22. RAE
22
I f anyone told me last week that I’d be driving across the country with Jared James Jensen and I’d enjoy myself, I’d tell them they must have bumped their head with a rock. Because there is no way Jensen and I would be able to be in the same room for longer than five minutes without killing each other, let alone share a car for eight hours a day.
But here we are.
I’m staring out of the window, humming along to the radio with my feet on the dash, secretly stealing glances at Jensen. He’s wearing a light gray t-shirt that's bringing out every line of his muscles, his tattoos staring at me from under his short sleeves, with some light washed jeans he bought in Memphis yesterday. His sunglasses sit on his nose, giving him that bad boy look that makes him breathtaking.
He looks amazing.
Last night was incredible.
This morning was wonderful.
Part of me thought it would be awkward with Bodi leaving, no longer working as the middleman whenever Jensen and I would have a go at each other. But in reality, that awkward feeling was quickly replaced by comfort the second Bodi got out of the car.
“That was your sister, right? On the phone this morning?” I turn my head.
He’s leaning into the door, his head resting on his hand while he holds the wheel with the other.
I’m not sure if he’s holding back, but he hasn’t been driving like a madman like I expected him to do. Instead, he’s driving as comfortably as I feel. Cruising over the highway without a care in the world. Like we don’t have a destination and this trip doesn’t have an end date that’s creeping closer every minute.
I wish it was the truth.
“You mean when you were distracting me.”
“You didn’t complain.” I shrug.
“I don’t think I can ever complain when you put your hands on me.” A smirk lifts his lips, and I can feel his eyes burning through my body from under his sunglasses.
“Keep your eyes on the road, hockey boy .” I chuckle, averting my gaze to tame the butterflies in my stomach.
“Della told me to do whatever I want,” he tells me, after a while. “With Emily.”
I let his words sink in, having no clue what he wants. Seeing him lighthearted like he’s been the last couple of days has really showed me that Jensen mostly does what is expected, and rarely does what he wants.
Part of me wishes he wants me, because I’m quickly getting addicted to the feeling he’s been giving me. But also, my pros and cons list pops into my head again, shoving the ridiculous thought of me and him to the back of my mind.
“What is it you want, Jared James Jensen?” My voice is composed with a teasing tone as I look at him.
He holds my gaze, and it intensifies within a second, leaving me unprepared for the answer coming from his mouth.
“Right now?” he huffs. “ You .”
I swallow hard, shocked by his bluntness. My eyes bulge out of my head, and at this point, I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses that are functioning as a shield. My heart rate speeds up. He keeps moving his head back and forth between me, and the road, searching my face while goosebumps trickle my body.
“Like,” he starts when I’m lost for words, “I don’t know what the fuck we are doing. Or what’s gonna happen next week, or even when we get to Jacksonville, but right now, I want you.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Right now, I want to enjoy whatever the fuck we have going on whenever you’re not pissing me the fuck off.”
I snort, returning to my defiant self, trying to lighten the mood. “You mean when you piss me off.”
“Shut up, little witch.” He smiles. “You drive me nuts most of the time, but the last three days I’ve felt better than I have in a while, and I don’t want to think about what comes next other than the road still ahead of us.”
His hand reaches out to my neck and gives it a small squeeze.
“I just want you to be with me.” He repeats his words from last night, and I swear my heart wants to take it as a declaration of something as it’s slamming against my ribcage. “Let’s just have fun. Okay?”
I nod in agreement. “Okay.”
It’s a simple agreement. A simple confirmation, but I can’t help a heavy feeling settling in my bones. Something tells me I’m making a commitment I can’t uphold, but he’s right. Who the fuck knows whatever the hell we’re doing. I sure as fuck don’t know, and until we both go our separate ways, I don’t even want to think about it.
If anything, it seems like the perfect closure of my LA life.
I can just be with him for a few more days.
I’m sure my heart can handle that without breaking into pieces when we all have to get back to reality next week.
Not to mention the fact that he made my body explode like fireworks on the 4th of July, and I never pass on a good fireworks show.
Suddenly, he tugs my neck, leaning over to press a bruising kiss on my lips while keeping one hand on the wheel. His fresh scent enters my nose and I breathe him in, a moan vibrating from my throat at the urgency of his action. Before he lets go, he softly bites my lip, then straightens his back, just in time to avoid driving into the car in front of us. He yanks the wheel to the side, followed by a loud honk of the car beside us while I get jerked against the door.
“Shit!” he mutters at the same time I say, “Ouch.”
“Fuck, are you okay?” he asks, frantically, when he gets the car back on the right side of the road. The back of his hand strokes my cheek, looking for any distress on my face.
“Are you trying to kill me, hockey boy?” I do my best to keep a straight face, but I can feel a smile dying as it tries to push through.
I felt that. I won’t voice it, not wanting to ruin the moment, but I felt the need .
That wasn’t a kiss that was just fun .
“Dammit!” I brush my bruised arm, then swat his side. “Next time park the car.”
“Ah, fuck!” He winces way too much for the force I put into my action, and I quirk an eyebrow.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine.” He shifts a little in his seat, uncomfortable.
“Are you hurt?”
“It’s nothing.”
Not believing a word he says, I reach out and lift his shirt, a fresh tattoo inked on his ribcage. It’s wrapped in foil, the sides taped against his skin to keep it clean.
“When the fuck did you get a new tattoo?” My eyes grow wide, my lips parting in shock.
A sly grin lifts the corner of his mouth as he keeps his attention on the road ahead. “This morning, when I had to make a few calls.”
“You made a few calls while getting a tattoo?” I move closer as he hums in agreement to study the graphic. “Is that—” I look at the side of his face, his smile growing by the second. “Is that a red boot?” I blink, shocked. “With an ice cream cone on top of it? You got a tattoo for our night together?”
Replaying his words in my head, I sense my heart swelling as I keep staring at the deep red ink then flick my attention to my left boot, the ice cream stain clear on the opulent leather.
“I wanna keep this memory.” He shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but really it’s fucking huge. I don’t wanna assume anything. I don’t even dare to dream, but seeing this permanent reminder on his skin of our night together sure as hell makes my heart believe there is more to hope than there is to fear.
Our eyes are drawn to each other, and just for a sec, I see the same hope in his eyes, fueling the deep drum inside my chest.
“First you try to make us crash, and now you’re trying to give me a heart attack, Jensen? Trying to get rid of me?” I joke to ease some of the tension that’s forming inside the tight space of my car.
When he notices how fake my glare is, he rolls his eyes. “There are easier ways to kill you, Stafford.”
“What?!” I yelp, gaping. “You wouldn’t get away with it.”
He chuckles, bringing his hands back to the wheel.
“Pfft, I’m the son of Asher Jensen. I’m pretty sure I would.”
“Oh, so now you wanna pull the my-daddy-is-a-politician card?” I quirk up an eyebrow.
“Are you kidding me? That's the only time I’m gonna pull that one.”
“To get away with murder?” I deadpan, folding my arms in front of my body. I press my lips together while inside, I’m smiling like that damn Cheshire cat again.
I love how our bickering changed to bantering.
I love how our aggravation turned to flirting.
And most of all, I love how it all feels normal.
“Hell yeah, what else would I need it for?”
“You’re the worst.”
The worst thing I could want.