Jackson: A Sexy Bastard Novel (10 page)

“
S
o let
me get this straight,” Jackson says as he holds the door open to Atlanta Rocks. “You’re afraid of heights, so you decided to take me rock climbing?”

“Yep. I believe in facing my fears head-on.” I head straight for the reception desk to hand over my money before I can change my mind. “Two for the climbing wall, please.”

I’ve always been terrified of heights: bridges, ladders . . . if it’s over eight feet tall, I don’t want to be on it. But that’s exactly why—now that it’s my turn to take us somewhere “fun and exciting”—I chose this place. What’s more exciting than fear?

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him pulling out his wallet, so I hurry to hand the woman two twenties.

“My date, my money,” I tell Jackson, accepting two harnesses from the woman and pushing one of them into his chest. Then, I sling my duffle bag over my shoulder, nod thanks to the receptionist, and pull open the glass doors to the climbing room.

The space inside looks like something between a movie set and a playground. Beneath the super-high ceiling, gray textured “rock” walls line the perimeter of the room. Each wall is studded with multicolored holds of varying shapes and sizes.

“Let’s start here,” I say, pointing to my left, where the holds are most numerous. Jackson follows me, and we stash our stuff under one of the benches.

The next twenty minutes are spent with an instructor, learning how to belay. Jackson’s obviously done this before, so his certification test takes no time at all. When it’s my turn to practice locking the rope, fear creeps back in. What if I can’t lock the rope in time? What if he’s too heavy? What if
I’m
too heavy?

Jackson notices my hesitation and puts his hands on my shoulders.

“Don’t worry, gorgeous. I’ll catch you if you fall.”

I glance up at him, expecting a look of meaningful sincerity. Instead, what I get is a teasing grin. I sock him in the shoulder.

“You couldn’t wait to use that line, could you?”

He shrugs, still grinning, and I sock him again. I have to admit, though, I do feel better.

“So,” Jackson says, “who’s first?”

I stare up at the wall. Shit, that’s high.

“Why don’t we go together?” he offers. “We can both give it an equal shot.”

“Good idea.” I breathe a sigh of relief.

Once I’ve managed to make it about ten feet up, Jackson clicks in his carabineer and starts his ascent. His first few movements are immediately smooth and he falls into a rhythm: right hand, right foot. Left foot, left hand. The muscles of his back ripple beneath his t-shirt, and, as he climbs just past me, I find myself fantasizing about the feel of them beneath my hands.

Suddenly, I feel a release and I lose my grip.

“Falling!” I shout, and without hesitating, he snaps his arm down. The rope locks tight, and my fall is halted about two feet off the ground. The instant of terror I felt at hurtling through the air gives way to weak-kneed relief. Impulsively, I start to laugh.

“You okay?” he calls from above.

I can’t stop inexplicably laughing as he lowers back to the ground. When his feet touch down, he runs over and scoops me up in a bear hug.

“My savior,” I crow.

He laughs, but when he puts me down, his hands slip to my waist and linger there. Heat immediately shoots through me. Gripping the fabric of his t-shirt to keep myself upright, I lean into him. His eyes darken in recognition, and he slips a finger beneath the hem of my shirt, brushing the skin beneath. I shiver at his touch but then wrench my eyes away from his. We can’t do this. Not here, not now.

Very delicately, I pull myself out of his grasp. After a moment, he swallows and holds the carabineer out to me.

“How about you try it again? Alone this time.”

As I lock the carabineer in place, I raise my eyes to the wall. God, it’s fucking high. It seems even higher when I consider going it alone.

Life is short,
I tell my hammering pulse.
There’s no time for fear. And I’ve survived a lot more than you, you stupid wall.

Stepping forward, I grasp one of the holds. It feels cold and solid, the texture something between plastic and metal. Taking a breath, I step up on a green hold and haul myself up a few inches.

Just a little bit at a time
, I tell myself.
That’s all you need to get to the top.

Right foot, left hand. Left foot, right hand. I keep my eyes locked on my next hold, refusing to look anywhere but that one target. Finally, I reach a point where there’s no next logical step to take. My left leg is too short to reach the yellow triangle, and the holds above look too far away to grab. I’m stuck. My muscles start to tremble.

“I’ve got you,” Jackson calls, and I realize that his voice sounds far away. Without thinking, I glance over my shoulder. Everything is so, so far away. The trembling in my shoulders quickens, and the world tilts.

“You can do it, Sky.”

My vision focuses on Jackson’s upturned face. He looks confident. I need to be confident.

Wrenching my head back to the wall, I press my body flat against the surface and tense my legs to give me leverage. Glancing upward, I focus on the closest hold. It’ll be a stretch; I’ll have to lunge for it and hope that I not only reach it, but that I can hold on.

You can do it, Sky.

Coiling all of my muscles, I spring upward. For a second, I seem to be dangling in midair, and then I feel the cool textured plastic beneath my fingers. I grab on. My body slams against the wall, but my left foot somehow finds another hold and suddenly I’m stable again. Muscles trembling, heart pounding—but stable.

“Awesome!” Jackson cheers from below. “Keep going!”

I can’t
, I think suddenly.
I can’t keep going down this road with you, Jackson, because I know where it leads, and I swore I’d never go back there.

With that thought, I lose my grip. My fingers slide off, and my body loses contact, and suddenly I’m flailing in the air, dropping, crashing to the ground . . . .

But I’m not falling. The harness jerks, and I’m suspended, swaying in the air. After a beat, my heart still in my throat, I open my eyes and look down. Jackson’s handsome face is grinning up at me.

“See? I told you I’d catch you.”

Slowly he lowers me to the ground, and when my feet touch down, my knees go weak and I stumble. But I don’t fall, because the next thing I know, he’s there, wrapping me in warm, solid arms.

“You were amazing,” he says into my hair, kissing the crown of my head. “You got way higher than I did.”

“No I didn’t.” I shake my head and press my face into his chest.

“You did.” He turns and tilts my chin so I can see the section of the wall I was just on. “See that yellow triangle up there?”

I search the wall and find it. It’s so far up.

“That’s where you stopped. That’s way above where I got. Hell, you almost made it to the top.”

He’s right: I was almost at the top. I turn back to look at him, and he’s beaming at me.

“You’re amazing,” he says.

Impulsively, I rise up on my tiptoes and kiss him. His lips are soft and warm, and he pulls me closer, deepening the kiss. My heartbeat, which had finally slowed to a reasonable trot, begins to pick up again, and I press my palms into the solid muscles of his chest.

This man is so gentle, so kind. And so goddamned sexy. All I’ve done since the moment I met him is fight all the reasons we should be together. But now? Well, now, I’m tired of fighting. I want to give in to everything—in to my feelings, in to my desires, and most of all, into Jackson himself.

B
ut we are in public
, so I finally break away. My knees wobble and I feel dizzy again, but this time, I know it’s not because of heights.

“Hey there.” Jackson steadies me. “You okay?”

“I’m thirsty,” I reply. “Let’s find something to drink.”

After wiggling out of our harnesses, we explore the rest of the gym hand in hand. It’s a pretty incredible place; they have an indoor skate park, a spinning studio, and a giant indoor pool. Finally, we find the smoothie bar, across from the entrance to the spinning studio. Class must have just let out, because sweaty people with towels draped over their necks are lingering around the counter, chatting and drinking Gatorades.

“What do you want?” Jackson asks.

“Um . . . .” I relevé up on my toes to peer over the heads blocking the bar. “Peach Pizzazz. Number six.”

“Done.”

Watching him shoulder his way up to the counter, it occurs to me that after making a big fuss about this being “my date, my money,” I should be the one paying for our food, too. But it’s too late now; he’s already talking to the cashier.

Some of the crowd finally leaves, and I sidle up to the bar.

“What did you get?” I ask him.

“Water,” he replies, holding up a bottle, “and a protein bar. Do you want anything else?”

“Hmm.” Now that the idea is planted, I am a little hungry. Inspecting the assortment of granola bars laid out on the counter, I’ve just narrowed my choices to crunchy peanut butter or dark chocolate cherry when a hand reaches over my shoulder and plucks out a PowerBar.

Weirdly, the hand looks familiar. Slightly hairy knuckles, with a ring on the middle finger . . . . That ring.

My heart nearly stops. Almost against my will, I turn to follow the familiar hand up the familiar arm, to the familiar face. Curls exactly how I remember them, with two springing down over his left eye no matter what. The same forest green eyes, set in the same gentle face. A face that I touched so many times.

I blink.

He blinks.

“Hi, Skylar.”

“Hi . . . Cory.” The word comes out as a croak, and then my whole world is spinning. I’m back on that wall, losing my grasp, slipping, falling, and this time, there is no one to catch me.

Suddenly, I’m running: away from the smoothie counter, down the hall, through the climbing room, and out the front doors to the parking lot. My lungs are burning. My heart is in my throat. I think I’m going to throw up. Stopping abruptly, I slump against the brick wall of the gym, barely able to stay upright.

I never thought I’d see him again, foolish as that may be. He was supposed to be travelling the world. Seeing exotic places. Doing crazy, exciting things. I know, because I was supposed to be there with him. Until I wasn’t.

Without warning, the tears come, and they come hard. Before I know it, I’m sobbing ferociously, hiccupping, snot everywhere, and it’s all I can do to limp around the corner and out of sight from the front door before I collapse on the asphalt, right beside a huge green dumpster.

He left me. It was four years ago, but it could have happened yesterday for how I feel right now: like someone knocked the wind out of me and then stabbed me in the heart with an ice pick over and over again. Cory did that. All of it. And the mere sight of him brings everything back.

“Sky?” I hear my name and try to muffle my sobs, but they only become louder. The next thing I know, Jackson is careening around the corner, his face a look of panic and fury.

“Sky, what’s wrong?” He crouches beside me on the pavement, touching my shoulder. “Did that guy say something to you? I will beat the shit out of—”

“No.” I manage to shake my head. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Well then what . . . .” His expression changes to one of utter confusion, but I still cannot speak. Tears pour down my face, and I scrape my heels against the concrete as I pull my knees to my chest.

“Skylar, you’re scaring me. Please, say something. You looked at that guy, and all of a sudden you just . . . .” He spreads his hands, at a loss, but that only makes me cry harder. The thought of Cory’s face, those stupid curls. I used to tease him about them all the time. “Rogue springs,” I called them.

Words simply won’t come, so I bury my head in my arms and let the sobbing take over.

“Sky.” Jackson slides down beside me, leaning against the brick building and pulling my body into his arms. He’s so warm, so solid. I feel myself sinking against him, even as my tears soak his shirt.

“Shhh. You’re okay.” He strokes my hair gently. “We’re in no hurry. No hurry at all.”

S
he’s getting cold
. I can feel it in the way her skin prickles against me when I run my palms up and down her arms. The tears have dried pale streaks down her face, but she seems not to notice as she stares wordlessly out across the parking lot.

I don’t know what that asshole did to her, but I’ll be damned if I don’t find a way to make it right. This is not the Skylar I know.

A peach sunset glints off of chrome bumpers and slices across windshields, giving way to soft lavender darkness. Her body shivers in my arms, once, twice. It’s time to go.

“Here, can you get up?” I stand and help her to her feet. “Let’s go to my car, and we can go somewhere warm.”

“I want to go home.”

“Are you sure?” Her eyes are tired, vacant, as though she can’t see any of the world around. I guide her to the car and help her in.

“Yes.”

We drive to her apartment in silence, her looking out the window, me trying not to turn the car around and head straight back to the gym, find that guy, and beat the shit out of him. What could he have possibly done to make her react like this?

When we arrive at her apartment, I pull up to the curb and turn off the engine.

“Thanks for the ride,” she says softly, reaching for the door handle. I place a hand on her arm.

“At least let me walk you up. To make sure you’re okay.”

“I’ll be fine.” Everything in her expression says,
I am not fine
.

“Great. Then you can be fine as I walk you to your door.”

Her shoulders slump. “Fine. If that’s what you want.”

I follow her to the front door. The number of deadbolts she has to unlock to get inside is slightly alarming, but then I realize that this must be why she didn’t want me to come inside: she’s embarrassed.

On the fourth floor landing, she stops at a door and inserts her key. Before she turns the knob, however, she pauses and looks at me.

“I’m okay. Really. You don’t have to do this.”

But I do. I have to know that if there is something I can do to stop her misery, I’ve done it. I don’t know why. What we have is not a real relationship, and yet I can’t help my uncontrollable need to take care of her.

Inside, her apartment is sparse, like she just moved in; the essentials are here, but not much more. There’s a kitchen set up along the right-hand wall, and a round table with two folding chairs set up to the left. Beyond that, there’s a set of shelves, a dresser, and the back of what must be a headboard. Other than that, the place is barren.

Wordlessly, Skylar moves past me, removes a bundle of clothing from the dresser beside her bed, enters the bathroom, and shuts the door. I fleetingly wonder if I should leave, but I can’t. I need to see this through.

“Do you want anything to drink?” I call toward the closed door. No response. Well, she might not need a drink, but I sure do.

After another minute of silence, I decide to see what I can find. After rooting through her cabinets, I discover a neglected bottle of Merlot amid a half-eaten jar of peanut butter and two cans of green beans. Wiping the dust off with my shirt, I scrounge around until I find a corkscrew and open the wine. While it breathes, I return to the cupboards in search of wineglasses. This time, no luck.

“I poured us some wine,” I say to the empty room as I finish filling two chipped mismatched mugs to the brim. “I hope that’s okay. You seem like you need it.”

When I look up, she’s there, standing before me. The oversized sweatpants hang just low enough that I can see the half moons of her hipbones rising out of them, and in spite of myself, I can’t help but think that if anyone can make sweats look sexy, it’s Skylar.

Her face is what brings me back, though: the sad eyes, the pinched mouth.

She goes over and sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from me. I carry the mugs over and sit beside her.

“Here.” I offer her a mug. Her fingers are ice as she takes it from me.

“You’re still freezing.” Glancing around, I eventually locate a fleece blanket balled up on the floor. I lift it and wrap it around her shoulders.

“Thank you.” She takes a sip from her mug, still not meeting my eyes. “I left my duffle bag at the gym.”

“Fuck the duffle bag. We can go back and get it tomorrow.” I set my mug on top of her dresser and gently take her face in both of my hands. “Sky, look at me. Tell me what has you this upset.”

Swallowing, she glances down to her lap, then lifts her eyes back to mine.

“That guy . . . his name’s Cory. We used to date.”

“Okay . . . .”

She seems to be struggling with how to continue. I want to jump in and demand to know what he did, how he hurt her, but I hold back. It’s her story to tell.

“I used to be a dancer. A long time ago. A ballerina. I went to Julliard, graduated, got into a good dance company—everything happened like it was supposed to.” Her eyes look dreamy, and for a second she looks almost . . . happy. But then it’s gone and she’s back to her story. “Then, two weeks into practice I tore my ACL. It was really bad, and I didn’t have health insurance. My parents couldn’t help—hell, I’ve never even met my dad, and my mom was broke her whole life—so I had to go on Medicare. Medicare for fuck’s sake.” She shakes her head. “I went through physical therapy, but without surgery, they told me I’d never dance again. Plus, I was gone from my company for so long that they had to fill my spot, so even if I could have gotten my full range of motion back, I’d have had to start all over.”

I want to jump in and ask about her parents—she never met her dad?—but I hold my tongue and instead put a hand on her leg, waiting for her to continue.

“I met Cory when I was in PT.” She pauses, blinking as though she’s just made a discovery. “God, it was perfect timing. Every day after I went through two hours of excruciating pain—knowing that in spite of it all, I’d still never dance again—I’d go to this bar on the corner. I’d sit at the farthest seat from the door and order Heinekens.”

“This was in New York?”

“Yeah, New York City. Land of fucking possibility. Paved with the skeletons of dreams.” Skylar takes a long drink from her mug and then continues.

“I met Cory at the bar. He was a bartender there, although ‘just temporarily;’ New York City was apparently only one stop on the big world tour he had planned for himself. As it turned out, he was originally from Atlanta, so we had a lot to bond over. We reminisced about places from our childhoods, we also both wanted to escape the South for good. Which, seeing as we were meeting for the first time in New York City, was something we’d both accomplished.”

Her eyes go distant for a minute, and I squeeze her hand.

“Cory lived in the moment,” she finally continues, “and that appealed to me. Because there I was, facing a life that no longer included the dream I’d worked for since I was born. I had no other plans, no other ambitions. So we lived it up. Moved in together to save money, went out at all hours of the night, partied at the most hard-core clubs. Eventually, he invited me to join him on his ‘unscheduled world tour,’ and I gladly accepted. After all, what else was I going to do?

“We travelled everywhere: Asia, India, New Zealand. Eventually we ended up in South America, which was my favorite: Brazil, Peru, Nicaragua, Costa Rica.” Suddenly her voice catches and her mouth turns downward.

“That asshole,” she hisses, glaring at her hands. “He was wearing his fucking ring. The one we got in Costa Rica, made special—”

She breaks off and angrily rubs her arm across her eyes. I instinctively lean in and put a hand against her back. I want this to be okay. I want
her
to be okay.

“Anyway, we travelled a lot. We’d go to a place, work for a little while until we could buy a ticket to the next place, and then we’d just pick up and go. It was thrilling, in the way that being in love and on a crazy adventure with the person you love is thrilling. And what did I have to lose?” She takes another pull from her mug. “I played it safe and did everything right by ballet. Look where that got me.”

She stops for so long that I begin to wonder if her story is over. Am I supposed to infer the ending? I rub small circles on her back.

“So, he broke your heart?” I finally venture.

“Yeah, that’s it.” She grins wryly. “Well, if you call abandoning your fiancé in her time of need ‘breaking her heart,’ then yeah, he broke my heart.”

I can’t hide my astonishment. “You were engaged to that guy?”

“I was. Hence the matching rings. I thought big fancy engagement rings were stupid, but I agreed that if we got matching rings, I’d be willing to wear one. So that’s what we did.” She examines her bare hand, as though she can still see the ring encircling her finger. “They were beautiful. Handmade. But it wasn’t an official engagement. Or even an engagement at all, I guess, to him. We didn’t have any wedding plans. We were just in love. It seemed like the thing to do.” Her voice has thickened again, and she pauses to collect herself.

“Then in June, right before my twenty-third birthday, I was diagnosed with lymphoma.”

The shock that hits me is so severe, I nearly fall off of the bed.

“What?”

“I’d been losing weight for a while already—probably for about six months, if I’m remembering correctly. By the time I finally went to the doctor, none of my clothing fit; I was punching extra holes in my belts and gave up wearing bras. But I just figured it was my metabolism or too much hiking. I mean, who ever suspects they have cancer?”

My eyes are open so wide, I start to see stars.

“Truth is,” she admits, “I probably would never even have gone to see a doctor if I hadn’t passed out in Mexico.”

At the hospital, they discovered that her lymph nodes were dangerously swollen. Initially, they assumed it was an infection, but then the antibiotics they gave her made her sicker, so she was ultimately flown back to Atlanta, where she was diagnosed with lymphoma. Hodgkin disease, specifically, which is apparently a blood cancer that affects white blood cells and ultimately screws up the lymph system. Skylar was diagnosed with Stage II unfavorable, which meant she had to go straight into chemo.

Cory came back to Atlanta, too, and at first he basically lived with her at the hospital.

“I have no idea where he slept or showered,” Skylar says, “but he’d come in each morning with a little trinket from down the block, which we dubbed my ‘morning power gift.’” The corners of her mouth turn up at the memory, but then her expression stiffens and she downs the rest of her wine.

“Two weeks into treatment, I insisted he go find somewhere to live properly. By then it was obvious that this wasn’t going to be a quick fix. I was throwing up almost everything I ate, my hair had started coming out in clumps, and the doctors still gave no indications that anything was improving. Of course, I was scared out of my wits, and the last thing I wanted was to be left alone in the hospital. But he wasn’t the one who was sick, so I didn’t think he deserved to suffer through every second of my illness with me.”

Without asking, I pour some of my wine into her mug and she takes a grateful sip.

“It was awful. And then he stopped coming in the mornings. ‘Had to work,’ he said, or something like that. I don’t remember, exactly; I was so out of it by then. When I wasn’t in the bathroom curled around the toilet, I was sleeping or being wheeled back down the hall for more chemo. I knew I was disgusting: hairless, sores on my mouth, the works. But I never thought he’d leave me.”

Her shoulders start to shake again, and I pull her into me. After a moment, she speaks into my chest.

“And then, one day, he just didn’t come at all. Or the next. Or the next.”

I run my thumb along her cheekbone, wiping away the tears. What I really want to do is wipe away her pain.

“He just vanished. I tried calling, but he must have disconnected his phone or changed his number. I was worried at first, like maybe something had happened to him and was keeping him away? Then I got mad. How dare he keep me waiting like this! But I kept waiting and waiting and waiting, until finally I realized he wasn’t coming back. Ever.”

She hiccups and then laughs at herself before chugging the rest of the wine.

“I was so stupid to believe that someone would stay by my side forever. There is no forever. It could all end tomorrow, without warning. Just—poof.”

And that’s why she lives this way.

I stare around the apartment, at her lack of furniture, lack of appliances. There’s nothing here to tether her to this city, to this world. No big important job, no big important possessions.

And no big important relationships, either.

I return my gaze to her face. She’s so beautiful—even the tears glittering at the corners of her eyes look like jewels. Strength and vulnerability, determination and recklessness—all of the contradictions make sense now. No one should have to go through any of that, but especially not her. Not someone so full of life, so full of heart. I want to reach inside and rip away all of those cancer cells, all of that heartbreak, every memory that hurts her. But I can’t.

Instead, I reach forward and set aside her empty cup. Then, I take her hands and press her knuckles to my lips.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmur against her hand.

And I mean it.