Chapter 9 #2
“Give me your phone,” I say, making grabby hands at him.
“Why?”
“So I can call my number and see if my phone’s on the beach.”
“If it was in your pocket, I’m sure it’s gone.”
“I have to know! Please! Just give me your phone.”
We’re on the patio now, and he sets me down on one of the loungers. It’s just like Brock’s with a dark wood frame and light-colored cushions.
“What’s your number?” the guy asks, holding his phone.
I reach for it. “Just give it to me and I’ll do it.”
“Tell me your number or forget it.”
I give it to him, then listen for the ring, but all I hear is the ocean.
“It’s gone,” I say, lying back on the lounger. “My phone is gone.”
“Just get another one.” He puts his phone away, then scoops me up from the lounger.
“I wasn’t ready!” I say, holding on as he carries me to the house.
“Didn’t want you getting blood on the cushions.”
“Why? Are you some kind of neat freak?”
He doesn’t answer as he opens the door and takes me inside to the living room, where I saw him with that girl. At least I think it was him. It’s hard to say since I really only saw an outline of him. It could’ve been his dad or a brother.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he carries me down a hall.
“To the bathroom. It’s where I have the first aid stuff.” He smiles at me. “Not a secret lair. I promise.”
From his warm smile and the gut feeling I get that he’s an okay guy, I’m pretty sure I can trust him. He doesn’t seem dangerous. But I still wish I had my phone. I really need my phone, and now it’s floating away in the ocean.
He takes me into a large bathroom with a soaking tub and a walk-in shower. There’s a room way in the back with a wooden door.
“What’s that?” I ask, panic in my voice, my body stiffening as I consider what that door might be hiding.
“It’s a sauna,” he says, setting me down. “I use it after my workouts to loosen up my muscles.”
When he says it, my eyes dart down to his arms. They’re huge.
I didn’t think I liked muscular guys, probably because I never dated one.
This guy makes Axl look scrawny, which I never thought he was until now.
Axl’s arms are the size of mine, maybe even smaller.
He hates working out. He used to have his mom write him notes to get him out of gym class.
The guy opens a cabinet and pulls out a towel. “Want to dry off first?”
I take the towel and blot my hair, then my shirt and shorts. “That’s good enough for now.”
“Have a seat.” He points to the long granite counter with two sinks.
I put my towel down between the sinks and sit on it.
“Here.” He hands me a damp washcloth. “Start with this.”
“It’s white. I’ll ruin it.”
“Use it. I’ll just toss it when you’re done.”
I dab the washcloth over my knee, then pull it away. “It stings.”
He takes it from me, shaking his head. “Hold still.”
“Wait!” I yell, but he’s already wiping it over my knee. It hurts, but for some reason, it hurts less when he does it.
He rinses the washcloth in the sink. “Doing okay?”
“Not really. Let’s just get this over with.”
He cleans off my other knee, which is scraped and covered in sand. “Didn’t think you’d be such a baby.”
“I’m not being a baby. It hurts.”
“Try having some three-hundred-pound guy slam into you, running at full speed. Or when two of them come at you at once. You don’t know pain until you’ve had that happen.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Football.” He rinses the washcloth again, then wipes off the area just below my knee where the blood ran down.
I could do it myself, but I kind of like having him do it.
Watching his muscles flex. Seeing the concentration on his face.
He’s really intense. And serious. But when he smiles or laughs, his seriousness is gone.
“You play football? In college?”
“High school. I’m a senior.”
“Me too. Do you go to—”
“Lay back,” he says, rinsing the washcloth. “I need to get your stomach.”
My stomach? I really should do that myself, so why aren’t I? Why am I leaning back on the counter, letting this guy I don’t even know rub a washcloth over my stomach?
“You might’ve ruined your shirt,” he says.
I look down and see it’s torn on the bottom. It must’ve caught on a rock in the water and ripped.
“Dammit.” I sigh. “This was one of my favorites.”
“Who’s the band?”
“It’s a local band in New York. I went to their concert a few months ago.”
The guy pushes my shirt up to the edge of my bra as he cleans the scrapes along my abs.
His hands aren’t even touching me, but it feels really good.
The way he’s slowly moving the cloth over my stomach.
The amount of pressure he’s using. It’s making me feel things I shouldn’t.
I have a boyfriend. I should only be feeling this way with him, not some guy I just met.
“You into music?” he asks.
“I like it, but I’m not obsessed with it like my boyfriend is. He knows all these obscure bands and knows the lyrics to like a million songs. Well, not a million, but you know what I mean.”
The guy runs the washcloth along my lower abs, along the seam of my shorts. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the dirty thoughts I’m having.
I must really miss Axl. I never get this turned on.
“That should be good for now,” the guy says, taking his hand away. “I’ll get some bandages.”
Opening my eyes, I see him opening the cabinet next to the sink. I sit up and look at my exposed torso. It looks like someone with long fingernails ran them across my skin, making long, thin lines dotted with blood.
“Does your boyfriend live around here?” the guy asks, still searching for stuff in the cabinet.
“Not even close. He lives in Brooklyn.”
The guy walks over to me, holding a tube of something and some bandages. “New York?”
I nod. “It’s where I’m from. I’m here for year then I’m moving back.”
“Why here?” he asks, spreading whatever’s in that tube on my knee.
“It’s a long story.” I hold my hand out. “Give me some of that and I’ll do my stomach.”
I can’t risk having him put his hands there again. I’m still feeling what he did to me. The heat. The arousal. The throbbing need to be with someone like that again.
He bandages up my knee, then takes a step back. “You want some different clothes to put on?”
“I don’t think yours would fit me,” I say, getting off the counter.
“I didn’t mean mine. I have some I think would fit you.”
“Your mom’s?”
“They belong to a friend. She keeps stuff here for when she stays over.”
Stays over? Is he talking about that girl I saw him kissing? If so, she seems like more than a friend.
“You’re shivering in those clothes,” he says. “And there isn’t much left to that shirt.”
He’s right. When I tried to pull it down, I noticed another tear.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll take a different shirt if you have one.”
He goes out the door and returns with a white t-shirt and yellow terry cloth shorts.
“She wears these when she’s sitting around the pool,” he says, giving me the clothes. “She won’t care if you take them.”
“You have a pool?”
“We passed right by it on the way in.”
“Guess I didn’t notice.”
“I’ll let you change.” He goes to leave, then turns back. “So what’s your name?”
“Rumor. What’s yours?”
“Jackson.” He smiles. “Rumor. Good name. I like it.”
I smile back. “I don’t really like Jackson, but I won’t hold it against you.”
He laughs as he leaves, closing the door behind him.
The shorts and shirt are almost the perfect size.
The shirt’s looser in the chest than I’m used to, but that girl I saw him with last night had a huge chest, so it makes sense she’d need a bigger shirt.
The shorts are really short, like show-your-butt-cheeks short, but at least they’re dry.
My jean shorts were soaking wet. My underwear was too, so I took them off.
I couldn’t really wear them anyway with these shorts.
“I’m ready,” I say, coming out of the bathroom.
“In the living room,” Jackson yells.
I find him on the couch, checking his phone.
“Thanks for the clothes.”
“No problem.” He stands up, his eyes going over me. Even though the shirt is loose, I’m not wearing a bra under it, so I’m sure my nipples are on display. I almost put my bra back on, but it was too wet.
“I can just walk home,” I tell him as I yank on my shirt, pulling it away from my chest. “I’ll take the sidewalk this time, assuming that’s not off limits.”
He walks over to me. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I just don’t like people on my property, especially out back. I’ve had some issues in the past.”
“You mean your parents have. You keep talking like this is your place. It’s confusing.”
“This is my place.”
“You live here, but it belongs to your parents.” I look around. “Where are they? At work?”
“Who the fuck knows? I don’t keep track of them.” He walks over to the coffee table and grabs his keys. “Car’s out front.”
He walks off.
“Wait!” I hobble behind. “I can’t go that fast.”
He turns back. “Want me to carry you?”
“No. Just slow down.” I catch up to him. “What’s the deal with your parents? They don’t live here?”
“They live all over. Last I heard my dad was in Lisbon, shooting a movie. Haven’t heard from my mom in months.”
“So you’re here alone? They don’t even check in?”
“They don’t have to. I’m an emancipated minor.” He opens the door for me.
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I’m an adult.” He locks the door. “I take care of myself.”
“For how long? How long have you done this?”
“I’ve been on my own since I was fifteen.” He walks over to a shiny black Range Rover and opens my door. “Need help getting in?”
“No. I’m good.” I step inside and notice the new car smell. When he gets in, I turn to him. “So your parents bought you this house, then just left?”
“They didn’t buy it. It’s mine.”
What does he mean? It can’t be his house. He couldn’t afford something this expensive.