9. Jump Start
NINE
JUMP START
Jackie
Whisper-light touches lick my body.
“Please,” I beg.
“Please, what?” His voice is soft, but rough. Chills race down my neck.
“Please.” I raise my arms, wanting to touch him. But he isn’t there.
“Tell me what you want.” His voice is harder now, demanding.
“Flynn...”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I sit up so fast I nearly roll off the couch. What’s that noise? My heart? It could be. I mean, I can feel it pulsing against my rib cage, audible even with all the heavy breathing I’m doing. That dream. Heck, all of the dreams. My Flynn fantasies have put my vibrator out of commission.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Oh, it’s not my heart. It’s the door.
“Open up, slut!” A familiar voice accompanies another round of door banging.
“Rose?” I call out.
“Yeah, and I’ve got Trish-the-Dish with me.”
“You’re calling me Trish-the-Dish now? Really?”
“Would you prefer Southern Midget?”
I struggle up from the couch as their argument, clear even through the apartment door, helps chase away the remnants of my dream.
I take a deep breath and slowly let it out, slowing my racing heart.
Once I’m satisfied that I don’t sound like a marathon runner, I unlock the door.
Before I can open it an inch, it’s thrust back in my face and both Rose and Trish march in.
“Um, hello?” I ask, stepping back to accommodate them.
“Girl, we’re here to rescue you.” Trish is holding multiple shopping bags on each arm. She turns one way and then another, looking over my apartment and nearly knocking me back on the couch in the process.
“Sweet sofa,” Rose says, gesturing to the comfortable, mid-century modern piece of furniture I just napped on.
I don’t have much in my apartment. I guess I’ve always thought of this place as temporary, even though I’ve been a bit too preoccupied with work to move.
But what I do have I splurged on. The green tweed couch is something John Glenn would’ve sat on, and my white, marble-topped, circular tulip table barely fits next to the galley kitchen. But it’s awesome, so I got it.
“What are you doing in this place if you can afford things like that?” Trish says, gesturing to the kitchen table.
“I don’t know. Never got around to finding another place, I guess.” I run my hand down the sofa’s arm. “But I always thought that when I did, it would look like…” I trail off, not wanting to admit the truth, my face heating with embarrassment.
“That it would look like something out of the space race era?” Rose asks, clearly catching on.
I lower my head, studying the clean but dingy carpet. “Uh, yeah.”
“Cool. Very you,” Trish says.
I jerk my head up, wondering if she’s making fun of me, but Trish’s usual sincere expression relieves that worry.
“You’d love my brother’s place then,” Rose says.
This piques my interest. I didn’t get a good look inside Flynn’s house the night I dropped Rose off. All the lights were out, and honestly, I was too distracted by a shirtless Flynn.
But before I can sort out a clever way to ask what Rose means without being completely obvious, she changes the subject.
Rose thrusts a finger in my direction. “You’ve been working all week and blowing off our texts.”
I blink, unprepared for the accusation. “I have not. I texted back.” I flex my sore thumbs as proof.
Trish rolls her eyes at me. “What about the ones from today? You never answered us.”
I turn and dig my phone out from under the couch cushions. Ten texts and four missed calls. None from Flynn.
Not that I’m keeping track or anything.
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t see them.”
“Yeah, well, just so you know, your apartment complex is a shit hole. It matches your car.” Rose opens my bedroom door and leans in to flip the switch.
“Wait!” But it’s too late.
“Holy shit, Jackie,” she says, standing in my bedroom doorway, looking in.
“What?” Trish shakes the shopping bags off her wrists and hurries over to Rose, who has now walked into the room.
Great. Just great. I follow after them.
When I moved in, I’d known it wasn’t the best apartment.
But it was close to work and the landlord had seemed to like me, which could be because I paid a year’s rent in advance.
One less thing to have to think about and all that.
This in turn had made my landlord deliriously happy.
Happy enough to let me redecorate a bit.
With his permission, I’d set out to make my bedroom my haven. My nerdy, hopelessly romantic haven.
Almost everything is white. White walls, white curtains, white pillows, and the fluffiest white down comforter I could find.
“They let you paint the ceiling?” Trish asks.
I shrug.
Everything is white but the ceiling. That I painted black, swirled with the darkest, deepest midnight blue I could find, with a hint of burgundy and a light swirl of silver.
Then splattered with high-end, glow-in-the-dark paint.
It took a week to get the colors melded the way I wanted.
And another to get all the glow-in-the-dark paint out of my hair.
Research proves that people who get a solid night’s sleep have a stronger memory recall.
When your brain rests, regions for making and storing memories talk to each other.
Good sleep promotes consolidation, the process of transferring memories from temporary memory storage in the hippocampus to long-term storage in the neocortex.
All of which is why I spent so much energy on my bedroom.
And maybe also because the all-white color palette makes it easy for me to pretend that I’m an astronaut up in the International Space Station, staring into the abyss of space.
Rose is looking over the multiple stacks of books I have around the room.
Besides the ceiling, they are the only splash of color in there.
I have books stacked into the shape of a nightstand next to my bed, as well as the large, floor-to-ceiling bookshelf along one wall.
Trish comes up beside her and I start to sweat while they peruse my book collection in silence.
This is the one place I let my nerd flag fly free. I love books. I love learning new things. A lot of my books are on topics like astronomy, math, and engineering. But mostly, I love all the dirty, sweaty, cowboy sex fantasies between the pages of my romance novels.
Trish’s fingers linger over one of my favorite romance series by Audrey Cole.
She looks back at me, hand still on the romances, and winks.
I can’t decipher Rose’s expression. She may be young.
She may look country sweet. Though I have a feeling all of that is just a facade, and Rose is the architect of many machinations.
“Damn, girl.” She kicks the side of her mouth up into a grin.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
I’m not used to having anyone in my apartment.
In fact, I’m pretty sure no one has been in my apartment since I moved in over a year ago.
And no one on this green Earth knows about my romance novels.
Jules doesn’t count, as she’s currently in orbit.
Rose looks at me in that calculating way again, but as I brace for whatever she might say, she spins away and heads to my closet.
“Let’s see what we have to work with,” she says, opening the doors. She throws me a look over her shoulder and shakes her head. “Seriously?”
“What?”
Trish moves next to Rose. “Oh, sweetie, this is so sad.”
“ What ?” I repeat. I have clothes. Good clothes.
All my T-shirts are in my dresser. The closet is reserved for work apparel.
I’ve spent a good amount of money on some of those dress pants.
I even have a nice shift dress that the lady at Joseph A.
Banks called “classic.” I mean, I’ve never worn it, the tags are probably still on it, but Rose and Trish don’t know that.
“It’s like a cross between Working Girl and Revenge of the Nerds ,” Rose whispers.
Trish leaves the room and returns with the shopping bags. “No worries—we’ve come prepared,” Trish sings, all sunshine and roses as she dumps the bags on the bed.
“Makeover!” Rose and Trish exclaim together, like they’ve practiced or something.
My immediate reaction is to hide. Literally walk into my closet, close the doors on myself and wait for them to leave. But that would be weird. Right?
I force myself to I think about Operation Social Life. Then I look at the pile of sequins, boots, cosmetics, spaghetti straps, and is that... yes, that is a thong.
I flex my sore thumbs, plaster a smile on my face and manage, “Yeah. Makeover. Whoo hoo.”
Death row inmates have sounded more chipper, I’m sure.
“So how do you feel about blow jobs?” Rose asks.
I cough on the sip of rum and Coke I’ve just taken.
“Or sex on the beach?” she continues.
I look to Trish, thinking the question must be for her, but she’s eyeing me expectantly. Well, so be it.
Squaring my shoulders, I adjust my glasses and reply. “I think maybe the logistics of having sex on the beach would be counterintuitive to the ultimate goal. I would think intimacy would be hard to achieve if one was in pain from the abrasive friction from sand in one’s nether regions.”
Rose looks confused for a second, then bursts out laughing. “I mean shots . You know, a Blow Job, the one with Baileys and whipped cream? Or Sex on the Beach, made with vodka and schnapps?”
We’re back in Big Texas Saloon. I’m having a bona fide girls’ night. Operation Social Life is succeeding. I can’t believe it. It’s enough to make me forget what my two new friends have dressed me in. Well, almost. It’s hard to forget when you have a piece of lace wedged up your backside.
Unexpected new information has been gathered tonight: thongs are the devil.
“Oh.” My face heats. “I’ve never had one of those before.”
Rose’s mouth falls open. “Never?” She turns to Trish. “You work here, why aren’t there shots on this table?”
“I’m off tonight, sassy pants.”
“So? Use your connections. For heaven’s sake, this is an emergency.”
“How is this an emergency?”