Beast (13 page)

Ruthie curls her legs under her as she sits on the couch next to me, pulling her cherry cola off of the coffee table. “So…how are things with Chess?” She and Nadia both give me cartoonish, expectant eyes.

I purse my lips and stare pensively into the bag of chips, not quite sure how to answer them.

Nadia props her head against the back of the loveseat in my living room. “Oh no,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Dead silence is never a good sign.”

Ruthie leans towards me, her voice drowning out the TV playing Food Network in the background. “You
did not
,” she challenges me.

“I did not what?” I ask confused.

“You did
not
find a fault with the world’s second most perfect man,” she admonishes.

Nadia furrows her brows playfully. “The world’s
second
most perfect man? Who’s number one?”

Ruthie shoots her a look. “My husband…duh.” Then, she turns her attention back to me. “So, what did Senator Chester Davidson – next president of the United States, might I add – do to get on your bad side?”

I sigh. “It’s nothing. He’s great.”

Ruthie grabs the bag of chips out of my hand. “I’m not buying that for a second,” she hocks. “Spit it out.”

I lean into the arm of the couch. “It’s just that…he’s just
too
perfect, y’know? He lays on the flattery too thick. It kind of makes it hard to trust him.”

Nadia frowns, looking perplexed. “He compliments you too much? That’s your biggest grievance against the guy?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m just having a really hard time getting excited about him. And I know, I know – I’m lucky that he’s interested in me ‘cause he’s a real catch and women would line up around the block to get a shot with him, but…”

“Wait – this isn’t about Mr. One-Night-Stand, is it?” Nadia scrunches up her nose.

Her reference to Liam has my heart pounding. I’m ashamed to admit that every time I’m with Chess, the biggest part of me wishes that it was Liam next to me. I can’t admit that to anyone but myself.

The gentleman. The beast. The two men in my life. One opens door for me and drapes his coat around my shoulders when it’s chilly in the room. The other fucked me, wet and spread-eagle on his desk at 1:00 in the morning, and then told me that we should just be friends.

And still, for some fucking reason, I’m having a hard time deciding which is a better choice for me…I’m an idiot.

“You should have seen the way the women were looking at him when we were in Scarsdale this weekend –”

Ruthie holds up a hand to stop me. “Wait, wait, wait. What? You were in Scarsdale this weekend?” She inches closer to me on the couch.

Now, I feel guilty that I didn’t mention my little trip to my friends. “Yes.”

“And, why am I just hearing about this now?” she asks, eyes piercing into me in the dark living room.

I shrug. “I guess it wasn’t a big deal. He had a few days off of the campaign trail and he asked me to come hang out with him.”

Nadia’s eyes go wild. “So, how was the sex? He looks like the type of guy who’d be great in bed. Tall, big hands—”

“We haven’t had sex,” I admit coyly.

Ruthie lets out a loud groan and Nadia slaps her hand to her forehead in disappointment. Ruthie collapses dramatically against the couch. “What a waste!”

“Jasmine – are you gay? Or is he? What the hell!” Nadia shrieks.

“We’ve agreed to take things slow,” I say defensively. “It’s easier that way.”

“I really think you should give him my number,” Nadia grumbles.

Ruthie nods in agreement. “I know, right?”

I turn my eyes back to the TV. I feel my heart tighten, full of longing for Liam. “You guys just don’t get it.”

Ruthie gives me sympathetic eyes before she bumps her shoulder into mine. “Jazz, don’t ruin a good thing just ‘cause you don’t realize how lucky you are.”

I watch as Shadow slides into the booth across from me. We’re meeting at the same seedy, little pub again. He wears a black trucker cap pulled low over his eyes. He rests his elbows on the table as he slides back the long sleeves of his black Henley shirt, revealing the tattooed flesh of his forearms.

I lean in anxious to hear what he has to say. “So?” I ask unable to mask the agitation in my voice. The blond bartender from last time comes over and places two beers on the table between us. She smiles at me before she twirls on her heels and walks back to the bar.

Shadow gives me an apprehensive look as he slides one of the beers towards him and takes a long swallow. “I looked into the politician,” he finally says.

“Yes?” I pound my fist into the table. I hate that he’s toying with me, getting me all riled up.
Just spit it out already, man.

He leans back, stretching his long legs under the table and throwing his arm across the back of the seat beside him. “He’s clean.”

My eyebrows pinch as my insides constrict tight. “He’s clean?”

Shadow just shrugs, taking another sip of his beer. “He’s clean. No shady sources of campaign financing. No jilted ex-business partners. No drunken, wild nights during college. The guy is as strait-laced as they come.”

I growl, disappointment skittering down my spine. This isn’t the news I was hoping for. I’d wanted Shadow to come back to me with a dossier full of Chester Davidson’s sins. I’d wanted Shadow to tell me that the Pretty Boy Politician is the scum of the earth, that he’s a piece of shit criminal, swindling son-of-a-bitch.

And then I’d be justified in swooping in and rescuing Jasmine from him.

But he’s clean. He’s a good guy. Jasmine doesn’t need my saving.

Shadow’s dark eyes observe me. It makes me uncomfortable, the weight of his stare on me. “What?” I grunt.

He taps the bottom of his beer bottle against the table between us, a contemplative expression on his face. “You didn’t exactly give me a lot of detail to go on, Cartwright. What kind of dirt am I looking for? What do you plan on using it for?”

There’s no way I’m about to admit to him that I’m doing all this because a woman stole my barb-wired heart and I’m in hell every time I see her in Davidson’s arms. So, I say, “I need something personal on him. I need to know about his personal life. There’s got to be something there.”

Shadow nods curtly, giving me a small salute. “Yes sir.” He slides the empty bottle across the table and stands. “Don’t contact me. I’ll contact you when I have something.”

I waited until she was leaving her office just after 9 p.m. She was dressed in spandex leggings with a band of hot pink fabric hugging her gorgeous tits and leaving a strip of tight, bare stomach visible under her half-zipped windbreaker jacket. She had her gym bag slung over her shoulder as I approached her in the hallway, pretending that I was on my way out the door as well.

We talked for a while. I asked her about the cases she’s working on and she raved about the tuna club sandwich we’d shared at lunchtime. Then, she mentioned having to go to the gym but not being in the mood. That’s when I suggested that she come jogging along the riverbank with me.

“You run like a girl,” Jasmine shouts at me over her shoulder as she leans forward and braces her knees, breathing hard and fast out of her mouth.

The sight of her like that – sweaty and flushed, bent over in her skintight workout gear – has my mind wandering into inappropriate territory. I slow to a halt and quickly adjust the erection tenting my jogging shorts right before she straightens up and turns to face me.

“I was just trying to go easy on you,” I say tauntingly as I brush drops of sweat off of my forehead.

We’d stopped by my loft first. I’d changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt and she’d left her gym bag sitting at the foot of my bed. Then, we’d jogged from my apartment at Battery Park all the way to the West Village before turning around and running back. The jog had been easy enough for me since I run this path every day but poor Jasmine had pushed hard, struggling not just to keep up with me, but to stay a step ahead. She’s got a competitive streak and it’s seriously hot.

She reaches out and grabs my shoulder for support as we trudge back to my loft. I like the feel of her hand on me. I push open the door and she walks inside first, kicking off her shoes by the door and collapsing on the carpeted flooring of the living area.

“You’re gonna need to warm down,” I warn her. She isn’t used to running like this. If she doesn’t take the time to stretch out her body, tomorrow she’ll be paying the price.

“I’m dying,” she grunts. “My calf muscles are screaming at me.”

I kick off my shoes and sit next to her. “I’m telling you – warm your muscles down.”

“Argh…Gimme a second,” she moans sprawled off on the floor.

She looks so fucking amazing. Man – I just want to kiss her, climb on top of her and sink deep inside. I’m a lunatic for thinking that I could just be friends with a woman like this. Especially since I’ve already had a taste of her and I know how good it feels to be buried balls-deep in her while she moans my name.

She rolls over onto her side and slowly rises to her feet. She slogs to the kitchenette and complaining about her sore muscles as she throws open the fridge. I’m not used to having people in my personal space, touching what’s mine, but she’s comfortable here. I love watching her move about in my home. It feels like she belongs here. Plus, watching the expression on her face as she surveys the barren shelves of my refrigerator entertains me.

She reaches for a box of orange juice and flips it around. She reads the expiry date out loud and shudders.

“I can order a pizza,” I offer as I rise off of the floor and go over to lean on the counter opposite the fridge. It’s already midnight but in New York City, I can get just about anything delivered at any hour.

She spins around and gives me a pointed look. “Pizza? You’re kidding, right? I just ran a thousand miles and there’s no way I’m gonna sabotage all that hard work by eating pizza right now.”

“Had to offer…” I just shrug and watch as she picks a half-empty bottle of strawberry jam out of the fridge. She checks the expiry date and seems satisfied with it.

“So hungry…” she mutters as she grabs a spoon from the utensil drawer and hops up onto the counter next to me. She pops the lid off and digs in with the spoon. “Mmm,” she cries as her eyes flicker shut and she sucks hard on the spoon, kicking her feet in front of her.

And now I’m imagining that the spoon is my cock and that her lips are wrapped around it.
Shit
.

I shift away from her, adjusting my erection yet again.

She doesn’t seem to notice. She’s bewitched by the jam. “You really should do some groceries,” she says when her eyes finally slide open.

“I don’t know how to cook,” I say, my gaze fixed on her mouth as she slides her tongue over the corner of her bottom lip to lap up a trace of jam.

“I’ll cook for you,” she offers casually as she hops off of the counter, tosses the empty bottle into the trash and puts the spoon in the dishwasher. “I’m not great in the kitchen but I’m obsessed with the Food Network so I can figure something out.”

My stomach swirls at the idea of this woman serving me a home-cooked meal wearing nothing but an apron and a grin.

I swallow back the image. “Sounds good.”

She smiles at me as she brushes past me, towards the bathroom. She really knows her way around this place.
I like that
.

“Can I borrow a towel?” she asks. “I forgot to throw one in my gym bag.”

“Sure,” I say as I pad over to the hallway closet and grab her a fluffy green towel.

She’s already in the bathroom with the door closed when she opens it a crack and says, “I’m taking a quick shower. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” I say, forcing myself not to imagine her naked, lathering up with my soap bar and using my shampoo to wash her hair.

I sit on the couch trying to distract myself from the thought of the water spraying her body, riveting down her skin. I want the woman so bad. I want her to be mine. But I’ve got to settle for her friendship because I’m ugly and twisted. Inside and outside. My love would ruin her.

The war is over. There are no bombs falling around me and no mangled bodies lying in the streets but everyday, there’s a battle in my head and nobody knows it but me.

I am a prisoner of war.

I can’t hold her captive with me.

I hear the water shut off and Jasmine emerges from the bathroom wrapped in the bath towel, her dark hair falling long and damp down her sculpted back. “Sorry, I forgot to take my gym bag with me,” she mumbles as she snatches the bag off of the floor and hurries back into the bathroom.

And that moment right there – seeing her soft and wet and vulnerable – it put ideas in my head.
Maybe there’s a way for me to be good enough for her. Maybe I can go to more therapy sessions, have Dr. Andrews change my pills, get a few more rounds of reconstructive surgery to make my scars less visible…Maybe I can make this girl mine
.

But that’s just crazy talk. False hope. You can’t stick enough band-aids on me to make me whole again, to make me the man that Jasmine Santiago needs.

She comes out of the bathroom dressed in a loose-fitting t-shirt and black leggings. Her hair is piled into a messy knot on her head. She drops onto the couch and blocks a yawn with her tiny palm.

She looks so fucking cute
. How do I keep from telling her that?

“I’m gonna jump in the shower,” I say as her new smell fills my lungs. I’m gonna need a long, cold rinse to tame this wayward hard-on.

I stay in the bathroom for a really long time, trying to wash my feelings for her down the drain, trying to remind myself that friendship is all I can give her. I step out of the bathroom but she isn’t where I left her on the couch.

Instead, she’s in my bed, curled up under my sheets, hugging my pillow as she sleeps.

She looks perfect in my bed. Like she belongs there.

I sit on the floor, leaning against the wall directly in front of the bed. I watch her sleep, her chest rising and falling with her breath. “Oh Jasmine. My beautiful, beautiful Jasmine. I wish that things could be different,” I whisper into the air.

And as much as I’m tempted to crawl in bedside her and mold my large, hulking frame to her shapely, feminine curves, I slink over to the couch and stare up at the ceiling until the sound of her breathing lulls me to sleep.