Which is precisely why sitting so close to him in my little red car is a bad idea. But whatever. The chips have been laid, the bet called, and now we’re in a spinning roulette. Here’s hoping we don’t both come away from this empty-hearted.
My phone rings. It’s Pixie.
“Hey, Pix,” I answer.
“Hey! How’s the road trip going?” She sounds ridiculously happy, which is a symptom of her being ridiculously in love, no doubt.
I wonder, for like a nanosecond, if I’ll ever be so in love that I sound that happy. But I quickly banish that thought. Not because I’m anti-love or anything, but because I have other priorities.
“It’s going… okay,” I say, sneaking a peek at Jack. “How’s our dorm room looking?”
“Great. Levi has us pretty much all unpacked and moved in.”
I smile. “Bless that boy.”
“So…” she says. “Ellen just called me.”
I groan. “She told you about Jack?”
He glances at me across the car, but I ignore him.
“Yep,” Pixie says. “So what’s the deal? I thought you were driving solo to New Orleans.”
“I was. But Jack needed a ride back home too and one thing led to another and now he’s sitting beside me.”
“Hey, Pixie!” Jack shouts at the phone with a smile.
“Hey, Jack!” she calls back then sighs cheerfully. “I love how everyone is calling me Pixie now, instead of Sarah.”
“It suits you better,” I say. “So what did Auntie tell you about us?”
“Just that you tried to dump Jack at Willow Inn,” she says. “Come on, Jenna. It can’t be that bad. Personally, I think it’s a good thing you have someone with you. And the fact that it’s Jack is even better.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why?”
She laughs. “Uh, because he’s your friend? And even though you guys have weird sexual tension—”
“We do not have weird sexual tension—”
“Yes, you do. Don’t deny it.”
Jack watches me with amusement and I purposely look away.
“All I’m saying,” Pixie continues, “is that even though you guys have weird sexual tension, you still get along well.”
“What are you talking about? We fight all the time.” Now I do look at Jack.
Pixie scoffs playfully. “My point exactly.”
“Whatever.”
“Fine. Be in denial. It won’t change anything.” I hear the smile in her voice. “But drive safely, okay? And come back soon! I already miss you and you probably haven’t even crossed the border yet.”
I laugh softly. “I miss you too. Later, Pix.”
We hang up and Jack cocks his head at me.
I scowl. “What?”
He grins. “Weird sexual tension, huh?”
I roll my eyes and turn up the radio. “Whatever.”
He looks away from me, but his grin stays in place.
We don’t speak for the rest of our journey through Arizona and I’m grateful for the reprieve. Don’t get me wrong. I like talking to Jack. Truly. He’s fascinating in his own way. Part trouble, part mystery. Playful and pensive. He’s one of the few males on this planet I enjoy conversing with—when he’s not being a dickhead, of course. But at this particular moment, I appreciate his silence. Mostly because it means I’m spared from the sound of his voice.
It’s a manly voice, husky and rough, yet somehow beautiful as it drifts my way and caresses my ears. It’s always been kryptonite for me, much like his omniscient eyes, and in many ways it’s more powerful than even his hands, which is saying something.
But eyes I can turn away from, and hands I can pull back from, but a voice…
A voice is an inescapable lover, unbidden and undeniable. You cannot unhear an enticing phrase or a whispered word, just as you cannot unfeel the heated breath that accompanies such things. And Jack’s voice, especially when saying my name, is my total undoing.
So the silence is welcome as we travel beyond the Arizona border, and even more so when the sun falls behind the mountains in the rearview mirror and dusk sweeps across the desolate New Mexico desert. But as darkness crawls out from the extended shadows of the sunset and slowly ushers in the coming night, the silence starts to grow thick and my mind starts to wander to naughty memories.
Nightfall does this to people, reminds them of darkness and all the things done therein. Activities that evoke pleasure and passion.
Suddenly feeling hot, I crack my window and let a thin wave of warm summer air stream in from the pink-and-purple-streaked sky. I slowly inhale. Even though the air does nothing to cool me down, I still welcome the breeze moving over my skin. Like soft fingertips, gliding inside my elbow… trailing up over my arm… sliding up my neck and along my jaw…
Another shiver moves through me and I curse the sun for setting so soon. Then I curse myself for not living in a place where the sun stays out all day and night during the summer. Like northern Russia. Or Alaska. Yeah, that’s how upset I am with the damn sun. I’m wishing I lived in frigid Alaska.
“You seem antsy,” Jack says.
From the way he reclined his seat when we crossed the Arizona / New Mexico border, I was hoping he’d fall asleep by sunset. No such luck.
I force my shoulders to relax as I roll my neck. “I’m not antsy. Just tired.” That’s not true at all, but explaining to Jack that his mere presence makes me think of sex would just make the descending darkness hotter.
“Perfect timing, then.” He moves his seat back up and stretches his neck. “Since it’s my turn to drive.”
I glance at him. “Seriously? I thought you were joking about that.”
“I never joke about blind people driving.”
The comfort I drew from his silence these past few hours instantly dissipates. “I am not blind.”
“Oh, really,” he says, pointing out the windshield. “Then why don’t you read that neon-green sign way up there?”
I squint at the freeway lights, all of which seem to be glowing. “I don’t see any green sign.”
“My point exactly,” he says. “Pull over.”
I continue searching and frown. “Knowing you, there probably isn’t a green sign at all. Don’t mess with me, Jack. I’m totally fine to drive.”
“There absolutely is a green sign and you are not fine to drive.” When I don’t respond he adds, “Please don’t be stubborn about this. I know your vision gets soft at night, like every light has a halo around it, and I know that makes it difficult to drive.”
Now that I think about it, it does look like there are halos surrounding every light on the freeway. But damn him, I’m still totally fine to drive!
All the blurry halos start to bleed into one another.
Ah, crap.
He sighs. “I know you’re used to doing things on your own, but this is one of those circumstances where having someone with you is actually beneficial. You don’t have to drive at night. It’s safer if you don’t, actually. But if you let me drive, we can cover more ground each day. Why don’t you take the next off-ramp and we’ll stop for some dinner. Then I’ll drive us for a few hours before we stop for the night.”
He’s right. I know it. And honestly, the bleeding halos are starting to freak me out.
“Okay.” I nod then veer right onto the off-ramp, cruising past a neon-green sign as I do.
Dammit.
I take the single exit road to a small strip mall of eating establishments, gas stations, and retail stores then park in front of a burger place. Getting out, we stretch our legs from the long drive.
Jack nods at the trunk. “Where are your glasses?”
I wrinkle my nose. “If you’re driving then I don’t need them.”
“Yeah, well I don’t feel like watching you squint at dinner just so you can see a menu, or your hand in front of your face.” He grins, fully aware that my vision isn’t that bad.
I smile sweetly. “Yeah. It would be a real shame
if I mistook you for a salad and accidentally stabbed you with my fork.”
“A crying shame. Now get your glasses.”
“Oh, I’ll get my glasses,” I bite out, popping the trunk. “Not because you told me to but because I don’t feel like trying to decipher a glowing menu.”
“Right. Of course.”
Digging through one of my bags, I search for my glasses, expecting Jack to make some comment about the amount of luggage I have jammed in the trunk. He says nothing, however, and soon I find my glasses and slam the trunk closed, and we enter the restaurant.
It’s smells like onions and ranch dressing as we walk inside, which should gross me out but instead has me salivating. Apparently, lunch is a meal I should take seriously while on the road. We slide into the nearest booth and my skinny jeans squeak against the sticky red vinyl as I situate myself.
The waitress comes, takes our drink orders, then hurries away as I slip on my glasses. They’re horn-rimmed, hot pink, and studded with rhinestones at the corners—clearly the coolest glasses ever worn—but I still squirm as I move them over my face.
Jack watches me in amusement and I eye him sharply. “What?”
He cocks his head. “What’s your deal with wearing glasses? If you hate them so much why don’t you just get contacts?”
I push the pink frames up my nose with all the sass one can muster when wearing bedazzled glasses. “Oh, I have contacts. Purple ones, neon-green ones, copper ones that make me look like a hungry vampire… But those are for recreational purposes only.”
He lifts a brow. “Oh, I know.”
And… all my naughty desires from earlier suddenly crowd into the booth with me.
Damn him.
As if my natural eye color wasn’t odd enough, I sometimes like to play dress-up with my irises. One of those times was last year. With Jack. Yada, yada, yada.
“But because I only need my glasses at night or for reading,” I continue, sidestepping more bait, “and popping in a pair of gooey contacts before every meal is inconvenient, I carry these babies around.” I tap a finger to one of the rhinestone corners. “At least until I can afford laser surgery.”
He props an arm over the back of the booth. “And surgery will correct your vision so you no longer need glasses?” The mural of inked images twisting around his forearm and bicep demand my attention for a moment, inviting me to run my fingertips over their designs and, you know, other places on Jack’s body. But I quickly recover, like the non-horny, class act I am.
I nod. “Twenty-twenty, baby. Then these librarian spectacles are gone for good.”
He considers that for a moment and a shadow of disappointment passes his eyes. “And it’ll just be your golden cat eyes against the world.”
I don’t know why people always compare me to a cat. Maybe it’s the way I slink about when I walk, or my dark features, or the exotic angle of my yellow-hued eyes. Whatever the reason, people seem to think of me as catlike. And while I typically hate that, there are two people I don’t mind thinking of me as a feline. Pixie is one. The dark-haired, gray-eyed tattoo show sitting across from me is the other.
“Isn’t it always?” I smile smugly.
He stares at me, his gaze penetrating my pink glasses and diving straight through me. “No.”
I let myself stay caged in his silver arrows. It’s warm here. Safe. It’s all the things that I refuse to need, which is precisely why I hate the silky haze it brings.
I snap my attention to the waitress headed back to our table with our drinks, grateful for the distraction.
She sets the ice-cold beverages down. I don’t look at Jack and he doesn’t look at me. Informing us that she’ll be back momentarily to take our orders, the waitress leaves and I have no choice but to look up, where Jack’s eyes wait for mine.
The silky haze returns. Sighing heavily, I banish it from our table with a scowl that could sear a pigeon mid-flight and dart my eyes away.
Flicking our menus up like thin plastic barriers, Jack and I study the restaurant’s dinner selection like we’re prepping for the SATs. The tension slowly dissipates, like it always does, and eventually I relax.
The waitress returns and we give our orders to her waiting pen, hovering over a skinny notepad, poised to scribble down our every wish. It does just that and she reaches for our menus with a cheerful smile.
I reluctantly release my plastic shield and calmly fold my hands on top of the table as she walks away. “So I was thinking we’d drive through Burksbend to get to Little Vail.”
He shakes his head. “Rayfort is faster.”
“Are you sure? I think Burksbend is faster—and it’s a straight shot.”
“It’s not a straight shot. It’s a two-lane highway through mountains. Rayfort is the way to go.”
I think for a moment then shrug. “We’re going through Burksbend anyway.”
He juts his jaw. “Are you always this controlling? God.” He scoffs. “It’s like you can’t relinquish control for even a second. You always have to be in charge. You always have to call the shots. I bet you’re always on top during sex too.”
He says it jokingly, but the truth in his statement catches me off guard and it must show in my face because his eyebrows go sky-high.
“Are you kidding me?” he says in a quiet voice. “You’re always on top when you have sex?”
I shrug. “I like being on top.”
“Yeah, but… you’ve been in other positions before too, right?” When I don’t answer he repeats, “Right?”
I look at the table. “No.”
His mouth falls open then closes as his face crinkles in disbelief. “Even your first time?”
I snap my eyes to him. “I don’t know why this baffles people so much. Girls being on top their first time makes total sense. It gives them the power to control when and where, and how, uh… comfortable things are.” I flick a hand. “Total sense. So yeah. Even my first time.”
He just stares at me.
“Look,” I say, leaning in. “I like to be the power player during sex. The hurricane. The idea of being at some guy’s mercy is just… not sexy. I want to be the queen and absolute authority. So I’m always on top.” I shrug and lean back. “Get over it.”
He shakes his head. “Oh, I’ll never get over it. I can promise you that.”
I don’t know why he’s making a big deal about this. It’s not like I’m a total weirdo because I like to be in control during sex. But still, my cheeks heat with embarrassment and we eat the rest of our meal in silence.
8
Jack
Dinner with Jenna was awkward but checking into the dinky motel just outside of Las Cruces is worse. The motel itself doesn’t seem bad. Clean rooms. Fresh paint. A friendly old man at the front desk. It’s the room situation that tops the uncomfortable tension we shared at dinner.
The kind motel clerk looks more than happy to have guests staying at his humble establishment. “Good evening, folks, and welcome.” He greets us with a smile that could triumph over any hard time, and probably has. “I’m Leroy. Two of you checking in tonight?”
We nod, both too exhausted to form words after our long day on the road.
Leroy grins down at a computer screen. “Would you like a queen bed or double bed?”
“Oh. We’ll actually need two separate rooms¸” Jenna says.
Leroy looks at us, puzzled. “What for?” His eyes bounce from Jenna to me then back to her. I can understand his confusion. We match, Jenna and I. Or at least people think we do.
She’s covered in tattoos. I’m covered in tattoos.
She looks feisty. I look fierce.
She has bronze skin and golden eyes. And I have… well, my skin is two shades paler than hers and my eyes nearly colorless. But we both have dark hair and attitudes, so people tend to assume we’re together, which doesn’t bother me one bit. Jenna, on the other hand…
“For… privacy?” she says, glancing at me like I’m some kind of Peepin
g Tom she’s desperate to get away from.
I scowl at her. “Really?”
“Okay, two rooms.” Leroy types something into his computer then looks up. “How many beds?”
Jenna blinks in confusion. “Uh, two.”
Nodding, he mutters to himself while clacking away at his keyboard, “One room with two queen beds…”
“No.” Jenna shakes her head. “We don’t want two queen beds in one room.”
Leroy frowns at her. “Oh you’ll want queen beds, honey.” He gestures at my height. “Your fellow isn’t going to fit well on a double bed.”
I watch Jenna’s jaw clench and bite back a smile. Now I know why the old man is confused, and it’s not because of our appearance. I’m just waiting for Jenna to figure it out.
“This is not my fellow,” she says. “This is my friend. Just my friend. So we’d like two separate rooms, each with one bed. Please.”
Leroy scratches his head. “You two aren’t engaged?”
“Engaged? What?” Jenna turns to me with an incredulous look, her mouth falling open as a wrinkle forms between her pretty little eyebrows. But then she glances down and her expression freezes in place.
Ah, there it is.
“Oh.” Turning back to Leroy, she holds up her left hand and points to the diamond band on her ring finger. “Yeah, this isn’t an engagement ring.” She shakes her head and pinches her lips. “This a family heirloom, of sorts. I just wear it on this finger because it doesn’t fit on any others.”
Every finger on both of her hands is adorned with a ring of some sort. Jenna is a bit of a jewelry lush, which is only a problem in situations such as these.
Leroy looks at me and I shrug, used to this happening from time to time when I’m with Jenna. The first time it happened it freaked me out. I had just moved to Arizona and the last thing I wanted was some clingy girl parading me around with a ring on her finger. But now it doesn’t bother me at all. And if I’m being totally honest, I kind of like it. Guys see that ring and don’t approach Jenna like they would if she didn’t have it on. I call that a win.