FOURTEEN Burning Jealousy
J ACKSON
You know, I might have hyperactive tendencies at times, but right now, I shouldn’t. I’ve just experienced one of the kinkiest fuck sessions I’ve ever been fortunate enough to be a part of, and my body has been nicely pleased. I should be sawing logs with my head buried face down in my pillow, but I’m not.
I can’t.
I glance at the survey in my inbox and click “yes,” on both inquiries without a second thought. It’s not the survey keeping me up. In all honesty, I don’t know what’s keeping me up.
Physically, I should be zonked. Knocked out. Dreaming sexy dreams. Or the kind where I’m standing on stage in a stadium where everyone is shrieking my name. But I’m not. I’m too antsy for any of that shit, which doesn’t make any fucking sense.
I sit up, flick my favorite pick against my wooden headboard, and when that doesn’t settle me down, I pop off the bed. I take a hot shower—using this convenient opportunity to whack off again—thinking that’ll do the trick, but it doesn’t. I rewind the events of this evening.
In a lot of ways, it’s like I was part of a porno tonight. Or almost, since I didn’t get to be the one to bang the woman this particular time around. But being in that dining room having a courtside view of the events as I jacked myself off... Fucking Christ. It’s the kind of thing I’ve probably experienced as a wet dream more than once.
Yet something’s bugging me.
I knead a spot right above my diaphragm, feeling this acute searing that has burrowed in there like a gnawing rat. But this isn’t food poisoning or some other physical ailment. I’ve finally figured it out, and my fingers twitch with the need to pound out a furious cord on my acoustic six-string, Zelda.
It’s jealousy. Burning Jealousy.
Even though it makes no sense, I envy how the kid had sex with Elliana like that. Not so much the public part, although that was pretty hot, but the sweetness part. She’s so different with him. She takes Noah under her wing like he’s some baby bird, even though he—like me and Tristan—was hired to satisfy her, not the other way around.
Worse, she even helped him to limp along in that scene until he could successfully do the deed. I mean, I get that the kid is less experienced. It actually surprises me that Elliana chose him due to that very fact. But witnessing her coddling him... I don’t know.
I guess I just wish she’d be that generous and caring with me. Maybe because I seriously like this woman and not only sexually.
Which is stupid. I know.
But I never pictured things going down like that. Or that jealousy would be my response to it. I literally came all over the dining room table as I watched that scenario play out, so it isn’t like I didn’t get my jollies. I’ll never fucking look at that space the same again, that’s for damn sure.
As soon as I understood that she’d be keeping all three of us rather than one, I knew the score. I wonder if she’ll ask us to engage in some down and dirty multi-player at some point. It’s certainly looking that way, and though I’ve never before gotten busy quite like that, I’m good with it.
I am.
I just never anticipated this upsurge of envy throwing a damper over the whole damn thing. Maybe after our trial night, I envisioned her choosing me as her first every time, so I wouldn’t have to deal with the other men’s sloppy seconds. Or maybe whatever’s going on with me is coming more from the events that lead me here. Or from my constantly aching dick.
I can never seem to satisfy my cock. He’s always hungry for more.
Still, it’d be nice to be chosen first just this once. No matter how often I play the happy-go-lucky life of the party or how dedicated I am when I pour my heart out to entertain, no one ever makes me their numero uno. It’s always been like this.
From being an accidental afterthought born to my fifty-year-old mother who’d never thought she’d have kids to the father who’s main personality trait is being an arrogant shithead. Mom did exert some minimal effort into raising me at times, but even then, her attention has always stayed on Monroe.
She’ll forever choose my father as her first rather than me. Even in name he’s the first. Legally, I have to sign my signature as Monroe Jackson McTierney II.
Maybe that’s why I gravitated to music so early.
It helped me to not feel so left behind and placed everyone’s eyes on me even if only for a minute. Mom put up with what she called my quaint temporary hobby while my father showed zero-tolerance for it. Monroe wanted me at his esteemed alma mater of Yale to become a financier like him, not to follow and practice my singing and songwriting.
Just shoot me already.
So, I defied his rickety unmovable ass. Which led to him cutting me off as a freshman in college. Which led to me dropping out and moving in with the one family member I could depend on.
My gramps.
That was eons ago, now. Thirteen years. Prior to Gramps’ many heart issues—he’s had to have bypass surgery twice—and before I helped him sell his home, so he’d have the resources needed to move into his assisted living facility.
Sure, that meant me having to get a little inventive when it comes to survival. Looking after him while simultaneously going full tilt after my musical dreams has meant a lot of sacrificing, everything from taking on a slew of random manual labor jobs to playing for change on sidewalks. I’ve even slept on the occasional park bench.
Not that he knows that.
But I’m not someone who believes in giving up.
I’ve had my share of almosts. I’ve been so close to success a few times that I could taste it. I’ve worked in crews where I hammered the literal stage together before performing for peanuts. Been in bands that did well then imploded. Had a manager offer me a contract only to snatch it away before I could sign. Was scheduled for money-making shows that wound up cancelled.
For some reason, Lady Luck likes to offer me a taste only to elude me in the end.
Regardless, Elegance hooking me up with Elle has been nothing short of serendipitous. I’m glad that website fell into my lap at just the right instant, and I’m even gladder that Elle not only picked me out of a lineup but decided to keep me. Even if I’m not her favorite.
Fuck.
Frustrated, I do what I have to in these circumstances to yank my head out of my ass.
“Gramps,” I half yell into the phone. He doesn’t do texts, and he’s hard of hearing. “How are you?”
“Jackson? That you?”
“It’s me. You hanging in there?”
“’Course. I’m a tough old bird.”
I snicker. No truer words have ever been spoken.
“It’s good to hear your voice. That hot nurse still stopping by on the daily?”
“Brenda the Bombshell?”
“That’s the one,” I confirm. Note: Brenda the Bombshell is at least sixty. She does wear lipstick and keeps her hair a brassy red, though. She’s a jokester and has the patience of fucking Job.
I adore her.
“Thinking about asking her to marry me,” Gramps says.
“You should.”
The man’s been threatening to propose to this lady forever. I wonder what she’d say if he ever goes through with it.
Already, I’m smiling. Speaking to my grandfather always reminds me of what’s important. We BS for a bit longer, and when I hang up, I’m more grounded. Only he and music have that effect on me. I scoop up Zelda and play some Zepplin, Black Sabbath, and AC/DC. Then, as the hour grows later, I switch to some quieter ballads, so I won’t wake up the house.
Sometime after midnight a knock sounds from my door, which is unexpected since everyone else is typically out by now.
I sling it wide, hoisting my manufactured mask of carefree musician back in place, to find Elle standing there. My smirk is instantaneous. Maybe sex with her isn’t off the table after all.
“Hello, there, sweet thing. What can I do for you?” I ask her, wearing nothing whatsoever. She glances down at my package then back up to my face, her pupils a bit larger. Yet her question isn’t anything I’m anticipating.
“I heard you playing. Everything all right?”
“Never better,” I fib. No way in hell am I telling her about going all green-eyed monster over Noah of all people. I just need to remember that this is a gig and nothing more. As long as I have the funds to take care of Gramps, I’m good.
She studies me, her small hands going to the eagle tattoo that expands across my pecks. I figure that’ll be where this ends since she’s traced my tats before, but it doesn’t. She revolves around me as her fingers next skim over to the greyhound on my right bicep, to the massive image of Zelda on my back, then over to my left bicep again where the name of a certain special blonde woman has been imprinted permanently.
“I’ve been curious, if you don’t mind my asking. Did your mother pass away?”
For a second, I’m bewildered by the altered topic. Where the hell did that come from?
Then, my brain connects the dots before my fib becomes apparent.
“No. We were just tight when I was growing up.” There’s an exaggeration. We might’ve been tighter than I’ll ever be with my father, but that’s not much of a benchmark to set.
“Not anymore, though?”
“It’s... our relationship is more problematic than anything.” That one’s more honest, and I sincerely hope Elle quits digging. My family is a sore spot for me other than Gramps. And Rosie... Rosie’s not someone I ever talk about. Some doors, once closed, should stay that way.
“I appreciate how you tidied up after us without me even having to ask.”
While Tristan and I each cleaned up our individual messes—I’m definitely not volunteering to wipe up another man’s spooge—I did go back for her sake and disinfect that table. I may be used to eating just about anywhere, but I can bet Elliana’s not. She strokes over my eagle again. She’s not the first woman to appreciate it. Or man, for that matter.
“Anytime,” I drawl, holding my manufactured smirk firmly in place.
“I do have another favor for you, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Wash my back in the shower?” When the woman removes her robe revealing her nude body underneath, my smirk becomes real.
Maybe I haven’t been first tonight, and maybe I never will be. But I’m not the type to look a gift horse in the mouth. Even as Rosie’s image flashes through my mind, causing that old wound to flare up again, I force myself to push it away and deliver what’s been requested of me.