5. Jake
Chapter 5
Jake
M y father is going to hang my ass from the fancy light fixture in the office lobby when I get back to work. Not only was I supposed to submit a portfolio analysis to a big client an hour ago, my dad and I are supposed to have our one-on-one quarterly strategy meeting in fifteen minutes.
But currently seated next to Dylan, I have no plans to rush back to work.
Dylan looks good in my passenger seat even though I can tell he’d rather drive. The way his leg is bouncing and his fingers twitch every time I take my hand off the wheel are dead giveaways that he’s used to being in control.
The sun’s out and it’s as hot as usual in late summer in the south. I briefly thought about dropping the top, but I’d rather be able to hear him.
Not to mention, I like how intimate it feels being enclosed like this.
Adrenaline is still coursing through my body and I’m glad that brick missed his head. Otherwise, I’d probably be getting booked for first degree murder right now. To be fair, I’d feel that way no matter who they hit. Hate crimes are abhorrent.
“Turn left up here,” Dylan instructs. “We’ll drive about six miles and then take a series of right-hand turns and you can tell me what you feel.”
What I feel.
After only three encounters, I feel too much. Excitement. Joy. Lust. That burning desire to be around someone and learn everything about them. It’s been a while since I’ve felt like this and I’m eager to hold on to it as long as I can.
The air in the car right now is almost crackling as if I’m creating my own static electricity. I hope like hell Dylan doesn’t notice because there’s no explanation for the energy emanating from me other than the truth.
I want him. Badly.
I risk a glance at Dylan whose tatted left elbow is resting on my center console. His hands are glorious. Nice fingers and nails. Sure, there’s grease on his hands, but he doesn’t bite his nails or pick at them, that much is obvious. A full sleeve of tattoos winds up his right arm and I’m dying to see the rest of it. Was that ink on his side I saw the day we met? Do the two connect? Is it all black or is there color somewhere? I have to force myself to bring my eyes back to the road as the back of my neck breaks out in a sweat.
Ink has always been my weakness. Although I don’t have a tattoo myself, I’m a fucking sucker for those that do.
“Six miles you said?” I ask, trying to pull it together. I need to dump this energy somehow and the gas pedal beneath my right foot seems like a good way to do it.
He nods.
“How straight is it?”
He looks at me and smiles wickedly. “Straight enough.”
Based on what’s happening below my belt, that statement is painfully ironic.
Without another word, I press the pedal to the floor. We were already going fifty miles an hour. Three seconds later, we’re moving at one hundred and ten.
I hit one hundred and twenty and stay there for a couple miles before I take my foot off the gas and coast back down to a reasonable speed, knowing I’m going to miss our turn. Slamming on the brakes from that high of a speed isn’t any easier on the passengers than it is on the car and I don’t want to risk rolling it or tearing up my tires.
As we pass by the road I’m supposed to take, we’re still going ninety-five and Dylan points. “When you swing back around, that’s your turn.”
“Got it.”
Am I dragging this joy ride out on purpose? Absolutely.
The craziest part? Dylan doesn’t seem to mind.
A minute later, he leans over the console into my space and I damn near crash when I get a whiff of his shampoo so close to my face.
“Okay, you’re good,” he says, planting his ass back in the seat, confusing the hell out of me.
I have to cough to make my voice reappear. “Good for what?” I swear to God, if he brushes against me in any way, I’m going to come in my fucking pants.
“I wanted to check your oil temp after that acceleration. Sticker says you’re due in about two hundred miles and that kind of acceleration on old oil can be rough.”
“Oh. Right.” What the hell is oil? Dylan is short-circuiting my brain.
I get us turned around and headed back on track when my phone rings loudly in the small space. Once again, my dad’s name flashes on the screen. Knowing it’ll be far worse if I don’t answer, I catch Dylan’s eyes and hold a finger to my lips before pressing the button on my steering wheel that connects the call.
“Father.”
“Jacob, I know you’re aware of what time it is considering I bought you that Rolex on your wrist. Do you think I pay you to avoid coming into the office?” he asks condescendingly.
Embarrassed that Dylan is hearing this, I fire back at my father, which I’ll be honest, isn’t a smart move.
“First of all, you don’t pay me anything. My clients pay me because I’m damn good at my job. Secondly, there was an…incident…when I came to pick up the Maserati. I’m handling it, but it’s taking a bit longer than I anticipated and I’ll need to reschedule our meeting.”
“I warned you,” my father snarls into the phone. “You should’ve taken it to the dealership. I can’t believe you let the asshole who hit it attempt to fix it.”
Without thinking, I reach over and place my hand on Dylan’s forearm protectively. Shaking my head, I mouth I’m sorry.
It isn’t until he pats my hand that I realize I’m touching him. Too caught up in the humiliation that is my father, I’d reacted and crossed a line. I pull my hand back and place it on the steering wheel alongside my other one, feigning the need of both hands to make my turn.
“ Actually, ” I start, hoping my father can hear the sneer in my voice, “the car is perfect. Some sick bastard put a brick through the window of their office.” I don’t owe my father an explanation, but it doesn’t feel right to allow him to assume Dylan fucked up. Even through the phone, I feel my father’s surprise. I rarely give him attitude and I’ve now done it twice in one conversation.
“Well, with their location, I’m sure they’re used to it. Martin’s been concerned about the growing crime on that side of the city for a while.” Martin Cosey. The governor, Cora’s father, and my father’s best friend. “When you’re done playing vigilante do-gooder, get your ass back to the office.”
As soon as he hangs up Dylan lets out a low whistle, a trait he must have picked up from his father. “Wow. Your dad is—”
“A condescending asshole?” I finish for him.
He snorts a laugh, unknowingly easing my discomfort. “I was going to say intense, but yeah, your description is pretty accurate.”
“I’m really sorry you had to hear that. It’s hard to believe at thirty-years-old, my father still has so much control over my life.”
As we talk, Dylan points, telling me our next turn is approaching. Talking with him feels so different than talking to Phoenix, Hudson, and Knox. Maybe it’s the excitement of something new or maybe it’s just him .
The other guys get so riled up by my dad that I never really vent about him because they’ll start trash-talking before I can even explain what I’m pissed about. They’re loyal as hell and I’m so grateful they have my back, but Dylan’s calm reaction is a balm to my scorched heart, making me want to bask in his presence all day.
“Are you an only child?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I have an older brother, but he chose a different career path and was basically disowned. I still see Tim every now and then, but he never comes home.” To be fair, his job doesn’t really let him come home that often, but I leave that part out.
My older brother is the personal bodyguard of Beautiful Deceit’s bassist, Ryan Battle. After joining the military at eighteen to get the hell away from our father, Tim got into private security shortly after being honorably discharged. Sitting behind a desk in a suit all day would have literally killed him. After landing the gig with Beautiful Deceit, he could pretty much write his own ticket, but the band is like his family now and Ryan and his wife, Emma, recently had their first child, so I definitely don’t expect him to leave anytime soon.
Ten minutes later, we’re pulling back into Ryder Automotive’s parking lot. Did the car shake when making right hand turns? I couldn’t tell you.
Dylan looks around when we pull in. “How’d you get here?” he asks.
“I had the company driver drop me off.”
Dylan rubs the back of his neck, causing his biceps to flex and his tattoos to dance, immediately drawing my eyes to the movement. “Oh, okay. Just so you know, if you ever need it, we offer a pick-up and drop-off service, like if you need to bring your car in, we’ll give you a lift back to work…or wherever.”
“That’s good to know.” I hold my hand out to shake his, craving any contact I can get. “I need to get back to the office, but Knox’ll be here soon. You can trust him. He does good work.”
“Thanks again for doing all that,” he says, grabbing my hand. “You really didn’t have to.”
“Just protecting my investment,” I say, praying like hell the smirk only feels like it’s on my face this time. I’m confident Dylan doesn’t realize the “investment” I’m interested in protecting is him and not his shop, but if I start grinning like the cat that got the cream, he’ll be on to me soon enough.
It was a car ride for fuck’s sake, but I haven’t been this excited about something in quite a while.
“Cora? I’m home.”
And what a long fucking day it’s been. Work dragged on forever once I got back from Dylan’s shop and I found myself struggling to concentrate. All I kept picturing was that left arm on my console and I swear I got whiffs of his shampoo all afternoon.
Daydreams about what he would’ve done if I’d run my fingers through his hair and gripped the roots, locking him in place, filtered through my mind, distracting me from everything I should’ve been working on.
“In the kitchen!” Cora calls back, her feminine voice instantly causing my lust to abate.
We don’t live together, but she has the code to my place. Cora is six years younger than me which is probably the only reason our parents haven’t forced our marriage just yet, but every time we’re out with them now, I sense the inevitable drawing closer. With her recent uptick in interest in the same topic, I wonder if her father has been applying pressure.
Either way, I feel on-edge around her in a way I haven’t before.
It would seem Dylan’s appearance in my life is upsetting the careful balance I’ve managed over the last few years. The mask I’ve kept in place continues to grow more uncomfortable by the day.
I kiss Cora’s cheek and give her a sincere smile. “Cor, you know I don’t expect you to have dinner ready every day when I get home, right?”
“Mmhmm,” she sings, while happily dancing around the kitchen, managing a thousand burners and whatever’s in the oven. She’ll make a great wife because she loves it. She revels in traditional roles, but respects that not everyone feels the same way she does. She loves pearls and throw pillows, and having her nails done. And she’s an excellent cook.
The perfect life for Cora involves a nursery full of kids, dinners at the country club, and Christmas cards with everyone in matching outfits. It’s not a bad life, it’s just not the life for me and I’ve begun having panic attacks every time I try to imagine it.
“Why don’t you go change and I’ll have the table set when you get back?” She kisses my cheek and wraps her arms around me in a hug. Cora’s kind and empathetic to a fault and although I don’t love her the way I’m supposed to, I still buck at the thought of someone else’s ring on her finger.
She’d be so easy to take advantage of. To manipulate. To trap. Her family was wealthy prior to her dad’s election and he’ll eventually make a run for the presidency, making her a potential target to be used as a political bargaining chip.
She stands on her toes, kissing my neck, and her lips brush the cut there.
“Oh my gosh, Jacob! What happened?”
I give her the rundown, relieved just to be able to say Dylan’s name aloud.
“That’s terrible! How can people be so cruel?”
My heart pinches at her kindness, wishing, not for the first time, I could be the man she deserves.
After dinner, I clean up while Cora works on something for a silent auction she’s putting together. It’s a muscular dystrophy charity at our country club that has kept her busy over the last few weeks.
It’s a comfortable routine. While I load the dishwasher and wash my cast iron pans by hand, my mind drifts back to the drive this afternoon once more and it isn’t until Cora comes into the kitchen and rubs her hands up my back that I snap out of it.
“I’m done working,” she informs me as her hands travel to the thin brown belt on my jeans.
Immediately, I still her hand.
“I’m sorry, babe. I still have a few things I need to wrap up. Besides, I have to be at the office by six-thirty tomorrow and I need to hit the gym before that,” I tell her, trying to let her down gently. “I’ll make it up to you. Raincheck?” I just don’t have it in me to fake it tonight and my resentment of that fucking blue pill is growing exponentially.
Because I certainly don’t need it when Dylan’s around.
When Cora leaves, obviously disappointed, I can’t get rid of the crawling sensation on my skin. Knowing there’s only one person who can eradicate the feeling for me, I reach for my phone and send Dylan a text.
Jacob 8:57pm
Did Knox get everything sorted out?
My heart hammers in my chest as I wait for his answer. Thankfully, he doesn’t keep me waiting long.
Dylan 8:58pm
Yeah. Dude works fast. Doesn’t talk much though.
My laugh fills the silence in my condo. Knox reserves his words for social settings and even then, he’s more of an observer. Older than the rest of our group, he chooses his words carefully and makes sure they always count. Unlike Phoenix, who says dumb shit all the time just to hear his own voice.
Jacob 8:58pm
You’re right about that.
I’m stressing over what to say next, not wanting the conversation to end when my phone chirps again.
Dylan 9:02pm
I don’t think I ever said thank you for saving me from that brick. Too stunned I guess. But thanks.
Jacob 9:02pm
No problem. I’m sorry your shop is being attacked.
Dylan: 9:03pm
Not your fault.
Jacob 9:03pm
Hopefully the cameras will catch the bastards responsible.
When a few minutes go by with no response, I start to get desperate. I’m not ready for this to be over…whatever this is.
Jacob 9:08pm
Before I forget, the clutch on my Corvette is sticking. Can I make an appointment for that?
Immediately, I feel so transparent. Of course, I can make an appointment for that. It’s literally what they do . I try to back pedal, but as I’m typing, Dylan’s message pops up first.
Dylan 9:10pm
You know how to drive stick-shift? Figured your kind preferred to let the car do all the work for you. ;)
My heart comes to a dead stop. Did he just wink at me? Oh, to have seen that in real life. I swallow hard, choosing my next words carefully.
Jacob 9:11pm
I’m going to pretend you didn’t just lump me in the same category as rich assholes who have no appreciation for the finer things in life…
Dylan 9:11pm
Finer as in…?
Jacob 9:12pm
As in days out on the lake, drinks with friends, laughing so hard your face hurts, a good workout that leaves you breathless and writhing on the floor, and of course – a joyride at 100mph in a six-speed.
Dylan 9:13pm
And here I thought the list would include Gucci, Rolex, a round of golf, and some fancy bourbon that costs $1000 a bottle.
I can no longer tell if he’s joking or not, but I don’t feel playful anymore. Stupidly, I’d given him an unguarded, honest answer about what I enjoy most in life and he’s just thrown it in my face with some ignorant comment about my money. If that’s the box he’s going to put me in, I’d hate to disappoint him.
Jacob 9:15pm
Actually, I’m more of a vodka drinker.
And my Rolex is telling me it’s time for bed since I have an early tee time tomorrow.
Goodnight.
I’m fighting the urge to throw my phone across the room when my ringtone filters through my anger and reaches my ears.
Dylan’s name is on the screen.