Must Be Crazy: (Melissa and Jackson) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 2) (14 page)

Dennis returns with an Asian chicken salad, a tall glass of ice water, four Tylenol, an Airborne tablet fizzing in another glass, and an artisan roll, already buttered.

I sit up on the edge of the bed. “Do I pay you enough?”

“Yes.” Dennis cracks a smile. “Yes, you do.”

“Good.”

“Company tonight?” Dennis asks. “It’s late, but it
is
Saturday. I could put the word out, do a spontaneous after-party.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t want a single fucking person here.”

“Fair enough. Anything else?”

“No, I’m fine,” I say. “I need to sleep this off. Go … do whatever it is you do when you’re not here.”

“Text me if you need something,” Dennis says as he walks out of the room.

I down half the water, and eat some of the salad. But I still feel like crap.

What the fuck is happening to me?

When I thought up this plan, sitting on Melissa’s couch, I felt like a kid with a new toy. I was going to take her out, show her a great time, blow her mind.

And then, fucking hell, she went and blew mine.

I was paralyzed on the drive from the airport to Jetty Beach. The closer we got to the coast, the bigger the gaping hole in my chest grew. By the time we turned into the little town, the feeling was unbearable. I stared out the window, convinced we were going to get in an accident and she’d be killed. I imagined a tsunami crashing in, taking out the whole town, and Melissa with it. What if something bad happened to her, and I wasn’t around? I was about to drop her right back into her life, and leave her there.

Why couldn’t I deal with that? Why do I feel like I’m dying inside?

I’ve never been with a woman I couldn’t just walk away from. Usually I get bored, or they get too needy, and I cut things off. Simple. I tried a real relationship for a while, tried staying committed to her, even when the fun wore off. But in the end, I didn’t see the point. We mostly just made each other miserable, so I ended it and moved on. I walked away.

Walking away from Melissa wasn’t the same.

I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye. The word had been too much, I couldn’t utter it. So I turned around and left without saying anything. I got in the limo, and poured myself a drink. It wasn’t my finest moment.

But, fuck, I’m confused. I don’t understand all these goddamn feelings, because I’ve never felt any of them before. I don’t even know what they are.

I leave the rest of my dinner uneaten, and crash back on my bed. My phone blinks with notifications, but I don’t care. I type out a tweet, a voice in the back of my head telling me I might regret it in the morning, and toss my phone onto the nightstand.

I leave the TV on so I won’t have to deal with the silence, and go to sleep.

I allow myself the evening to melt into a puddle of despair. I cry. I eat ice cream, then I wish I didn’t eat the ice cream because my stomach is still sour from last night’s alcohol. I go to bed, wrap myself in a blanket, and sleep it off.

I get up the next morning, ready to let the bootstrap-pulling commence. John Simon did not raise a girl who will let her life fall apart over some guy. I will let the week be what it was: a wild experience I’ll later look back on with fondness.
Wow, remember that time I ran off with that rich guy for a week? That was so insane…

It was insane. And wonderful.

And utterly terrifying.

Which is probably why Jackson’s text makes me want to puke.

My phone dings and I’m afraid to look. I tell myself it must be Nicole, checking to see if I’m home. I pick it up and swipe my finger across the screen. It’s Jackson.

Didn’t leave things very well. Sorry about that.

I blow out a breath and send a reply. I’m hurt and angry, and I’m not going to let him get away with it.
Nope. You didn’t.

My phone dings again.
I’m not sure what to do now.

I stare out the window, my phone dangling from my hand. Is this Jackson, or did someone else get hold of his phone? Jackson always knows what to do. He takes what he wants, when he wants it.

Is he trying to fix this? Is there even anything to fix?

Me neither.
I hit send, and wait. He doesn’t reply.

A few hours later, my phone rings. I gasp, a jolt of adrenaline surging through me. I breathe out a sigh of relief—or is it sadness?—when I see Nicole’s name on the screen.

“Hey, Nicole,” I say.

“Mel! Are you back?”

“Yeah, I’m home.”

“Okay, don’t tell me anything yet,” she says. “I want to hear all about your week, but in person.”

“Sure.”

“Wait, are you all right?” she says. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it yet,” I say.

I hear Nicole take a deep breath. “All right, I won’t ask. Listen, the weather’s really beautiful so we’re having a bonfire on the beach tonight. Just a few people, it’s no big deal. I know you just got home, but I thought you still might want to come.”

Anything sounds better than sitting at home alone. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

“Yeah? Good,” she says. “I miss you. We’re here, so come up anytime.”

“Sounds good, Nic,” I say. “Thanks.”

Later that evening, I drive up to Ryan and Nicole’s place. Ryan restored an old church that sits on a bluff overlooking the ocean. The main part of the building is his photography studio, and they live in an apartment off to the side. I can see Nicole’s touches already melding with Ryan’s bachelor pad. It actually looks really nice. She hasn’t girlied it up too much, just added a few things to make it look like theirs. It’s sweet.

Ryan and his brothers already sit around a fledgling fire. Cody is the spitting image of Ryan, only slightly taller and slightly less intense. Hunter isn’t related, but I know he grew up in the Jacobsen house. The three act like brothers, anyway. They joke and insult each other continuously.

Nicole and I sit in camping chairs, facing the fire, with the ocean beyond. The waves beat their steady rhythm against the sand, and the light fades as the sun goes down.

Cody’s girlfriend Jennifer stands away from the fire, waving her hand in front of her face as if the tiny drift of smoke offends her. Five minutes later, she announces she can’t stay, and walks back up the beach to the house.

Cody watches her go, but doesn’t make any move to go after her.

“That was … awkward,” Hunter says. He pokes a stick in the flames and moves the wood around.

“Quit messing with it,” Ryan says, smacking Hunter’s stick away with his own.

Nicole gives me a look and shrugs her shoulders. I don’t know Jennifer well, but she has a superior air that bothers me. Cody seems relieved that she’s gone, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

Ryan grabs a beer from the cooler and holds it out to me.

“Thanks, but I’m sticking with water,” I say. “I think I need to do a cleanse or something to flush out all the booze.”

“Sounds like you had a good time,” Ryan says.

I stuff my hands in the pockets of my hoodie. At least I’m back in my own clothes. “Yeah.”

“I can’t take it anymore,” Nicole says. “You’ve said like, two things since you got here.”

I can’t see Nicole’s face, but Ryan gives her a confused look. She kicks sand in his direction.

“Right, yeah,” Ryan says, standing. “Hey, will you guys help me get the food? And more beer?”

Hunter looks at Ryan like he’s nuts, but Cody gets the hint. “Yeah, sure, man.” He turns to Hunter. “Let’s go.”

Ryan leans down and kisses Nicole, then the three guys walk back toward the house.

Nicole turns in her seat to face me. “Talk to me.”

I take a deep breath. I don’t even know where to begin. “It was … I don’t know Nicole. It was so much.”

“It looked like you guys were having fun the whole time.”

“How would you even know that?” I ask. “Oh, right. You followed the whole fucking week on Twitter.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “That was shitty of me, wasn’t it? I was just so worried about you. And you only texted me maybe twice the entire time you were gone.”

“Yeah, I kind of ignored my phone a lot,” I say.

“So, was it good or wasn’t it? I’m confused.”

So am I.
“It was good, I guess. No—I don’t
guess
. It was fucking incredible. He was incredible. He was nothing like I thought he’d be. When he showed up at my house and said he wanted to take me away, I figured sure, this guy is hot, and I want to fuck his brains out, so why not? This will be fun. No big deal, just casual, then we go back to our lives. I’m single, I can get away with this.”

“But…?”

“But he wasn’t just a hot, cocky as shit, rich guy. He was those things, but you should have seen him when we were alone. There’s this side of him that is so affectionate and sweet. He stared at me all the time and never stopped touching me. And it wasn’t like he only did it for an audience. I mean, yeah, he paraded me around a little bit, but most of the time, we just hung out, the two of us. We stayed in this ridiculous mansion on the beach, and watched movies, and ate a lot, and drank too much. We laid out in the sun by the pool, and laughed and joked, and made fun of each other. Like normal people, you know?”

“Was he not supposed to be normal?” Nicole asks.

“No,” I say, my voice emphatic. “No, because he isn’t normal. Everywhere we went, people were like, ‘Yes, Mr. Bennett, right this way, Mr. Bennett, very good, Mr. Bennett.’ People stare at him and fall all over themselves to make sure he has whatever he wants.”

“Is that the problem, then?” Nicole asks. “His life is too different?”

“That’s on the list,” I say. I pause for a moment, and when I speak again my voice is quiet. “The problem is, I wasn’t supposed to care when this was over.”

Nicole grabs my hand and squeezes. “Well, what happens now? When are you going to see him again?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “He left without saying goodbye when he dropped me off, so I figured, that’s it. He’s done and it’s over. I was kind of okay with that this morning. At least I knew where things stood. But then he texted me.”

“But that’s good, right?” Nicole says.

“I guess,” I say. I lean my head back. “I’m so confused.”

“Maybe this isn’t the best time to bring this up, but have you seen the article yet?” Nicole asks.

“What article?”

She purses her lips. “I guess that means no.”

“What is it?” I ask, not sure I wanted to know.

“It’s totally not a big deal,” she says. “Just some pictures of you guys in a club together, mostly. Do you want to see, or just leave it?”

I hold out my hand. “No, I’ll look.”

She taps her phone’s screen a few times and hands it to me. There’s a picture of me and Jackson, dancing at the club. We’re facing each other, his hand low on my back, pressing me against him. My face is turned up to his, my hair falling in waves behind me. We’re both smiling, our eyes locked on each other.

I read the caption at the bottom.
Jackson Bennett, one of the hottest (and wealthiest!) bachelors in the country, dances with an unknown woman at Parq in San Diego. Could this finally be a glimpse of his infamous Sassy Girl? Bennett’s large Twitter following has been in an uproar over his mysterious tweets, to the point that #whoissassygirl has been trending on the social media platform.

“Son of a bitch,” I say, handing the phone back to Nicole.

“Well, you look unbelievable in this picture, so at least there’s that,” Nicole says. “Where did you get those shoes?”

“Fuck the shoes,” I say. “That, right there, is the problem. He lives like that: parties and clubs and pictures of him going around the internet. I have no idea how to handle that.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty intense,” she says. “I thought the Twitter stuff was crazy enough.”

“I haven’t even looked.”

“Really?” she asks. “Yikes.”

“What do you mean, yikes?” I ask, sitting up to look at her.

“No, it’s not bad,” she says. “Well, some of it is. But mostly it’s fine. People are intrigued by you. The bad stuff isn’t a big deal. People think they can get away with saying anything online. It’s best to just ignore them.”

I pull up Twitter on my phone, knowing it’s probably a bad idea. I go to Jackson’s profile and scroll through his tweets. There are a lot of pictures of me, but none of them quite show my face. He tweeted my shoes at the club; a picture of me from behind, standing on the beach; a close up, my face turned just enough so you can’t quite see me. His feed is filled with them.

One shows me curled up on the couch, a drink perched on my knee. You can actually see my face, although I’m looking away. I read his tweet.

This girl. This girl right here.

My breath catches and I swallow the lump that suddenly appears in my throat.

I click through some of the comments. Most of them are questions about who I am, or where we are, or what I’m wearing. One picture is a close up of my mouth and some jackass replied with a comment about me having a mouth good for dick sucking. A lot of replies tear him a new one, but it’s still disconcerting to see.

“This is what I’m talking about,” I say. “Who lives like this?”