Professor Jacobs needn’t worry about me corrupting his daughter.
Pen is plenty corrupt all on her own.
She’s a fucking menace. It’s been two hours of thwarting her attempts to dance on the bar, confiscating her phone to stop her from drunk texting an ex, preventing her from seducing the scruffy bartender who reeks of weed. And trust me, a girl with tequila thrumming through her veins is no easy thing to wrangle.
I’m not used to this role of mothering friend who prevents others from making fools of themselves. I’m usually the drunken fool, Kate the responsible one, and after tonight, I have a newfound respect for my friend. This is exhausting.
I’m not saying I’ve been an angel all night; I’ve knocked back more than one cocktail and belted Nelly Furtado loud enough to draw glares. But I haven’t attempted to put on a Burlesque show or accost any unworthy men like my pretty blonde friend, and I’m careful with my alcohol intake since I don’t even really know where we are.
It’s an off-campus bar, somewhere Pen frequents with her artsy, slightly pretentious film major friends. A dimly lit, kind of grungy place, all funky decor and overpriced cocktails consisting of liquor I can’t pronounce. Lucky for me and my pitiful bank account, Pen insists on paying.
With her dad’s credit card.
Because I’m the one who dragged you out, she claims but I know a little something about daddy issues, and tonight, she reeks of them.
“The film industry isn’t a reliable career,” Pen mimics her father’s low baritone, her impression surprisingly accurate. Slumped across from me, she huffs in annoyance, her bangs flying out of place with the heavy breath. “It’s so frustrating. I don’t wanna be a stuffy old lawyer. No offense.”
“Hey, I don’t wanna be a stuffy old lawyer either.” A young, hot, successful one is way more preferable. I think; I’m a little fuzzy on the whole career thing.
Amidst a myriad of grumbled complaints, Pen knocks back her umpteenth drink, slipping from the booth and searching for another the moment the glass is empty. I keep an eagle eye on her as she stumbles her way to the bar.
Only my phone buzzing in my pocket can distract me. It’s embarrassing, how quickly I fish it out, how much I deflate when the text is from some random past hookup rather than the guy I actually want blowing up my phone.
It’s pathetic, how attached I’m becoming to Jackson. We’ve talked every day since our date. Seen each other almost every day. I should have gotten my fill by now. Yet the temptation for more is so fucking strong, I can barely hold myself back. Hell, the main reason I came out tonight was to try to prove that I could survive one Jackson-less night. That I’m not completely and utterly under his paint-stained thumb.
As I squint at his contact indecisively, I realize I’m failing miserably.
To somewhat satisfy my Jackson craving, I read over the unanswered text he sent earlier today. The one asking what I’m doing tonight, which I ignored because I knew my weak self would’ve folded and invited him out in five seconds flat. I haven’t gotten anything else from him since, so maybe he’s not as itching to talk to me as I am him.
The decision is made for me when a loud, drunken cackle calls for my full attention. Dropping my phone on the table, I glance aside with a groan, already expecting the worst.
It’s a welcome surprise when I find my friend not attempting to get topless on the bar. The two guys occupying her are a little less welcome. Pretty good looking guys. Very clean cut.
Not quite my type anymore.
Pen catches my eye and winks before sauntering over, new drinks in hand and new pals on her tail. I’m a little disgruntled, not entirely keen on being a third wheel or having to politely deflect any unwanted advances, but I push it aside, replacing my frown with a polite smile.
Pen introduces the guys as they slide into our booth, one beside Pen and the other next to me, but their names are forgotten within milliseconds. I zone out of their conversation almost immediately, choosing to occupy myself by playing with the straw of my too-sweet fruity drink, avoiding eye contact with my phone, and ignoring Pen and her guy drooling all over each other. I’m seconds away from creating an excuse to bail when a clearing throat catches my attention.
“Sorry for ruining your guys’ night.”
I eye the guy beside me. Aaron, I think Pen said his name was, looks as unhappy with the new arrangement as I am, and I find some comfort in that. “That’s okay.”
“You come here often?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Was that a line?”
Possibly-Aaron cringes. “Bad?”
“Awful.”
Maybe I’m going soft but I take pity on the guy. I indulge in his attempts at conversation and I quickly learn Definitely-Aaron is not all that bad. Sure, he throws the occasional flirtatious comment my way but when I evade them stealthily and politely, he retreats gracefully.
“I’m guessing you have a boyfriend?” At my questioning stare, he shrugs. “Either that or you’re just really not interested in me.”
“I have a…” I’m not sure what I have. A guy I went on one official date with but have spent almost every waking moment with for God knows how long? How do you describe that? How do you describe Oscar fucking Jackson in five words or less? I sure as hell don’t know how to do it without ending up praising the boy to the high heavens for an hour like a blithering, lovesick fool. So, I improvise. “Something.”
And that’s enough, apparently.
From that point forward, Aaron is nothing but respectful. He doesn’t try to hit on me again, and any awkwardness ebbs away until we’re actually having a decent conversation.
Pen is taking the opposite approach. She’s all over her guy, and he’s all over her. A spark of jealousy ignites in my stomach, and I tap my nails against my phone case as if that will summon who I’d prefer to be hitting on me right now.
Get a fucking grip, Luna.
It takes all my willpower to turn the thing off and shove it in my bag.
Out of sight, hopefully out of mind.
“I think my brother and your sister might be in love.”
Copying Aaron, I grimace at the couple suddenly sucking face across from me. “She’s not my sister.”
“Oh?” Aaron’s brows rise, his expression genuinely surprised. “You look alike.”
A snort escapes me. “Because we’re both blonde?”
My new friend’s expression is nothing short of guilty. “Maybe.”
I’m fucking freezing.
Shivering outside the bar, my thin denim jacket does fuck all to ward off the cold seeping through the holes in my jeans. I could’ve gotten a ride with Pen and her new beau, but I wasn’t willing to subject myself to any more of their fondling. Aaron offered to wait with me but I waved him off since my Uber was ten minutes away.
An inadvertent lie, was being the operative word. Twenty minutes later, my driver is in the exact same spot. A few more and I let out a huff of frustration when he cancels out of nowhere.
Cursing loudly, I turn on my heel with the intention of hiding inside while seeking a new ride but a voice more chilling than the wind stops me.
“Having trouble, princess?”
A scowl freezes my face before I even lay eyes on my least favorite asshole. His name tastes like battery acid as I spit it out, “Dylan.”
“Miss me?”
“Like a hole in the head,” I reply with false sweetness but complete sincerity. Ignoring his beady, leery gaze as best I can, I shuffle toward the bar door, the handful of words I’ve wasted on him already too much for my liking.
“Hey, now.” He steps in my way. “We’re not done here.”
“Yes, we are.”
He tries to grab me but I see it coming, quickly stepping out of his reach. I know the damage those ugly hands can do, and I’ll avoid them at all costs. Even if avoidance earns me anger, snark turning to cruelty as he snarls at me threateningly. “You ruined my relationship.”
“You did that all on your own, dipshit.”
Unsurprisingly, Dylan’s skull is too thick for logic to pierce. “I was good to her and you turned her against me.”
Yeah. Because being good to someone always includes cheating and abuse. “You’re fucking delusional.”
Dylan advances and I’m forced to retreat but I don’t back down. I remain straight-backed and glaring because guys like Dylan get a kick of making others feel weak. Like they’re less than them. Like he did to Amelia.
His expression shifts again, going from vicious to lewd as he clicks his tongue in annoyance, eyes perusing me slowly. Nausea coils in my stomach, disgusting and dirty, and I tug my jacket tighter around me, hating that there’s a man alive who makes me wish I hadn’t dressed so revealing.
“Does it ever get boring?” Dylan slurs. “Acting all high and fucking mighty like you’re not just a worthless slut who throws herself at anything with a pulse?”
It’s not the words themselves that hurt, it never is. It’s the intent. The aim to hurt me. The implication that I’m doing something wrong, that I’m somehow less. But punch to the gut they may be, I don’t react to his crude words because I know that’s what he wants. I won’t give him the satisfaction so I ignore the sting of the too-easy slander people are so quick to throw at me in a verbal brawl simply because I’m a woman who chooses to live however the fuck she wants.
He means nothing to me therefore his insults mean nothing to me.
Unfortunately, my lack of a reaction only seems to rile him up. His tone becomes more bitter, harsher, lewder, and his expression matches. “You know, I really try not to take it personally that I’m the only guy on campus you haven’t fucked yet.”
I balk.
Yet.
Try never.
Try would rather be skinned alive.
Try would rather never have sex again.
Dylan wrongly takes my disgusted silence as an invitation to shuffle closer. “We could change that.”
“Eat shit, asshole.” Done entertaining this conversation, I shoulder Dylan out the way with as much force as I can exude, flashing both middle fingers as I make a second attempt for the bar’s front door. I’m almost home-free when an unwanted stinging pain spreads across my ass cheek.
When I whip around to find Dylan smirking, hand clenched like he’s trying to preserve the feel of my skin, I lose it. Closing the distance between with a handful of furious steps, I slap the bastard across the face, hard, before shoving him away. “Do not fucking touch me.”
Dylan smirks, hands raised in sarcastic surrender, not the least bit fazed. “You let everyone else.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I snarl, shoving him again. “I am not Amelia. I don’t protect people who don’t deserve it so if you ever touch me again, I will sue your ass so fucking fast, your head will spin.”
It’s a lie. A bare-faced lie. I wouldn’t sue him, would never report him, for the same reason Amelia didn’t.
No one would believe us.
She’s never said it aloud, but I know it’s what stops her. She’s scared of the backlash, the questioning, the doubt. The assholes who would undoubtedly ask if she deserved it, if she provoked him, if she’s lying because he cheated on her and she wants revenge.
I hate that I share the same fear.
On the off chance Dylan is suddenly smart enough to sense my bullshit, I make myself scarce quickly, finally succeeding at escaping into the relative safety of the bar.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass before I stop watching the door.
With numb fingers, I fish out my phone, moving on autopilot as I scroll through the contacts. I don’t realize who I’m calling until, after a lifetime of ringing, it connects.
“Luna?”
Jackson sounds… off. Tired, understandably because it’s late, but there’s something else. A lack of the usual stomach-clenching warmth that I’ve become way too used to.
That I really, really need right now.
“Hi.” I cringe at my shaky voice, fiddling nervously with the ring on my finger. An anxiety ring, I think it’s called. A thin gold band with moveable beads that I can slide around the metal when I get fidgety or overwhelmed. There’s usually something weirdly soothing about the simple action, but it doesn’t seem to be working right now.
Background noise seeps through the call, the buzz of a television and a few other grumbling voices, before a door closes and the only sound is Jackson’s gruff, concerned voice. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” Even I can admit I don’t sound convincing. Sucking in a deep breath that stings my lungs, I let it out on a ragged exhale. “No. Can you…” Another deep breath, almost painful, but that could be the ache in my chest. “Can you come get me?”
He doesn’t hesitate for a second. “Where are you?”
I’m perched at the bar cradling the hot chocolate I coerced the bartender into making when a cold breeze caresses my back. A second later, a hand lands on my lower back, spreading warmth through my body. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I grimace at how curt my reply is but it’s instinctual.
The longer I waited, the more I regretted calling him. I feel like a fool. Embarrassed that I let Dylan get to me. Annoyed that I need a man to rescue me like some useless damsel in distress. Frustrated and confused that Jackson was the first person I wanted to call yet he didn’t sound all too happy to hear from me. Even more annoyed that, out of everything, that’s what I’ve been sitting here fixating on.
Calloused fingers grip my chin, gently directing my gaze to his. His expression startles me, warm and concerned yet guarded. Too distant, so unreadable. “What happened?”
I attempt a nonchalant shrug. “Just Dylan being Dylan.”
Immediately, Jackson stiffens, a muscle in his jaw jumping. His eyes flit around my face, down my arms, over every visible piece of skin. “Did he touch you?”
“Just spewed bullshit as usual,” I lie.
“But you’re okay?”
“I’m okay.”
The grip on my chin tightens almost imperceptibly before dropping. Without another word, Jackson shrugs off his jacket and lays it across my shoulders, cutting off my half-hearted protests with a single look. He holds a hand out to me, something about him warmer but still inexplicably off. Smiling weakly, I slip my hand into his and let him lead me outside.
The drive home is unbearably silent. I wrack my brain trying to figure out how the hell I’ve managed to screw up, what I’ve done to piss him off, but when we make it to my apartment, I’m still no closer to an answer.
I make no attempt to move. I don’t want to go inside. The girls will know something is up immediately and I don’t want them to, especially not Amelia, not when she’s been doing so good lately.
My mouth opens and closes as I search for what to say, starting and discarding a dozen sentences before I finally manage to force something out, such a simple request somehow feeling like a mammoth task. “Can I stay with you tonight?”
As soon as I ask, I regret it.
Jackson hesitates, and it’s like a slap to the face.
I immediately try to backtrack, shaking my head as I unclip my seatbelt and reach for the door handle. “Sorry, never mind, I don’t know-”
Jackson cuts me off by reaching over me and batting my hands away, pulling the ajar door firmly shut. “Of course you can.”
My fingers remain hovering over the handle, shoulders tense, body ready to bolt. “Are you-”
“Luna.”
“Okay.” I sink back into my seat, letting him clip my seatbelt back into place, trying to ignore the way he touches me as little as possible.
I hate this. This is not how car rides between us usually go. There’s never distance. I’m always yanked as far as the seatbelt will let me go, one of his big hands wrapped around my thigh, every red light an excuse to kiss me, touch me, thread his fingers through my hair.
This tension is awful, even more so because I can’t figure out what the hell is causing it. It only gets worse when we get to his house and I’m greeted by roommates who don’t offer me anything more than a curt nod. Cass is absent, leaving just Nick and Ben. The former looks pissed as hell, his expression cold, and the latter avoids all eye contact instead of greeting me with his usual exuberance. I frown, hugging myself awkwardly and letting the smell of Jackson’s jacket comfort me, and avert my gaze to the floor as I follow Jackson up to his room.
He’s quiet as he gathers up clothes and sets them on the bed, murmuring for me to change before he moves to go back downstairs. I step in his way before he can, my confusion and frustration reaching a tipping point. “What’s with the cold shoulder?”
Jackson shifts on his feet. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s like a fucking tundra in here.”
Jackson kisses his teeth, looking equal parts guilty and annoyed and something else. I don’t like this, not being able to read him, not knowing what’s going on. It makes me feel insecure and silly and small, three things I pride myself on not being. “Did I do something?”
I take Jackson’s sigh as a yes. He leans against his dresser and folds his arms across his chest, staring at me for one excruciatingly long moment before sighing again. “I told you I don’t play games, Luna. If you don’t want to do this, I need you to tell me, okay?”
I gape at him like a fucking fish, feeling like I’m missing a giant slab of information, a vital piece of a puzzle. My hands hover in mid-air, half reaching for him, half held up in some kind of surrender. “I’m confused.”
“So am I,” he exclaims in exasperation, running his hands through his hair before they come to rest at the crown of his head. As he leans back to stare at the ceiling, I try not to stare at the sliver of toned, tanned stomach revealed by his raised arms. I try to patiently wait for him to speak again but God, is it an itchy lifetime before he blows out a deep breath and locks gazes with me again. “Were you on a date tonight?”
“What?”A scoff leaves me as I gawk at him. “No! Why would you think that?”
He averts his gaze, choosing to stare at the wall behind my head. “I saw some stuff. I swear to God I wasn’t stalking you or anything, Cass follows that Pen girl and saw some of her posts and he sent them to me.”
“What posts?” I ask, already pulling out my phone and opening up Pen’s Instagram, momentarily confused because the first thing I see is a picture of me and Pen with the caption ‘date night‘, and surely that’s not what he’s talking about.
But as I click through the rest of her stories, my face twists in a grimace.
Okay. Yeah. I get it.
Most of the many, many pictures and videos littering my friend’s social media are of me and her. Or her and that guy. But in some of them, I’m with Aaron. Laughing, talking, joking around. In one, he’s got his arm slung across the back of my seat as he leans in to whisper something in my ear, and it looks like I’m laughing my ass off at whatever he’s saying, although it’s way more likely I’m giggling at Pen.
Yeah, that could definitely be misinterpreted.
Pocketing my phone, I look at Jackson with a pleading panic. “I promise, it’s not what it looks like. Pen and I were at a bar, that guy started hitting on Pen, I was left talking to the wingman. Just talking.”
The more I explain, the more his shoulder deflate until he drops his head almost shamefully. He glances up at me through eyes squinted with embarrassment. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” In his defense, it does look bad. If the situation was reversed, I’d react the same. No, I’d react worse. I would’ve been at that bar within the hour, dressed to the nines and ready to shove all my hotness in his face. I certainly wouldn’t have sat at home quietly and let it happen.
“Fuck, Luna, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. A little dramatic but okay.”
With a hoarse chuckle, Jackson eliminates the space between, fingers hooking through the belt loops of my jeans, his forehead nudging mine with too light of a touch for my liking. “I don’t share,” he reminds me, breath hot and words heavy, “I get jealous when I think the woman I like is on a date with someone else, especially when she’s been ignoring me all day.” A guilty grimace twists my face for a moment before he wipes my expression clean with a swipe of his thumb against my bottom lip. “I get jealous and annoyed and a little upset, and the guys are assholes but they’re loyal assholes so they do whatever they just did. I’m sorry we jumped to conclusions.”
“You were jealous,” I repeat, frowning when he nods. “But you still came to get me when I called?”
“Of course I did.”
“Why?”
For the first time tonight, Jackson touches me properly, not just a featherlight, fleeting brush, and the sigh of relief that leaves me is downright embarrassing. Smoothing my hair back, he cups my face with his hands and leans forward until we’re sharing air, his breath tickling my lips and his gaze searching for something within mine. “I can’t tell if you’re purposely being difficult or if you really just don’t know what it feels like to be liked.”
Probably a bit of both.
“You came because you like me.”
A small smile tugs at his lips, his nose gently brushing mine. “Atta girl.”
God, I feel ridiculously out of my depth. The way he looks at me, reacts to me, talks to me… It’s rattling. Overwhelming. I’m not sure if I like it, but I know I like him and I can’t keep almost ruining shit.
Clutching at his wrist, I explain that as best I can. “I’ve never-” Had a healthy relationship that wasn’t platonic, I finish silently. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“I know,” he whispers softly, thumb stroking my cheek. “We’ll take it slow. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” He kisses my knuckles lightly, smiling against my skin. “How about we start with just dating? Exclusively.”
“I’m comfortable with exclusive,” I croak out. More than comfortable. The thought of him going out with or flirting with or even touching another girl makes me a little fucking rabid, actually.
Jackson’s answering smile is utterly satisfied, just shy of smug. His grip shifts downwards, one large hand swallowing my neck and tilting my head upwards. I don’t get any warning before his lips meet mine with surprising force, drawing a gasp out of me that he takes full advantage of by plunging his tongue into my mouth. It’s quick and breathtaking and a little fucking depraved, all clashing lips, teeth, tongues.
When he pulls away after way too short a time, he squeezes my side, fingers digging into the layers of clothes separating me from him. With a groan, he tears himself away from me and heads for the door, leaving me panting in the middle of his room. “Where are you going?”
“Just need to talk to the guys for a second.” He pauses at the door and glances over his shoulder, jerking his head towards the bed. “I want you in that bed when I get back.”
“Naked?” I grin as his jaw tightens. Rolling my eyes, I sarcastically salute him and shrug off his jacket. “Yes, sir.”
Dark eyes gleam, and I half expect Jackson to stalk across the room and kiss me again. But, much to my disappointment, he slips out the door, leaving the door cracked behind him as he disappears downstairs.
A better woman would ignore the low voices drifting upstairs.
I eavesdrop shamelessly.
“Her date didn’t pan out?” Nick quips dryly, something undeniably protective softening his snarky tone.
“Cut the attitude.” Jackson’s stern tone sends a shiver up my spine and God, isn’t it a little sick that I wish he was using it on me? “She wasn’t on a date, she was with a friend. Not that it’s any of your business. Or mine,” he grumbles the latter, regret tainting his tone.
The rest of the conversation isn’t clear but the reaction to Dylan’s murmured name is unmissable. Snarled curses erupt immediately, and I pick out Ben asking if I’m okay, Nick asking if Amelia is, both questions making me smile.
When their voices quieten and footsteps creep my way, I don’t linger any longer. I make quick work out of changing into a spare tee and boxers before burrowing under the covers. Only minutes later, warmth engulfs me, an arm encircling my waist as a woodsy scent wafts over me.
I snuggle back into Jackson, sliding my hand into his where it rests on my stomach. Lips press against the spot just below my ear. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”
“No, I really don’t.” I squeeze his suddenly very tense hand. “It wasn’t a big deal. I’m okay, I promise.”
Jackson says nothing, just buries his head in the crook of my neck, the arm trapped underneath me curling upwards to lock across my chest and hold me as close as possible.
The sound of steady breathing lulls me to almost-sleep quickly. Just before sleep overcomes me completely, I hear him whisper my name softly. When I hum sleepily in response, his grip on me tightens as his lips kiss my neck.
“You can always call me.”
