Текст книги "Jesse"

Автор книги: Jo Raven

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“Hey there,” Jesse says, hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets, eyes sparkling. “How’re things?”

Standing there, talking as if they see each other every day. Yeah, I’ve often wondered how others do it. It’s just one of those things I can’t wrap my head around.

Seeing as they are fine talking to each other, I’m probably not going to be missed, so I turn to go to my room, to finally get that much-needed moment and space.

“Embers.” His deep voice catches me like a fish on a hook.

I stop, a shiver dancing down my spine. “Told you, that’s not my name.”

“But you like it.”

I turn around to glare at him. “No, I don’t.”

“Um, guys.” Kayla lifts her hands and sighs. “Sorry to interrupt the fun, but I have to go. I’m meeting with some friends and I’m late.”

I watch her skip past Jesse to get her purse and light coat, and groan inwardly.

“Traitor,” I hiss between my teeth. She didn’t seem to be in such a hurry to go two minutes ago.

Jesse’s brows climb up, then he shrugs and fixes his gaze on me. “Then I guess it’s just you and me, Embers.”

Everything in my body tightens pleasurably. Okay, how can this be? I don’t like drawing attention, but I do like having his attention on me.

“By the way, she’s right, you know,” Kayla the traitor says as she steps through the still open door to go. “That’s not a name.”

“Oh, come on.” He bends his head forward and chuckles. “You gotta admit it sounds nice.”

“It’s cute,” she says, compounding her treason, and leaves me alone. With Jesse James. Or Lee. Or whatever his name is.

I turn on him, hands on my hips. “What do you want?”

“That sounds like a trick question.” He winks.

“Does it? You barged in here, and you think asking you what you want is a trick question?”

“Hey now. I didn’t barge in here. You opened the door.” He lifts his hands much like Kayla did. I think I scare people.

Good. Better them than me.

“You’re an ass.”

He grins. “And a fine one, too.”

Oh dear God. “You’re a dick.”

He nods solemnly, but his eyes dip to my cleavage and darken to forest green. “A big, big dick.”

Crap, I walked right into this one, didn’t I? Of course, I’ve always had trouble recognizing plays on words and jokes, though nowadays I’ve more or less gotten the hang of it.

I should be upset. He’s teasing me, and teasing, in my book, is a prelude to hurting me.

But the smile lingering on his full lips takes the sting away, and what’s more, it’s hot. Way too hot. Heat rushes to my face, flames licking my cheeks, and a pulse starts between my legs.

This is so not happening. “Stop being such a jerk.”

“You say that affectionately.” He’s somehow moved closer to me while I was busy self-combusting, and his scent engulfs me, something hot, spicy and heady like mulled wine. “Like that pet name you gave me.”

What? I stare at the dark brows over his intense eyes, the faint stubble on that square jaw, that mouth and… Oh God. I’ve lost the thread. Again.

I tear my gaze from his face, glancing down at his bare arms. One of them is heavily inked with swirling colors and a snake.

A cobra, I think, done in red and green, curling on his thick bicep. And underneath the riot of colored ink swathing his arm from shoulder to wrist, faint crisscrossing lines catch my eyes, some thin and some thick, dark and raised.

Scars.

His voice startles me. “This place sure looks different when it’s not full of people.”

“You mean it looks empty.”

He chuckles, warm and delicious like a treacle of melted hot chocolate. “And nice.”

“Although there’s no blonde wrapped around you and no sucking involved?”

His eyes widen. Then he tries to speak and chokes on the words.

“You…” He shakes his head as he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Shit.”

Yeah, I’m not only antisocial, I also don’t have any control over my mouth. Double whammy. Who wouldn’t want to be around me?

“So what do you want?” Might as well get this over with, so we can both go on our separate ways—he, back to his blonde and the sucking, and me, to my room and my beads.

He flinches, a barely there twitch that has me wondering if I even saw it. “I lost… something. A leather wrist band. I can’t find it since the party here, and I thought to ask in case you saw it anywhere.”

I remember seeing the band on his arm that night. “It was an old thing, wasn’t it?” Old, worn and starting to fray.

“It’s…” He rubs his forehead, frowning. “It’s important to me.”

He’s been an ass. Sort of. He’s been pushy. Kind of. He scares me.

But the uncertainty is back in his eyes, and now I know I didn’t imagine it. And although I’m not sure what to do with it, this glimpse beneath the sunny surface that defines Jesse Lee, I wish… I wish I could. I wish I had the courage to prod and break the brittle skin, the scab over a wound I can only guess at.

“I haven’t seen it,” I say, and his jaw tightens. Wow, this bracelet really seems important to him. “But I’ll look around. We’re still cleaning after the party from hell.”

“Thanks.” His mouth quirks. He shifts back and leans against the wall, and I try hard not to notice how good he looks in a faded green T-shirt and low-slung jeans, not to stare at the bulge between his legs.

Oh God, I’m checking out his package. Crap, no way. I have to stop.

“So…” He shifts, and damn if my eyes don’t drop again to his crotch. “Why did you hate the party so much?”

“I didn’t hate it.”

“Liar.” He’s grinning. His mouth is made for it, I think, so wide and sensuous. Sexy. Kissable.

Oh no. You don’t go there, girl. Enough of this.

I perch on the couch and bite my lip, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. “The party was fine. The problem is me. I’m not sociable and outgoing, if you haven’t noticed. I’m working on it.”

There. See if he doesn’t run from me now. The antisocial freak nobody would want to hang out with.

“Working on it?”

I shake my head. Maybe this was a bad idea, too, because I don’t want to explain. Counter-attack it is. “What’s the story of your wrist band?”

“There is no story.”

I lean forward. “Now who’s the liar?”

He grimaces, a twist of his lips, morphing immediately back into a smile. It always returns, that smile. A default setting.

Like my glare.

“I need to get to work,” he says instead of an answer to my question—and accusation—and I slump on the couch.

What did I expect, that after three minutes of conversation he’d open his heart to me? That we’d be best buddies?

Come on, Amber. Just goes to show how little you understand people. Besides, it’s not like you opened up, so why would he?

But as he turns to go, a long-fingered hand already gripping the door handle, he hesitates. Those broad shoulders tense, a ripple going through his back.

“The leather band…” He draws a long breath, lets it out. “It was given to me by someone who meant a lot to me, back when I was a kid. Later I lost her, and that’s all I have left of her.”

My heart falters, then starts again. A lump forms in my throat at the naked, raw pain in his voice. There’s so much I want to ask him, but he opens the door, steps out.

“Hey.” I hop off the couch and start after him. “Wait.”

He turns, a brow lifting. “What is it?”

I shrug. “Sorry for calling you names… earlier.”

“You may regret saying that,” he mutters, but some of the tension leaches from his shoulders. He gives me another of those faint smiles that make my chest warm. “I deserve those names. I’m a pain in the ass.”

“I doubt that,” I mumble, wondering why I’m saying this. Ten minutes ago I would’ve agreed whole-heartedly. “You’re not that bad. Goodnight, JJ.”

His smile spreads, brightening his eyes. “Night, Embers.”

I cock my head at him as he leaves, trying to figure him out. It’s not until later when I realize I called him JJ again.

Crap.

Chapter Six

Jesse

The day passes in a blur, with her words echoing in my mind. She said I’m not that bad. Ha. I’m worse than she can imagine.

I wipe down a table, annoyed when I realize I’m grinning. How can this girl have so much power over me?

And she called me JJ again.

I bow my head, breathe out a sigh. Her calling me by this silly nickname shouldn’t feel so good. It doesn’t mean anything, no matter what I keep saying. People give each other nicknames all the time.

Then why do I want to laugh out loud? Why do I find myself stopping whatever I’m doing, thinking of her?

Fucking hell, this girl. She makes me feel and I don’t wanna do that. Thought I got rid of feelings long ago. In fact, I shouldn’t see her again, should avoid her, find another chick to work out this restless energy, this stiffening of my dick every time I think of her.

To get rid of thoughts of her naked underneath me as I push into her, fucking that sweet pussy until she screams my name, and—

“You okay, J?” Megan appears by my side, and I remain bent over the table, doing my best to hide a massive hard-on.

“Yeah.” My mouth is dry, voice gone raspy. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. You keep spacing out today.” Her dark eyes meet mine squarely. She’s a pretty girl with a core of steel. No wonder Rafe can’t live without her. “I’ve been meaning to ask you… Is everything okay in that apartment of yours?”

I blink, not sure what’s she asking. It’s as if there are hidden words inside her question. “Yeah. Why?”

“Oh, you know.” She tugs on her ponytail. “You’ve complained about your roommates, now and then. I just hope it’s nothing serious.”

What is she asking me? I straighten, cock my head at her. “You’re worried about me? I can take care of myself, Meg. I’m a big boy.”

She smiles, shakes her head. “Worry is an irrational thing. Something you feel for someone you like. That’s how friendship works, J.”

I stare after her, long after she’s vanished at the other end of the café, taking care of customers. Well, I don’t know much about friendship, or any other normal relationship. Who was gonna teach me such things, huh? God knows Helen tried, but then she was gone.

The thought of her hurts. I breathe around the spike of pain in my chest and do my best to switch off my mind for the rest of the day.

Fat chance.

***

Spending my whole shift at the taco joint with a hard-on for a girl who doesn’t much like me is a first. Not a pleasant experience, either. I can barely walk with a boner like an iron pole between my legs, and keeping my mind on the customers is near impossible when all I can see in my mind is her.

She looked feral, with her dark hair loose, her blue eyes smoky and that off the shoulder white blouse, half-transparent in the slanted afternoon light, the flower prints doing little to hide the dark shadow of her bra and the swells of her breasts, or the sweet dip of her waist above the flare of her hips.

Fuck me, she’s like a wet dream.

And what makes it even sexier: she doesn’t seem to realize how hot she is. All she did was glare at me, call me names, everything but shove me out the door, and I just stood there, panting like a dog, wanting so badly into her panties I thought I’d self-combust.

Mel is giving me the Look, which means he’s curious working on pissed. I know the signs. I’m very good at telling when someone’s about to get medieval on my ass, and I force my mind off Embers and push my feet to move faster, boner or not.

I need this job. Need this money. Fuck, I need Mel’s approval. I’ve been working here for the past year, and he’s been like a father to me, stern and also kind, like the time when he insisted I take a day off to rest when I was down with a nasty flu and paid me regardless. Kinda like a father.

Not like I can remember mine at all.

“You should get some new clothes, boyo,” Mel grumbles as I ferry tacos and enchiladas from his cooking station to the counter. “Those jeans of yours are falling apart, and your T-shirts aren’t faring much better. People will think I don’t pay you enough.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I’ve known I need new clothes for a while now, but I hesitate. My jeans still hold. My boots can be fixed and keep for another couple of months.

I don’t spend money easily. When you’ve had to choose between buying new shoes or food for the week, anything edible to calm the nagging ache of hunger in your stomach, day after day, month after month, you don’t throw money down the drain.

Then again… Mel is right. I work with people. My clothes have to look okay. Living in this world where a hole in your shoe is an issue, where spending four dollars on a coffee is considered normal, where people debate over brands and quality is still beyond me. I feel like an alien intruder, like a tourist from another universe.

Not that I don’t spend on what matters, I think, my mind finally, thankfully drifting away from a certain pretty, pissy girl. And I know what matters. Since I was a kid I had to make decisions that could well mean life or death. Buying a burger instead of a chocolate. Buying a shirt instead of a toy. Eating fast when there was food. Getting out while things were good before they went south.

Some habits are hard to break.

I chew on this as I serve a lovey-dovey couple their tacos with extra cheese, extra chili, extra zing. I never thought about it this way, but could it be why I like being around Embers so much? Because I do like being around her, despite her temper. She makes me feel calm, in control. Excited but also peaceful.

Being around her isn’t moonlight and roses. She doesn’t pretend to like me, doesn’t make it easy for me. Doesn’t invite me in, or offer me anything. Hell, at her apartment she didn’t even offer me a glass of water. Every little thing I drag from her—a pet name, a smile—is a victory I worked for.

Being around her isn’t easy. It hurts when she treats me like shit, when she seems disgusted with me. Things between us aren’t good, even though we seemed to reach some sort of truce.

And that means I don’t have to run away, forget her name. Not yet, at least, and it’s funny how relieved that makes me. Never felt this way before, and if that’s crazy, well then, frankly, crazy doesn’t scare me anymore.

***

“Earth to Jesse Lee.” Zane pokes at my chest, and I take a step back as he brushes by to grab the tattoo gun. “Trouble?”

“Nah.” I blink, afterimages of Amber in her see-through blouse flashing behind my eyes. “Just a bad night.”

“You seem to be getting a lot of bad nights lately,” Zane says and grabs the drawing from the bench. “Just saying, man.”

I rub a hand over my face, try hard to find my calm. “My roommates were having a sort of party when I came home.”

It didn’t help that I kept dreaming of Amber and waking up with my hand down my briefs, stroking myself. Can’t stop picturing her pouty mouth, imagining what it’d be like to touch her, fuck her. Kiss her, suck on her soft lips.

Hell.

“Fucker, are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah.” I run a hand over my closely-cropped hair and sigh. “What?”

Zane chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m saying your jeans have holes so big I can almost see your balls, and that’s not something I wanna experience.” His eyes narrow when I wince. “What’s going on, J? If it’s money you need…”

“No, I don’t need any goddamn fucking money.” I snap my mouth shut. What the hell’s wrong with me? I scrub a hand over my face. “Sorry, Z-man. I just can’t take—”

“—pity? Charity? Well, it’s neither.” His jaw is clenched tight, and a seed of apprehension shoots roots inside my chest. “Try worry, fucker. That’s what it is, and hell if I’m ever gonna apologize for worrying about you.”

I lean back on the bench and grip its edge until my knuckles turn white. “Yeah. I…” I lick my dry lips. “I know.”

“Good.” Dark eyes flashing, he motions at the drawing. “Ready to give this a try on real flesh today?”

My breath catches in my throat. “On a customer? Today? No way, man. I’m not ready.”

“I think you are.” He nods wisely, Yoda-like, and hands me the tattoo gun. Or tries to hand it to me.

“Wait, Z-man. What if I make a mistake and piss off your customer? It’s not something you can just wipe away, and I’ve never fucking tried—

“You have to start one day,” Zane says, slow and low, giving me a steady look. “And I judge that you’re ready. If you piss my customer off,” he lifts a hand to forestall whatever I’m about to say, even if I have no fucking clue what that might be, “then you’ll piss him off. It’s okay. Mistakes can happen to the best of us. You don’t stop because of a mistake, fucker. You keep going, keep learning.”

I clamp my mouth shut and take the gun. When the customer arrives, I hide my nervousness, follow the steps Zane taught me in my mind and ink part of the tattoo covering the man’s entire back.

Sweat drips into my eyes, and I let it, not daring to stop sinking the needle into the man’s flesh, drenching it in color. Again and again and again, until I feel Zane’s hand heavy on my shoulder and pass the tattoo gun back to him.

Faintly I hear him say I did a good job, and the elation from having done it and from my mentor’s praise is lost in the buzzing in my ears and the staccato of my pulse.

What he said earlier is perfectly logical. Nothing can happen to me if a customer is upset—unless Zane gets upset with me, too, and throws me back out on the street.

Then again, I’m pretty sure that’s only a matter of time.

***

The sky is only starting to pale outside my window when I roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, my heart pounding. Snatches from my dreams ricochet inside my head, bouncing back and forth. Rough hands grabbing me, pushing me against the wall. Fire radiating through my back and chest. Dim streets, cold and hunger.

Despair. Fear. Sorrow.

Pain.

I splash my face with cold water, shivering, and swallow the sourness in my throat. Fuck. I stare at my bloodshot eyes in the cracked mirror and rub the demon inked on my chest.

You’re safe, I tell myself, Helen’s voice echoing behind my words. You’re safe, warm and healthy. There’s food in the kitchen. You don’t have to do anything you hate to get that food. Hell, you can return to the warmth of your bed and nobody will kick you out.

For now, the voice whispers. And tomorrow?

Dammit.

Instead of going back to bed, I make my way to the kitchen. I open the fridge to make a sandwich, and hell if I don’t find half my sliced bread gone. What the fuck?

Typical. Unless I put my stuff under key and lock, my roommates seem to think I’m inviting them to partake.

Clenching and unclenching my hands, I breathe through my anger and the hit of panic. It’s just food, I tell myself. Just some bread. You have enough now. No need to fight over it.

Apparently roommates share everything. That’s what Travis told me the other day. Well, I’m sorry I didn’t get the fucking memo. In the group homes where I lived, we didn’t own anything, and we had to fight tooth and nail even for those few things allocated to us.

But that’s over. Over and done with. Not going back there.

Jesus.

It still takes me a moment to move, to grab what’s left, take the ham and slap a sandwich together. The anger remains, though it’s not aimed at my roomies anymore. It takes me a minute to realize it’s aimed at myself—for panicking, for falling back into the past.

And where else would I fall back to, if not the past? It’s what’s behind me, what made me who I am. How can I escape it?

“Dude.” A rusty voice from the kitchen door startles me so badly I almost drop the sandwich. “Whatcha doing up so early? The sun isn’t up yet.”

“Gage.”

His hulking presence fills the kitchen, and I force myself not to retreat. Hell, I’m almost six foot tall, and I train at the gym with the guys whenever I can. Every morning I do sit-ups and push-ups in my room before I head out. I can take him if needed.

Which shouldn’t matter, because this is my roommate who’s currently ignoring me in favor of rummaging in the fridge for breakfast—but on the heels of a night of nightmares liberally mixed with memories, his height and physical mass has me feeling cornered. It doesn’t help that he’s blocking my way out of the kitchen.

“I heard you across the hallway,” he says as he straightens with a box of juice. He lifts the box and drinks straight from it, eyeing me all the while.

“Heard what?” I try to think if I jerked off last night, but I’m pretty sure I dropped like a rock.

“You were shouting something.” He finishes the juice and throws it into the trash. “Couldn’t make out what it was. Nightmare?”

“None of your business,” I mutter between clenched teeth. If he doesn’t move out of the way, I’ll damn well kick him in the nuts, and we’ll see who will be shouting this time. “Move, Gage.”

“Why are you so prickly, man?” He actually folds those massive arms over his chest and plants his feet apart. “I wanna help.”

“With what? I don’t need your help. What I want is to head back to my room, and you’re in the fucking way.”

“Hey now.” He takes a step toward me, and I let go of my plate to better defend myself, bending my knees and raising my fists.

He makes a wild grab at my plate and rescues it, along with the food.

“Damn.” He huffs and shakes his head, staring at the dish and then me with eyes round as saucers. “Fuck, dude. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

A whole lot is wrong with me. Where to start? “Fuck off.”

He places the dish on the counter and steps away, hands raised. “Okay. Fine. If you wanna talk, you know where to find me.”

My pulse is so loud in my ears I can barely hear him, and my chest is so tight I can’t breathe. I grab my plate, put an arm around it protectively, even though consciously I know Gage won’t try to take it from me—but you never know, right?—and walk out of the kitchen on shaky legs.

Appetite gone, I carry my sandwich into my room, close and lock the door and lean back against it.

Fucking hell. I need… something. Probably painkillers, a mug of extra-strong coffee and a run around the block—but that’s not it.

Embers. That’s who I need.

No, dammit. I thump my fist back against the door. I don’t need a person. Not that. I’m okay on my own.

The images from the nightmare rush back as the stench of my sour sweat clinging to my sheets hits me. They stink of fear, just like my skin.

Staggering to my bed, I sink on the mattress, plonk the plate down by my side and struggle to push down the fucked up mess that’s inside my head—the ugly jagged tangle of emotions, the sharp sting of memories I’d hoped I buried, the ever-present restlessness and tension.

Who is the guy in my dream? My uncle, a faint memory insists, but I don’t trust it. Can’t remember living with an uncle. Can’t remember much from my childhood.

The past can’t touch me. I’m fine. I don’t need anyone.

But even as I force myself to eat, as I pull on my sweats and go out for a jog, as I pound the sidewalk with my running shoes and see the run rise, all I can see is her face, and all I feel is the desperate urge to touch her. Smell her. Hear her voice. I don’t know how to battle against this need.

I don’t know if I can.