The 90 Day Rule (18 page)

I shook my head yes. No sense in trying to prove a point I’d already made.

Tray and Roddie, already changed into sweats, were in the hall waiting for us. The big man looked like death warmed over. He’d clocked a TA. And a woman to boot.

Smiling, I held out a hand. “Good game, Fitzgerald. Next time you won’t be so lucky.”

We shook on it. My gut told me I had a hug brewing and I wasn’t so sure my body could take any more contact at that point. Tray saved me by steering me and the posse down the hall.

Grant whistled to get Tray’s attention. “Did you tell her?”

Tray cringed.

“Tell me what?”

Come on, man. Tell her. It’s like a big deal, WOOT!

Tray hung his head, clearly embarrassed. Grant, then Moses pressed him. It went back and forth until Moses threatened to spill the beans, at which point Tray spurted, “I had a date.”

Roddie bent down and whispered in my ear. I stood stock still, jaw on the floor.

Moses piped up, “Show her. Go on, show ’er.”

Show me what exactly?

Tray backed against the wall, fumbling in his jacket pocket. Nothing, absolutely nothing prepared me for what happened next. I clapped a hand over my mouth to keep from either screaming or bursting into laughter.

“See, Jes, I remembered what you said to do.” He waved the condom, neatly tied off with a bit of string, in my direction. It most definitely was not fresh out of the wrapper.

Please God, don’t let me lose it.

I think I managed an
I’m proud of you
; maybe there was a
congratulations
thrown in. There really weren’t too many ways to express my feelings other than finding a way to beat a hasty retreat before I hurt myself.

I said, “Um, why don’t you go on ahead. I need a quick shower.” I fielded the usual ‘are you sure’ and sent them on their way, thankful to be alone once more. The locker room beckoned. Not because I needed to rinse off the sweat and blood. It was nothing that simple.

I wasn’t sure I could make the trip back to the apartment with my heart beating triple time in my chest. Seeing Jack, even from a distance, had set my head into a tailspin and my gut fighting off nausea.

The team physician would attribute the symptoms to the hit I took from Roddie but I knew better.

I sank onto the first bench I came to and propped my elbows on my knees, my head nestled in the palms of my sweaty hands. I stayed like that for a long time. The locker door swished open and closed. I thought Darlene and the other ladies had already taken off and I could be alone in my misery.

I was wrong.

Chapter Fifteen: Make It Right

He still smelled the same. But with a little something extra that I couldn’t pin down immediately.

Then I got it…

The bouquet was sexy, musky and spicy with an undertone of possessiveness and a lingering finish of … regret.

“No, I don’t.” His voice was deep, modulated. Serious.

Jack knelt in front of me, close but not touching. If I’d had the courage to lift my face from my palms, I’d have stared straight into his gorgeous smoky blue eyes.

Mumbling, “Don’t what…?” my body did a cha-cha, back, forward, then back again until my butt oozed off the bench, leaving my knees locked in mortal combat with the smooth metal edge of the seat.

Cool behind, sizzling in front. The man threw off heat like a blast furnace.

“I don’t regret … anything.”

Great. Fine. Alrighty then. Done deal. It’s the blond. You’ve made your choice, now go away.

“Jes.”

He pulled my hands down, settling them on my lap. The follow-up was a finger on my chin with just enough pressure to ratchet my neck into defiance. But he couldn’t make me look. He couldn’t.

“Jes, will you let me drive you home? Weather’s bad and you shouldn’t be out walking in it.”

Well, that was … considerate. I could do considerate. I just refused to look it in the face.

He patted a knee that went instantly numb, mumbled something like ‘good girl’ and asked where my coat was. Then he bundled me up and guided me into a wasteland of icy slush.

The storm ran unabated, the flakes more like hard pellets. We were in for a sleet storm, maybe a freezing rain event. Thank you, Mother Tray, for insisting on boots. It was ugly out.

I knew the drill. Truck, helping hands, click of the seatbelt, his huge body pressed against mine, all too quick for the fantasy to grab hold. Not even with my eyes squeezed shut in a rictus of misery could I maintain the illusion. Reality sucked.

Weightless, leaden … odd how diametrically opposed forces waged a battle for possession of my spirit. My body went into stasis, drifting into the surcease of sleep. When in doubt go unconscious so you don’t have to deal with the pain of no one ever wanting you. Of never being good enough, pretty enough … damn, I’d have been happy with just being interesting.

What I ended up with was … none of the above.

“Jes, hon? Wake up. We’re home.”

Bleary-eyed I stared at a winter wonderland. The pine branches drooped low, the needles coated in ice, stark and nearly colorless in the deepening dusk.

The house still stood in all its undistinguished glory, a nothing special, but the man said ‘home’ in a way that made me understand that he had roots here … and pride of place. I’d felt it, that evening, when I’d looked around the small living room with the conviction it would be my last time, knowing but not understanding because I’d wanted to insert myself in that picture. And that was impossible given my circumstances.

And the part of me that insisted on leveling my camouflaged emotions with harsh realities, recognized that it had been
me
, not Jack, at fault. He
had
waited. I was the one who’d thrown up barricades and road blocks. Why would you come for someone like me?

A coward.

Afraid to face my future. Afraid of disappointing. Afraid of … myself.

Jack muttered something about not liking how I looked, how maybe he should have taken me to the emergency room instead.

There was no way for him to know that it wasn’t anything wrong with my head, not in the way he thought.

He was trying hard at being a friend. I wished that would be enough but I wanted more and the old ‘be bigger than, better than’ just didn’t cut it anymore.

Jack ensconced me on the sofa, tucked an old afghan up under my chin and disappeared into the back reaches of the house. He returned with a pillow.

The silence was a comfort in a way. We had nothing to say to each other. No excuses necessary. No explanations.

It is what it is.

He’d made a choice.

It wasn’t me.

I awoke to the sound of sleet pinging off the aluminum siding and Jack’s snores. He was sprawled in the chair opposite the couch, his long legs crossed at the ankles, head lolling dangerously left, a sure fire recipe for a sore neck. The aviator frames balanced precariously on the top of his head where he’d pushed them up and out of his way.

For the first time I noticed his lashes. Darker than his hair, they kissed the harsh planes of his bone structure, the flesh spare, stretched taut. Dark stubble peppered cheeks and chin, giving him a rough appearance. I knew the feel of that, the scrape against my skin, the rush of awareness, such as I’d never before experienced.

And never would again.

When I placed a hand on the pillow it didn’t surprise me to find it was wet. I’d been either crying or drooling in my sleep.

I’d go with crying. The other option was less … attractive.

I stumbled toward the bathroom. There was a night light in the hall, casting just enough illumination that I could see into his bedroom, the bed made up, corners precisely folded and pillows arranged just so.

The eye was tender and not nearly as bad as expected. I could thank Tray’s quick thinking for that. The bits of tissue lingering in my nose looked oddly festive. Drawing them out carefully, I assessed the damage, most of it being some blood and snot. Warm water and soap went a long way to putting me to rights.

Just so long as I concentrated on the surface stuff.

Lifting my face from the sink, I reached for a towel. What I got was a warm breath on the back of my neck and a ‘here, take this.’

Drying my face, I tried very hard not to move, not to touch him in any way, but he was so close and I was so tired of being strong and resolute.

I needed a hug, even if it just came from a friend.

“Jes, turn around.”

I anchored my hands on the porcelain, the grip tight enough to thrust bone through dry and cracked flesh, blue veins gnarling the surface. Old ladies’ hands. Turning around was not an option.

Jack hissed, “Be stubborn.”

He pressed against my back, the long length of him burning through my resolve. With his hands he forced my head up and back.

Not. Looking.

“Look at me.” This time it was a deep rumble, a seriously irritated man-purr of domination. Definitely not a request. Definitely a hackles-raised moment.

The trouble was … I couldn’t not look.

Pathetic. Weak.

Why do you even want to be friends with someone like me?

The face in the mirror was determined, angry and confused. His mouth moved but the words rang hollow in my chest, bouncing around, aligning and realigning until the truth rang loud and clear, “I don’t want to be your friend, Jessamine Cavanaugh.”

Well … fine. Perfect. Now we knew where we stood.

I stomped on his foot, not hard, but it popped a nice string of curses and backed him off enough for me to duck away. I beat a hasty retreat to the living room and searched frantically for my coat. It was in the coat closet, of course, hung neatly on an over-sized plastic hanger, along with his things. Tidy. Precise.

Surgical.

Leaving me gutted, the slices smooth-edged and cauterized.

And annoying as hell. I wasn’t getting my money’s worth. For the amount of pain and anguish, shouldn’t there be jagged edges, the flesh hanging in ugly strips, clothes torn and rent…

I stood by the front door, waiting … the ‘I want to go home now’ posture surely unmistakable.

The silence was deafening and went on forever. This was no parade rest. My spine locked but my balance gave up the ghost, leaving me to waver uncertainly. I wasn’t even sure he’d followed me into the living room. He’d been mad, really, really agitated.

And there was no way I was turning around to check, because if he was there…

I can’t be her. I don’t want to be her. I’m just me, warts and all.

There was a soft intake of breath somewhere behind me, then a deep chuckle.

“Is
that
what this is about?”
There was some scuffing of bare feet on the rug. He was closer. “Is it?”

Call me clueless but I was lost. The line between my brain and my mouth had finally popped an aneurysm. What I said or thought, what he heard … none of it registered anymore.

My “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean” was true, all too true.

And suddenly he was in my space, alongside it, his shoulder resting against the door, jamming me into the corner. He loomed, bracketing me.

It’s like he wants to take me to the woodshed and spank me…

“That’s a nice idea, darlin’ but I think we need to clear the air first.”

Making like an immovable object didn’t keep him from settling me on the couch, my wool-clad arms wrapped tight about my waist in righteous indignation. Jack sat next to me, poised on the edge of the seat, ready to restrain me should I decide to bolt.

The smile’d been replaced with a look of concern, the kind that comes wrapped in true confessions. I girded loins and waited.

“You saw me with Astride, didn’t you?”

I shrugged. How nice to have a name to go with the perfect features and the thumbs stroking her hands in gentle, sensuous…

“She just stopped by to say hi.”

I’m sure she did.

“She drove up to pick up her son.”

Ah, a gay divorcee.

He scrubbed at his face, clearly perplexed. And why should that be? I had the big picture. I didn’t need details.

“Jes, look at me.” His voice took on a pleading quality. “Please?”

No.

And then he had me by the shoulders, spinning me, the grip caving the wool fabric, driving it deep, deeper into my weary bones.

“Jesus Christ, Jes. She’s my sister!”

Oh.

Astride.

That sister.

“Who the fuck did you think it was?” Back to pissed off. “Didn’t you believe me?”