There's Wild, Then There's You
Page 24
His voice is low. When I look up at him, his eyes are dark and heavy.
“Jet, I—”
“Don’t ever sell yourself short, Violet. Any man would die to have this just once.”
He rolls my nipple between his fingers. I hold my breath, willing my body not to respond, wishing I could just disappear.
“You weren’t fighting it earlier. Don’t start now,” he says, bringing the tip of one of his fingers to his lips, wetting it with his tongue, then drawing a damp circle around my other nipple with it. “There is nothing sexier than a woman who just lets go. Watching your reaction, knowing how much you like what I’m doing to you is the most intoxicating thing in the world.” Jet leans in to whisper in my ear. “Don’t fight it, Violet. Don’t fight me.”
He skims his lips along my jaw, bending to press them to my throat before dropping to his knees in front of me.
“This is beautiful,” he murmurs, tweaking one nipple and making it furl into an even tighter bud. “God, that makes me ravenous. For you, Violet. Just you.”
In his eyes, I see the truth of his words. And in my body, I feel them. I can’t fight him. Because I don’t want to. I stopped wanting to a long time ago. I just never admitted it to myself.
“Let me have it, baby,” he says, leaning forward to trace one aching peak with the tip of his tongue. “Let me have it all.”
When he draws my nipple into his mouth, his eyes still holding mine, I know it’s pointless to fight it. Whatever is between us, however we arrived here, it’s consuming. And I want to be consumed.
Jet lets one hand slide down my stomach to the increasing ache between my legs. I feel him slide a finger down my crease and back up again to massage my most sensitive part. Air sticks in my chest. Time stops on the movement of his hand. When he pushes that finger into me, I exhale a shaky breath. Jet closes his eyes, groaning as he lets my nipple pop out of his mouth. “That’s it, baby. Just let go.”
So I do.
* * *
My head is filled with junk on the trip home. After a night, morning, and part of the afternoon full of the most fulfilling, creative lovemaking I’ve ever heard of, I thought I would feel more . . . connected. And I did. Right up until a few minutes before we left.
I glance over at Jet again, still mourning the loss of what we had in New Orleans. “Is everything all right?” I ask for the thousandth time.
And for the thousandth time, he replies, “Of course.”
There have been variations to the dialogue—yep, everything is fine, why wouldn’t it be—but essentially both the question and the response have been the same. Yet, my feelings of unease are only getting worse.
I want to ask him specifics, but I’m afraid to. I’ve searched every corner of my mind trying to figure out what happened. Whatever it was, it had to have happened right before we left, but I just can’t think of what that might’ve been.
I think back, once more, looking for the trigger.
After having some marathon sex followed by a very late breakfast, I decided to take a shower, the first half of which was deliciously interrupted by Jet. It was when I got out that I noticed he just seemed . . . off. I asked him then if something was wrong. He denied it with a faint smile and a kiss to my forehead.
My forehead.
I wondered if it was because he hadn’t heard from the guys with Kick Records, but I didn’t want to bring it up in case it made things worse. So here we are. Hours later, and I’ve made zero progress on discerning what is wrong. I just know that something is.
I don’t want to pry when he seems reluctant to tell me what’s going on. And I don’t want to push, because I feel like I’d be digging my own grave if he’s feeling a relapse of hurt or aggravation over my deception.
So, in the absence of pushing him, I just keep asking. And he just keeps denying.
“Are you hungry?” he asks when it’s close to suppertime.
I shrug, food not the least bit appealing since my emotions are so up in the air. “If you want to stop, that’s fine. I can do whatever,” I answer agreeably.
Jet’s quiet for a few seconds before he declares, “Let’s just drive on through. I’m anxious to get home.”
I give him the brightest smile that I can, which isn’t very bright at all, I’m sure. I turn to look out the window, wishing now that this uncomfortable ride could just be over. I need time to feel in private. I suspect that there might even be tears in my future.
By the time the headlights of Jet’s car are illuminating the signs for Summerton, I’m emotionally exhausted. I’ve known a lot of people who have gotten inside their own heads and turned completely manageable situations into train wrecks, so I know the danger of thinking too much, in overanalyzing. But I’ve never been prone to doing it. I’ve always been able to let things go, just put them out of my mind until they can be resolved in a pragmatic way.
Until now. Until Jet. Until I came face-to-face with my one weakness. And now it’s tearing me apart, turning me into the very kind of person I’ve secretly abhorred all this time.
Maybe this is just desserts. Maybe this is what I get for looking down my nose at people who can’t control themselves. Maybe this is life’s way of making me better able to relate to my clients, my friends, my family. I’m getting a little taste of what it feels like to want something so much it hurts, to obsess about it and not be able to stop. And to feel the agony of having it slip right through my fingers, to feel the frustration of driving myself crazy trying to figure out what went wrong and how to go back.
I relax my head against the seat, trying to clear my mind and lose myself in the melancholy notes of the song on the radio. But that doesn’t help. It seems only to underscore my misery, making it feel nearly unbearable.
Jet’s phone rings and I’m grateful for the interruption. The tension in the car is driving me bonkers.
I only hear Jet’s end of the conversation, but I can still make out the gist of the call.
“Hey, man, what’s up?”
“Yeah, I’ll tell you all about it.”
“On my way back now. Why?”
“Nah, my schedule’s clear Wednesday. Where is it?”
“Is that the club right down from Brass?”
“Yeah, yeah. I know the place. So what time? Seven?”
“Cool. Let’s get together sometime tomorrow. I wanna practice something new to add to the first set.”
“You’ll let ’em know?”
“All right, man. See you tomorrow.”
When he hangs up, he glances over at me and smiles a crooked smile, but says nothing. I return the gesture the best that I can before, once more, turning to look out the window at the dead, lifeless night passing me by.
Less than an hour later, Jet is pulling up at the curb in front of my tiny house. I don’t know why it feels so depressing when he shifts into park, but it does. It tells me that he’s not planning on staying. Or even coming inside. It tells me that he’s anxious to get away.
I don’t wait for him to come around and open my door. I get out quickly, reaching into the backseat for my overnight bag and my purse. When I straighten, Jet is there beside me, closing the door and taking the bag from my shoulder.
He walks me up the steps and takes my keys from me to unlock my front door. As I turn on the entry light, he leans in to set my bag in the floor by the console table against the wall. When he straightens, he’s still on the outside looking in.
From less than a foot away, I look up at Jet, watching him, trying to figure out what went wrong, and feeling heartbroken over the fact that it did. My chest gets tight and I feel tears threaten as my eyes scan his handsome face and his politely interested expression. Even though I’ve only ever had it happen once, I know when I’m getting ready to be gently dumped.
My smile is tremulous and my voice unsteady when I speak, facts that I wish more than anything that I could take away.
“Thank you for showing me New Orleans,” I say simply.
Jet is silent for well over a minute. Then he surprises me by stepping forward. Cupping my face in his hands, he bends to brush his lips over mine. My heart, my soul, everything that I am melts into a puddle like butter on a hot stove.
When he raises his head to look down at me, I’m certain I’ve never seen something more beautiful—and more gut-wrenching—than his face.
“Thank you for coming with me. I had an amazing time.”
He smiles down at me. In the gesture, I read the words THE END.
I swallow my emotions in one difficult gulp.
“I did, too.”
“I’ll call you,” he says, already backing away.
I nod, unable to force one more syllable past the lump in my throat.
Jet taps the doorjamb, near the dead bolt, as he pulls my door shut. “Lock up.”
Again, I nod, determined to keep my smile in place until he’s out of sight.
Out of sight, out of mind, I think wistfully.
Unfortunately, I know deep down that the age old adage will not apply to me. Jet will never be out of my mind.
Never.
THIRTY-SIX: Jet
As many shitty days as I’ve had, I can’t think of a time when I’ve felt worse. About everything.
Looking back over the last couple of days, I can pinpoint several great things. But now, less than forty-eight hours later, every single one of them has gone to hell.
I got a call from Kick Records on Friday, a call that I knew might change my life. This afternoon, I got another call from them, letting me down easy.
I had just gotten out of the shower with Violet, which was a helluva good thing, when I saw the message light blinking on my phone. It was that as**ole Rand telling me that, although I have some talent, I’m just not what they’re looking for.
That started a cascade of other shitty things, the first of which was the realization that I’ll have to either play more gigs with the band until I can get some interest elsewhere, or I’ll have to give up music altogether and finish school. I don’t like either of those options.
But that wasn’t even the worst part of it. As I stared at the closed bathroom door and listened to Violet humming happily in the shower, I thought back to her confession. I wasn’t even mad about it anymore, which is good because I had no right to be. No, I thought about how brave she was for telling me, about what a good person she is. Deep down, she’s a really good person—unlike me. I’ve done some pretty despicable things, and I don’t even have the decency to confess them to her. Because I’m a bastard and I don’t deserve her. I can’t bring one good thing to her life. Not one. I’m a piece of crap for messing around with her to begin with.
But the worst part was how I felt about my decision to go forward. Rather than doing the decent thing and leaving her the hell alone, or doing the conscionable thing and telling her what she deserves to know, I decided I’m going to keep seeing her. I’m going to keep my secrets, because she’d hate me if she knew. And, in the end, I’d rather risk hiding things from her than giving her up. I can’t let her go.
Because I’m a bastard.
Still, it’s a jagged pill, and I found myself choking on it more and more as the day wore on. So here I am, walking away from Violet, yet promising her I’ll call. Which I shouldn’t do. But I know I will.
Because I’m a bastard. And I want her. More than anything, including my soul, which will surely burn for doing this to her.
But will it stop me? No.
Why? Because I’m a bastard.
THIRTY-SEVEN: Violet
“Are you kidding me? What an asshole!” Tia blusters.
“I should’ve seen it coming. I mean, how stupid am I? He’s a twenty-six-year-old playboy. He’s even in a rock band. And he’s a sex addict, for God’s sake!”
“But he seemed like such a nice guy . . .”
“I should’ve known better.”
“Violet, you can’t refuse to take any kind of risk on the off chance you might get hurt. That’s ridiculous! You can’t live like that.”
“Why not? I’ve gotten along just fine for twenty-two years.”
“Oh, yeah right. And what a spectacular life you’ve led.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my life, Tia.”
“Of course there’s not. It’s perfectly normal to have only one friend. It’s perfectly normal to surround yourself with broken people that eat up your time being unfixable. It’s perfectly normal to have zero social life to speak of.”
“You make it sound like I’m some kind of freak. I’ve dated. I’ve gone to bars. I’ve done things. But it’s never worth the aggravation. Avoiding it isn’t pathetic, Tia. It’s prudent.”
“I didn’t say you were pathetic, Vi,” she says, her tone rife with regret. “You’re far from pathetic. But I know you well enough to know that you’re miserable.”
I feel my chin tremble. “I didn’t used to be.”
“Maybe you think you weren’t, but you were. Violet, you watched everyone else live and you stood on the sidelines, waiting for your chance to pick up the pieces when things fell apart for them. Myself included. But that’s no way to live. You have to have something for yourself. You have to have something else to live for.”
“And risk feeling like this?” I murmur woefully. “No thank you.”
“What I don’t understand is why you’re just letting it end this way. Why don’t you confront him? Ask him what the hell?”
“Now that would be pathetic!”
“That’s not pathetic. That’s strong. That would be you taking charge and letting him know you’re not some piece of garbage that he can so blithely toss aside. Because you’re not, Vi! You’re the best thing that has ever happened to him, and if he can’t see that, he’s not just an asshole. He’s a frickin’ stupid asshole.”
“Jet, I—”
“Don’t ever sell yourself short, Violet. Any man would die to have this just once.”
He rolls my nipple between his fingers. I hold my breath, willing my body not to respond, wishing I could just disappear.
“You weren’t fighting it earlier. Don’t start now,” he says, bringing the tip of one of his fingers to his lips, wetting it with his tongue, then drawing a damp circle around my other nipple with it. “There is nothing sexier than a woman who just lets go. Watching your reaction, knowing how much you like what I’m doing to you is the most intoxicating thing in the world.” Jet leans in to whisper in my ear. “Don’t fight it, Violet. Don’t fight me.”
He skims his lips along my jaw, bending to press them to my throat before dropping to his knees in front of me.
“This is beautiful,” he murmurs, tweaking one nipple and making it furl into an even tighter bud. “God, that makes me ravenous. For you, Violet. Just you.”
In his eyes, I see the truth of his words. And in my body, I feel them. I can’t fight him. Because I don’t want to. I stopped wanting to a long time ago. I just never admitted it to myself.
“Let me have it, baby,” he says, leaning forward to trace one aching peak with the tip of his tongue. “Let me have it all.”
When he draws my nipple into his mouth, his eyes still holding mine, I know it’s pointless to fight it. Whatever is between us, however we arrived here, it’s consuming. And I want to be consumed.
Jet lets one hand slide down my stomach to the increasing ache between my legs. I feel him slide a finger down my crease and back up again to massage my most sensitive part. Air sticks in my chest. Time stops on the movement of his hand. When he pushes that finger into me, I exhale a shaky breath. Jet closes his eyes, groaning as he lets my nipple pop out of his mouth. “That’s it, baby. Just let go.”
So I do.
* * *
My head is filled with junk on the trip home. After a night, morning, and part of the afternoon full of the most fulfilling, creative lovemaking I’ve ever heard of, I thought I would feel more . . . connected. And I did. Right up until a few minutes before we left.
I glance over at Jet again, still mourning the loss of what we had in New Orleans. “Is everything all right?” I ask for the thousandth time.
And for the thousandth time, he replies, “Of course.”
There have been variations to the dialogue—yep, everything is fine, why wouldn’t it be—but essentially both the question and the response have been the same. Yet, my feelings of unease are only getting worse.
I want to ask him specifics, but I’m afraid to. I’ve searched every corner of my mind trying to figure out what happened. Whatever it was, it had to have happened right before we left, but I just can’t think of what that might’ve been.
I think back, once more, looking for the trigger.
After having some marathon sex followed by a very late breakfast, I decided to take a shower, the first half of which was deliciously interrupted by Jet. It was when I got out that I noticed he just seemed . . . off. I asked him then if something was wrong. He denied it with a faint smile and a kiss to my forehead.
My forehead.
I wondered if it was because he hadn’t heard from the guys with Kick Records, but I didn’t want to bring it up in case it made things worse. So here we are. Hours later, and I’ve made zero progress on discerning what is wrong. I just know that something is.
I don’t want to pry when he seems reluctant to tell me what’s going on. And I don’t want to push, because I feel like I’d be digging my own grave if he’s feeling a relapse of hurt or aggravation over my deception.
So, in the absence of pushing him, I just keep asking. And he just keeps denying.
“Are you hungry?” he asks when it’s close to suppertime.
I shrug, food not the least bit appealing since my emotions are so up in the air. “If you want to stop, that’s fine. I can do whatever,” I answer agreeably.
Jet’s quiet for a few seconds before he declares, “Let’s just drive on through. I’m anxious to get home.”
I give him the brightest smile that I can, which isn’t very bright at all, I’m sure. I turn to look out the window, wishing now that this uncomfortable ride could just be over. I need time to feel in private. I suspect that there might even be tears in my future.
By the time the headlights of Jet’s car are illuminating the signs for Summerton, I’m emotionally exhausted. I’ve known a lot of people who have gotten inside their own heads and turned completely manageable situations into train wrecks, so I know the danger of thinking too much, in overanalyzing. But I’ve never been prone to doing it. I’ve always been able to let things go, just put them out of my mind until they can be resolved in a pragmatic way.
Until now. Until Jet. Until I came face-to-face with my one weakness. And now it’s tearing me apart, turning me into the very kind of person I’ve secretly abhorred all this time.
Maybe this is just desserts. Maybe this is what I get for looking down my nose at people who can’t control themselves. Maybe this is life’s way of making me better able to relate to my clients, my friends, my family. I’m getting a little taste of what it feels like to want something so much it hurts, to obsess about it and not be able to stop. And to feel the agony of having it slip right through my fingers, to feel the frustration of driving myself crazy trying to figure out what went wrong and how to go back.
I relax my head against the seat, trying to clear my mind and lose myself in the melancholy notes of the song on the radio. But that doesn’t help. It seems only to underscore my misery, making it feel nearly unbearable.
Jet’s phone rings and I’m grateful for the interruption. The tension in the car is driving me bonkers.
I only hear Jet’s end of the conversation, but I can still make out the gist of the call.
“Hey, man, what’s up?”
“Yeah, I’ll tell you all about it.”
“On my way back now. Why?”
“Nah, my schedule’s clear Wednesday. Where is it?”
“Is that the club right down from Brass?”
“Yeah, yeah. I know the place. So what time? Seven?”
“Cool. Let’s get together sometime tomorrow. I wanna practice something new to add to the first set.”
“You’ll let ’em know?”
“All right, man. See you tomorrow.”
When he hangs up, he glances over at me and smiles a crooked smile, but says nothing. I return the gesture the best that I can before, once more, turning to look out the window at the dead, lifeless night passing me by.
Less than an hour later, Jet is pulling up at the curb in front of my tiny house. I don’t know why it feels so depressing when he shifts into park, but it does. It tells me that he’s not planning on staying. Or even coming inside. It tells me that he’s anxious to get away.
I don’t wait for him to come around and open my door. I get out quickly, reaching into the backseat for my overnight bag and my purse. When I straighten, Jet is there beside me, closing the door and taking the bag from my shoulder.
He walks me up the steps and takes my keys from me to unlock my front door. As I turn on the entry light, he leans in to set my bag in the floor by the console table against the wall. When he straightens, he’s still on the outside looking in.
From less than a foot away, I look up at Jet, watching him, trying to figure out what went wrong, and feeling heartbroken over the fact that it did. My chest gets tight and I feel tears threaten as my eyes scan his handsome face and his politely interested expression. Even though I’ve only ever had it happen once, I know when I’m getting ready to be gently dumped.
My smile is tremulous and my voice unsteady when I speak, facts that I wish more than anything that I could take away.
“Thank you for showing me New Orleans,” I say simply.
Jet is silent for well over a minute. Then he surprises me by stepping forward. Cupping my face in his hands, he bends to brush his lips over mine. My heart, my soul, everything that I am melts into a puddle like butter on a hot stove.
When he raises his head to look down at me, I’m certain I’ve never seen something more beautiful—and more gut-wrenching—than his face.
“Thank you for coming with me. I had an amazing time.”
He smiles down at me. In the gesture, I read the words THE END.
I swallow my emotions in one difficult gulp.
“I did, too.”
“I’ll call you,” he says, already backing away.
I nod, unable to force one more syllable past the lump in my throat.
Jet taps the doorjamb, near the dead bolt, as he pulls my door shut. “Lock up.”
Again, I nod, determined to keep my smile in place until he’s out of sight.
Out of sight, out of mind, I think wistfully.
Unfortunately, I know deep down that the age old adage will not apply to me. Jet will never be out of my mind.
Never.
THIRTY-SIX: Jet
As many shitty days as I’ve had, I can’t think of a time when I’ve felt worse. About everything.
Looking back over the last couple of days, I can pinpoint several great things. But now, less than forty-eight hours later, every single one of them has gone to hell.
I got a call from Kick Records on Friday, a call that I knew might change my life. This afternoon, I got another call from them, letting me down easy.
I had just gotten out of the shower with Violet, which was a helluva good thing, when I saw the message light blinking on my phone. It was that as**ole Rand telling me that, although I have some talent, I’m just not what they’re looking for.
That started a cascade of other shitty things, the first of which was the realization that I’ll have to either play more gigs with the band until I can get some interest elsewhere, or I’ll have to give up music altogether and finish school. I don’t like either of those options.
But that wasn’t even the worst part of it. As I stared at the closed bathroom door and listened to Violet humming happily in the shower, I thought back to her confession. I wasn’t even mad about it anymore, which is good because I had no right to be. No, I thought about how brave she was for telling me, about what a good person she is. Deep down, she’s a really good person—unlike me. I’ve done some pretty despicable things, and I don’t even have the decency to confess them to her. Because I’m a bastard and I don’t deserve her. I can’t bring one good thing to her life. Not one. I’m a piece of crap for messing around with her to begin with.
But the worst part was how I felt about my decision to go forward. Rather than doing the decent thing and leaving her the hell alone, or doing the conscionable thing and telling her what she deserves to know, I decided I’m going to keep seeing her. I’m going to keep my secrets, because she’d hate me if she knew. And, in the end, I’d rather risk hiding things from her than giving her up. I can’t let her go.
Because I’m a bastard.
Still, it’s a jagged pill, and I found myself choking on it more and more as the day wore on. So here I am, walking away from Violet, yet promising her I’ll call. Which I shouldn’t do. But I know I will.
Because I’m a bastard. And I want her. More than anything, including my soul, which will surely burn for doing this to her.
But will it stop me? No.
Why? Because I’m a bastard.
THIRTY-SEVEN: Violet
“Are you kidding me? What an asshole!” Tia blusters.
“I should’ve seen it coming. I mean, how stupid am I? He’s a twenty-six-year-old playboy. He’s even in a rock band. And he’s a sex addict, for God’s sake!”
“But he seemed like such a nice guy . . .”
“I should’ve known better.”
“Violet, you can’t refuse to take any kind of risk on the off chance you might get hurt. That’s ridiculous! You can’t live like that.”
“Why not? I’ve gotten along just fine for twenty-two years.”
“Oh, yeah right. And what a spectacular life you’ve led.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my life, Tia.”
“Of course there’s not. It’s perfectly normal to have only one friend. It’s perfectly normal to surround yourself with broken people that eat up your time being unfixable. It’s perfectly normal to have zero social life to speak of.”
“You make it sound like I’m some kind of freak. I’ve dated. I’ve gone to bars. I’ve done things. But it’s never worth the aggravation. Avoiding it isn’t pathetic, Tia. It’s prudent.”
“I didn’t say you were pathetic, Vi,” she says, her tone rife with regret. “You’re far from pathetic. But I know you well enough to know that you’re miserable.”
I feel my chin tremble. “I didn’t used to be.”
“Maybe you think you weren’t, but you were. Violet, you watched everyone else live and you stood on the sidelines, waiting for your chance to pick up the pieces when things fell apart for them. Myself included. But that’s no way to live. You have to have something for yourself. You have to have something else to live for.”
“And risk feeling like this?” I murmur woefully. “No thank you.”
“What I don’t understand is why you’re just letting it end this way. Why don’t you confront him? Ask him what the hell?”
“Now that would be pathetic!”
“That’s not pathetic. That’s strong. That would be you taking charge and letting him know you’re not some piece of garbage that he can so blithely toss aside. Because you’re not, Vi! You’re the best thing that has ever happened to him, and if he can’t see that, he’s not just an asshole. He’s a frickin’ stupid asshole.”
