Madly and Wolfhardt (6 page)

“I’ll find you tomorrow.”

“Ok, see you then,” I agreed, reaching out to take Jersey’s arm.  “Let’s go, Jersey.”

Jersey threw me a withering look before speaking to Aken. 

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“It’s a date,” he confirmed. 

The smile that curved his lips struck me as slightly predatory.  It made me distinctly uncomfortable, although it didn’t appear that Jersey felt that way.  She was eating it up.  I couldn’t help but wonder if it was just my snarky mood casting a black shadow onto everything else.

Grinning, Jersey nodded her agreement as we turned to leave.  We walked off, arm in arm, completely ignoring Jackson. 

All the way back to the dorm, I could feel his eyes on me, drilling furious red holes into the back of my head.  I could tell he was angry, though I didn’t know why.  And it didn’t matter. I was angry, too. 

As Jersey chattered on about all the wonders of Aken, I pondered Jackson and his animosity toward Berlin.  Had I imagined it?  And what if I hadn’t?  What did it mean?

I would like to have believed that it was an act of jealousy.  But as thrilling as the prospect of Jackson behaving in such a way over
me
was, it just didn’t jibe with his actions otherwise.

 I lay awake in bed that night, listening to the muffled sounds of Jackson in his room next door.  My mind kept wandering the same path, the path that was nothing more than a frustrating conundrum.  At that point, there was just no understanding the mass of contradictions that lay behind Jackson’s Greek god-perfect face. 

Thinking of all his sharp words and frowning stares, it would be all too easy to convince myself that he really did hate me.  But then there was that kiss.  I just couldn’t get it out of my mind.  It had felt so passionate and genuine, so heated.  Was it possible that I’d just imagined that, too? 

I’d likely never know.  Jackson wasn’t talking and the only other person that might have even a tiny speck of insight into him was the one person that I would never ask—Jersey.

I tossed and turned most of the night.  I slept in short, fitful bursts, which was probably why I was awake enough to hear the muted tones of a feminine voice bouncing around in the room next door.

At first, I thought it was the television, but when the voice laughed, I quickly realized that it was very much a real girl.  And she was with Jackson only a few feet away.  In his room.  Probably alone.

Something dark and ugly rose up inside me.  I climbed out of bed with every intention of walking straight into his room and demanding to know who he was entertaining.  But as I began to twist the knob that would take me past the point of no return, my pride kicked in and demanded that I do nothing.  It refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I gave a rat’s butt about what he did or with whom he did it.

Secretly, however, in the silent privacy of my room, my insides felt like they were being pushed through a meat tenderizer.  I crawled back into bed and curled into the fetal position, hoping that would still the pain that was viciously shredding all the things that made me whole.  But it didn’t.  All the duct tape in the world couldn’t hold together what Jackson was tearing apart. 

It was the sting of tears at the backs of my lids that saved me.  They awakened an inbred maturity, a strength of will that my parents had ruthlessly instilled in me, and it came rushing to my defense.  I reminded myself that not only did I have no claims on Jackson whatsoever, but ours was a relationship that could never be.  It was doomed before it even began, and there was no sense mourning something that never was.

That’s what I told myself anyway, but the pain was determined.  It still tore at my guts, at my chest, at my aching heart. 

I listened closely until I heard the dull thump of Jackson’s door closing behind the girl as she left.  At least I hoped it was closing behind her as she left.  I didn’t hear her again after that and it got so quiet next door, I assumed that Jackson was in bed, asleep.

I didn’t get a single minute of peaceful slumber the rest of the night.  You’d think with all that
thinking
time I’d have come to some sort of resolution.  But instead, I had nothing to show for it the next day but dark circles, bad hair, irritability and more frustration than I’d ever had before.

When Jersey got up to go get her shower, despite my new-found maturity from the night before, I jumped out of bed and ran to the door that adjoined our rooms and I pressed my ear to it.  I heard no sounds at all. 

I felt the frown settle between my eyes.  Jackson should be up and at ‘em by now.  Maybe he’d left to go with the girl last night.  That hadn’t occurred to me.

Too tired and frazzled to fend off my natural impetuousness, I raised my hand and rapped my knuckles on the door. 

There was no answer.  So I knocked again. 

When still there was no sign that Jackson was in his room, my heart began to pound painfully beneath my sternum, the dread and disappointment crushing.

I wrenched the knob.  It remained unlocked at all times, per Jackson’s instruction, so I pulled the door open and poked my head around to see if I spotted him.  The room was empty, though, so I flung the door wide and stepped inside. 

The blinds over the single window were open and light poured through the slats, shedding bright, slanted rays into the otherwise darkened room.  I looked at Jackson’s bed, which was made perfectly in a no-fuss, guy-ish kind of way.  The room was neat as a pin and stark in a militaristic way, much like the man who occupied it.

I walked around the periphery, dragging my fingers along the empty dresser top and small desk that sat beneath the window.  There were a few odds and ends scattered across its surface—a neatly-stacked pile of envelopes, a manila folder and the big law book he’d been reading.

It was the table at the head of the bed that seemed to hold the only traces of the
real
Jackson.  It was easy to see that what few treasured possessions Jackson had brought to Slumber were all located on that small round table.

There was a family photo of him and Jersey with their parents before they died.  There was an old pocket watch that was shined to a sparkling finish.  There was a Verachidis, a perpetually-blooming, bright red flower that only grows in the fertile soils of Atlas and can live until its central stamen is plucked out.  And then there was an iPod. 

I picked it up, smiling as I ran my finger over the worn buttons.  Jackson had fallen in love with human music early in our childhood.  It didn’t surprise me at all that he would own something like this.

His ear buds dangled from the end of the tiny box.  I noticed that there was only one.  At first I thought it odd, but then I thought of Jackson’s devotion to being a Sentinel.  He would no doubt frown upon completely drowning out his hearing by flooding both ears with music.  He wouldn’t tolerate being that vulnerable.  I knew that Jackson would want to have one ear attuned to the environment, continually scanning it for a disturbance in the Force. 

I shook my head in exasperation.  I’m surprised he didn’t sleep with his eyes open.

I turned the device on and held the single bud to my ear as I flipped through his song collection.  I was smiling over Jackson’s apparent penchant for country music when his deep voice startled me.

“I never realized that you had criminal tendencies,” Jackson said from behind me.

I whirled around, guiltily flinging his iPod back onto the small table.  A smart aleck response was teetering on the tip of my tongue, but it fell away as soon as I saw Jackson.

He was standing in the center of the room in nothing more than a towel.  It rode low on his waist where it was wrapped around him and tucked in at his navel.  My mouth dropped open as I scanned him from the Mer charm hugging his ankle to the ripples of muscle crossing his stomach.  After a slight pause there, I continued my journey up to the thick bands of sinew that stretched across his ridiculously wide chest.  There was a light dusting of ebony hair scattered across his pectorals.  They narrowed to a sharp V and then disappeared into the towel. 

A deep, rumbling chuckle brought my eyes up to Jackson’s face.  Embarrassed, I closed my mouth with a quick snap of my teeth, nearly biting my tongue off in the process. 

Keeping my eyes above his chin didn’t help my composure much.  Jackson was clean shaven and water droplets still clung to his black hair, twinkling like stars dotting a midnight sky.

“What’s wrong, Princess?  Cat got your tongue?”

There was a mischievous glint of masculine pleasure in his hypnotic blue eyes.  In response, my face burned with my mortification.  Fortunately, humiliation had a way of sobering my mind.

“I didn’t think you were here.”

“Where else would I be?”

“I thought you might’ve left with the girl that was here last night,” I answered sharply.

I saw the flicker of a frown pass over Jackson’s brow before it smoothed and he replied, oh-so casually.

“No.  I was in the bathroom.”

I knew that there was a bathroom tucked behind the closet, but, quite honestly, I had been so preoccupied, I’d forgotten all about it. 

“I didn’t hear the shower,” I offered by way of explanation.

“Probably because I was shaving,” Jackson said, rubbing his smooth chin.

I fought desperately to keep my eyes trained on his, ignoring the bunching of his muscles as he moved.  At that point, I’m sure my body temperature was a good ten degrees above normal.

“Sorry,” I said, making my expression as nonchalant as I could make it.

Jackson shrugged.

“Did you need something?”

“I couldn’t sleep last night and I thought I might borrow the law book.  If you’re done, that is.”

Again, he shrugged.

“Take it. I’ll get it if I need it.”

Slowly, I walked over to the desk and picked up the gigantic book.  As I turned to head back toward the door, I blurted out the question before I could think better of it.

“So, who was she?”

“Who was who?”

“The girl.  From last night.”

Jackson paused before he answered.

“Nadia Cobretti.”

As soon as he said the name, visions of one of the most beautiful humans I’d ever seen came rushing to mind. 

“Nadia Cobretti?  Isn’t she the one who lives on the third floor?”

In my mind, I was crossing my fingers that I was thinking of the wrong person.

“Yeah, that’s her.”

I swallowed the groan that pushed at my throat.  Nadia had long, dark-red hair, sleepy gray eyes, pouty lips and a voluptuous body to die for.  I had always secretly hoped that at least some parts of her were plastic, but I got the feeling that all her charms were 100% natural.

“She’s very…” I trailed off.  “What did she want?”

“She had an RA-related question.  Why?”

It was my turn to shrug, as I focused all my attention on running my fingers along the spine of the thick book I held tight against my chest.

“Just curious.  It was awfully late for a…question.”

“It couldn’t wait.”

That sounded like a platitude and I couldn’t help but wonder what he didn’t want me to know. I very much wanted to ask what couldn’t wait and whether or not it had something to do with her bra clasp or any other wardrobe malfunction, but I didn’t.  Instead, I simply nodded, feeling vaguely nauseous. 

“Well,” I began, suddenly anxious to get away from Jackson and all the wretched things he was making me feel.  “I’ve got to go hit the shower.  See you later.”