Loving Lies (9 page)

Chapter Eight

 

Jazz sat on the couch several hours later, the television turned down low as he watched some action/adventure flick he couldn't even name. His mind wasn't on the television though, it was on the woman sleeping restlessly in his bed and the man moving closer to the door of the RV.

There was no mistaking the broad form as he paused at the door, then opened it soundlessly.

“She's asleep. Leave her the hell alone.”

Jazz, more than anyone, was well aware of what was going on and why Slade had walked away from the sweetest little girl Jazz had ever known. Slade could hide the truth from most people, but as a business partner, as a friend, as a foster brother, he had told Jazz the truth. And it sucked, it really did. Sometimes life just kicked your ass to hell and back and didn't even give a man a break.

“I hoped she was.” Slade breathed out roughly. “I need to see her, Jazz. Just for a minute. I won't wake her.”

That boy needed more than just to see Jessie and Jazz knew it. His voice echoed with lonely rage, with a hunger that wasn't about to let go of his guts. Jazz breathed in deeply. He had known it was coming, this was why he had brought Jessie to his rig rather than letting Zack take over. He was the only one who knew the truth, the only one who would allow Slade within speaking distance of her. Not that he had tried. Slade had been real careful to stay close to his own RV, drink his own beer, and just watch. Until now.

“This ain't gonna help you, Slade,” he sighed, feeling the man's pain. Hell, they had all lost enough in their lives that their adult years should have flowed like candy rather than stinking like shit. “It will only make it worse.”

“I'm leaving in a week.” Slade kept his voice low. “I can't leave without seeing her, and this is the kindest way to do it.”

Jazz glanced toward the back of the RV. It would take more than hungry eyes to awaken the exhausted girl. She would never know Slade had been there. But Jazz knew his friend was only torturing himself worse.

“Don't make me beg, Jazz,” Slade said, his head raised proudly, his shoulders straight, tense. “You know the truth, just give me this and I'll never bother her again.”

Jazz snorted at the statement. Some people just confounded him, as though they hadn't learned the circles of life. What he saw between these two would never just go away. And fate had a way of making folks face even their worst pains, their greatest mistakes.

“Hurry the hell up.” He rose from his seat. “And I'm going with you. You touch her wrong and I'll break your arms.”

Slade didn't argue. He followed Jazz, entering the small room as the other man wedged himself into a corner, crossed his arms over his chest and watched Slade's strength crumble.

It was humbling, seeing a man as strong as he knew Slade was, falter in the face of something as weak and helpless as one little girl.

Jessie had rolled to her back, the quilt still clutched in her hands, but her stomach and hips uncovered. Slade knelt beside the low bed, his fingers trembling as he touched the small dragon tattoo revealed by the dip of her bikini bottom. Just like Jessie. A fantasy, a fiery vision that could never truly be his.

He leaned forward then placed a reverent kiss on the small mark before rising and staring into her face. His fingers brushed back her hair, shook as they smoothed over her lips. He touched her like a man touches life—one terrified, light-as-air brush at a time.

He should have looked away. Jazz knew the kindest thing he could do for both of them was to give Slade a few private moments. There were some things a man just couldn't say when others were near, and Slade looked like a man who needed to clear his soul real bad. But Jazz also knew his friend's self-control wasn't at its peak. He wasn't going to let him hurt Jessie any more than he already had, even for friendship. Sometimes a man had to set friendship aside, and for Jazz, this was one of those times.

“Isn't she beautiful, Jazz?” Slade whispered, his voice almost too quiet to hear as he asked the question. “The prettiest thing in the world, I think.”

Yeah, she was. But Slade didn't need that answer.

“She's like a fire in the winter. She warms you even when you don't know you're cold.” Slade's voice was rough. “Take care of her for me, will you, Jazz? Don't let those bastards out there touch her. They touch her and I'll have to kill them. I won't be able to help it.”

His voice was ragged, bringing a prickle of warmth to Jazz's eyes. Damn, that boy was killing himself. Jazz felt his heart clench at the emotion that filled Slade's voice, that radiated from him as he bent to the girl.

“I'll keep her safe for you, man.” It was the least he could do. Slade had pulled his ass out of the fire plenty of times when they were young. “They won't touch her.”

How he was going to manage that one he didn't know. But he would. Not just for Slade, but for Jessie. Sometimes you could just look at two people and see that the world had things in store for them, together. Slade and Jessie were two of those people. This wasn't over, not by a long shot. It was just being delayed a bit, for whatever reason.

He watched then as Slade bent closer, brushed a kiss over the soft lips, then laid his head next to the girl's as he whispered in her ear. What he was saying, Jazz couldn't hear, but he could hear the need, the hunger clawing through the low tone.

“I love you, Slade.” The words were sleep-slurred as Jessie shifted, curling closer to Slade, her hands reaching for him before falling helplessly to the bed with a little whimper when Slade jerked back.

He was white as a sheet, his gray eyes nearly black, his hands trembling as he pushed them through his hair before curling them into fists. He stared down at Jessie, his throat working convulsively, his agonized expression lit by the glow of the moon pouring into the cabin.

“Don't let her get hurt.” His voice was strangled as he turned and left the room and seconds later the RV.

Jazz glanced at the bed again, and his heart broke. Still sleeping, but tears whispered down her cheeks and when she spoke, the words were so filled with love, with need, that Jazz was forced to wipe his own eyes.

“I'm cold, Slade…”

Chapter Nine

Five years later

 

“Jazz, you're a slob.” Jessie made her way through his RV, picking up discarded beer cans, bags of stale chips, a pair of forgotten swim shorts, still damp, that were thankfully lying on the linoleum of the small kitchen floor rather than the carpeting in the tiny living room. The man was as hopeless as falling in love. He needed a keeper, not a lover or a wife. He needed a full-time nanny.

“Yeah, so my foster mothers always said.” He scratched at his lean abs, leering at her as she bent to check the oven to make certain nothing was growing there before opening the door to fully inspect it. “You could take me in hand, Jessie. I'm sure you could beat me into submission.”

She looked at him from the corner of her eyes before rolling them and shaking her head.

“I wouldn't take you on a bet,” she snorted as she closed the oven door. “When did I clean this place last? I could have sworn I was just in here last month working my butt off for three days straight. I have better things to do with my time, Jazz.”

“Like what?” He braced his hand on the overhead ceiling beam that separated the kitchen from the living room. “Hiding in your damned apartment and nursing your broken heart? Come on, Jessie, it's been five years.”

She faced him then, a frown drawing her brows together as she watched him in confusion. What the hell was up with this?

“I haven't nursed a broken heart in years,” she assured him with a wave of her hand. “The apartment is quiet, and I have work to do. Keeping up with Rigor's books is a full-time job with all the projects you have going, and I have lesson plans to consider. When the summer is over I do have to go back to work. Remember?”

He grunted, his expression becoming somber, his blue eyes moody. That wasn't a good thing. When Jazz got like this, he was usually up to something. Hoping to avoid another of his “face the past” lectures, she moved through the RV, tossing the dirty clothes into the small basket that sat off the bedroom before moving back to the kitchen.

“Still telling him goodnight?”

She froze at the question. Turning slowly, she faced her dearest friend with a spark of anger.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I've slept with you, Jessie,” he growled. “Do you think you can hide the fact that you whisper goodnight to him before you go to sleep? I have damned good hearing, baby.”

She licked her lips, not out of nervousness or embarrassment, more because she just didn't want to answer the question.

“I won't discuss this with you.” She moved away from him, turned on the faucet before squirting a small amount of dish soap among the dirty dishes she had placed in the sink.

“Sweet pea, if you can pretend it's him fucking you while I'm the one doing the pumping and grinding, then you can discuss this.”

He ducked, just barely, as the glass flew from her hand, aiming for his head. The smile that curved his lips was pure male satisfaction.

“Fuck this,” she snapped. “Clean your own damned pigsty, I'm not doing it.”

She dried her hands on a nearby dishtowel, hiding the nerves that shook her fingers, the tight band that wrapped around her chest. The guilt was bad enough without him throwing it at her. Some days, it was all she could do to face him knowing what she had done. She was damned lucky it hadn't destroyed their friendship. It still might.

“Darlin', I told you I didn't mind.” He blocked her as she tried to leave the RV, a gentle smile on his lips, in his eyes. “I'm simply trying to make a point here. You're not letting the past go…”

“I don't need to hear any more of your damned lectures. Between you, Zack and Ron, I've just about had enough of it.” She punched her finger at his hard chest, aware that the fierce action had very little effect on him. “Just because I'm not out spreading my legs for any damned moron with a hard cock doesn't mean I've not faced the past. Hell.” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “What is there to face, Jazz? He came, he left. End of story. Goodbye, Slade. Fuck him.”

“You want to fuck him so bad that just talking about him makes you wet.” He wasn't angry, he wasn't fighting her. He was amused. Not laughing at her, but deliberately pushing her for whatever reason.

Jessie stepped back, propping her hands on her hips as she watched him with narrowed eyes.

“What the hell is your problem? Fine, you fucked me, I cried for him. Not just once, not just twice. So fucking what? You knew what the hell you were doing when it happened.”

“Maybe I want you to fuck me for a change.” He shrugged casually, and she might,
might
have believed that was all there was to it—if it wasn't for the fact that she could see the evasiveness in his eyes, the amusement lurking even deeper.

Jessie stepped back, wariness filling her now. This was a part of Jazz she didn't know how to handle. The manipulator. And damned if you could figure out what the hell he was up to until the game was up.

“What does that mean?” She shook her head warily.

“Exactly what I said.” He dropped his arms, his lips curving up in a smile that most women swooned for. “Maybe the next time I'm petting you all over and holding you against me, I want you to think of me, instead of Slade Colter.”

Jessie turned away from him, pushing her fingers through her hair before wrapping her arms across her chest. She hadn't really slept with Jazz often. Just enough to get through a few bad nights, not enough to risk either of their hearts. Usually whenever he was between women, and when she needed more than a cold bed and a dream to ease the restlessness that clawed at her chest. But not enough to ease the pain. She had cried each time, curling away from him, hating herself for her weakness.

She was over Slade now though. She hadn't awakened crying out for him in nearly two years. Sometimes, sometimes his name was on the tip of her tongue, but she had loved him for so many years that she felt it only natural.

“I don't think of Slade.” She wasn't going to fight him, but even as she said the words she knew she was lying. She hung her head, staring at the floor as she clenched her teeth against the fury the thought brought.

“You still whisper goodnight to him, even if you're asleep when you do it, Jess,” he finally sighed. “You still whisper his name when you get cold, and go all quiet and moody if we talk about him. You don't date—”

“I date all the time,” she retorted without heat.

“Wimpy little boys who don't have a chance of measuring up against Slade. I bet their dicks are tiny and their brains even smaller. Forget that.” He snapped his fingers, raising his eyes as though in prayer before gazing at her again. “You don't actually fuck them, how would you know?”

“I fucked you,” she snarled. “See, letting the past go.”

“You fuck me because you think I'm safe,” he grunted. “Well, maybe I want more now.”

That shocked her. She stared back at him, aware that her surprise was showing as her hands bunched in the cover-up she wore over her bathing suit.

“Want more?” She frowned, shaking her head.

“Yeah. More.” He nodded slowly. “Maybe I want you to fall in love with me like that. I'm getting older, hell, it's time to settle down. Maybe I want to marry you.”

Maybe? Maybe? What the hell was up with the maybes? Jazz was not a “maybe” man. He always knew exactly what he wanted and went right after it. No regrets, no recriminations and philosophizing. That was his motto. Or it had been.

“And maybe you've lost your damned mind.” She narrowed her eyes on him, trying to figure out what his problem could be. “You don't just decide to get married, Jazz. Doesn't work out that way.”