Blame It on the Pain Page 12

  “Did her killer pay?”

  He looks at me and his eyes darken. “Not nearly enough.”

  I fight the involuntary shiver that crawls up my spine.

  It's clear that he's not up to talking about this anymore because he turns and flicks off the light.

  I lie on the bed beside him, both of us flat on our backs, not saying a word- our fingertips almost touching.

  I never knew how comfortable silence could be until now. But as comfortable as it is between us, I need something else.

  I turn and position myself on top of him, my legs on either side of him. His eyes open wide at first, but he visibly relaxes when I slide down until my head is flat against his chest.

  I can feel every defined muscle his body encompasses. Every ripple of his abs, how hard and broad his chest is. And I'd be lying to myself if I didn't admit that it causes a physical reaction to stir in me, but this closeness is different than any other I've experienced.

  “I hate murderers,” I mumble with a yawn. “I'll never understand how cruel and inhumane someone's soul must be in order to take another life. It's unforgivable.”

  His body tenses beneath me and I know it's because he probably feels the same. “I wish everyone could be good like you, Jackson,” I whisper before I close my eyes.

  His hand skims up the length of my back, hesitantly at first, until I nuzzle against him and he begins drawing slow circles along my spine, lulling me to sleep.

  I have no more bad dreams that night.

  I do, however, dream about Jackson.

  ***

  Sunlight peeks in from the corner of the curtain covering the window in his bedroom.

  I look down. One heavy and muscular leg is tangled between two of mine.

  We must have dislodged ourselves from one another in the middle of the night.

  Well, somewhat.

  His back is partially turned away from me and my eyes practically pop from their sockets when I notice that he's shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers.

  His broad back is a sight to behold and my breathing hitches in my throat.

  When my eyes travel further down, lust crashes into me like a damn tsunami.

  A portion of the comforter is draped and bunched up just under that mouthwatering, sculpted V of his, which unfortunately for me...happens to be hiding something that I'm very interested in seeing at the moment.

  I fight back and forth with my conscience before deciding that if the roles were reversed, I might not like it if he tore back the covers in order to get a better look at my goods.

  But then again, I don't look like him.

  His body is a work of art. When I look at him, I see the hours of training and discipline, I see the strength he possesses, the well-oiled machine he's molded himself into.

  Jesus. Who am I kidding? I definitely wouldn't mind Jackson getting a better look at me. I wouldn't mind Jackson showing any kind of sexual interest in me at all.

  The thought surprises me, because although I use sex as a way of coping and punishing myself...the one thing I don't use sex for is my desire.

  It hits me and I realize how much I've been missing out on.

  The question is...does Jackson want me even half as much as I want him?

  Like the saying goes, there's only one way to find out.

  Since his front isn't facing my back, I'm unable to grind myself against him and feign innocence when he catches on, leaving the ball in his court.

  That means I have no choice but to take the initiative and put myself out there.

  It's something I've done more times than I care to think about, but for some reason, I've never been so nervous about it before.

  And that includes that night in the car with Ford, because I knew deep down that he wanted me.

  But with Jackson, I really have no idea. He's so controlled and good at keeping his emotions in check.

  I bite my lip and prop myself up on one elbow, my front now pressed up flush against his back. I lift one hand and slowly trail my fingers down his chest. Seeing all those muscles is nothing compared to feeling them.

  I expect him to wake then, but when I look up his eyes are still closed, his mouth parted slightly.

  My fingers find the waistband of his boxers and hover there for a moment. I plant a gentle open-mouthed kiss on his shoulder while I continue tracing the outline of his waistband.

  His brows furrow and I think I'm doing something wrong...but then he releases a low and husky groan that goes straight to my core.

  Just when I'm about to move the comforter and slip my hand inside the opening of his boxers...I find myself facing the ceiling, with a ginormous weight on top of me.

  My wrists are pinned and I'm gasping for air when he settles between my thighs.

  The only thought going through my mind is-

  Holy. Shit.

  When I feel his hardness pressed against my thigh.

  “What are you doing, Alyssa?” he asks, his voice raspy with sleep and what I'm hoping is arousal.

  I don't answer him because my brain just isn't capable of forming complete sentences right now. Instead, I shift myself so he's exactly where I want him to be and I swear, I die a thousand deaths.

  He releases my wrists, grabs a handful of my hair and inhales deeply. “Coconut,” he rasps. I don't understand why he's talking about coconuts when all I want to do is lick him from head to toe, but then he groans and flattens his palms against mine. “I fucking love the way you smell.” He closes his eyes, appearing to be fighting a war within himself. “I bet you taste as good as you smell.”

  “Jackson,” I whisper. My shorts are bunched up so they resemble underwear and I'm certain that he can feel the wetness between my legs seeping through the material.

  And then he thrusts and I feel every single inch of him. Including something I never expected. Something that pushes my own arousal into overdrive.

  He lifts his hips and just when I think he's about to end the slow torture and fuck me, he rolls off of me.

  I climb on top of him and straddle him, but his hands press down on my thighs rendering me unable to move. “No,” he says firmly.

  “Why not?”

  Then it hits me. Why the hell would Jackson want a girl like me?

  I'm used up, washed up and fucked up.

  “Hey.” He lifts my chin to look at him. “Whatever you're thinking right now, cut it out. It's not you, it's me.”

  “Wow,” I scoff. “You won't even fuck me but you're already hitting me with the old 'it's not you, it's me.”

  I move my face away from his touch. “I'd rather you just be honest and tell me you'd rather not stick your dick in a dirty whore.” I laugh. “Trust me, I understand.”

  I raise my thighs and attempt to get off him but he clamps down harder, holding me in place. “And that right there is why this can't happen, Alyssa.”

  I roll my eyes. “Whatever. Don't bother letting me down easy. I don't blame you for not wanting a slut.” He groans and lifts his hips pushing his thick erection into me. “Does this feel like I don't want you?”

  He shifts and pulls us into a sitting position. “But the thing is, you're not a whore. That's not your identity, no matter what others may say. You're Alyssa.” His voice drops to a whisper, “But you need to believe it yourself. And I'll only add to your pain if I let you use me as some kind of weapon in order to punish yourself. I don't want to be used by you. I don't want you to put me in the same category as the others. That's why this can't happen and I can only offer you friendship.”

  I nod my head in understanding. I have absolutely no argument for that. He has every right to think that I would only be using him. And I don't want to take advantage of him, no matter how much my own heart, mind, and body are in disagreement when it comes to him.

  I need to sort out my feelings and make some serious decisions before I pursue anything with him again.

  I climb off of him, wishing the disappointment that fills my ch
est would stop. I wish that everything was different and that I was a normal almost 24-year-old.

  We turn in bed and face one another, studying each other's faces, not sure what to say next.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  I flush when the thought invades my brain, and before I can stop myself, I utter, “Jackson, do you have a cock piercing?”

  He opens his mouth to answer me but starts laughing. My heart constricts because he looks even hotter now. “Wow, that was seriously the last thing I expected you to ask me,” he says between bouts of laughter.

  I hit him with a pillow. “Stop laughing and answer the question, jackass.”

  “Yes, I have an apadravya.”

  “How did that happen?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Well, it wasn't some freak accident if that's what you're asking.”

  I groan. “No. I mean, what made you want to get your dick pierced.”

  He shrugs. “Tyrone.”

  It's my turn to raise an eyebrow at him.“Really? Wow, you turning me down makes even more sense now.”

  I swear he flushes when he catches on to what he said. “Fuck. That didn't come out right.”

  “Hey, Tyrone's sexy. I can't say that I blame you.”

  His nostrils flair and for a moment, I see jealousy flash across his face. “What I meant,” he says through clenched teeth. “Is that Tyrone was the reason behind the piercing.”

  I give him a wink. “I bet he was.”

  He groans in frustration and pulls me into his arms. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

  I put my finger to my lips. “Hmm, do I want to hear the story about two hot guys getting their cock's pierced? Yes, please.”

  He rolls his gorgeous eyes and playfully swats my behind. “Now, you're only getting the cliff notes version. It happened after we both won our first fight at the club. We were at the bar and Tyrone ended up getting drunk when he suddenly announced that he needed to celebrate.”

  I can't stop myself from giggling. “And he thought getting an apadravya would be the way to go about that?”

  He gives me a lopsided grin. “It gets better. He leaped on top of the bar and declared that he was going to do something very alpha male. He ended it with a giant ‘I am man, hear me roar, fuckers.' ”

  I put my hand to my forehead. “Oh god. He didn't.”

  He shakes his head. “No, he didn't. Because when we got to the shop, he chickened out on the apadravya. He only has a Prince Albert.” Jackson laughs so hard he begins shaking. “He kept telling the poor piercer to make it look pretty. Crazy thing is, he doesn't even remember getting it done. He screamed like a girl when he took a piss the next morning.”

  I can't stop myself from joining in his laughter. “That is an awesome story.”

  “It is. I'll never forget the look on Ricardo's face when he walked into the tattoo shop and saw what we were doing. He was mad that we fell off the grid on our first night, but he ended up getting his own piercing as a sign of solidarity.”

  I wipe my eyes and scrunch my face. “Fell off the grid? What is he, your keeper or something?”

  Jackson's face falls, but our moment is quickly interrupted when some woman yells, “Tyrone Isaac Davis. That is no way to greet Momma. Now put some damn clothes on and tell your lady friend good luck and Godspeed,” in a thick southern accent.

  “Shit. Momma's here.”

  “Momma?” I question.

  He nods before he throws my jeans at me. “Quick, put these on.”

  I do as he says, but can't help but think- What the hell is going on and who the heck is Momma?

  Chapter 13 (Jackson)

  One second I'm having one of the best mornings I've ever had...and the next I'm hearing the sounds of Tyrone's mother yelling at him from the next room.

  I love Momma, I really, really do. The woman is the closest thing to a real mother I've ever had...but her timing couldn't have been worse.

  I was enjoying seeing Alyssa laugh, her smile lighting up the entire room...and that dimple.

  That fucking dimple.

  It gets me—Every. Single. Time.

  I would move mountains for that dimple.

  I watch as she slides the tight denim over her hips and tucks my t-shirt, which is at least 2 sizes too big on her small frame into the waistband of her jeans.

  Fuck, I love seeing her in my clothes.

  I have to bite my tongue when she turns around and I get an eye full of that perfect heart shaped ass.

  God, the things I want to do to that ass of hers.

  The things I almost let myself do to that ass of hers.

  Fucking hell. Who the fuck was I kidding, thinking that friendship would be enough?

  With a grunt, I walk over to my closet and toss on a pair of basketball shorts and a wife beater tank.

  Alyssa stands at the door and appears nervous for a moment, but I take her hand in mine and we walk out together.

  I'm glad I told her to get dressed. Not that I care what other people think about who I spend my time with...but Momma's opinion has always mattered to me and I don't want her to get the wrong impression of Alyssa.

  Lord knows there are enough people in the world who have the wrong impression of her already.

  The smell of homemade pancakes, grits, eggs, and bacon make me salivate. There is nothing in the world that beats Momma's cooking.

  Alyssa and I are the last to arrive in the kitchen, and when we do...the stares we receive are interesting...to say the least.

  Tyrone looks up from his plate and grins at Alyssa before devouring the rest of his biscuit.

  Ricardo looks uneasy and a bit angry, until I lift my chin and give him a look. It's a look that lets him know that I'm not ashamed of Alyssa and he should get used to seeing her around. He gives a small nod in my direction before smiling at Alyssa.

  And that's when I notice Lou-Lou's expression. She obviously feels threatened by Alyssa's presence. The snarl on her face reminds me of a chihuahua. It's sad because she would be pretty if she wasn't so fucking bitter and miserable all the time.

  I guide Alyssa to a stool over at the large oval counter where everyone is gathered.

  I hear Momma's throat clear and I look up. Her normally bright ebony eyes are squinted. Her normally smooth, dark and flawless skin wrinkles between her eyebrows and her full lips are in a tight line. She looks like a lion protecting her baby cub, who's about to strike any minute. The spatula in her hand shakes when she glares at Alyssa.

  Oh, shit.

  Momma's the type who only respects certain people. She's a strong, sassy, southern woman who takes no crap and expects none to be given. She's also fiercely protective when it comes to her boys...me included. She can be overwhelming at first, but once you get to know her, you end up falling head over heels in love with her.

  I make my way to Momma and open my arms wide to give her a hug, but am shocked when I'm lightly pushed to the side instead.

  Alyssa raises her chin, holds out her hand and looks Momma right in the eyes. “Hello, Mrs. Davis. I'm Alyssa Tanner and it's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am.”

  Lou-Lou lets out a small gasp. I look over at her and there's practically smoke coming out of her ears. To this day, I still don't think Lou-Lou's ever greeted Momma properly or looked her in the eye.

  The first time she met Momma she cowered behind Ricardo while Momma proceeded to tell her to stop acting like the town cow and givin' the milk away for free. She eased up a little after Ricardo explained that they weren't serious.

  The fact that Alyssa just womaned up and didn't let fear hold her back sends a surge of pride through me.

  I don't think she realizes how strong she really is.

  Momma purses her lips for a moment and looks Alyssa up and down, finally stopping to study her face. Then I see the twinkle in those beautiful ebony eyes of hers. Momma approves, she passed the first test.

  She wipes her hand on her apron before shak
ing Alyssa's hand. “It's nice to meet you too, and please; call me Momma.”

  I hear the sound of Lou-Lou's glass falling to the floor in the background.

  This is fucking great.

  Alyssa gives her a smile before stepping to the side. I immediately wrap Momma up in a tight hug. “Hey, Momma. Thanks for making breakfast.” She squeezes me tighter. “Nonsense. You know I like to keep my boys fed. How you doin', sugar?” She nods her head in Alyssa's direction. “By the looks of things, I'd say you might have found yourself a keeper over there.”

  Alyssa returns to her seat, but I don't miss the fact that she smiles at that statement.

  I lean into Momma's ear and whisper, “She's definitely a keeper.”

  “Does that mean you'll settle down and give me some grand babies soon? Because we all know my son, the dip-shit, obviously can't keep it in his pants lately.”

  I start coughing and Alyssa spits out her drink.

  Momma ignores us and continues, “You don't even want to know what I just caught him in bed with. The woman had half her head shaved and tattoo's on her face for crying out loud! Not to mention, she was carrying some kind of riding crop when she moseyed on out of the bedroom. And I know she ain't been riding no horse.”

  Tyrone opens his mouth to say something, but she points a finger at him and shakes her head. “I swear, my boy ain't got the good sense God gave em' sometimes.”

  I look at Tyrone. I'm not judging, but this is different from his usual modus operandi when it comes to women. But I know he's out screwing anything and everything lately in order to forget the fact that Shelby's wedding is this weekend.

  Shelby was his high school sweetheart. Her father was the sheriff in their small town in Alabama, and after Tyrone was hauled off to jail for something that falsely got pinned on him; she was forbidden from ever talking to him again.

  He'll always carry a torch for that girl.

  He gives me a small shrug and I sit down on the stool next to Alyssa. “Alright Momma, enough,” he says.

  “Go easy on him, Momma,” I say. “He's going through a lot right now.”

  She flips a pancake and points the spatula at me. “Which is exactly why I'm here right now.”