True for You (9 page)
I
cup one, feeling the nipple harden under my palm, and then run my
hand down the side of her body, gripping a curvy thigh and pulling it
around my waist.
“I
like that,” she says in that shy but straightforward way of
hers.
“Wrap
the other one around me, and you’ll love it.”
She
whimpers and purrs, and I’m dying, dying to get inside of her.
But I can’t, not like I want. She’s a virgin.
“If
we do this, I’ll go real slow, baby doll.”
“If
we do this, then we’ll be married and have to get a divorce,”
she gasps, blinking up at me. Her green eyes are focused on me,
though I don’t remember removing her glasses. Maybe she did.
“Divorce
would be the only outcome?” My body goes rigid and not from
wanting her. Hadn’t Violet said the same damn thing to me,
about us, about why she was glad that we’d never gone through
with our plans?
Yet
here I was with a different woman, wearing the same fucking ring I’d
bought my ex, and saying practically the same fucking thing. God, how
could I have been so wrong about Bliss?
“I
would think so, because you—”
“Don’t
worry, baby doll. I don’t want you for the long term.”
She blinks up at me, desire giving way to hurt. “I thought we
could mutually satisfy each other to pass the time.” I trace
the outline of her lush lips. “This mouth of yours has to be
good for something other than kissing mine.”
A
dull flush creeps up her face. “Please let me up.”
I
roll away, keeping my painful smirk in place. “Don’t be
in such a hurry to go. We can sixty-nine, if you don’t think
I’d return the favor.”
She
stares at me blankly. “Sixty-nine?”
“You’d
put your mouth on my cock while I’d put mine…” My
gaze travels down her body, stopping at her—
“
Oh
.”
Her lips, swollen from
my
kisses, smash together before she frowns. Scrambling to her feet, she
smooths down her pink shirt. “Once the storm is over, I’d
like for you to find a way to take me into town, to the bus station.
I’ll be happy to sign whatever you need to make this
unofficial
.”
“Fine.
The storm shouldn’t last much longer, and once the cell phone
towers are working again, I’ll text Cameron to come pick us up
in his boat.”
She
reaches out her left hand, her right hand trembling as she works off
the wedding ring I’d given her. “Here. It’s not
right for me to wear it anymore.”
“Keep
it,” I say flatly, but my gaze is firmly fixed on that small
band of platinum and diamonds. “It means nothing to me.”
“It
could have meant something,” she says softly.
Rising
to my feet, I fight the urge to touch her again, to pull her in my
arms and take her to bed with me. “I’m not that man, the
one you deserve to be with for the rest of your life.”
Hurt
gives way to sadness. Her pretty eyes are shiny, but she doesn’t
cry. I’ve never seen her cry. “But you could have been
that man.”
Curling
her fingers over the ring in the palm of her hand, she backs away,
then turns around and leaves the room.
Jackson
Over
the past five hours, I’ve gone through three different
playlists and managed to write
six
new songs. The last one I wrote, though, is different from the rest.
I
can’t get it out of my head. The melody and the words are
embedded in my brain, right along with the image of Bliss. But what I
did, along with the words I wrote, aren’t right.
I’m
a damn fool for rejecting her. It’s too easy to fall back on
the cocky asshole attitude that’s served me well over the last
few years. Until now, I had rationalized it by saying that it was
only Jaxon Hunter who was the asshole, not me, Jackson Morgan. But
now I know I’ve let the performer merge with the regular guy,
the guy who Violet claimed I used to be.
The
guy who Cameron become friends with, fifteen years ago, when we’d
met at Vacation Bible School. My grandmother had taken me, after my
dad had dropped me off at her house for the summer.
I’d
said hell a lot, in a completely churchy way, of course, and he’d
snickered every time. Then he picked me to make a craft with him and
almost cut off my hand with a buzz saw. Whoever thought woodworking
was an appropriate activity for nine year olds had to have been
sipping too much of the communal wine—though the wine at
Cameron’s church was actually grape juice.
Suffice
to say, I had the best week ever.
Suffice
to say, I’ve had the worst two years ever. Violet and I broke
up, I’m pretty damn sure Cameron and I just broke up—I
roll my eyes—and now Bliss.
Bliss,
Bliss, Bliss
.
Picking
up our marriage certificate, I take a pull of my beer and then choke
on it. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
I
blink at her name. June Bliss Davenport.
June…
Bliss was my June, and I’d let her go?
I mean, I was named
for the song Johnny Cash and June Carter had performed together.
Hell, my middle name is Cash. If my birth mother had anything to do
with my name, I’d eat my guitar, but I’m pretty sure it
was all my dad, trying to stack the odds in my favor.
All
my life, I’d heard from him: “
Son,
once you find your June, then you’ll be set. The writing will
flow and so will the music. You ain’t good for anything else,
without the music.”
Everett’s
right. I’m not good for anything else. What will I do, if I
can’t perform on stage? Making movies was only a temporary
solution and a convenient way to piss off Everett. Not where I wanted
to be at this point in my career.
I’m
still singing the same damn songs, to the same damn tunes, only the
band and my singing partner have changed.
As
in, I don’t have one, because my faux-fiancée went nuts
on my dad for cheating on her. While Violet… I shake my head.
Obviously,
Violet wasn’t my June, no matter how much I wanted her to be,
or how good we were together on stage.
However,
Bliss could be molded. She could be taught simple chords and
Auto-Tune can make anyone a super star, if we needed it.
I
crack each side of my neck, relieving the tension there, ready to
figure out which bedroom Bliss is sleeping in and tell her my plan.
Then
I frown.
I have to convince
her to stay, first.
*** *** ***
Bliss
A
gentle shake and the sound of my name wake me up from a dead sleep.
“What’s wrong… Is it the baby? I’ll go feed
him.”
I’m
back at the Richards, all of eight years old. They’d agreed to
foster me, but after two months of homeschooling without the actually
schooling, I know I’m their new nanny. One that they not only
don’t have to pay while
they
get paid by the state for letting me stay there.
“What
baby?”
“Huh?”
I rub my eyes, Jackson’s image sort of coming into focus. He’s
wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. “Oh. I thought you
were Mr. Richards.” My gaze travels over his sexy body. He’s
leaner than when we first started the tour, nothing but muscle over
bone, under skin that smells good enough to lick.
I
want to touch him so badly that I make my hands clutch the covers
instead.
“Who’s
he?”
I
swear I should keep my mouth shut, but the lack of sleep I’ve
had over worrying about everything has caught up with me. I’m
punch drunk. “My foster parent when I was eight.”
A
sharp intake of breath, and then Jackson carefully places my glasses
on my nose. His face becomes clear, worry and disbelief evident. “You
had a baby at eight?”
“No.
I was in charge of the Richards’ baby when I was eight. He was
such a sweet baby.” I yawn, curling into a ball and taking off
my glasses. I set them back on the table and close my eyes.
“Sometimes I wonder what he looks like now. I miss that little
guy. He was always happy to see me and loved hugs and kisses.”
For a long time, I’d thought the Richards would keep me. Lyle
helped me through the pain and confusion of my parents’ death.
He loved me as much as I loved him.
“Mr.
Richards?”
“You’re
so pretty, Jackson,” I giggle, finding this entire conversation
absurd. “Lyle Richards, Mr. and Mrs. Richards’ baby, is
the one I miss.”
“Oh.”
I feel him run his hand through my hair and I smile, snuggling into
his arm. “Are you still upset with me?” he asks.
“I’m
resigned with you, or is it to you?” I don’t want to
think. I want to enjoy the last days of warmth, peace, a full belly,
and the safety of this house, before I have to leave. “Either
way, I’m not thinking about us anymore.”
The
mattress dips, and I crack open one eye to find Jackson sitting on
the bed, studying me. “Why were you in foster care?”
“Because
a truck driver hit our car when we were travelling to the beach. I
was the only survivor.”
Jackson
curses under his breath. “How old were you?”
“Seven.”
“How
many different places have you lived?”
“Ten.”
“Are
you serious?”
I
exhale. “Too old, too young, too Mexican—my mother was
Columbian by the way and my daddy white— too quiet… too
whatever. When DSS found out the Richards
weren’t actually homeschooling me, they sent me to another
house, and then another, until I was fourteen and the Coreys decided
they wanted me. ”
“Do
you still talk to them?”
The
Coreys are the only people on the planet I’ve ever wished harm
on. They’d taken me in at fourteen and proceeded to make the
next two years of my life a living hell.
“What do you
want, Jackson?” I’m done talking about a past he has no
business knowing.
He
runs a hand through his hair. “To apologize.”
My
heart races, though it should be forbidden to ever do so in his
presence. “Again?” I sit up, facing him. “How many
times do you expect me to forgive you?”
“As
many times as your willing to forgive, and just as many times I won’t
forget what I did.”
“But
you keep repeating the same mistakes,” I point out, struggling
to stay calm. My plan to be the one who saves him, and me in return,
is becoming more and more difficult to follow. I hadn’t
expected his rejections to hurt so much.
“Put
your glasses back on and look at me, sweetheart. I want you to see
how serious I am,” he says, holding out my glasses. “Give
me the chance to make it up to you.”
I
put them on, doing exactly as he asks. He does look serious, but I
wonder what has happened to make him change his mind.
Then
I remember—his inheritance. He needs me to get his money.
Bliss
“I
can’t,” I say. “I’m tired of being hurt by
you, over and over. I’m tired of being rejected, until it’s
convenient or someone owes a debt… or wants their
inheritance.”
“I
don’t give a damn about the money.”
“Then
why did you—oh God, you lied to me.”
He
nods, sheepish. “Yeah.”
“Why?
It makes no sense. You said it yourself. We’re not in love.
We’re not—”
“But
we are desperate for each other. Call me a liar about anything but
that.”
“Liar.”
I glare at him. “You were more than happy for me to stop
touching you.”
He
scrubs his hand over his face. “Give a guy a little slack, baby
doll. You wounded my ego with the assumption of divorce.”
I
gape at him in amazement. “I wounded your ego? There are not
enough pins in this world to deflate that thing.”
“You’d
be surprised just how easy it is, coming from the right person,”
he says wryly.
My
mind whirls. He wants me. He doesn’t want me. He needs me for
money. He doesn’t need me for money. Are all celebrities like
him—forever changing their minds to suit their moods?
“What do you
need me for? And don’t give me some bullcrap answer about
pissing off your dad. I’m sure you could find a million ways to
piss him off that don’t involve getting married to someone.”