Chapter 11 Aurora #2
Ezra’s hand on my back made my skin ignite. I wanted it lower, slipping under my waistband while he whispered dark promises in my ear.
But I feel like I know Jameson much better than Ezra.
So why does Ezra’s touch set me on fire, while Jameson’s makes me uncomfortable?
That’s not fair.
That’s it. I’m banishing Ezra from my thoughts, at least for a few hours.
But the more I try to forget him, the deeper he digs in.
This messy, tangled mix of rage and want makes me burn for him.
There’s something seriously wrong with me.
Jameson leads me to his truck and opens the passenger door.
Hey, at least he’s a gentleman.
He rounds the truck, hops behind the wheel, then flashes me a small smile while he fastens his seatbelt.
“Okay, are we ready to go?” Jameson asks as he turns the key.
“Yep, all set,” I say a little too enthusiastically.
Jameson’s truck roars to life as he reaches for the radio. Pop-country floods the truck’s cab with twangy, beer-soaked nostalgia. I grip my purse a little tighter.
Strike two: auditory assault.
I listen to a lot of different genres—opera, punk, classical, metal—but pop-country? It’s like nails on a chalkboard made of denim and fragile masculinity. Like books, I think everyone should enjoy whatever speaks to them.
But I’m also allowed to have opinions.
And mine is that I’d rather jam knitting needles in my eardrums than listen to another goddamn love song about dirt roads and tailgates.
I stare out the window and sigh, wondering if I could survive a dramatic tuck-and-roll escape.
During the drive, Jameson glances my way several times. The lack of conversation is maddening, so when I notice a mildly funny travel mug in his cup holder that says “Freak in the Sheets” with an Excel logo on it, my introverted self tries to generate some small talk.
I already know this won’t go well.
“So, you’re an expert in Excel?” I ask, pointing to the mug. “I love funny mugs. I’ve never seen this one before.”
“Um, well, I was, I guess. Kind of an artifact from a past life. My bosses at my old job gave it to me as a gift when they promoted me,” Jameson explains, keeping his eyes glued to the road.
He doesn’t provide any further information, so I settle back in my seat with a small sigh, wishing I were at home with my dog and my books.
Jameson clears his throat, his eyes flicking toward me as he silently opens and closes his mouth, obviously eager to say something.
“Uh, you look beautiful tonight, Aurora. That color really suits you,” he says with a laugh and a huff. Jameson purses his lips and draws his brows together.
Oh! He’s nervous too.
“Do you go on a lot of dates?” I ask.
I need to know what I’m dealing with because maybe we could have fun tonight if we both admit this is awkward as hell.
“Uh, no. I don’t. I’m pretty terrible at this, aren’t I?” he asks with an adorable chuckle.
“If you’re bad at it, then I’m a total failure,” I say, smiling and feeling a little relieved.
Once we admit we both suck at dating, our evening becomes much more relaxed and enjoyable. He takes me to a funky restaurant a few towns over where I indulge in the most amazing mushroom ravioli—yes, like Isabella Marie Fucking Swan—and down a few glasses of riesling to make peace with that fact.
The restaurant is small, dimly lit, and covered in artwork for sale by local artists.
The tables are all different heights and sizes, and each chair is a different shape and color.
Paper lanterns and bright twinkle lights hang from the ceiling.
The place feels either comforting or suffocating. I can’t decide.
But the food is incredible … and somehow, despite the rocky start, the company isn’t half bad either.
We share stories about our childhood, our time in college, and our outdoor adventures. And as much fun as I’m having, I have to admit that there is no inferno, no bonfire, not even a spark when I look at Jameson.
Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for him. He grazes my leg and arm any chance he gets, but maybe he’s just a touchy guy.
Eve’s like that, so I’ll just roll with it for now. If I don’t respond, hopefully he’ll get the hint that I don’t feel the same way.
I rest my head in my hands while Jameson tells me about his old job in the city. Something about accounting? I don’t know. I’m trying to concentrate, but all I can think about is my unfinished novel sitting on my coffee table at home.
I’m being really rude.
When my attention returns to the handsome lumberjack, I spot a tattoo of a flower on Jameson’s wrist. I’ve never seen this flower before, and now I have to know more. The minute Jameson takes a breath, I jump in.
“You have a tattoo! I’ve always been too chicken to get one. It’s really unique. Don’t see many guys with flower tattoos. Is there a story behind it? What kind of flower is it?”
“Oh, yeah …” he says, looking almost surprised by my question, like he forgot it was there.
Jameson looks away and tugs at his sleeve, covering the tattoo.
“Um, it’s a funny … well, maybe not funny, but an interesting story.
Growing up, my parents were part of some fanatical religious group.
It wasn’t really religion. It was more like a cult.
Anyway, their symbol was this flower, Orbexilum.
It wasn’t very pretty, but it apparently had a sweet citrus smell. ”
“Apparently?”
Jameson just got really fucking interesting.
“Yep, apparently, because the flower went extinct a few hundred years ago. We had a tiny amount of dried Orbexilum that sat at our altar. When the cult was at the height of its popularity in the early 1700s, members used to decorate traveling tents with Orbexilum wreaths and garlands to use in their ceremonies. They said the scent kept the others away. They were big on ‘sticking to your own kind,’” Jameson explains in a small, quiet voice.
“Oh shit, Jameson, I’m sorry.” My fingers hesitate before resting on his arm. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I get it. I shouldn’t have asked.”
I mean it. Mostly.
The shittier part of me—the part that can’t stop watching true crime documentaries at 2 a.m.—wants to hear more.
“Oh! No, it’s okay, Aurora,” he says reassuringly, covering my hand with his.
“I’ve had years of therapy for occasions just like this.
But, long story, short, they tattooed me with this symbol when I was seven.
I could have it removed, but it reminds me of where I came from and what my true purpose is. ”
He seems so determined and sure about where he’s headed. I gotta say, I admire that about Jameson.
“Does this cult have a name? Is it still around? I guess I want to steer clear. It sounds awful.”
Jameson’s features darken for a moment before fixing me with a bright smile.
“They’re called the Disciples of Humanity’s Light. Pretty pretentious, right?” he says as he leans in conspiratorially.
“My dad used to tell us stories about the Disciples fighting monsters like demons, witches, and vampires. There was one monster the Disciples were obsessed with. Some kind of queen of monsters. I had nightmares about her almost every night when I was younger. According to them, she’s the most dangerous thing on this planet. ”
Something in Jameson’s eyes when he mentions this queen creature makes me uneasy.
“Anyway, it felt like Halloween all year long. One day, I saw the Disciples for what they truly were—a hateful, self-destructive group—and, at fifteen, I ran. I never saw my parents again. I don’t even know if they’re alive.
But to answer your other question, my guess is they’re still around.
They’ve been around for thousands of years.
It would take an act of God to destroy them at this point. ”
Jameson finishes his story, then chugs the rest of his beer. Poor guy.
“That sounds awful. I’m really sorry you had to go through that. But like you said, you got out, got a great education, and are doing things on your own terms. You found a new purpose.”
As far as I know, Jameson’s new purpose involves leading breathwork retreats for fragile tech bros and using TikTok to explain why centrism is sexy. But, ya know—empathy.
“Yeah, I mean, as odd as my parents were, I miss them. But I know I made the right decision. Especially since those decisions led to me being here with you tonight. Do you see your parents often?”
Dang, that was a smooth subject change.
“Well, my mother died a little over five years ago. She was an amazing woman—kind, loving, thoughtful, quirky—” Before I can go on, Jameson interrupts.
“Quirky how?” Jameson’s voice is light, almost playful. But his grip tightens. Just for a second.
And when I glance up, something in his face doesn’t sit right. Like he’s trying too hard to stay casual.
“I mean, that’s an interesting way to describe your mom, so I’m curious.”
He looks down at his hand squeezing mine and loosens his grip with a shy smile.
“Oh, um, well, I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you,” I say quietly, pulling my hand away.
Talking about your family is part of dating, but how would Jameson react if I told him just how quirky my mother really was?
“Aurora, I just told you I grew up in a cult that spent most of its time plotting to kill non-existent monsters. I think I can handle the quirks of your mom,” Jameson says while reaching for my hand again.
I pull my hand back, tucking both into my lap, and scrape at the raw skin around my thumb, letting the sting settle me.
Something’s wrong.
Not dangerous. Not yet.
But something’s wrong.
It’s no secret my mom had quirks. But should I really be sharing them with someone who just admitted he grew up in a cult?
“I mean, I still think monster-hunting cult beats out my mom’s quirks, but you have to promise to keep an open mind.”
“I promise,” Jameson says, like an oath, as he places a hand over his heart. The gesture is so sweet and goofy that I start to thaw just a little toward the big galoot.