how awkward an actual relationship between two socially challenged authors like you and EA would be." She shudders a little.
"You know, I feel like I should be offended by that."
"Probably," she laughs. "You said EA had been nice. Why don't you tell me what EA has done that qualifies as 'nice,' because I am really intrigued to see what his wooing abilities are like."
"He's not trying to woo me." I swallow.
"Uh-huh, because men aren't always thinking about sex? Let's see… EA… I'd imagine maybe he'd give you a little wax figurine of a woman in a coffin or a book made out of his own skin or perhaps just something simple like a notebook full of criticisms."
I force a laugh. "No, he's just… I don't know. He took me to dinner, and he's been pulling out chairs and giving me these little touches—like brushing his hand over my arm when he likes a line I write. He's just touchy and stares at me with this really weird look…" The traffic light turns red, and I brake, staring out at the strip mall busy with people spending their money.
"Aw, EA's in love." She tosses her head back, laughing as she slams her palm on the dashboard. "Bless him."
Obviously this seems funny to her, but the more I replay the way his dead eyes will lock on me from across the room, the more my stomach knots. I panic a little. "Janine, I'm serious. There's something weird about him."
"Oh, there surely is."
"It makes me uncomfortable."
She glances at me, her smile fading. "He can do that. When I first started working with him, every once in a while, he'd give me the heebie-jeebies. He's just… difficult—complicated. Antisocial and awkward. But it's not like he'd ever force himself on you or anything. He's a good guy deep down inside. Just a bit of a weirdo, you know?"
"He ate raw deer meat today while staring at me."
A scowl forms on her face. "Yeah, well, that's just gross."
"I don't know if I can finish this book with him if I'm honest. I can't explain it. You'd just have to be there to understand how weird all this is." The light turns green, and I gently press down the accelerator.
She shakes her head. "You gotta finish it. Please, for the love of God and my sanity, finish this book with him. How far in are you guys?"
"About forty thousand."
"Okay, so what, two more weeks if you guys get after it? I'll come stay up there and snuggle you if I need to. I promise, honey, he's odd, but he's harmless. I've worked for him for five years. I mean, hell, I've cussed him out a time or two, and I'm still here."
My phone rings. Janine keeps talking as I dig around in my purse, attempting to keep my eyes on the road.
"Let's just go grab some food. I swear that cabin is enough to creep out Alfred Hitchcock, you know? Out in the middle of God's country and all those damn animal heads staring at you. And then throw in EA and his antics…"
“Sure.”
She points out of the window. "Applebee's okay with you? They have the best raspberry cosmo—"
"Yeah, it's fine." I stop at another traffic light and grab my phone from my purse, staring at the number flashing on the screen. I press Ignore, but she calls right back.
“You can turn,” Janine says.
I glance away from the phone and floor the gas, nearly fishtailing as I turn into the parking lot. There’s a spot right to the side of the entrance. I pull in and put the car into park, my phone still ringing.
Janine glances from me to my phone and back at me. "You gonna answer it?"
"No." I hit Ignore again. And immediately, my mother is calling again.
Janine raises a brow. "Someone really wants to talk to you…" She opens the door and steps out of the car. "If you need a minute, I'll just be at the bar."
The door slams shut, and I watch Janine sashay to the front of the building. The phone vibrates again, Bush’s “Comedown” playing from the small speaker. Listening to the song, to the beautiful lyrics, I stare at the number, wondering what the hell she wants. Mother's never been persistent with anything in her life, being a parent included.
My pulse picks up, that angry heat flooding my face when I press Answer and raise the phone to my ear. "What?" I can't control the hate in my voice. I really can't.
"Baby," she slurs, "I'm so proud of my baby."
"Excuse me?"
"Your writing." A hacking cough comes across the line. "Momma's so proud of you."
My skin crawls like I imagine it would if I were covered in a pile of writhing maggots. She must have heard about me getting that job with Edwin. Fucking bitch.
"I bet you are," I scoff.
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"I guess now you want to try to be the supportive mother you should have always been, huh? If you think I will ever forget the shit you did to me, the shit you put me through—"
“I did the best I could," she says.
"Well, could've fooled me. Telling your daughter she's worthless and pathetic and will never amount to anything. Stupid. Ignorant…" I can still hear the disdain in her voice when she'd shout those words at me. "A mistake. A pain in your ass. That's the best you could do, Mother, really?"
"We all make mistakes. I am proud of you. I always knew you'd be something great. My little girl, a New York Times best seller…"
Closing my eyes, I shake my head in disbelief. She really thinks I’m going to hit a list with Edwin and give her something. "What are you fucked up on right now? Meth, crack, heroin, or are you just drunk?"
"I'm—"
"I don't care." I cut her off because I couldn't care less. "And I wouldn't go around bragging about what an accomplished daughter you have just yet, Doris." I want to squash any hope she has right now. I want to rip away any glimmer of happiness she may be experiencing from the thought that by giving birth to me, she has any right to a damned thing. "That little writing job's not working out so well. I’ll probably quit it soon."
A raspy laugh crackles over the phone. "I should've known better. Should've known you were still that lazy piece of shit I raised. Giving up just when things are getting good." And there she is, the woman who taught me about love and humanity. There she is. "You're a disappointment. Ruined my damn life, and when you have a chance to make it a little better, you don’t. Fifty dollars here and there don’t do much. You did it on purpose, didn't you? You did this to piss me off—not giving to your poor mother. You'd let me die before you'd give me a damn thing worth a shit, huh, you—"
I hang up and block her number, something I should have done a long time ago. The sad thing is no matter how horrible some people are to you, sometimes all you want to do is prove to yourself you are worthy of their love—even when their love is worthless. And how fucked up is that?
Gripping the phone, I clench my jaw and fight back the tears. The thing is, I feel like a fool because I always had hoped that something would change. I thought maybe one day I could have some type of relationship with her. As much as I feign that it doesn't bother me, as many times as I've told people I don't care if she hates me, I do. Wanting love is just human. I just knew that I'd eventually do something to deserve her love, to prove to her I wasn't a mistake, but really, that's just pathetic. The only reason she would ever have a relationship with me is because I'd be able to give her something. And what kind of relationship can you have with a parasite?
I am a product of my environment through and through. And fuck her for that. The person who should have loved me unconditionally treated me like shit, and I know that's why I am untrusting and too often only see the bad in someone. I want to see all the ugly pieces of a person and make my mind up about how and why they will let me down—why I'll never be good enough for them. Because if I already know that I'll never mean anything to them, well, they can't hurt me, can they? Let someone get just close enough then push them away. Never believe a compliment, a promise. Hell, I hardly even believe myself half the time.
I close my eyes and shake the tears away because she’s not worth it. I cry. She wins. I quit this job with Edwin. She fucking wins.
Moments.
There are moments in each person's life where everything shifts. Emotions morph. Hurt turns to rage. Love turns to hate. People change. It is the nature of life, for life is merely a metamorphosis.
I sit in Janine’s car, watching the happy little families drift in and out of Applebee's, watching strangers carry out their lives like animals in a goddamn zoo. A woman in a too-tight black dress saunters in, some stupid man stumbling after her; she's most likely going to fuck him, and he'll never call her again.
Jax. I could fuck Jax, and I bet he’d never call me again.
Another couple stops at the car on the other side of me, kissing with the type of passion you usually only see in movies; in six months, she'll likely find him fucking her best friend.
Jax wouldn’t do that.
A young man and woman stop by the curb, arguing. His face is red, and she's fighting back tears.
Jax wouldn’t yell at me like that.
A mother scolds her child.
I would never do that.
An elderly man with an oxygen tank sits on the bench by the door and lights a cigarette.
He’s saying “fuck you” to death.
A hoard of teenagers race out to their parked cars—BMWs and Mercedes.
They’ll never know what it is to struggle, which means they’ll never really appreciate a fucking thing.
And as I watch the shit show we refer to as life, I realize it's just one big ball of fucked-upness.
I climb out of the car, smiling at the old man puffing away on his cigarette as I reach for the door. He grins, and his entire face wrinkles. The entrance swings open, and the heat from inside sends a small buzz floating through my body.
"Welcome to Applebee’s," the hostess mumbles, barely looking up from the stand, her unkempt hair falling in front of her eyes. "How many?"
"My friend's already in here," I say as I spot Janine tipping back a drink at the bar. I weave through the group of businessmen clogging the entrance, bumping into a few of them.
I'm almost to the bar when Janine sets her drink down and taps her red acrylic nail over the wooden countertop for the bartender. He glances in our direction.
"Another cosmo, my dear sir," she says.
A flirtatious smile crosses his face as he looks at me. “What’ll it be, sweetheart?”
“A cosmo.”
And he turns, reaching for the bottle of vodka behind him. I pull the chair out beside Janine, and she looks over at me.
She nods. "Uh-huh. Noticed this time you didn't say you don't drink." She laughs. "Told you that bastard'll drive you to the bottle."
The man places a napkin down, dumps a little salt on it, then places the martini glass in front of me, the dark red liquid threatening to spill over the edge.
I pick up the glass and chug it then place it on the counter. "I'll take another one. Extra shot, please."
The barkeep nods, and Janine whacks me on the back. "Attagirl."
For an hour, the conversation drifts back and forth from EA to Janine's string of ex-husbands, and I lose count of the drinks I've had. But my head is swimming, and my body is warm with this blissful fog of "I don't give a shit about anything." I kind of like this feeling. Maybe too much.
"And that’s why I divorced husband number three," she says, arching a brow. Janine hops off the stool. "I'm going to the ladies’ room. Order me one more, then we need to get a taxi or something because I definitely can't be weaving my way up that fucking mountain. And neither can you."
She stumbles off to the restroom. I dig my cell from my purse, but instead of calling a cab, I dial Jax's number, and now I have the phone pressed to my ear, my heart drumming into my throat with each ring. I debate hanging up and convincing myself he'll only hurt me. He’ll be that guy who fucks me and leaves me, that guy who yells at me in the parking lot. Any of the bastards I sat and watched an hour ago.
But the second I hear his voice come over the line, instead of panicking and hanging up, instead of stumbling over my words, I say, "I want to see you."
He takes a moment, swallowing hard. "I've been waiting to hear you say that. McClintock's off South Street? Fifteen minutes?"
And… shit. "Uh, yep. Sounds good. Sure…"
"And there's that sure again," he says with a laugh. "Fifteen minutes it is then. Don't be late, or I'll arrest you."
"Yeah, um…” I fidget with the damp napkin beneath my drink. “Okay…" I don't know how to handle him. I want to laugh. I probably should laugh, but I suck at social cues. "I'll see you in a few."
I hang up and glance down at what I'm wearing in a complete panic. A Nirvana T-shirt, jeans, and Chuck Taylors. Fucking amazing.
I'm in such shock that I actually just initiated this that I barely notice Janine when she comes back. "Honey?" She grips my shoulder. "You okay? You look a little mortified."
"I, uh…" I glance up, swallowing as the panic really sets in. I grab my drink, down what little bit is left. "I just called Jax."
She beams as she motions for the bartender. "And?"
"I'm supposed to go meet him… shit, that's so rude. I'm sorry, Janine. I don't know what I was—"
"Oh, it's fine, sweetie. I'm just fine right here with my cosmos and…" She squints to read the name tag on the bartender's shirt. "Randall. Me and Randall will be just dandy, won't we?"
He ignores her and continues wiping down the counter.
"Where are you going?" she asks.
"McClintock's or something like that."
"Oh, that's just a block over." Her eyes widen, and she claps. "Talk about fate." She grins as she brings her glass to her lips and takes a sip. "Go on now. I've got my phone. If it gets too late, I’ll take an Uber or"—a slight giggle bubbles from her lips—"go home with Randall."
Shaking my head, I grab my purse and head to the door, playing out a thousand scenarios of why I shouldn't go. I groan and push the door open, still in shock that I actually called him and agreed to meet him.
The entire ten-minute walk to the bar, I obsess over how I’ll mess this meeting with him up. The thought of having to talk to him, having to come up with conversation, nearly paralyzes me. I'm bound to say something dumb or awkward or just… random. And then he'll give me some weird look, and I'll get all nervous that he's wishing he'd never met me, wishing I were some normal girl. A normal girl… a fucking normal girl…
The bar's dark and fairly empty. I walk straight to the counter and take a seat, crossing my legs and immediately picking at my nails.
"Want a drink?" the old man behind the counter asks.
I hesitate. My head's already dizzy from the drinks I had at Applebee's, and although it is tempting, I decide maybe since this foggy feeling is what incited that phone call in the first place, I shouldn't have another one just yet. God knows what I'd end up saying then.
"Oh, no thanks," I say, forcing a nervous smile.
He shoots a confused look in my direction, shrugs, then walks off to the other end of the counter to serve another customer.
And I wait. And wait. And wait.
"You sure you don't want a drink? You look like you could use one." The bartender laughs.
I glance at my watch. He's nearly fifteen minutes late. Which means he's probably not coming. "Uh… I'm—"
The bell over the door jingles, and I stop mid-sentence, turning around to find Jax walking toward the bar, his fingers running through his thick hair. Much to my dismay, my heart goes into a full-on sprint. I hate that a man can do this to me. I hate that I want him. I hate the vulnerability because it's an all too familiar feeling, dredging up things I'd rather not contemplate.
"Ah, just in time," he says with a smile as he pulls the bar stool out next to me. To my surprise, he comes in for a hug, placing his muscular arm around me.
What in the hell do I do? Hug him back or just… I awkwardly return his hug, and he kisses my cheek lightly.
"It's great to see you again. Sorry I'm late. My partner was being a pain in the ass," he says as he takes a seat.
"It's fine. And, yeah, it's good to see you too." I can't seem to calm my racing pulse, and soon enough, that fidgety nervousness overtakes me, so I flag down the bartender.
"Now, I may be wrong here, but are you sure it’s good to see me?" He chuckles. "Seems like every time I see ya, you've got that little scowl on your face."
Ignoring his comment, I glare at him. "Do you want a drink?"
"No, I don't drink anymore,” he says with a slight smirk. “I quit last night." As the bartender approaches, Jax nods toward the top shelf. "Give me a double Jameson, neat." He motions to me. "And whatever she's having."
"Yeah, exactly what I thought," I mumble as I turn my attention to the man behind the bar. "And I'll have tequila, straight. Thanks."
Jax shoots me an impressed look. "I like your style. Sounds like we've had the same kind of week."
I toss my head back on a laugh. "Yeah, well, maybe. Who fucking knows?"
The second I glance at him, my nerves get the better of me. I don't know what the hell I’m doing here with him. This is only going to end in a disaster. Shit. Now he's smiling, and I damn near melt but manage to keep a straight face. I don't want him to know he has any kind of effect on me because that's when they know you’re vulnerable.
"So anyway…" I clear my throat. "Sorry I just kinda called you. I just, I don’t know." I shrug, my cheeks warming. "Needed to get out and, uh, yeah…"
The bartender places our drinks in front of us.
Jax immediately wraps his hand around his, tracing his finger over the glass. "Sweetheart, I’m working a case where, a few days ago, we pulled a girl in ten different pieces out of an abandoned house. Seeing your name pop up on my phone was the best thing to happen to me all day." He takes a long drink of his whiskey, his unfocused gaze straying toward the wall of liquor bottles, as if something is weighing heavily on his mind. "You use that number any time you want." He redirects his attention to me.
"Thanks." My leg is furiously bouncing. I bite my lip, struggling to come up with the appropriate thing to say. "And that sucks…"
"Sorry." He grins, taking another drink. "Probably a little too much information for you. I'm just… I don't know. It's just been a hellacious week." He scratches at his beard, shaking his head slightly.
I grab my drink and tip it back. Swallow. Then turn the glass up again. The cheap tequila burns my throat on the way down, but shit, I can't drink this fast enough.
He eyes me with a grin, shaking his head. "Fuck, I've been known as a drinker in my day, but tequila… fuck that. Too many bad experiences with Señor Jose back in college."
"Yeah—" Another quick gulp. "I've not had any problems with it. Not yet at least." But at this rate, tonight may be my first…
"Well shit, there ought to be some sort of award for that."
"Oh, I'm sure there is…" And… here is that awkward silence. I stare at him, that dirty part of me wanting to undress him with my eyes. Imagine his heated, stifled breaths next to my ear as he has his way with me—
"You know, your conversation skills are quite impressive." He laughs.
"Oh, fuck you!" As soon as I say that, I cover my mouth with my hand. A Freudian slip he’ll never pick up on, hopefully.
"Hey now, this is only our second date. I don't think propositioning me for sex is very ladylike." That damn grin again. "Do you?"
I bite my lip, hard, and narrow my gaze. My foot is furiously shaking, making the small amount of tequila left in my glass slosh against the sides. What would that girl do? What would she say? "Trust me…" The alcohol is buzzing through me, making me not really care what comes out of my mouth. "That was not an offer." I laugh and tip the drink back again, smiling around the rim. I can be that girl after all.
He motions with his hand to catch the attention of the barkeep. "Bartender, another drink for the lady please." He shoots me a quick, mischievous glance. "And another one for me."
"If you're trying to get me drunk, too fucking late."
"I suppose that's why I heard from you tonight?"
"Maybe." I lightly touch his arm because that’s what that girl would do.
"No EA to keep you company? Or, I guess, Edwin as you call him."
"Again, fuck you," I whisper. I lock my gaze with his. The second I realize my hand is rubbing his hard bicep, I jerk it away. "But, you know, if you'd rather me leave…" I go to stand, and he quickly places a hand on my shoulder.
"Hey now, you better sit that cute butt of yours back down." His hand lingers on my shoulder until I'm fully seated again.
His fingers drift down my arm before returning to his glass. Chill bumps sweep over my skin, and I find myself wishing he'd put his hand back on me. Touch me just a little longer.
My gaze falls from his eyes to his full lips, and all I can think about is kissing him. Fuck, I hate this. My hand quickly wraps around my glass, my eyes never leaving those lips of his as I suck back the last of my drink. "Fine. I'll stay… for a minute at least." Then I giggle. Dear God. Who am I?
"A minute? And how does a guy go about spending more than just a minute with you? Does he have to be an author? Because I'll tell you what, I can't write to save my life, but I'll put together the nicest picture book you’ve ever seen. Penguin cops or some shit like that."
Shaking my head, I nearly choke on my drink. "I’m sorry. Penguin cops?"
"I'm just saying that shit should be worth at least a couple hours."
"Wow," I say through laughs. "You're special, Jax."
"I'm glad you can see that so soon. Usually it takes a lot more convincing on my part. I prefer the term unique though."
"Okay." I arch both brows. "We'll go with unique."
The bartender places the next round of drinks in front of us, and I push mine aside.
Jax eyes me as if he's trying to figure me out, sizing me up. "I just can't read you, Miranda…" He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing.
"Cross."
"Miranda Cross." A deep smile fills his face. "And I'm a fucking cop. Do you know how bad that makes me look?"
"Look, don't feel bad. I've spent my entire life perfecting the art of being unreadable."
"Did you perfect that before or after the RBF?" he asks, a laugh ready to bust loose from his lips.
"Excuse me? I don't have resting bitch face."
"Now, now, it's a good quality to have. I bet more people on airplanes try to talk to me than you. And then there's the whole mall kiosk issue everyone else has to deal with. I bet they never ask you if you'd like to try pine-scented, age-defying lotion. That's a win if I ever saw it." A laugh finally does break through, and he shakes his head before taking down more of his whiskey.
I'm trying my damnedest to keep a straight face. "Okay, first of all, I don't fly. Second, no, they don't talk to me, but maybe it's because I don't need age-defying lotion yet, asshole."
"You don't fly? What, do you fucking teleport? And maybe that is what it is… because of course you don't. Ooor… maybe it's the fact that they think you want to kill them and eat their babies." He's smiling, those damn dimples popping.
I look away from him and stare at the bottles of liquor on the wall, my heart banging against my ribs as I trail my fingertip over the curve of my glass, wishing it was him I was touching, relishing… "I hate flying." I glance back at him.
"You know, it isn't plane victims we're zipping up into body bags every day." There's a soft smile on his face. "A lot more stuff to worry about in this world than flying, my dear."
"Yeah, I know. Just one of those things…" My eyes drift back down to his lips and pause for way too long. But I just want to kiss him. I shouldn't, but I do.
"Hey, we all have them. Don't even talk to me about fucking dolls. Those porcelain motherfuckers with the beady little eyes…" He shakes his head.
"Oh, I hate those things too. My mother had tons of those. Most were clowns." I shudder thinking about that collection.
"No fucking way." He laughs, his eyes wide. "My sister and I used to have a babysitter who had clown shit fucking everywhere. I'm talking wall-to-wall. Our parents weren't home very much, so I had to live with that shit for a while. I didn't sleep very well those days." He smiles, his eyes taking me in as they move from my lips to my eyes then back again.
I grab his arm before I realize I have. "Yeah, I had nightmares about them. And then Stephen King's It… ruined me. I'm convinced that was the moment I officially became fucked up."
"Holy shit, you have no idea. I've always been a big-time reader. Read that shit when we were visiting family in Texas back in sixth grade." Lifting his brows, he gives me an understanding nod. "That shit changes a fucking kid. I'm talking scar-city type shit."
"'We all float down here…’" I shake my head. "Gutters. I avoid them at all costs."
"God, that's awesome." He laughs and raises his glass to me. "Well, here’s to a mutual hatred of dolls and clowns."
Nodding, I clink my glass against his and laugh before setting the untouched drink back on the counter.
"So… I'm not very good at this kind of thing." He points at himself then at me. "Whatever this is. I actually haven't been out on a date in a long, long time."
"And you think I am? What with my impeccable conversations skills and all?" I laugh. "Yeah, I don’t do people. Ever. But you…" I trail off before I say something I shouldn't.
"So if I'm brutally honest with you, you won't hold it against me?"
"Nah."
He gently grabs my arm, pulling me toward him. I have no choice but to follow his lead and grip the edge of the seat with my hands to keep from sliding off the stool. His other hand comes to rest on my cheek, his eyes intensely set on mine. When his thumb tenderly brushes over my jaw, my heart bangs against my chest, heating my body. I can't help but to lean into his touch. It feels too right. Too perfect. He inches forward until his lips meet mine with such a soft touch I'm not even sure he's really kissing me. Within seconds, he takes my bottom lip into his mouth, his teeth nibbling just a little before releasing. He brushes his fingers into my hair as his lips crash hard against mine again. And from that simple touch, my entire body goes limp, every last inch of my skin heating. He cups the back of my neck to pull me closer and deepen the kiss. Just before I give in to him any further, I tear away, my heart in my throat as I stare at him.
A confused expression crosses Jax's face, and I immediately regret pulling away.
"Everything okay?" He looks around, but no one's paying us any more attention than we're paying them. "Sorry about the PDA… your lips are too distracting."
And now I feel like an idiot, so I do the only thing I can think to do—I grab him by the face and drag him to me, closing my eyes, and kiss him again. A subtle moan slips from my lips because, damn, his lips feel good like this. They're soft and warm and just… right.
And… this is bad. I know this is dangerous because I generally don't like people touching me, but Jax… there's something about him that I crave, possibly need—which means, in the end, I'm going to get hurt. Or maybe I’ll just end up hurting him.
I go to move away, but this time, he grabs the back of my head, giving me one tender kiss before he releases me, his eyes locked on mine. And even I, with my lack of social understanding, can pick up, by that desperate glimmer in his eyes, that he feels the same way. And that's scary as shit.
Jax trails his rough fingers over my jaw, a soft smile settling on his face. My cheeks warm; my body flushes.
"Hmm," he says, settling back in his seat. "I could see this being a problem."
"What?" I feel a scowl form on my face, and he chuckles.
"This." He touches his finger to my lips. "Kissing you is kind of addictive. And I have quite the addictive personality."
I should probably say something instead of staring at him like an idiot, which is exactly what I’m doing right now. "You're ridiculous," I mumble.
Heat floods my body, and I turn in my chair to face the wall of liquor, my heart thumping in my throat. Really? Ridiculous? That's the best you had? You could have said, “I like kissing you too. Thanks.” Anything….
Jax laughs, bringing his drink to his lips as he shakes his head. "Ridiculous, huh?" He smiles around the edge of the glass and winks.
I have no idea what I'm doing here, why I'm drawn to him like this, but I don't like it—and I like it all at the same time. Something about him seems safe and familiar, and as we sit here and talk, with every stupid, awkward comment I make, he grins. Maybe he gets my little quirks.
By the end of the night, I have my arm slung through his as we walk to the exit. I find myself leaning closer to him, pulling in the scent of his cologne. I too easily get lost in his smile and those eyes that tell me there's so much more to him than most people try to see.
We round the corner of the brick building, turning into the dark alleyway that leads to the parking lot. We've barely made it two feet before Jax stops and gently pushes me against the rough brick, pinning my shoulders to the wall. We share an intense stare in the brief moment before his lips crush mine. His hand sweeps up my neck and cups the side of my face as his teeth rake over my bottom lip. He pauses, his warm lips barely resting against mine.
"Yeah, I’m definitely in trouble,” he says with a sweet smile.
And in this moment, I know I'm fucked. Because even though I hate the vulnerability, the way he makes me feel is worth the possibility of having my heart ripped out. And if you know that's what will happen, are you really that vulnerable after all? So I give in to him.
I wrap my arms around his neck, tugging his body flush against mine. I try to quiet all the thoughts whirling around in my head so I can just enjoy how right this feels because it’s not often I've felt anything in my life was right. But Jax, at this very moment, with his soft lips pressed against mine, his hands roaming over my body… that's exactly how he feels.