Chapter 32 Jackson
Jackson
The night—heavy and panting, black as a panther—oozes into the cabin of Jackson’s car. With his windows lowered, forest-scented air swirls through his tiny Mercedes, lifting his thick hair.
Duran Duran’s Seven and the Ragged Tiger cassette is still in his tape deck, and as he veers onto the highway, the very one that will take him back to Ethan’s land, he twists the volume, willing Simon Le Bon’s voice to replace the one in his own head, the voice that says, Jackson Lee Ford, what are you doing?
Because he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he doesn’t want nerves, or the thought of Charleigh screeching at him if she ever finds out, to stop what he thinks is about to happen.
Exactly thirty minutes ago, he was slouching on his sofa, thumbing his clicker between the Rangers game (a bore; they were up from the first inning) and Fantasy Island, the only show on Saturday night worth watching, when the sound of his telephone ringing punctured the air.
His whole body sighed at the sound of it. It could be only one of two people: Charleigh or his mother. Not that he wouldn’t want to hear from Charleigh, but at this hour on a Saturday, she’d be tipsy and bitching about something or someone, in an endless loop.
Plus, he was salty at not having been invited to wherever she most likely still is, only getting asked, plucked from his house, when it suits her.
But after the third ring, he stripped himself off the couch to answer it and spoke in a slightly annoyed tone (because he’s never outwardly confrontational). “Hello.”
A pause.
A man chuckling?
“Hellooo—” Jackson said a third time, this time with more pointed irritation in his tone.
He was about to plunge the phone back down on the receiver when he heard Ethan’s voice, throaty and saccharine, over the line. Buzzed. “This a bad time?” Ethan asked, but not in a concerned way, more mischievous.
Jackson’s heart battered against his rib cage. He gripped the back of a chair, steadied himself. “Uh, no, not at all. I was actually just watching—”
“Good,” Ethan said, striding over him, “because I was actually just calling to see if you wanted to come out.”
His mouth dangled open. Then words surfaced, floated out. “You mean tonight?”
“Yes, right now.”
The chirping of night birds filled the line.
He imagined Ethan standing on his porch, the front door shut, strangling the phone line so that he could talk in private.
“Wife’s just about asleep, kids are in bed, so I thought you could come over, have a drink with me—”
“I’ll leave in ten,” Jackson rushed to say, suddenly afraid Ethan might change his mind.
“Park just inside the gate, and kill your headlights, too. Meet me out back, up by the pond.”
The thought of a rendezvous, of Ethan not even pretending that this meeting was about anything else—woodworking, scoring clients—made Jackson nearly asphyxiate.
And now as he’s edging off the blacktop road, rumbling over the Swifts’ cattle guard, killing the engine, he feels once again like he might pass out.
Before he steps from the car, he hand cranks the windows back up, then drags his fingers through his hair to put it back into place.
He creeps along the drive on foot, like a burglar, ears attuned to everything: the ensemble of night birds that warbled over the phone earlier, the glow of fireflies whose amber light bites at the darkness swelling around him, the sound of his cowboy boots gnawing on the crushed-gravel path.
Despite his effort to remain cool, the damp heat causes his shirt to stick to him, leaving sweat to ring his armpits.
The lone front porch light winks at him, but other than that, the house is asleep. Curtains drawn, lights extinguished.
Jackson circles the house, cutting a wide berth, his breath hitching as he spies Ethan’s form silhouetted against the night sky, whiskey bottle tilted to his lips.
The ground beneath his feet turns marshy as he crests the hill, nears the pond.
Ethan spots him and waves the bottle.
They are far enough away from the house, where their voices won’t carry. But still, Ethan talks in a hushed tone. “Glad you could make it. On such short notice.”
A crescent moon, its surface marbled with pewter, droops just above the tree line, casting snowy light over the water, over the sharp features of Ethan’s delectable face.
“Well,” Jackson mutters, tongue fumbling in his mouth.
Ethan palms him the bottle. “Want a swig? Sorry I don’t have cups, but I was trying to be quiet, not wake the wifey.” He winks at Jackson.
Jackson’s stomach stirs. The bourbon scalds the inside of his mouth, but he takes a nice long pull anyway, tries to steady himself.
The air near the pond is tropical, briny. Ethan walks over to a tiny dock, the wood slats so old, they bark in protest under his weight, and jerks his chin skyward, inviting Jackson to join him.
They sink, cross-legged, down on the slats.
“Nice night like this, I’d say we could go for a swim, but”—Ethan stretches his legs out, supporting his weight with his elbows—“had a little too much.” He wiggles the bottle at Jackson.
“Then I’ve got some catchin’ up to do,” Jackson says, lifting the bottle from him.
He takes another long drink, reclines back like Ethan.
“Like I said, glad you could make it. I figured,” he starts, a lock of hair dangling over his forehead as he leans forward and takes the bottle from Jackson, “we could pick up where we left off.”
“Ha!” The laugh chokes out of Jackson’s throat, unbidden, but he’s caught off guard by Ethan’s directness, his amber eyes probing Jackson’s, glazed over with alcohol.
“On second thought—” Ethan says, rising to his feet.
Panic seizes Jackson’s chest. Did he just kill the moment with his stupid, nervous laugh?
But then Ethan peels off his Henley, undoes his belt. Kicks off his boots, steps out of his pants. In the cold moonlight, Ethan’s tighty-whities glow fluorescent.
Every vein in Jackson’s body throbs with want. His eyes linger over Ethan’s almost-bare body. Lean muscles taut and rippled, skin velvety smooth, those eyes glinting down at Jackson.
“Join me?” Ethan lowers himself into the water from a ladder attached to the dock. “It’s not deep here, so I shouldn’t drown. But you can hold me up if I look like I’m in danger.” He winks.
Jackson’s hands claw at his shirt, paw at his jeans; he’s never undressed so fast in his life.
Standing on the dock, he feels exposed in his thin boxers, his body offered up for Ethan’s approval.
Damn his lame home gym and lackluster exercise regimen.
Why has he let himself go? But as he flicks his gaze down to Ethan’s, he sees he has nothing to worry about.
A grin as wide as a crocodile’s cracks Ethan’s face, his eyes roving hungrily over Jackson’s body.
He climbs down the ladder, pond water like a warm bath enveloping him into a hug.
Standing, their chests peek over the surface.
“Feels amazing, right?” Ethan asks, dipping his head into the water, shaking it off like a wet dog.
“Yes, it’s refreshing,” Jackson says dumbly.
“I’d stay out here all night if I could. Sometimes I feel trapped, sleeping in there—”
The house is so far away, it looks like a miniature of itself, a dollhouse shrouded in shadows.
“I hear ya,” Jackson replies, even though he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t feel trapped in his own house, just lonely.
A hot breeze blasts over them, puckering the surface of the pond, shredding the stand of fuzzy pines that sit off to one side. Between his toes, the ground is squishy.
Ethan takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, exhales as though he’s releasing the weight of the world off his toned shoulders. When he opens them again, that mischievous grin is back, smeared across his lips.
He takes a step forward to Jackson.
They are so close, their skin is almost touching.
He leans in even farther as he stretches to reach the whiskey bottle resting behind Jackson on the dock. As he retrieves it, his arm grazes Jackson’s neck. Ethan tips the bottle up to his lips, takes a shot. Still clasping it, he tilts it to Jackson’s lips, inching even closer as he does.
Thump, thump, thump, Jackson’s heartbeat gongs in his ears. He accepts a sip.
As soon as the glass leaves his lips, Ethan’s mouth is on him, the bottle thudding against the dock.
Ethan teases at first, his lips only brushing against Jackson’s, nothing more.
Jackson stands in the water, stock-still, not wanting to mess this up. And wanting to make sure that what is happening is actually happening.
Ethan’s tongue parts Jackson’s lips.
Holy hell, this is actually happening.
His fingers crawl to the back of Jackson’s neck as he kisses him full on, sending shivers skittering down Jackson’s spine.
This man can kiss.
Good grief, can he kiss.
And Jackson kisses him back, wrapping his arms around him.
Ethan unlatches his lips, sways like he’s swooning. Locks his copper eyes onto Jackson’s. “I’ve thought about doing this since the first time I bumped into you at that bar.”
Language is drained from Jackson’s system. He can respond only in kisses. He pulls Ethan’s face to his, then drags his hand down Ethan’s chest, which smolders. Ethan moans. Shaky, Jackson slides his hand inside the waistband of Ethan’s underwear, begins touching him.
“My God,” Ethan utters, then nibbles on Jackson’s shoulder.
Waves ripple out around them, small halos of water that seem to echo the pulsing between them.
Jackson tugs Ethan’s underwear off completely. Slaps it up on the dock. Continues caressing him until Ethan’s nibble nearly turns into a bite, his voice strained in Jackson’s ear: “Jesus, you really know what you’re doing.”
After he finishes, Ethan fumbles with Jackson’s boxers, wrenches them down. “My turn.”
Jackson shudders at the touch, his whole being nearly convulsing.
“Will you climb on the dock for me, sit on the edge?” Ethan asks.
The slats are warm against Jackson’s ass, reminding him of the wood at the sauna at his old gym in Dallas. He’s leaning back, resting on his forearms, and Ethan is still in the pond, his face between Jackson’s legs. Jackson groans as Ethan takes him in his mouth.
Talk about someone who really knows what they’re doing.
Jackson can’t help it; his hips buck slightly as Ethan continues, his fingers clutching Ethan’s luscious hair.
Above him, stars streak across the sky, but he knows that’s not what’s really happening.
His vision is blurring from this, and before he can help it, he hears himself shouting Ethan’s name.
Then Ethan’s mouth is on his, shushing him, making far better use of his tongue.
The men loll on their backs, hands laced together.
“That was…really something.” Ethan’s sugary voice drifts into Jackson’s ear. “Come out again anytime. Please.”
Jackson still struggles with vocabulary, with speaking, with words, so he lifts Ethan’s fingers to his mouth, begins to nibble.
Jackson coughs as he enters Sullivan’s, the air in the bar smoke-choked milky-white smog from the cigarettes churning above everyone’s heads.
“Evenin’, darlin’!” Ginny calls out while wiping the bar down in front of Jackson. “What’ll it be?”
“Jack and Coke.” He’s grinning so hard at Ginny, he feels like his face is going to split.
He couldn’t go straight home, not after that. He needs a drink, needs time to process it, to relive it, to luxuriate. Plus, he’s dying to tell somebody—it’s too delicious to keep to himself—and Ginny’s the only person he can spill it to.
“Never seen you so happy,” she says as she fills his glass with ice.
Jackson tilts his head, shrugs. Coy, bashful.
“Oh, Lord. Please tell me it’s not about that man!” She sprays the glass with Coke, pours a shot of Jack on top. “Jackson—”
“What? And shhh, keep your voice down.”
Ginny leans across the bar, her blue eyes wide as biscuits. “Tell me.”
Jackson takes a pull of his drink, sets it down. He’s relishing this. “Well, let’s just say, I just left his place—”
“And?”
“Well, we…ya know…”
She grins, then bites it down. “Man’s got a wife, saw his wedding ring—”
“So?”
“Okay, yeah, whatever about that.” She flings her hands into the space between them, says, “But—”
“But what?” Jackson shakes the ice around in his drink. “That man is divine. And you know it.”
“That man is trouble. Anyone who brings a Bible into a bar and who looks like that…” Ginny whistles out a sigh, shakes her head, places her hand on top of Jackson’s, then warns, “Watch out.”