Same time next week, p.9
Same Time Next Week, page 9
He was exhausted but so satisfied, he hardly felt it. Shelby reacted to him like a woman who had been sex starved, like she couldn't get enough. He almost couldn't handle her. Almost. The second time that morning in the shower almost did him in. If he hadn't have canceled rehearsal the day before, he would have been tempted to call off that day and keep her hostage in his house. That he couldn't do so didn't disappoint him; it only gave him ideas for next time. Because there would definitely be a next time.
"Well, so... maybe we could do it again. We'll go to another bar, have a different shot, play a different game, eat a different dessert..."
"Try a different position..."
Jackson laughed. There was nothing like a sexy woman that had no problem letting it show. That turned him on like a light switch. "You're somethin' else, Shelby. What are you doing for the rest of your life?"
"Future," she said, pointing at him. "But I could possibly carve some time out of my schedule next week. Would you like to make a reservation?" She tipped her head at him and smiled that smile of hers, the one that made him weak in the knees and dry in the mouth. Hell yes, he'd like to make a reservation. For the next week and every week until they'd worked their way through the Kama Sutra.
"It's easier to work my schedule around the same day and time. So, how about next Thursday, same time?"
"Same time next week," Shelby replied with a nod, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "I guess I better let you get to work, huh?"
"Yeah. I'm always on them about being late. I guess I should be on time."
"Yep. So... okay." Shelby pulled at the latch and opened the door, gathered her purse and the plastic bag and stepped out of the car.
Damn, dude. You're going to let her get out of the car and walk off, aren't you?
"Shelby! Wait." Jackson lurched across the passenger seat and grabbed at her, nipping the hem of the long pair of shorts she wore. She stopped and slid back into the car, feet hanging out of the open door.
"Yes?" She was grinning, like she knew why he called her back. Like she'd been waiting for him to make the move he almost didn't make.
"I was thinking," he said, leaning across the seat, his face close to hers, his eyes on her lips. "Maybe I need something to look forward to, this week."
She tipped her head toward him, eyes closed, mouth open. He loved the moment right before a kiss, when both were so expectant, anticipating the feeling of lips mashing together and tongues intertwining. But he had to go, and he didn't want to go without kissing her, so he pressed his lips to hers, gently at first until her tongue teased his and he got kind of lost in it. He felt her fingers on his face, her thumb stroking at the prickly hairs growing there. He heard her−felt her moans, coming from deep in her chest. Or maybe they were his. He couldn't tell anymore and it didn't matter.
Sooner than he wanted to, he tore himself away from her, licking the taste of mint and lip gloss from his lips and breathing deeply. This was going to be a long week.
"Shelby."
She was slumped against the seat, eyes still closed, smiling. Yeah, he knew the feeling. "Yeah, Jackson?"
"Don't take this the wrong way, but get the hell out of my car. Because if you don't get out of my car, I'm going to take you back to my house and have my way with you again. But I have to go to work. So get out."
She giggled and slid out again, walking that walk, that slow sexy sway to her car. Even in his old ratty basketball shorts and oversize t-shirt, that woman was amazing.
As soon as she was in her car and pulling away, he did the same, headed in the opposite direction, across Orlando to a studio he didn't want to be in. He wanted to follow her home, to be at her house. With her. In her bedroom. With her. In her bed. With her.
He had it bad. Real bad. He had to be careful.
Shelby
"Not a bad evening," she said aloud, to no one. "Hell, not a bad morning and early afternoon, either," she added, grinning at the clench in her pelvis and the flip-flop in her stomach at the flashback.
In her ear, she still heard the sounds he made. Her mind's eye still held the look he gave her when he was falling over the edge of his orgasm−eyes half closed, mouth open, strangled sounds coming from his throat. She rubbed her fingertips together, remembering how he felt, the texture of him, the strong, sinewy muscles under smooth skin. She could still taste him in her mouth and smell him in her nose. She laughed at little at things he said or did and how they took the whole experience to erotic heights she never dreamt were possible. Certainly had never experienced, before.
And wanted to experience again. She wanted to do it all, all over again. And again and again. He wanted it too. It was hard to hide, though he didn't even try. She had to give him credit for that, for not playing the callous jerk that didn't care because he met beautiful women every day. He was good at letting her feel pursued and wanted. Not making her chase him. He'd made it obvious that he wanted her.
Inherent in the giddy celebration that he liked her, there was a problem. Jackson was curious about her. He'd made that obvious too, that he wondered about her and was slightly annoyed at how she dodged questions about anything that had happened before she had moved to Orlando. A lot of women played at being mysterious. Holding back details, allowing them to slowly be pulled until everything was out in the open, patience and perseverance rewarded with the feeling of closeness.
But Shelby wasn't trying to be mysterious. It wasn't her goal to rope him in with things he didn't know but wanted to know. In fact, the less she told him the better. There were things she didn't want Jackson to know. There were things she wasn't sure she could avoid telling him, but hoped she could hold off on letting him get close enough to find out on his own. As long as they kept it casual and fun, there was little chance he would find out about the old Shelby. This was fine, because her past had proved that casual was about all she could handle.
The house phone rang. Shelby checked her watch. Like clockwork, Evelyn was calling. In the few hundred feet between the pool and the phone on the wall in the kitchen, she decided that Evelyn didn't need to know about this latest development, about her first night being the woman she'd always wanted to be. Not quite yet.
Chapter 14
Jackson
A guitar strummed, chords vibrating over each other in harmonious rhythm, over and over. A pause, then the same chords, another pause and the same chords again. Jackson sat in his writing room, a single lamp burning, guitar in his lap, pen and notepad in front of him, in a zone. Something new was coming to him, a little bluesy, a little southern rock. It was going to sound great...if he could get past the first measure.
He muttered quietly, singing under his breath, his eyes on the page in front of him, fingers on the strings at the neck of the acoustic guitar, plastic pick in hand.
Again, the strumming of the same chords rang out in the quiet room.
Believe in me, baby...
There's nothing I would not do...
Believe in me, baby...
I'd be so good for... so good for you...
Believe in me, baby...
I could never lie to you...
Believe…believe… in me, baby........
"Shit."
"That doesn't rhyme," he heard behind him.
Jackson twisted in the chair to find Rod leaning around the doorjamb, dark eyes full of mirth, his smile matching. He was wearing his signature shorts and sleeveless t-shirt. Rod liked to flip through the tabloids and look at pictures of himself and after careful consideration, decided that his arms looked best in sleeveless t-shirts. They were almost all he wore and he only endorsed a certain brand.
Sometimes Jackson had to roll his eyes at Rod. He claimed to hate the very things he embraced−whoring himself out to a brand, tying himself to a name, playing the media and publicity game. Whatever, it worked for him. His star was the highest it had ever been and was steadily rising.
"What's up, man?" Jackson didn't get up, just stuck a hand out into the air. Rod took it and gave him a firm shake, entering the room by a few steps. He was slightly claustrophobic and didn't like the oversized closet. When the studio was being built, Jackson had to talk him into letting him have it to work in.
Jackson nodded his head toward the guitar, strumming a few bars. "Trying out something new, working out the kinks."
"I heard," said Rod. He crossed his arms, glancing down at his mammoth biceps. "It's not bad, so far. Lyrics are kind of simple, but with the right track, that shouldn't matter."
"Yeah, well..." Jackson sighed, glancing back at the paper full of scribbles, lines and notes jumbled together in a mess not even he understood anymore. "Might be time to put it away for a little bit. Let it marinate."
"Let that soak in, man. It'll come to you. And it'll sound good." Rod inched further inside, leaning a shoulder up against the wall, moving his hands to the pockets of his long shorts. "Hey, what happened to you last week? It's not like you to cancel rehearsal. You're a machine, usually. You feel alright? Not getting sick, are you?"
"Well, you know. The thing, that night." Jackson waved a hand, nonchalant, letting it drop to his thigh, where he rubbed through his jeans. He wasn't nervous. Just needed something to do with his hands. "I figured no one would be here. I hate wasting my time even more than trying to make people work."
"Understood. Even so, you're usually here working. You love being in the studio by yourself. You sure everything's alright?"
"Oh yeah. Everything's great. I had a lot of stuff I could do at the house, you know? I've been working since I got to town. I needed to catch up on my errands and chores. Stop by and see my mom. Things like that." Jackson leaned back, stretching his arms above him and yawned, then dropped his hands to the top of his head. "Actually, I'm going to cut out early next Thursday, too. It's a chill night. I'm sure the guys would appreciate more time with families and whatever."
"Sure. Sure. So, there isn't another reason you want to head out early on Thursday, is there?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like... a chick?" Rod laughed, rolling his eyes. "Come on. You got any yet?"
Jackson held up ten fingers in front of him, palms out. "This is how many days I have been back in town. I have been in this room, in this building, for eight of them. Are you kidding me?"
"Just checkin'. This is your stomping ground. You should be able to dig up an oldie but goodie to hang out with, no problem. And you should, you know. Would loosen you up. Get Kim off your dick."
Jackson‘s head wagged in disagreement. "Already tried that. Ended up in Covina, in a bed with some chick I didn't know and still don't remember. I'm fine, man. If I want a girl, I can find one."
I know exactly where I can find one.
"I'm looking out for you." Rod turned to leave the room, the stress of having been in there for even a few minutes showing on his face. He glanced, with relief, toward the open door. "I'll be in my office. Send one of the guys when you're ready to go over some stuff."
Jackson watched Rod duck out of the room, listened to his footsteps shuffling through the studio and around the corner to his office and waited a few seconds before wilting forward, his elbows balanced on the aluminum table in front of him, head in his hands. He could already tell that Shelby was going to bring him trouble.
He was already sure she was worth it.
Shelby
WELCOME TO THE UNIVERSITY OF CENTRAL FLORIDA COLLEGE OF BUSINESS ADMINISTRATION.
The thick tri-fold brochure was bold and vivid in color, bearing an imprint of the UCF mascot and quotes from previous students about how much they loved attending UCF and what a great benefit the courses were. Shelby smirked at the testimonials, reaching for her mug of coffee and flipping it open.
Shelby was slightly ashamed at even having to go back to school. She was so close to finishing her degree and working to raise capital for her own bar, running her own show, doing it her own way. But then she was distracted by the money and the jewelry and the shopping sprees and the travel. Being Lucas' trophy and lapping up attention like a woman dying of thirst. The greener grass was on the other side of the fence for her.
Having anything she wanted or needed at her fingertips made going to class a bore, even when Lucas encouraged her to finish, saying he'd put up the money for her bar if she did. She intended to register for fall classes, but then there was the trip to Italy. The following spring was full of events and travel, dates Lucas had to be away and she didn't want to miss. He'd always seemed so disappointed if she couldn't accompany him…then he would hint at maybe finding someone else, which was a problem. A trap is what it was.
A year and then two years and then three years rolled by, while her parents pestered and gently prodded her to finish. And here she was, five years later, finally doing it. Now that Lucas and the distraction and the attention were long gone and she had nothing to show for it. Pathetic.
The house was quiet, not a sound but the sipping of coffee, the ticking of a clock, the pages in the brochure turning, a finger running down the catalogue of course descriptions. Her credits from Miami University should transfer. That meant she only needed to take her last year of classes. And if Jackson could hook her up with his friend at Antigua, she could brush up on mixology and business skills and pick up on new versions of old favorites. She couldn't wait to get back behind a bar.
Her eyes drifted from the page to the wall at the mention of Jackson. She sat back in the kitchen chair, legs crossed and let her mind wander, smiling a little. A calendar hung on the refrigerator, a long, endless line of empty boxes, except for the box marked Thursday.
8pm, SportsTown Billiards.
One more day until she would see him again. Until she could touch him again, run her fingers through his hair again, feel his solid form move beneath her fingers again. She was craving him, like she'd crave a cigarette, or a piece of chocolate or a strong, sturdy drink. Her thighs involuntarily squeezed, bringing a twinge that rippled through her body. Nipples rising, breathing becoming shallow, lips dry. All in anticipation of him.
Shelby inhaled a deep, steadying breath, wiping away a few drops of sweat from her hairline. She checked her watch and looked over the mess on her dining room table. She still needed to go through the course catalog–registration was Monday. It would have to wait. She had a TV to pick up.
Jackson
Thursday took about a month to arrive and then crept along, hour by hour. The guys were happy to be getting off early, but not very happy about the early rehearsal time to make up for it.
"Couldn't we have taken the whole day off? We didn't get out of here until almost three today, and we're back at..." Duke craned his neck to see the face of Cole's watch. "Two o'clock? Do you sleep?"
"You were supposed to be here at noon," muttered Sam, flipping through sheets of music in front of him.
"You know what, Sam? Fu−"
"Hey!" Jackson interrupted, his voice booming over the bickering. "Rehearsal started at noon. We're behind now and we're not leaving until we get this down. It's up to you guys. We can leave in two hours or eight hours. This is my life. Doesn't matter to me."
He began to shuffle papers on the stand next to the keyboards, working hard to keep his expression blank. It was a veiled threat−he was leaving before traffic began to build up. He wanted to get in a shower, shave, pick up the house a little, in case he and Shelby ended up back at his place.
He almost didn't recognize himself. A new project used to mean hyper-focused hours in the studio. Days on end, not eating or sleeping, but writing and creating and mixing and fixing. After a few days, someone would sniff him out, come find him, drag him out for some sunlight and sustenance. As soon as he could get away, he was back to it. That old Jackson would never cut work short to go out on a date.
Well, that old Jackson spent a lot of time masturbating and sulking over being hurt by various women, using other women to heal those hurts and still ending up in pain, alone in a studio, rolling a pencil back and forth and wondering what the fuck he was doing wrong.
"Are we ready?" Jackson lifted his head from his pages to find all five members on the platform, staring at him and waiting for a cue. "Good to see you guys showed up for work. Can't Get Enough, from the top."
The directions Shelby gave to her house were easy to follow, aided by the fact that she didn't live but fifteen minutes from him. Her subdivision was newer than his, full of sprawling, brick front homes that boasted three car garages and near Olympic sized pools behind them. There was a view of Grand Lake but no direct access, unlike Lake Virginia where the homes were built directly on the bank. Still, it was peaceful driving through the streets, looking for her house.
Jackson turned into the driveway of an elegant European style home. Lush palm trees flanked the white brick single story structure and as he parked and walked to the front door, he noted a path leading to a wrought iron fence. Beyond that, a pool of calm, sparkling blue water was visible from the front of the house.
The large, heavy door, painted with a shiny black lacquer, swung open before he could even lift the knocker. Shelby stood in the doorway, dressed but barefoot. Jackson could hardly breathe, walking past her as she let him in, phone plastered to her ear, a smile on her lips as she talked.
"Okay, mom," she was saying, closing the door behind him, the sound echoing up into vaulted ceilings. "I've got to go. I'm taking your advice and leaving the house." She laughed into the mouthpiece, wiggling a few fingers at him. "None of your business. I'm going out. I'll be careful, I promise. Talk to you tomorrow. Love you."
Shelby smiled and sighed at the phone, then set it on the table in the hallway near the door, next to her purse. "My mom calls every day," she said, rolling her eyes. "So, hi. I'm almost ready; I need to find the shoes I want to wear. Be right back okay?"
