6. Jackson
SIX
Jackson
She’s nineteen.
Maybe if I say it enough times, it will sink into my brain and my cock will calm the hell down from where it’s pressing painfully against my zipper. I shift on the club couch, trying to relieve the pressure. Unfortunately, adjusting moves me closer to Blakely’s friend, who seems to have issues with personal boundaries.
But she’s a distraction from the girl I shouldn’t be looking at, so at least for the moment, I lean in closer and indulge her.
“What did you say your name was?” I flash her a smile and watch the blush rise on her high cheekbones.
“Kayla.” She grins and keeps talking, but my attention is stolen away by the thump of the bass and the lithe body that’s moving to its beat. Heat flares in my veins as Blakely opens her eyes and stares directly at me. My stomach flips, but I don’t drop her gaze. She’s always brazen, but in this setting she’s impossible to look away from. She’s in her element. Gorgeous in the spotlight.
I’ve just convinced myself to find someone I can actually take home when I see that fucking idiot DJ grab Blakely and pull her roughly into his side.
Anger spikes in my gut at the way he’s manhandling her, but I shake the feeling before it has a chance to fester. This is ridiculous. I don’t even like Blakely; there’s no reason I should care about who’s touching her.
“Are they together?” I blurt.
“What?” Kayla cups a hand over her ear, scooting in closer until her thigh presses against mine. She glances at me from under her lashes. “Sorry, hard to hear over the music.”
I smirk. This girl is cute but not very skilled in the art of seduction. I wonder how confident she’d feel if she knew that drink she’s slurping has turned her mouth blue.
“I asked if they were together.” I nod my head toward the stage. “Blakely and that guy. The DJ.”
She laughs. “Oh, no. Blakely doesn’t date. A virgin ,” she whispers dramatically, taking another sip. “I don’t think they’ve ever met.”
My brows lift in shock. Blakely’s always so confident in her advances, I assumed she had more experience. I glance back toward the stage. “Should he be touching her like that, then?”
She cocks her head to the side. “Like what?”
“Like he doesn’t give a fuck if she wants it or not.” My jaw clenches, and I try to temper the bite in my voice. I don’t like to cause scenes, content to learn people’s traits by observing rather than making knee-jerk decisions. But in this moment, I want to jump onstage and rip that skinny prick’s hands from Blakely’s body. Force him to apologize for touching what doesn’t belong to him.
Kayla chuckles again. “Oh, don’t worry about her.” She brushes the hair off her shoulder, setting her drink on the table in front of us. “She’s used to it.”
Mr. Donahue’s words from earlier today whisper in my head—how he doesn’t trust the people in her life—and for the first time tonight, I’m thankful I’m here because I’m beginning to think he was right. She does need someone to look out for her. To make sure she’s taken care of. The urge to rush up on the stage and remove the prick’s hands from her body myself is strong, but I hold myself back. She’s not mine. She never can be, and stepping in isn’t my place.
A sick feeling settles in my gut when I don’t do anything, but I soothe my conscience by continuing to watch them, and telling myself that if he gets any more aggressive, then I’ll step in. Right now, I’m worried it would come across as jealousy, and I don’t want to give the girl any more false hope. She’s forward enough with me.
“Hmm,” I mutter. My eyes are drawn back to her hips as they swing like a pendulum, lulling me into this fucked-up hypnotic state—taunting me with what she’s offering. What she’s always offering.
She’s nineteen.
Blakely’s been a master of the VIP room ever since she walked in. She smiles when appropriate and takes photos with fans who’ve paid God-knows-what to get the privilege. All run-of-the-mill stuff, I’m sure.
But it’s all so fake.
She is fake.
Anyone who cares to look can see it’s forced. But as I watch from the back corner as Blakely flits from place to place, I realize that in a club filled with hundreds desperate to stand in her shine, none of them really see . And maybe that’s the problem.
You learn a lot about a person from paying attention to what they don’t say. And Blakely Donahue doesn’t say a lot.
I wonder if anyone has ever listened to her silence.
The blaring music starts up again, the bass vibrating so loud it rattles my bones, and I sigh, tired of the charade. Ready to go home. I head to the outside bar, both to get a break from the music and to get away from a bunch of kids who aren’t even old enough to be here. Pulling out my phone, I check for any missed calls or texts, my chest pinching when I see a blank screen.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. My friends in Sugarlake still have each other, like they did before I moved there when I was sixteen. I’ve always been the transplant. The added feature. One that makes your life easier but doesn’t sever your ability to function once it’s gone.
Knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
“You look like you’ve got good stories.” The raspy voice of the bartender pulls me from my thoughts.
She leans over, and my eyes drop to her cleavage, appreciating how they bounce as she wipes the bar top down. It would be rude not to watch since she’s putting on such a show.
“Do I?” I smirk, meeting her deep brown eyes.
I hold her gaze, waiting for that spark to flare, the same way it did earlier with Blakely. I need it to flare. To prove its lack of sex making my body react, and not something else.
Unfortunately, disappointment is the only thing that flickers.
Still, she’ll be a good distraction. I can’t give her stories, but I can give her thirty minutes in the stockroom closet.
“Babe, who’s this?” Arms slink around my waist, my heart jumping at the voice, my skin sizzling from the touch. Goddamnit.
Blakely peers around the side of me, her fingers lightly scratching against my abs, making them tense against her palms. I stare down at her, my brow quirking.
She looks at the bartender. “I’d love a water.”
The bartender clears her throat, eyes dimming as she straightens and nods. “Sure thing.”
I grab Blakely’s hands, intent on pushing them away, but instead my fingers tighten around hers, moving them from around my waist and dragging her until she’s standing in front of me. My hands slide up her arms, goose bumps sprouting underneath my fingertips. And what the hell am I even doing? Clenching my jaw, I take a step back, dropping my hands.
“Cute, babe ,” I say.
She laughs. “I was doing her a favor. Saving her from those atrocious pickup lines.”
My lips twitch, amusement dripping through my chest. “See, that’s your first mistake.”
“What is?” Her head tilts to the side.
“Thinking I need lines.”
My eyes follow her tongue as it peeks out, swiping along her bottom lip. She shrugs. “So maybe I was saving you. Honestly, it was pathetic. She looked like a sacrificial lamb, waiting for the big bad wolf to eat her up.”
I lean in until my lips are next to her ear. “Maybe I was hungry.”
She sucks in a breath, her supple cleavage brushing against my chest. My heart slams against my ribs as I think of how her tits would feel wrapped around my dick. Fuck . I need to get this back in control. I straighten, reaching up to grab the chain around my neck.
Her eyes flare, no doubt noticing my struggle.
“I can think of several ways to feed you, if that’s what you need,” she says.
My cock throbs, images of her moving her hips the way she did onstage assaulting my mind, but this time she’s sitting on my face while I feast on her pussy and drown in her .
I clear my throat. “Stop that.”
She smirks, leaning in and rising up on her tiptoes until I can taste the mint on her breath.
“Or what?” she whispers.
My nostrils flare, hands tingling with the need to palm her ass until it hurts—make her realize she can’t handle a man like me.
A flash goes off, and it jolts me out of my daze. I step back, turning my head to the side, noticing a group of girls with their phones out, all of them directed toward us. I sweep my eyes slowly over the patio, watching as some avert their gazes while others blatantly stare.
Blakely and I have everyone’s attention.
My eyes find hers again. The flash must have knocked some sense into her too because in an instant she transforms, that thousand-watt, picture-perfect grin spreading across her face. It’s quite the dichotomy, watching her face light up and frame the darkness in her eyes.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Blake, listen, I?—”
“Don’t.” She shakes her head slightly. “We should go. Sierra will kill me if she sees me out here with you.”
My lips press together, her words reminding me of the bruises on my heart. “I get it. Bad look to be seen with the babysitter.”
It’s a low blow and I know it. But fuck her for saying that to me. Like I’m not good enough. Like I’m just a stand-in . Cracking my neck, I wave my arm. “After you, princess.”
She hesitates, sucking that pouty bottom lip between her teeth, and I stare at a spot behind her head, not trusting myself to look into her eyes. Finally, she squares her shoulders, turning to walk inside.
I follow close behind, my gaze locking onto the way her ass bounces with the sway of her hips. My gut clenches, and I grasp the chain around my neck, the tiny metal balls biting against my skin.
She’s nineteen.