Ace of Spades (11 page)

Chapter 11

Dead
man’s hand

The
two-hour drive from San Diego to Los Angeles turned into a four-hour drive,
thanks to traffic. Though she’d lived there all her life, Melody had never
quite figured out how Californians so successfully turned high speed freeways
into parking lots. She cranked up the radio and sang along, letting the music
and sunshine sap up her sorrow. Life with Richard was over, but life had really
just begun. In a couple of days she’d be touring the world with her best friend
and… well, whatever he was to her.

Following
the commands of her GPS, she exited the freeway and headed toward the hills of
Beverly Hills. Though her dated BMW sedan was a perfectly respectable car, she
still felt out of place as she carved her way through the mansions of the
hills. Lamborghinis, Ferraris,
Maseratis
, and Jaguars
were sprinkled liberally throughout the neighborhood, parked on the street as
though they weren’t worth more than a lot of people’s houses.

         
“Arriving at destination, on right,” her GPS announced flatly.

         
Melody slowed to a stop in front of a tall wrought iron gate and pressed the
button to roll down her window. Pushing the button on the call box, she waited
for a response.

         
“Please come in, Miss Davis,” a male voice crackled through the speaker. The
gates opened, sliding aside to grant her entrance. He knew her name?

         
Melody edged her Beamer along the wooded drive, craning her neck to see the
house beyond the trees. A weathered terracotta roof peeked out through the
trees. The stunning two-story Spanish Colonial revival came into full view. The
grounds were immaculate, the white walls of the estate pristine. It was hard to
believe how clean and well-maintained it was. Like a photograph in a history
book, captured and kept in
its own
place and time.

         
Parking in the bricked drive in front of the wooden garage door, Melody trekked
toward the front door. She climbed the tiled steps, pressed through the
decorative wrought iron gate, and came to a stop in the beautifully arched
alcove of the entryway. Before she could reach the doorbell, the heavy wooden
door opened and a tiny Hispanic woman blocked her path. The petite woman had
big, dark eyes and an elfin visage, weathered by years in the sun. A bright
smile crinkled her tanned face as she stepped aside to allow her to pass.

         
“You must be his Melody,” the woman said, her words thick with a Spanish accent.
“Please, come in,
mija
.”

         
Melody nodded and followed the woman into a large sitting room with lots of
natural light streaming down between the dark wooden beams lining the high
ceilings. Sinking into the center cushion of one of the overstuffed dark
nubuck
couches, Mel glanced around the room in awe.

Of all
the ways she’d imagined Jackson’s home, she’d never dreamt it to be like this.
An arcade of arched columns separated the living room from the kitchen and
dining area. The living room extended to the full height of the two-story
hacienda. A curved staircase swept up the side of the room, its steps tiled
with bright and colorful, hand-painted tiles. A wrought iron railing, both
functional and decorative, scrolled up the staircase in an ornamental pattern.

         
Massive iron lanterns hung from the beams in the ceiling, suspended high above
her head. Glossy red clay tiles, patterned on a diagonal with more painted
tiles, comprised the floor. From the ornate wrought iron cross over the
simplistic baroque fireplace, to the arched and recessed bookcases filled with
beautifully bound hard-cover classics and countless golden gramophone trophies,
every square inch of space had been considered, decorated, and lovingly
maintained.  

         
“I keep the books because they remind me of you. They’re beautiful, aren’t
they?” A familiar male voice asked from somewhere behind her. That voice was
the sound of home, of safety and acceptance, of shelter from the storm.

         
Melody didn’t turn to face him, but answered all the same. “Yes, they are. The
whole house is.”

         
“It’s all Maria’s doing, not mine.” Melody could hear the smile in his voice. “You
got the flowers?”

         
Melody turned to see Jackson leaning against an arched column, his tatted arms
folded casually over his chest and a boyish grin on his face. “Oh, I got them
alright, Jackson.”

         
Jackson gasped, flinching as though physically struck by the sight of her
battered face. Rushing to her side, he took a knee at her feet and cradled her
face in his hands. A storm of fury and pain raged in his electric blue eyes. “Who
did this to you?”

         
Melody managed a weak smile. “Who do you think? Most men don’t take kindly to
their girlfriend receiving flowers from another man, especially when those
flowers come with the unconventional card mine did. He thinks we’ve been
sleeping together behind his back. He got mad and lashed out.”

         
“That son of a bitch!”
Jackson growled. “I’ll kill
him.”

         
Melody shook her head at him. “No, Jackson. You’ve got enough problems, without
adding to it. He’s not worth it.”

         
“Maybe not, but you are,” he argued, eyeing her injuries with a mix of pain and
regret.

         
“What did you think would happen?”

         
Jackson cringed and raked his long, callused fingers through his messy, dark
hair. “I don’t know, but I sure as hell didn’t expect the bastard to hit you.”

         
“Please tell me you didn’t do this on purpose,” Melody pled.

         
“Of course I sent you flowers on purpose. I wanted,” Jackson stalled, frowning
as he considered his words with care. “It’s no secret that I want you. I wanted
to tell you… that I’m ready… I mean, I’m ready to do whatever it takes to have
you in my life.”

         
“So you sabotaged my relationship?” Melody gasped, indignant in spite of his
confession.

         
Jackson shrugged. “I didn’t know he would see them.”

         
“J, we lived together. He didn’t just see them, he received the delivery,”
Melody clarified, cringing at the memory of Richard’s anger, of the crushed
daisies sitting in a broken heap on the floor.

         
Jackson frowned. “You were living with that tool?”

         
Melody sighed, “Jackson, we’ve talked about this.”

         
He shook his head.
“Nah.
I don’t think we did. I’m
sure I’d remember something as horrifying as the thought of you living with
that asshole.”

         
“Maybe you repressed the memory for sanity’s sake,” Melody offered dryly. “Or
your brain is so fried from all the dope you’ve done, you can’t remember much
of anything. Remember those anti-drug commercials when we were kids, J? ‘This
is your brain.’ Crack goes the egg, sliding into a hot frying pan. ‘This is
your brain on drugs. Sizzle goes the egg.”

         
Jackson chuckled, “Yeah, I remember. They forgot to mention how much fun the
sizzling part is.”

         
Melody rolled her eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

         
“I know,” Jackson agreed with a grin. “But at least I’m not living with an
uptight attorney who probably irons his
tighty-whities
.”

         
“Lived, past tense,” Melody corrected. “And they’re boxers, not
tighty-whities
, but yes, he does iron them.” She laughed in
spite of herself. “Regardless of my ex boyfriend’s preference in undergarments,
the fact remains that we broke up.”

         
Jackson
grinned
his boyish grin, that adorable dimple
in his cheek and all. “Good. I don’t want anyone sleeping with my girl, but me.”

         
“Jackson,” Melody protested. “I am
not
your girl.”

         
Smirking in confidence, he said, “Not yet, but you will be.”

         
Melody glared at him. “Not likely.”

         
“Oh yeah?”
Jackson challenged with a cocky grin.

         
Tilting his lean muscled frame toward her, Jackson closed the space between
them, pausing only when his parted lips were close enough to brush hers if one
of them moved. Melody’s tongue darted out to wet her lips in nervous habit, but
grazed against Jackson’s mouth in the process. Jackson released a low growl of
desire at the contact.

His
hands rose to cradle her face as his mouth covered hers. Melody felt that
familiar floor-dropping-from-beneath-her feeling flutter within her belly as he
hungrily consumed her, drinking her in like the finest champagne. Leaning into
his kiss, she wrapped her arms around his neck and tangled her fingers in the
dark locks at the nape of his neck. With relentless passion, Jackson laid claim
to her, body and soul, his kiss inked as legibly on her heart as the tattoos on
his skin.

When
Jackson at last released her from his heated embrace, Melody melted into the
couch. Sucking in ragged breaths, she tried to calm her racing heart. Her lips mourned
the feel of his against them. Her body ached from within, her core
throbbing
its plea for him to bury himself in her depths.

Jackson
gave her a knowing grin, his bright eyes sparkling with desire and mirth. “Now,
tell me you’re not my girl.”

Melody
tried to form a coherent thought beyond want, need, ache, burn... and love. Her
body wanted him, but her heart wanted him more. Yes, she loved him, in every
possible way a woman could love a man.

As a
child, he had been her protector, confidante, and playmate. As a teen, he had
been her best friend, her first crush, and her first kiss. As a young adult, he
had been the one who got away, the lost soul, the cherished friend she couldn’t
forget.

Though
he’d pushed her away, Mel would’ve given anything to stand at his side during
his hard times, to protect him from the man circumstances would make him. As a
grown man, he was a walking disaster. He was beautiful and genuine, yet
reckless and self destructive. As he’d told her before, he was broken. Was her
love enough to heal him?

Melody
tipped her head to one side, admiring his flawless male beauty. From his
perfectly curved lips, dramatic cheekbones, adorable dimples, dark lashes, and
stunning blue eyes, this was the face of the notorious bad boy rocker, Black
Jack. But to Melody, he was still just Jackson, the boy who’d seen beauty in
her when no one else had. She bit her lip and gave her head a slight shake.

“No, J,
I’m not your girl,” she whispered, her eyes burning into his.

His lips
curved into a soft, knowing smile. His blue eyes sparkled. “But you will be.”

Melody
nodded. “Yes, yes, I will.”

His
resulting grin rivaled the sun for brightness, warming Melody to her toes.

“But J?”

“Yeah?”

“If I’m
yours, then you’re mine. And I don’t share,” Melody whispered cradling his
stubbled
jaw in her hand.

“I like
the sound of that,” Jackson murmured, turning his head to press a kiss into her
palm. “Because guess what, Mel? I don’t share either.”

         
“No more
skanks
?”

         
Jackson’s lips twisted into a soft smile. “No more
skanks
.”

         
“Promise?”

         
“Promise,” he whispered, interlacing his fingers with hers. “I don’t need them
to make me forget what I really want anymore. I have everything I need right
here.”

         
“Well, Mr.
Blackner
, now you have me. What are you
going to do with me?”

         
“I can think of a few things.” Jackson dipped his head to press his lips to
hers. “But we have all the time in the world to explore all those delicious
possibilities. Right now, I think you need a drink. You’ve had a long day.”

         
“I’m okay,” she protested, covering a yawn.

         
“Yeah, you look ready to conquer the world,” Jackson chuckled. “Sit back and
relax, Melody the Conqueror, I’ll get you that drink.”

         
“You wouldn’t happen to be trying to get me tipsy so you can take advantage of
me, would you, J?” Melody teased, the errant thought making her tingle all
over.

         
His cobalt eyes gleamed with mischief. “I wouldn’t dream of doing a thing like
that.”

         
“
Mmhmm
,” Melody said with a small smile, feigning
unimpressed disbelief.

         
“Maybe
I
just want a drink and refuse to be pathetic enough to drink
alone.”

         
“Now,
that
I can believe.”

         
Jackson grinned. “Save me from my pathetic state?”

         
Melody sighed with mock severity. “I suppose.”