20. Jade
Chapter twenty
Jade
Mateo holds up a pair of sneakers.
I click my tongue in disapproval.
Why can't he order shit online like a normal person? He said it's because he likes to touch stuff, which I suppose isn't wrong. Every clothing rack we walk by, his fingers graze the fabric. He's constantly picking things up off shelves and putting them back down.
Or touching the small of my back, which obviously I hate.
I hate that I think I like it.
I'm not supposed to.
Sex only. He's supposed to be my orgasm vending machine. My personal pussy attendant, my—God he needs to stop looking at me like that.
It's like he fucking knows where my head is right now. I scowl, and he laughs.
"Come on, Storm Cloud," he says and gestures to the exit of the store.
I lead, and he follows. Always. He'll walk ahead to hold the door open, but that's it. He falls in step beside me or behind me, never in front. Does that say something about him? Or me that I noticed?
"Are you ever going to tell me where Storm Cloud came from?" I ask exiting the store into the mall.
A grin flashes across his face, the one he uses when he and Coop are up to something, but it's quickly replaced with what I call his sexy mask. The one where he tries to look all bad and mysterious, and I hold back a laugh because it's anything but.
"You going to draw me?" he asks.
"No," I say, straight-faced. My sketchpad begs to differ, but he doesn't need to know that.
"Let's try there," he says, pointing to another shoe store.
Ask me why I'm here today, go ahead. Ask.
Because this motherfucker can't get his left shoe on or off without help from me or a fucking shoehorn, which he didn't want to carry around.
I guess there are worse things.
Like dealing with Kevin.
We find the men's section, and I take a seat on a bench to wait until his majesty needs me, except he keeps asking my opinion.
I don't get him, like at all. I don't understand why my opinion matters, or why he would even consider a relationship with me.
We aren't compatible, not in the slightest. I'm darkness, he's light.
I'm a traffic jam at rush-hour, and he's a Sunday drive.
I'm not the woman people want. I'm the one they take advantage of, the one they leave behind.
"Hey, space cadet," Mateo says, interrupting my spiral. "What about these?" He holds up a pair of simple all white sneakers.
"Those too," I say, pointing behind him at a cream-colored flat bottom canvas sneaker.
He asks the attendant for his size in both, and settles in beside me, kicking both sneakers off without untying them.
"What the actual fuck?" I ask and point at his feet.
At least he has the decency to look apologetic, but the fucker can't seem to do it without a smile on his face. A smile that is much more prevalent now that he's clean-shaven.
"I can't even look at you," I say. "Your face looks like a baboon's ass."
"Does that mean you don't want to ride it later?" he whispers.
"It means I will, but I won't be happy about it."
He reaches up to touch his bare face and laughs. The laugh reaches his eyes, and I think it's my favorite look on him. I itch to draw him like this, but then his sexy mask falls into place. His lips turn to an upside-down smile.
"Noted," he says, and looks down at his watch. "Yup, time to feed the Jade-asaurus."
Before I can ask what the fuck that's supposed to mean, the salesman returns with the sneakers.
Only the second pair fits, and Mateo decides to wear them out of the store, thank God.
He may be able to kick and slide his old sneakers on and off, but the new pair he legitimately needed my help with.
While he pays, I head back out to the mall and sit on the bench outside the store.
I still don't know how he found my InASnap account, but in a way, it's a relief.
Even Cooper isn't aware of the account. He knows about my drawings, they're all over the apartment, but my InASnap was something strictly for me.
Mateo hasn't mentioned it again, and I won't bring it up, but part of me hopes he does.
It'd be nice to have someone else excited about the traction it gets.
"Ja-ade," a voice calls. "Lookin' good babe."
I know that voice. That voice belongs to the last fucking person I want to see right now, especially when I'm out with Mateo.
"What the hell do you want, James?" I say, turning toward the sound of his voice.
"I can't say hi to my baby mama?" he asks, sauntering toward me. Two friends follow, like the lackeys they are.
"Don't fucking call me that," I say, standing to my full height, which in my boots is at least two inches taller than the sperm donor standing in front of me.
"Boys, this is my son's bitch mother," James says.
"You can call me a bitch all you fucking want. I own that goddamn title, but he is not your fucking son."
Over James's shoulder, Mateo exits the store. I see the moment he notices James and the two men flanking him. His body stiffens, his fist clenches around the bag in his hand, and his face hardens into something I've yet to see from him. Anger.
I give him a subtle shake of my head. I can handle this myself.
James takes a step closer. Behind him, Mateo pulls the rim of his hat down and lingers.
"He's my fucking son, you can deny that shit all you want, but I did my part," James says.
"Your part? Knocking me up and walking away? Fuck you. You're a fucking parasite."
"I offered to pay for your abortion."
"You fucking douchecanoe. On what fucking planet does that make him your kid?" I raise my voice. "Fuck you." The thought of not having Coop rips me apart. He's my reason for breathing. My everything.
Around us, people are slowing down. We're drawing attention. I clench my jaw, squeeze my eyes shut, then open them on a heavy breath.
"You're the one who keeps him from me," James snarls.
"No fucking way," I say, thrusting my pointer finger into his chest. "You showed your true fucking colors."
He pushes forward, shoving my hand away and licking his lips, his face inches from mine.
"I'll show you something."
No. No he fucking did not just say that.
Red.
I see fucking red.
A strong hand stops me from raising my arm, fist clenched.
"I think that's enough," Mateo's deep voice says, stepping between me and James. He releases me but doesn't move. His face is stone, the look unsettling.
"Fucking move," I say through gritted teeth. "He deserves what's coming to him."
"Yeah, asshole, move," James says.
Mateo remains a wall between us, his eyes on mine.
"He's not worth it," he says, his voice is neutral, soft, and comforting. A large contrast to the way he stands so tall, clenching his jaw.
"Douchebag, this is a private conversation," James says.
"It stopped being private when you cornered a woman in a public place," Mateo says, turning to face James. "I suggest you move, and let the lady pass, before it gets worse for you."
"What are you gonna do about it?"
"For starters, I'll let her kick your sorry ass." Mateo chuckles, his shoulders shaking. "That would make for a great video. Man, it would kill your cred with these ass wipes, wouldn't it?"
James scoffs. "That bitch can't hurt me."
"Want to fucking bet?" I yell, stepping outside Mateo's shadow. "One more fucking word, James, and I swear to fucking God."
Mateo doesn't give James a chance to respond. He grabs my hand, again putting himself between me and James and guides me through the three men.
"Not worth it, Storm Cloud," he whispers.
He doesn't let go until we're in the parking lot.
"What the hell, Mateo?" I say when we're both in the car.
"Thanks, Mateo, for stopping me from being on the evening news," he says starting the car and shifting it into drive.
"I had it fucking handled. I don't need saving."
"I saved you from yourself."
"Fuck you," I cross my arms and stare out the passenger window.
Mateo sighs and pulls into traffic.
I turn up the music, loud and angry. Fuck men. Fuck them all.
I'm still fired up fifteen minutes later when Mateo pulls into a parking spot at a grocery store.
I don't say a word, and neither does he. He tosses his key fob in the cupholder and climbs out.
Saving me from myself. Fucking asshole.
I flip through my playlist, skipping songs that don't match my mood. By the time Mateo pops the hatch, I'm lost in Linkin Park's lyrics.
In the reflection of the rearview mirror, I watch him unload bags of apples into the trunk and close it.
He puts the cart away then opens my door, tossing a Red Bull and a purple bag of Doritos on my lap.
Before I can open my mouth, he shuts the door again and rounds the front of the car, opening the driver's side door.
"All those apples are going to get bruised. They're going to roll around back there," I say, cracking the Red Bull.
"Not for eating," he says. He doesn't expand on that, and I'm still too angry to ask. Just because he fueled me with my favorites doesn't mean I forgive him for stopping me from punching James.
Thirty minutes and two stops later, I'm standing on home plate at Gilmore Park, shivering.
"Are you going to tell me what the fuck we're doing here?" I ask, crossing my arms.
Mateo dumps the bags of apples on the grass ten feet from me and hands me a wooden bat.
"Therapy session," he says as if that's meant to explain everything.
When I don't respond, he goes on. "I used to do this before I got tattoos, and honestly, sometimes still do. It's part anger relief, part emotional reckoning. Have you ever hit a baseball before?"
I grit my teeth and stare at him. Is he for real?
He shows me where to put my hands on the bat and shifts his body behind mine, placing his hands over my own. I hate how well he fits there. How well I fit in his arms. It makes it hard to remember what this isn't.
Feelings.
A relationship.
"I'm still mad at you," I say.
"Step with your left leg and swing," he says, guiding my hands. "Just like that." He backs away and walks slowly backward toward the apples. "Try it without me."
I do as he says.
"Good. Okay, now try to hit the apple."