The 90 Day Rule Read online

  Mumbling, “Don’t what…?” my body did a cha-cha, back, forward, then back again until my butt oozed off the bench, leaving my knees locked in mortal combat with the smooth metal edge of the seat.

  Cool behind, sizzling in front. The man threw off heat like a blast furnace.

  “I don’t regret … anything.”

  Great. Fine. Alrighty then. Done deal. It’s the blond. You’ve made your choice, now go away.

  “Jes.”

  He pulled my hands down, settling them on my lap. The follow-up was a finger on my chin with just enough pressure to ratchet my neck into defiance. But he couldn’t make me look. He couldn’t.

  “Jes, will you let me drive you home? Weather’s bad and you shouldn’t be out walking in it.”

  Well, that was … considerate. I could do considerate. I just refused to look it in the face.

  He patted a knee that went instantly numb, mumbled something like ‘good girl’ and asked where my coat was. Then he bundled me up and guided me into a wasteland of icy slush.

  The storm ran unabated, the flakes more like hard pellets. We were in for a sleet storm, maybe a freezing rain event. Thank you, Mother Tray, for insisting on boots. It was ugly out.

  I knew the drill. Truck, helping hands, click of the seatbelt, his huge body pressed against mine, all too quick for the fantasy to grab hold. Not even with my eyes squeezed shut in a rictus of misery could I maintain the illusion. Reality sucked.

  Weightless, leaden … odd how diametrically opposed forces waged a battle for possession of my spirit. My body went into stasis, drifting into the surcease of sleep. When in doubt go unconscious so you don’t have to deal with the pain of no one ever wanting you. Of never being good enough, pretty enough … damn, I’d have been happy with just being interesting.

  What I ended up with was … none of the above.

  “Jes, hon? Wake up. We’re home.”

  Bleary-eyed I stared at a winter wonderland. The pine branches drooped low, the needles coated in ice, stark and nearly colorless in the deepening dusk.

  The house still stood in all its undistinguished glory, a nothing special, but the man said ‘home’ in a way that made me understand that he had roots here … and pride of place. I’d felt it, that evening, when I’d looked around the small living room with the conviction it would be my last time, knowing but not understanding because I’d wanted to insert myself in that picture. And that was impossible given my circumstances.

  And the part of me that insisted on leveling my camouflaged emotions with harsh realities, recognized that it had been me, not Jack, at fault. He had waited. I was the one who’d thrown up barricades and road blocks. Why would you come for someone like me?

  A coward.

  Afraid to face my future. Afraid of disappointing. Afraid of … myself.

  Jack muttered something about not liking how I looked, how maybe he should have taken me to the emergency room instead.

  There was no way for him to know that it wasn’t anything wrong with my head, not in the way he thought.

  He was trying hard at being a friend. I wished that would be enough but I wanted more and the old ‘be bigger than, better than’ just didn’t cut it anymore.

  Jack ensconced me on the sofa, tucked an old afghan up under my chin and disappeared into the back reaches of the house. He returned with a pillow.

  The silence was a comfort in a way. We had nothing to say to each other. No excuses necessary. No explanations.

  It is what it is.

  He’d made a choice.

  It wasn’t me.

  I awoke to the sound of sleet pinging off the aluminum siding and Jack’s snores. He was sprawled in the chair opposite the couch, his long legs crossed at the ankles, head lolling dangerously left, a sure fire recipe for a sore neck. The aviator frames balanced precariously on the top of his head where he’d pushed them up and out of his way.

  For the first time I noticed his lashes. Darker than his hair, they kissed the harsh planes of his bone structure, the flesh spare, stretched taut. Dark stubble peppered cheeks and chin, giving him a rough appearance. I knew the feel of that, the scrape against my skin, the rush of awareness, such as I’d never before experienced.

  And never would again.

  When I placed a hand on the pillow it didn’t surprise me to find it was wet. I’d been either crying or drooling in my sleep.

  I’d go with crying. The other option was less … attractive.

  I stumbled toward the bathroom. There was a night light in the hall, casting just enough illumination that I could see into his bedroom, the bed made up, corners precisely folded and pillows arranged just so.

  The eye was tender and not nearly as bad as expected. I could thank Tray’s quick thinking for that. The bits of tissue lingering in my nose looked oddly festive. Drawing them out carefully, I assessed the damage, most of it being some blood and snot. Warm water and soap went a long way to putting me to rights.

  Just so long as I concentrated on the surface stuff.

  Lifting my face from the sink, I reached for a towel. What I got was a warm breath on the back of my neck and a ‘here, take this.’

  Drying my face, I tried very hard not to move, not to touch him in any way, but he was so close and I was so tired of being strong and resolute.

  I needed a hug, even if it just came from a friend.

  “Jes, turn around.”

  I anchored my hands on the porcelain, the grip tight enough to thrust bone through dry and cracked flesh, blue veins gnarling the surface. Old ladies’ hands. Turning around was not an option.

  Jack hissed, “Be stubborn.”

  He pressed against my back, the long length of him burning through my resolve. With his hands he forced my head up and back.

  Not. Looking.

  “Look at me.” This time it was a deep rumble, a seriously irritated man-purr of domination. Definitely not a request. Definitely a hackles-raised moment.

  The trouble was … I couldn’t not look.

  Pathetic. Weak.

  Why do you even want to be friends with someone like me?

  The face in the mirror was determined, angry and confused. His mouth moved but the words rang hollow in my chest, bouncing around, aligning and realigning until the truth rang loud and clear, “I don’t want to be your friend, Jessamine Cavanaugh.”

  Well … fine. Perfect. Now we knew where we stood.

  I stomped on his foot, not hard, but it popped a nice string of curses and backed him off enough for me to duck away. I beat a hasty retreat to the living room and searched frantically for my coat. It was in the coat closet, of course, hung neatly on an over-sized plastic hanger, along with his things. Tidy. Precise.

  Surgical.

  Leaving me gutted, the slices smooth-edged and cauterized.

  And annoying as hell. I wasn’t getting my money’s worth. For the amount of pain and anguish, shouldn’t there be jagged edges, the flesh hanging in ugly strips, clothes torn and rent…

  I stood by the front door, waiting … the ‘I want to go home now’ posture surely unmistakable.

  The silence was deafening and went on forever. This was no parade rest. My spine locked but my balance gave up the ghost, leaving me to waver uncertainly. I wasn’t even sure he’d followed me into the living room. He’d been mad, really, really agitated.

  And there was no way I was turning around to check, because if he was there…

  I can’t be her. I don’t want to be her. I’m just me, warts and all.

  There was a soft intake of breath somewhere behind me, then a deep chuckle.

  “Is that what this is about?” There was some scuffing of bare feet on the rug. He was closer. “Is it?”

  Call me clueless but I was lost. The line between my brain and my mouth had finally popped an aneurysm. What I said or thought, what he heard … none of it registered anymore.

  My “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean” was true, all too true.

  An
d suddenly he was in my space, alongside it, his shoulder resting against the door, jamming me into the corner. He loomed, bracketing me.

  It’s like he wants to take me to the woodshed and spank me…

  “That’s a nice idea, darlin’ but I think we need to clear the air first.”

  Making like an immovable object didn’t keep him from settling me on the couch, my wool-clad arms wrapped tight about my waist in righteous indignation. Jack sat next to me, poised on the edge of the seat, ready to restrain me should I decide to bolt.

  The smile’d been replaced with a look of concern, the kind that comes wrapped in true confessions. I girded loins and waited.

  “You saw me with Astride, didn’t you?”

  I shrugged. How nice to have a name to go with the perfect features and the thumbs stroking her hands in gentle, sensuous…

  “She just stopped by to say hi.”

  I’m sure she did.

  “She drove up to pick up her son.”

  Ah, a gay divorcee.

  He scrubbed at his face, clearly perplexed. And why should that be? I had the big picture. I didn’t need details.

  “Jes, look at me.” His voice took on a pleading quality. “Please?”

  No.

  And then he had me by the shoulders, spinning me, the grip caving the wool fabric, driving it deep, deeper into my weary bones.

  “Jesus Christ, Jes. She’s my sister!”

  Oh.

  Astride.

  That sister.

  “Who the fuck did you think it was?” Back to pissed off. “Didn’t you believe me?”

  “Believe what?” That came out as a weak croak. There were tears gathering, just in case.

  Just in case I’m wrong. Just in case he meant it.

  This time he growled, really, truly growled, like a wild thing, his fingers stripping my gloves and heaving them onto the floor. His breath came in hisses and gasps. I’d have backed away but there was nowhere to go.

  Nowhere I wanted to go.

  His sister.

  “I told you I’d come for you.”

  The coat came off next, right sleeve, then the left, the bulky fabric left bunched in a roll behind my back. The scarf sat on the arm of the sofa, just on the other side of the pillow.

  I did prim, “You said you wouldn’t wait.” Petty and small made for ill-advised comebacks and if I could have cut out my tongue to take the words back I would have.

  He stood. And stared down at me. I think. I guessed. I had my head buried so far into my chest I no longer had any sensation other than regret.

  My lips registered salty wetness.

  Ears burning, I tried to shut out the string of curses, then sound muffled as the nylon tank top slipped up and over the cornrows. I hadn’t changed back in the locker room.

  Oh God, I need a shower.

  “If that’s what you want…” he purred.

  Want. Want?

  I clutched at the sturdy cotton-spandex sports bra squashing my boobs into fleshy tortillas. It crisscrossed my back, the straps wide and sturdy. Getting it off required a degree in mechanical engineering and a strong constitution because when peeled back, the effect was Jack-in-the-Box spectacular.

  He snickered and said, “Do it. This I have to see.” He licked his lips in anticipation.

  If I think of it like a frilly bit of a Victoria’s Secret lace confection…

  The fabric stretched, refusing to yield. There was no way to do it with dignity. And no way I was doing it sitting down.

  In a single upward thrust, I rose off the couch and yanked the offending device out, up and over my head.

  He hissed, “Yessss,” sibilant and greedy, with warm palms cradling the fullness of each globe, thumbs already sweetly stroking and tickling flesh gone über-sensitive.

  Back arching, I yielded but then he abruptly released me and backed away. I risked a look.

  His face was harsh, fierce. Moving to cover my nakedness with my hands, I stalled when he snaked blunt fingers around my left arm and shook it, then slipped down to grip my wrist.

  “Take them off.”

  Shimmying my hips, I tried to comply but the elastic bit into my skin and refused to budge.

  “Not those. I can handle that myself.” He waggled the wrist, turning the palm up.

  I gulped.

  “You have to do it, Jes. Not me. It’s your rule. Not mine.” Blue eyes pierced my soul. “Take the rings off.”

  My heart stuttered to a stop, air evacuated my lungs, throwing me into a moral free fall. So many years, so much water under the bridge. So many compromises.

  Was this just another one?

  When you convince yourself that no one can ever care, deeply, sincerely, all you have left, in the end, are the rigid forms that give structure to the endless days and nights. Wasn’t it better to have a half-life instead of one that was nothing but chaos and fear? Or worse yet, no life at all.

  The rules … even if they existed only in my head … made me a better person.

  Didn’t they?

  I needed an answer to a question. Just one.

  Why?

  Chapter Sixteen: The Answer

  Jack glared at me, our bodies locked in a rigid stand-off, guns cocked, ready to unleash with both barrels.

  He answered my unspoken question with one of his own. “When he pressed you, what did you do?”

  Huh?

  “Roddie. He was all over you. What. Did. You. Do?” Each word punctuated with latent aggression.

  “I pushed back.”

  “Exactly.” Jack leaned in, so close it made me afraid. Terrified. Because I knew what was coming.

  “You are a force of nature out there, Jes, a warrior. Nothing on God’s earth can stop you when you go after what you want.”

  But that was different. It was a game. Just a game. Wasn’t it?

  “It’s not just a game. Not to people like us. We live and breathe the same air, Jessamine Cavanaugh.” He stroked my collar bone, his voice ragged and needy. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Yes, no. Maybe.

  Why?

  Why not?

  Both of us looking for the same answer, the same need for affirmation of our feelings. One of us had to make the first move. One had to make the concession. Both of us with nothing and everything to lose.

  Unsteadily I held out my hand. He was going to protest but I cut him off.

  “Jack, if I do… If we do this, then we’ll do it together.”

  With extreme care, he positioned his thumb under the set of rings, his thick index finger pressing on mine. Slowly he, we, slid the cold metal off my skin and bone.

  He took the evidence of my bondage and asked, “What do you want me to do with these?”

  I thought about putting them where the sun don’t shine. Then ‘little robert’ came to mind and I grinned.

  Jack said, “I’m almost afraid to ask…”

  Thank God, he couldn’t read my mind because if he could…

  He slipped the rings into a pocket and swallowed, hard.

  “Jes, this isn’t going to be how I wanted it.”

  I’d never seen a man so coiled, so tense, with eyes turning the color of storm-tossed seas, every muscle quivering. I was afraid to touch him for fear he’d shatter.

  He swallowed and stripped my nylon shorts and underpants, not waiting for me to step out of them, just lifting me up and setting me aside. I kicked them out of the way and watched with hungry eyes as he made short work of his clothing, the distance between us a demilitarized zone he was going to breech.

  Unless I got there first.

  I feathered my fingers over the lean lines of his hip bones and said, “Tell me what you want, Jack.”

  His body gave me all the answers I’d ever need and with a groan he scooped me in his arms. We made it to the hallway.

  “Fuck.” He set me down and stared longingly at the bedroom door, miles away. He was breathing hard.

  There was no
point in taking offense. I was no lightweight so I just said, “Okay.” He apparently had no idea what I was saying ‘okay’ to.

  Jessamine Cavanaugh did it in the hallway with a nimble tongue.

  Backing his huge body against the wall, I sank to my knees and ignored the ‘Jes?’ as I explored with my mouth, growing bolder and more adventurous with every groan of pleasure. Whether from him or me I couldn’t tell.

  His taste was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I didn’t want to stop but he hissed, “Sweetheart, I won’t last, not like this. I-I need to be inside you. Now.”

  He wasn’t kidding.

  Jack groaned, “Oh God, baby, give me a minute.”

  He’d flipped me onto my side, my back to his belly, fingers entwined. We were close to the edge of the bed. The nightstand was on its side, the small lamp and alarm clock upside down on the pine flooring. Jack eased into the deep rhythmic breathing of the sated.

  But not asleep. Definitely not.

  A flat palm brushed along the rise of my belly, then travelled south, fingers busy stroking sensitive flesh swollen and ripe from the…

  …gawd, thrusting, plunging, ramming, his thick length growing harder the more he penetrated my inner being… Coming with a roar. Ay caramba!

  “Push against me, that’s it, harder. Let it happen.” He continued whispering in my ear, but my brain shut down, the coil tightening until all I wanted, demanded, was release from the exquisite torture.

  When my body finally took off, the tremors rocking me to my core, he twisted my head around and buried his tongue in my mouth, demanding, owning me.

  I woke to find Jack coming into the bedroom with two mugs of coffee.

  Stretching, I admired the view. There was a lot to see. And for once I wasn’t afraid or embarrassed to take my fill of him.

  “Morning, sunshine.” He set the mugs on the now righted nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. “Weatherman says the storm’s mostly over but the roads are a mess. Campus is open but my office called and said don’t bother trying to come in. Anyone who’s got to drive is SOL today.” He gave me an evil grin and glanced at the nightstand.

  I looked over too. At the alarm clock, the steaming mug. And a stack of three boxes of Trojans. Probably extra-large, maybe even jumbo sized.