5. Late Night Holiday Driving
DECEMBER 2037
AFTER CHAPTER 28 IN LOVERS LIKE US
Character List:
Jane Cobalt - 22
Bodyguards:
Thatcher Moretti - 27 Omega Co-Lead (Current Client: Jane Cobalt)
**
JANE COBALT
4AM AND I’m awake. The tour bus is dead silent except for the soft hum of the wind outside and the light thumps from the bumpy road. All efforts to shut my eyes and drift back to sleep have failed miserably.
I wish I were just solely focused on the time. How 4 a.m. could be considered early morning or late at night, depending on your viewpoint. I like to think it's still night until I rise for a cup of coffee. Then, my morning begins.
So it's late night, and no matter what I do, I keep recounting the short exchange I had with Thatcher while I was high earlier. He was concerned about me. I nearly smile.
I stared at his crotch. My eyes widen and my limbs freeze, fully recalling just how long I might’ve ogled my bodyguard.
Oh God, Jane.
I’m trying to be as respectful of him as he’s been of me. I perspire beneath my reindeer onesie. It’s too late to be embarrassed. Perhaps he didn’t even notice.
I need air outside my bunk. Everything feels hot and confined all of a sudden, and as quietly as I can, I slip out of the small enclosure. My feet meet the floor and I make my way down the hall and into the first-lounge.
Empty. Everyone seems to be fast asleep, but I hear soft holiday music coming from the very front of the bus.
My rampant curiosity piques. Someone is driving, of course, so I can’t be the only one awake, and I wonder whose turn out of SFO it is to sit behind the wheel.
I drop my hood and lower the zipper. Wafting the fabric off my chest, my feet carry me towards the source of my curiosity.
I reach the door that encloses the driver and passenger seat. I knock softly. Doing my best not to jolt the driver before I open the door, and when I do, I peek my head in and lay my eyes on my stern bodyguard.
He rarely ever slouches. He drives like he’s well aware of every life aboard the tour bus, but confidence seems to lift his carriage. His muscles and eyes are tensed in readiness. Exuding safety and regimented composure that makes me want to draw nearer.
My intrigue intensifies, and I can’t seem to skulk backwards. “Thatcher,” I greet when he glances over at me. He has two hands on the steering wheel. Very safe.
“Jane.” He gives me a quick sweep, then eyes the road again. “Do you need something?”
“No,” I tell him, but I don’t want to leave just yet. “Would I be a bother if I sat next to you—you can say no, really.” I want to give him an out and not feel obligated to agree with me or even spend time with me while he’s off-duty.
“You won’t bother me.” He tilts his head to the passenger seat. “Go ahead.”
I gently shut the door behind me and then sink into the seat next to Thatcher.
I catch the words to the melodic music. “Silent Night” is playing on the radio, and with the star-blanked sky and very few cars along the highway, the drive to Atlanta is peaceful.
I notice how my bodyguard zones in on my seatbelt, and before he asks, I already snap the buckle.
He looks at me for a longer beat. But it’d be a lie to say I could read him well. His hardened, unshaven jaw and strict lines above his brows give little away.
Thatcher Moretti is a mystery in many ways. A mystery that I know I’m not entirely allowed to uncover. Yet, I find myself here next to him.
And I can’t shut up. Even with the beautiful music, I have trouble sitting in silence. “Toodles loves Christmas,” I mention aloud. “He’s very apathetic about most things. But he’s the only one of my cats who will let me dress him in holiday costumes.”
Thatcher nods. He glances over at me, maybe just to show me that he’s listening, even if he’s quiet. He hasn’t been around my cats all that often. We went straight from the lake house to the tour bus.
I watch the street. “Moffy named Toodles, which turned out to be ironic since he won’t let Moffy hold him very much. All my other cats adore my best friend.” I feel like I'm rambling, and I want to say more. To ask more.
Is this Christmas hard for you since you're away from Philly?
Do you miss your twin brother?
Being away from my cats and parents and other siblings is difficult for me, but I have family on tour with us. I wonder what he’s feeling, but I can’t broach personal questions with my bodyguard. Not ones that delve deeper into his personal life. I only know simple facts about Thatcher Moretti.
Our bodyguard-client relationship is achingly professional. It’s what we’ve established from the get-go, and he hasn’t been on my detail long. Really, he’s not even officially my bodyguard.
There’s a high probability that he’ll return to Xander once the tour ends.
And I feel a little pushy if I veer towards anything outside of his role as my protector. I don’t want to pressure him or force him to tell me things he wouldn’t want to.
I walk in safe territory. “Are you having a good time on tour so far, despite all the drama?” I wonder.
“I am,” he says huskily, “even with all the drama.”
My lips rise, but they fall as I remember my pot-induced, uninhibited self earlier. “If I made you uncomfortable at all tonight, I’m terribly sorry.”
He shakes his head immediately. “You didn’t.”
Our eyes meet in a sweltering second, as though acknowledging that I saw him in a jockstrap. He knows that I saw his bare ass, and then I stared at his dick—or the outline of his dick in his sweatpants.
Really, his bulge.
“Jane,” he says my name in this deep, intoxicating way. I drop into the abyss of his voice.
“Yes?”
The air is taut. I swear we inhale at the same time.
And then his chest tightens, his grip strengthened on the wheel, and he checks the side mirrors. “You were fine.”
I try to breathe. “That’s…um, that’s good.” I tie my frizzed hair off my blazing hot neck. “If you’d rather me be quiet and us just sit in silence, please tell me,” I remind him. “I really don’t want to annoy you.”
“You’re not.” He eyes me, then the radio. “I’d rather listen to you.” He reaches forward and lowers the volume of the holiday music.
A smile pulls at my lips, one that hurts my cheeks. “That’s also very good,” I say in a shallow breath, “because I do love talking.” My heartbeat quickens. “Some people even actually believe that the tongue is the strongest muscle in the human body.”
We lock eyes again, this time for the briefest but seemingly longest moment of my life.
“I mean the tongue does incredible things if you think about it,” I continue on. “Talking and eating and swallowing.” Heat suddenly basks and radiates the front section of the bus. He must be feeling the scorch too because he adjusts the air conditioning for us both.
Swallowing. There are many connotations to the word, and the one that I fix on happens to be oral. His cock, specifically. Taking him in my mouth, and then I wonder what his erection even looks like—and that is...
He’s your bodyguard.
It will…never happen. It can’t.
Thatcher curls some pieces of his longish hair behind his ears. Quiet like usual. Nothing is amiss. He even maintains focus on the road.
I take a breath and try to course correct. “But,” I begin again, “while most people believe it’s the tongue, I personally think the heart is the strongest muscular organ. Really, it’s keeping all of us alive.” I say without thinking, “But I do love my tongue.” I gesture to him for some odd reason. “It’s necessary for many things.”
Like brilliant head.
I press my lips together. I can’t believe I’m thinking about blowjobs when he’s sitting right beside me. It’s one thing to be alone in my bedroom with my favorite vibrator and these thoughts—another to be in breathing distance of him.
His muscles have tensed. “A tongue is a good organ.”
Intrigue lights up my eyes. What is your favorite thing to do with your tongue? What do you love most in life? Who are you really? So many questions tumble in my head, and yet, I don't ask a single one. “It is,” I say softly.
I start rambling about eggnog. Truly the best holiday drink in existence, and I check my phone for missed texts.
I see one from Nate. My friends-with-benefits.
I go quiet while I read.
NATE
Hey. Going to be in San Diego next week. If you’re around there, we should meet up.
Meet up for sex. That’s all it is with Nate. And that’s what I prefer. Something easy that feels good. I quickly text him back and let him know we won’t be in San Diego, but I give him the location of our next stop—in case his plans change and he’s in the area.
“Everything okay?” Thatcher asks, noticing my silence and how I stare at the phone screen.
“Yes.” I sit straighter and pocket my phone back into my onesie. “It was just Nate. He wants to meet up during the tour at some point.”
He narrows his eyes on the highway. “If he’s coming on the bus, I need to know.”
“I’ll tell you,” I promise. “But I’m still leaning towards not having Nate here at all.”
His brows knit, as though a question is on his mind. Like me, he doesn’t ask. He won’t broach Nate beyond security protocols.
He rubs his mouth a few times, then places his strict hand back on the wheel. The unspoken things brew a greater tension.
I keep talking. “I think it’s better if I don’t bring him on the bus. He’s just a friends-with-benefits.”
It feels too personal letting Nate join the tour in some capacity. He’s not a boyfriend, and I consider the people on this bus more important.
This is their home for four months.
No matter how much I love sex or how hot and bothered I already am, I have to make do with the hotel pit stops. Just me and my lovely vibrator.
Thatcher nods. “Whatever you want to do, I’m here for you.” His voice is strict like usual, and I ache to ask, what do you want to do?
He’s not supposed to be that person in my life.
I’m not even sure why I want him to be more. He’s a terrific bodyguard who makes me feel extraordinarily safe—among other things.
I don’t want to lose him.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He lets out a deeper breath, and then focuses on the road. After a short beat, he tells me, “Merry Christmas, Jane.”
My smile brightens. “Merry Christmas, Thatcher.”