Jen
Sleep soundly. Wake up feeling refreshed.
That’s what the online ad had said.
Refreshed, my aching ass!
Before I get my eyes open, I know I’m not in my apartment, not in my comfy bed with its high-thread-count sheets and silky-soft comforter. Slammed by a horrific pain that starts in the bottom of my neck and radiates into both shoulders, I awaken to the sound of thunderous pounding and for a quick minute, I’m disoriented and wondering where I am. My phone shows it’s 8:10 AM. Shit, I’ll be late for work! I never sleep past 6:15, weekends included. With my head in a daze, I look up and see two regular windows covered in brown wooden blinds instead of the familiar large rectangular picture window overlooking a pool and beds of blooming flowers. The sound of chirping birds is loud—almost ear-piercing—like they’re right outside the window, and there are no doors slamming, car engines starting, footsteps sounding above me. That’s when it hits me. I’m no longer in Dallas.
I’m in Springhill, in the house I was raised in, the house my father died in—two places I swore I’d never return. The playback of weird dreams during the night sends an eerie shivering up my spine. Mom at the kitchen counter cutting up cantaloupe… Dad beside her, dousing a slice in black pepper … Mom accusing him of ruining a perfectly delicious, sweet Pecos-grown melon … Tears running down her face after a trip to the doctor’s office … Sobbing early in the morning when he wouldn’t open his eyes.
Laughs, tears, screams.
Coffins and organ music.
My mother kissing a strange man I’ve never seen.
More laughs, more tears, screams into the pillow.
The sound of another ear-splitting knock on the door has me jolting back to reality and jumping straight off the miserable excuse of a bed.
Keith. Is. Just. Outside. My. Door.
Shit, shit. Double triple shit.
He saw me naked. He saw me touching myself.
With wobbling legs like I’ve just stepped off a terrifying giga roller coaster, I dress quickly, throw a splash of water on my face, and push fingers through my hair as I get such a frightening glimpse of myself in the mirror that, if I weren’t shaking like a damn leaf, I’d have to laugh. Bed hair isn’t nearly a good enough description of the state of mine at the moment—flat on one side, sticking out on the other. It resembles one of those Saturday morning cartoon characters where someone stuck their finger in a light socket. And then there’s my face. Skin white as a ghost. Bags the size of Dallas. Mascara smears giving me panda eyes. I fight off a quick smile and think of Jana, another paralegal and my best friend. With my hair a mess and my makeup smeared, I look just like one of Jana’s favorite slang descriptions—a two o’clock beauty queen.
Let’s tidy up in the ladies’ room. We can’t have Dallas’s finest thinking we’re two o’clock beauty queens wanting to get laid and waiting around on the drunk guys.
Nerves launch a hard, uncomfortable lump in my belly as I exit the bathroom and creep toward the door in dire need of ibuprofen for the agony in my neck and shoulders, along with a gallon of strong, hot coffee. Why on earth hadn’t I unpacked the Keurig yesterday?
With only two steps between me and those captivating brown eyes that had watched me touching myself just hours ago, I stop, damn near hyperventilating, and lingering just in front of the door. Breath unsteady, I can feel every beat of my heart, see his probing stare, and almost smell the spicy scent of his cologne while a battalion of chills march up and down my back.
“Shit! Screw it,” I say in nothing but a nervous whisper. “He probably enjoys his own daily hand-party. Don’t all men?”
Fingers trembling, I twist at the deadbolt, flip the second lock, then open the door, expecting jeans, boots, a worn Stetson, and warm chocolate irises. Yet, there are two men, neither of whom I know. The big burly one who is only inches from my face is intimidating, definitely grabbing my attention, and reminds me of a bouncer at a nightclub.
Keith is nowhere to be seen.
“Mornin’, ma’am.” Pearly white, perfectly shaped, dazzling teeth—obviously veneers—almost glow under the bright morning sunlight as the giant of a man, who has to weigh close to four hundred pounds, stares down at me, while the other focuses on the screen of his cell phone. “My name’s Jonathan, but most people around here call me Rock. Mr. Ryker sent us to unpack your belongings.” Grinning as he hands me the large Styrofoam cup oozing the luscious smell of rich coffee, I almost want to kiss him. “Dark roast, hazelnut creamer, sugar free, two packets of Splenda. He said you might need this.”
Jesus, do I ever. I take a small sip of hot, nutty deliciousness.
“And he couldn’t be more right. It tastes like heaven in a cup. Thank you … Rock.”
Two plus hours later, my furniture is in the house and Rock and his helper, Jed, are pulling out of the driveway. It feels like it’s a hundred degrees plus, even though the air conditioning and ceiling fans are both running at full speed. My hair is rolled up inside a Dallas Stars cap, my forehead laced with sweat, and I couldn’t care less about my looks at the moment. I’m so damned emotional that I can’t think about anything besides this house as a child and its dark blue shag carpeting, brown wall paneling, the matching sofa and chair covered in a floral design that I pleaded with my mom not to buy, and so many wonderful memories from my youth.
I roll out the Pottery Barn leopard-print area rug that, thanks to my yearly bonus, I was able to splurge on last Christmas and immediately feel another strong sense of déjà vu, this time pushing me to tears, which I quickly swipe away and turn some music on my phone.
If a little Five Finger Death Punch turned up nice and loud can’t get my mind off the past, nothing can.
Not giving myself the opportunity to grow emotional again, I just dig in and start unpacking and arranging. By the time the sun is setting, I’ve got a home. Despite being limited on furniture since I’ve only lived in a small apartment, even without a scrap of anything in two of the three bedrooms, the place still looks damn good.
In fact, it looks awesome. Jeez, I love Pottery Barn.
Two steps lead up to the kitchen and the rest of the house, and I place three varying sizes of white wood pillar candleholders to the right then grab a box and start arranging a few more kitchen items. When I set my favorite ceramic pig on the windowsill, I think of Jason, who, according to Keith, lives in the apartment complex over the railroad tracks. Curiosity stabs at me again. Does he still run to keep in shape? Does he still have that incredible charm he once did? Why has he never married?
Why did he refuse to have sex with me? Why did Keith avoid most every question I asked about him when we talked?
My core tightens, and I shiver as I remember his warm sensuous kisses, his fingers tugging at my hair, his tongue probing deep into my mouth, the songs he used to make up in his head and strum on his guitar, and last, but damn sure not least, the sexy howling wolf with a skull hanging from its mouth that covered his back. Heat rushes through me, and everything between my legs trembles.
Jesus, I need to be fucked.
I place two cookie sheets and a pizza pan in the drawer beneath the shiny stainless-steel oven and remember that I’d promised to call Shane, a once sex partner turned friend, and let him know I made it safely. Shane is years older than me—eleven to be exact—and an excellent criminal defense attorney who moved to the States from Britain and works down the hall from Jackson, Miles, & Smith. The first time I saw him, he reminded me of a young Robert Redford, a man I still believe to be one of the most handsome to ever grace the big screen. Two dates in, I knew the proper British gentleman was one of the most ruthless, sadistic Dominants I’d ever encountered.
Don’t be fucking daft. Pinch them harder, or you get ten more strikes with the belt. The man radiated respect and politeness, yet fucked like a rabid animal. A shiver shoots up my spine, followed by a heated ache between my thighs as I think of strength, authority, and commanding voices.
Just as I’ve finished unloading the silverware and Calphalon knife set, I turn toward a dinging cell phone and see an incoming text from none other than my favorite attorney/good friend demanding that I call him. While I almost consider ignoring it for now, I exhale a long jittery breath, wait for the short chime, and then tell Siri to dial Shane.
After I’ve had a short conversation with Shane, I get my Internet up and working, tend to a few bills, and answer three e-mails. Suddenly, I’m hit with a voracious case of hunger, so I close my laptop and jot down a short grocery list, dreading shopping but also needing something more substantial than trail mix and breath mints. As much as I need to make that trip to the grocery store, which will eventually happen, it will have to wait just a little longer. Right now, there’s something else much more important on my agenda.
Following a nice visit with Mr. V, who has fresh new batteries, I plan on stopping by the cemetery and driving by the old museum to take a peek at the remodeling.
Then, I’m going to visit Jason Lee.