Jackson: A Sexy Bastard Novel (7 page)

T
o go
? Or not to go? That is the question.

I look down into the amber dregs of my beer, hoping for a sign. People read tea leaves, why not beer bubbles?

“Dude, I know that look.”

I glance up from my beer to find Cash standing beside my barstool, squinting at me.

“That’s the ‘I’m Jackson, I have feelings’ look.”

“Fuck off, Cash.” I aim a punch for his shoulder, but it turns into a glancing blow as he scoots behind the bar, laughing.

“I’d know that look anywhere. Haven’t seen it in a while though. Probably because you weren’t dating anyone.”

“I’m not dating anyone now.” I drum my fingers on the bartop, gazing around. I have to admit: despite some of our initial reservations, The Library really has come together nicely. Exposed brick walls give what was an insular-feeling reading room a more hip, urban vibe. The dark wooden booths and railings lend the space warmth, and opening up the second floor as a wraparound balcony makes the whole place feel a lot more spacious.

“You’re not dating anyone that we
know
about.” Cash gives the tumbler in his hand a final polish, eyeing me suspiciously before stacking it with the rest. “How’s the online dating thing going? You checking boxes on your Perfect Woman List? I mean, I know the perfect woman is already taken since I’ve already got Savannah, but . . .”

“Funny.” I roll my eyes. Cash’s commitment to Savannah is almost legendary. “Online dating is fine—I had a date last week.”

“Fine? If it’s going so fine, why are you sitting here brooding? Is your list of perfection not comprehensive enough? Trying to come up with the missing ingredient?”

“No, Cash. I found a girl who hits all the points on my list, and then some. My list was so good, and the date went so well, that
she
just asked
me
out.”

To see the Thomas Heatherwick art exhibit, of all things. It figures that the girl I found by matching our personality traits online would not only know my favorite architect—which I must have somehow mentioned in passing—but also managed to score tickets to his opening night gala.

Got a friend who works at MODA,
she texted me yesterday afternoon.
Says she can score two tickets to the Thomas Heatherwick art gala Sat pm, but she can’t go. You interested?

The gala is tomorrow night. And I still haven’t replied. Such a dick move.

Cash is staring at me, stupefied. “Bro, she asked you out. That’s good news, right?”

Of course it is. Or it would be, if I weren’t hung up on this
other
girl.

“I just don’t want to mislead her.”

“Mislead her?” Cash shakes his head. “This is the Maggie chick, right?”

“What the—how do you know her name?”

“Dude.” Cash raises his eyebrows. I sigh.

“Shelby told Savannah and Savannah told you?”

“You got it. Now, is it Maggie?”

“Fine. Yes, it’s Maggie.”

“So from what I hear—no, from what you just told me, she’s basically your ideal lady. Cute, sweet, has her act together professionally, not into juvenile hookup drama . . . so is she deformed? Or does she suck in bed? Because clearly, if you’re this conflicted about a second date, she’s got some kind of serious defect.”

“That’s the thing—she’s perfect on paper. Hell, she’s perfect in person. I just don’t . . . feel anything.” I run a hand through my hair. “And it’s like you said: she doesn’t want any hookup drama, so we’ve only been on one date and I have no idea what she’s like in bed. But it’s a bad sign that I’m not even curious, right?”

“Are you sure she’s not deformed?”

I roll my eyes. “Not all of us get a hard-on for anything wearing a skirt.”

“Hey now, I don’t roll that way anymore— I’m just pointing out potential concerns.”

He turns and retrieves two lowball glasses and a bottle of Talisker 25.

“Wow, Cash, pulling out all the stops. Are we celebrating something?”

“Nah.” He pours two fingers of scotch into each glass and slides one over to me. “But I know this ain’t the whole story, so I figure you might need help getting into the second half of it.”

Help doesn’t even begin to describe what I need. Bowing over the glass, I breathe in the smoky fumes. They make me envision a roaring fireplace, sweat pouring down Skylar’s back as I peel off her—

“Cheers.” Cash raises his glass, and I follow. We clink and drink. Damn that is good scotch.

“So?” Cash props his elbows on the bar and pretends to twirl a lock of hair. “Tell me
every
thing.”

“Fine. The truth is, there’s this other girl . . .”

“Isn’t there always?”

“Stop.”

“Okay, okay. So how did you meet her?”

Fuck me.

“I met her at Lace.” I wince as Cash’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “It was the night I got roped into going there with Halford.”

“Really? Didn’t know you were into that type, Jacks.”

“She’s not a stripper.”

He looks unconvinced, but doesn’t argue the point. “Okay, so what’s she like?”

Beautiful. Fearless. Somehow both delicate and strong. Like one of those manic pixie dream girls that are all the rage these days, except Skylar is real, not some made-up Anime-lover’s fantasy. So real and so soft and so very hard to get out of my head.

“She’s cool. Adventurous. Fun.”

“Hot?”

“Definitely.”

“So, she’s cool, she’s adventurous, she’s hot, what’s the problem?”

“She’s not marriage material, Cash. Hell, she doesn’t even want to
say
the word ‘relationship.’” I rub my temples.

Cash sips his whiskey, thinking. “How many times have you seen each other?”

“Twice. Although neither was exactly a date. It’s all been more . . . casual.” If you can call “casual” putting my fingers inside of her, my tongue inside of her, my cock—

“And you haven’t seen her since.”

“No.”

“Well then, I say go on this Maggie date. Give things a shot, you know? Worst-case scenario, it’s a snooze-fest and you can bring her to Altitude to cut-and-run. You know we’ll always save your ass.” He knocks back the rest of his whiskey. “And best case scenario, you get a little horizontal stress relief. Because damn, you could use some.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Cash gives me a skeptical look. “Bro, you’ve been moping around all week. Ain’t nothing like a good fuck to cure the girl-who-got-away blues.”

He’s right. I hate to admit it—because taking dating advice from Cash is like taking batting advice from a swimmer—but the reality is that after a long and tumultuous courtship, he did end up with Savannah, and they’re disgustingly happy together now. I want to be happy, too. I want to have a girl I can bring around, who gets along with the others: Cassie, Savannah, Shelby, Ruby, Avery. A girl who can come to fight night, and hang with us at Altitude and then come back to my place and sleep in my bed.

My life is ready for that. I’m ready for that.

And Maggie is ready for that, so I owe it to myself to give things with her another chance. It’s not like I didn’t enjoy myself last time. It’s just that I had a better time eating weird raw meat across the table from this smoking hot blonde whose lavender smell I can’t get out of my car.

Finishing the last of my scotch, I pull my phone out of my pocket and reply to Maggie’s text.

Heatherwick gala tomorrow sounds awesome. Pick you up at 7?

“
C
an
we swing by the Pier 55 piece one more time?”

The guards are trying to tactfully usher everyone out, but like a little kid in a candy shop, I just want one last look.

Maggie laughs. “Sure. I think it’s down this hall.”

I follow her through the pristine white corridor of the museum, once again admiring her choice of attire. Her navy sheath dress is expensive and well-tailored. The cut is professional, but hugs her frame enough to accentuate her curves. Watching her from behind, I feel as though I’m looking at another piece in the exhibit: interesting, visually appealing, but igniting nothing in me beyond platonic admiration.

“Here it is.”

Maggie pauses to let me catch up, and together we enter a large, well-lit room. In the center are a series of broad glass cases that contain, in miniature, a complete mockup of Pier55: the public performance space Heatherwick was commissioned to build for New York City.

I step closer and peer inside the glass.

The commission was for a public park to be built literally atop the Hudson River. What Heatherwick has designed looks like a bouquet of wine goblets poking up from the water, over which he has laid a wonderland of greenery: quaint gardens, wandering pathways, and a bright, expansive amphitheater.

Glancing at the project description, the words “To be finished in 2018” catch my eye. Fuck, I would love to go to New York City and step foot on this piece of art. I wonder if Skylar has ever been to New York City. I feel like she would love it there.

And there she is again—unbidden but completely infiltrating my brain.

“I think we’re getting the evil eye.”

Maggie’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. In the corner, a security guard is standing spread-legged, hands on his hips.

“Sorry, sorry.” I take Maggie’s arm, and we hurry through the dimming hallways and out of the building.

“Thank you so much for inviting me to this,” I tell Maggie as we approach my car. I open the passenger door for her. “I know I’ve probably said this a hundred times, but Thomas Heatherwick is my idol.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Maggie smiles. “When my friend asked me if I knew anyone who would want these tickets, I immediately thought of you.”

“Well, thanks again.” I slide into the driver’s seat, slip the key into the ignition, and pause.

Now what?

I glance over at Maggie for a hint. Does she want to go somewhere else? We should probably go find a bar. She’ll want to go somewhere classy, but classy means committing to a considerably longer night. And I really don’t want to risk stretching out this night too long, because then I’ll be in the even more awkward position of deciding whether or not to invite her back to my place. A question which, like it or not, I already know the answer to.

Silently cursing Cash in my head, I go with the backup plan: Altitude.

“Do you want to go out for one last drink? I know a place.”

Maggie turns her head toward me slowly, lips pinched in wry amusement.

“Are you asking me to get a drink because you want to, or because you think I expect you to?”

Shit. Did I really sound that unconvincing?

“This whole date has been really nice—”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” She gives a small, resigned sigh. “But I think that lack of answer
is
my answer.”

“Look.” I remove the key from the ignition and turn to fully face her. My mouth is dry, and I kind of hate myself for the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech I’m about to give, but I have no choice.

“You’re the total package. You’re smart and beautiful and interesting and accomplished and absolutely perfect for some guy. I just don’t know that that guy is me.”

She looks out the window for a beat, and then back at me. “Yeah, I gathered. And I appreciate your honesty. You’re a real gentleman. I saw that from our first date.”

A real gentleman huh? I picture Skylar’s legs spread, beads of pool water trickling down the insides of her thighs. The thought makes my jaw clench.

“I wasn’t going to text you.” Maggie cringes slightly. “But the tickets fell into my lap, and I knew Heatherwick was your favorite, so . . . I figured we should give things one more try.”

I should feel guilty at how this panned out, but all I feel is relief: relief that we’re on the same page, relief that I don’t have to be the one saying these things, relief that I don’t have to bring her to Altitude and endure scrutiny from Cassie and Katie and the rest of the crew.

“You know how you were saying the other day that art and architecture are like fraternal twins?” I ask, slipping the key back into the ignition. She nods. “I totally agree. But I have zero friends in the art world. So if you hear of any interesting exhibits and need company, I’d definitely be game. Just call me up. You have my number.”

“Okay.” She smiles. “I can do that.”

As I pull out of the parking lot, I experience an intense wave of déjà vu.

The next time you have something fun and exciting to do, and you want company, call me up
. Those were Skylar’s last words to me—the exact same words I just said to Maggie.

My stomach plummets. Immediately, my mind begins a rapid-fire volley. Was she blowing me off like I am blowing off Maggie?

I have to know.

As I pull onto the highway, I decide: after I drop Maggie off, I’ll swing by The Library and I’ll get Cash to whip me up something strong before his shift is over and he heads to Altitude.

And hopefully pay Skylar a surprise visit.

“
T
his for the Mean Girls
?” I shout at Cash over the pounding music. When he looks up from straining a shaker, I wave a hand at the array of cocktails balanced at the edge of the bar.

“You got it, princess.”

I hastily slide everything onto my tray. “I’ll tell the ladies you made their first round special.”

“I make everything special,” he says, giving me a wink. I roll my eyes and lift the tray, weaving my way through the crowd around the bar and across the room to where a thirsty booth of overly done-up girls awaits.

“Here you go, ladies.” I set a glass in front of each woman at the table. “The bartender sends his regards.”

All six heads swivel simultaneously. I don’t bother looking, but I’m sure Cash is waving or winking. I can practically hear the drip of each woman melting to a puddle on the floor.

After depositing the drinks, I head over to the next booth, where three couples are fully engaged in hard-core make-out sessions.

“Y’all need anything else?”

They ignore me, so I collect their empty glasses and head for the bar.

That’s when I see him.

Jackson.

God, just look at him. Leaning up against the bar, his perfect jaw and broad shoulders backlit by the strobe lights flashing down from the ceiling. His eyes are squinted as he scans the crowded room, and my heart leaps even as I silently tell it to shut the fuck up.

Is he looking for me?

Cash approaches him from behind the bar and says something. Immediately, I see Jackson turn and laugh, his eyes crinkling in a way I’ve already come to love. Part of me wants to toss my tray to the floor, barrel through the crowd, and throw myself into his arms. I want to kiss those luscious lips of his, feel his hands run up and down my body.

However, the wiser part of me wants to throw my tray to the floor and run straight out the back door. Because it’s true, I can’t get him off my mind, but he’s the last thing I want: a nice guy who obviously likes me and is clearly ready for commitment. I have no interest in commitment. Ever. Commitment, promises, those addictive feelings of safety and certainty—in the end, they just wind up getting you screwed. And I’m done being screwed.

My sudden deluge of emotions has me feeling too vulnerable to face him right away, so I dart around the back of the circular bar, giving Liz, the other bartender, a nod of acknowledgement. Pausing a few feet away, I strain to hear what they’re talking about. If I’m honest, what I’m actually hoping to hear is my name.

“It’s not my fight, Cash,” Jackson says. His back is to me, but from his tone of voice, I imagine his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed.

“It is so your fight.” Cash continues to smile and push drinks across the bar to customers, but his voice is tense. “You wanna make more money, or not?”

“I trust Ryder. If he says we’re not ready, then we’re not ready.”

“I’m the one who’s here all day, every day. I see how things are running. And I’m telling you, we can make this happen.”

“We will make it happen, Cash. Just not yet.” Jackson slaps a hand on the counter, the suddenness of the movement making me jump. “Ryder knows what he’s doing. He hasn’t steered us wrong yet.”

“Yeah well, he’s not the boss.” Cash bangs a beer mug down beside Jackson. “All the owners get a say, and like it or not, that includes you. So you’re gonna have to cast your vote, just like everybody else.”

Wait a minute. Did he just say Jackson is an owner? Of
this
bar?

“Excuse me?” A man grabs my forearm. “Do you work here?”

I look down at his hand on my arm and then back at the man, forcing a smile.

“I do.” Delicately, I pull my arm out of his grasp. The guy hooks a thumb toward his bleach-blonde, red-lipped date.

“Can you take her to the bathroom? I don’t think she’s gonna find it by herself.”

“I’m sorry, I have drinks to deliver.” I motion toward Cash, who at that moment looks up at me and smiles. “But the bathroom is back there.” I point to the far corner of the room. “Just follow the signs.”

Ignoring his protests, I approach the bar, trying to act casual.

Jackson owns The Library. Jesus. Why didn’t he tell me? He made it sound like he just knew the owner, not that he was one.

“Ah, Skylar, our savior.” Cash accepts cash from a gaggle of girls and blows each one a kiss before turning to me. “Please lighten the mood. Jackson is killing my buzz.”

Warily, I allow my gaze to meet Jackson’s. The moment our eyes lock, I feel an electric shock go straight through me. And by the way his eyes widen, I can tell he feels it, too.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to Skylar.” He smiles at me. “Can you take a break?”

Cash’s eyebrows shoot up as Jackson takes me by the elbow.

“How do you know each other?” Cash asks, looking bewildered.

Jackson blinks at me, then smiles at his friend. “It’s a long story.”

“I’m going to take my break now,” I say over my shoulder to Cash as Jackson steers me away from the bar.

“Fine, but maybe a little more warning next time?” Cash shouts after us.

With Jackson leading the way, we weave through the packed dance floor. If I weren’t wearing this stupid apron—and hadn’t just discovered that he’s technically my boss—I’d be tempted to grab him and join the sea of writhing bodies, pressed together sternum to hipbones, allowing the rhythm of the music to transport us outside of ourselves.

But I do have the apron.

And apparently, he is my boss.

When we finally make it through the Employees Only door, past the kitchen and into a back hall, I’ve gathered my wits enough to pull my arm from his grasp.

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

“I had to see you.” His face registers surprise.

“You never told me you
own
this bar.”

“Well, technically I don’t own it—I just own a part of it.”

“Don’t get technical. You drove me here, dropped me off for my first day of work, and never bothered to mention that the reason you’re ‘friends’ with the owner is because you
are
an owner?”

“Well, from what I recall, we haven’t been particularly forthright from the start. I met you inside a strip club. And by ‘met’ I mean I watched you perform an insanely sexy dance onstage, around what is traditionally called a ‘stripper pole.’ But afterwards, I don’t recall your mentioning the fact that you’re not
actually
a stripper.”

True. I can’t deny that.

“Okay, fine.”

He leans forward and touches my face. “We still don’t know each other. All I know is that you have exquisite taste in food. I know your lip balm tastes like Swedish fish. I know the face you make when you come. But I want to know more.”

I can feel my body starting to respond right here in this hallway, and all he’s doing is touching my cheekbone with his thumb. But I’m not letting him change the subject that easily.

“So you’re not an architect, then?” I ask, looking at him defiantly. He runs his thumb across my lower lip, and a shiver runs up my spine. “You just make money off of sexy drunk girls who buy overpriced drinks and shake their asses all night?”

“Well, technically we make money off of the guys trying to get laid by the sexy drunk girls.” He slips his other hand inside the waistband of my jeans, running his fingers along the ridge of my hipbone. Involuntarily, I lean into him.

“But I am an architect, too. I designed this place. Scout’s honor.”

“Oh you were a boy scout, were you?” I reach down and cup the hard mound pushing through his jeans. With my other hand, I unzip his fly. “Exactly what sorts of badges did you earn?”

“I got one in sculpture.” His eyes radiate desire as he lowers his lips to brush my mouth. “They told me I have really good hands.”

Those really good hands are stealing under my shirt, creeping beneath my bra, caressing my breasts—

There’s a crash from the kitchen and Jackson’s body goes ramrod straight. He yanks his hands off of me and shoves them in his pockets. Then, as if giving his actions a second thought, he takes both hands out and zips up his pants.

“We shouldn’t do this here.”

I’m panting, feeling the space between us acutely. I need it to be filled. I need to
be
filled.

“You’re driving me crazy, Sky. I don’t know what to do with this.”

“You want me.” And I want him. I dig my fingers into the muscles of his chest, pulling him closer to me and he groans into my hair.

“It’s an easy problem to solve,” I tell him, hooking my fingers through his belt loops. “You said you designed this place. You must know a spot.”

The next thing I know, we’re pushing through the door of a storage room, mouths locked in furious combat. The dry, dusty smell of cardboard and paper napkins swirls around us as we tumble inside and kick the door shut. I peel my shirt over my head, and he’s reaching to unclasp my bra when I feel him hesitate.

“This is fun,” I whisper against his skin as I tug my pants down over my hips. My heart is racing. I need his hands on me, in me. I need him everywhere.

“This is risky,” he murmurs, gliding his hands down my back, cupping my ass.

“Life is risky,” I tell him. I unclasp his belt. “Live a little.”

Abandoning all reservations, he pushes me up against a metal shelving unit, stripping the last layers away until we’re skin on skin. His head is bent over me, sucking my nipples until swirls of exquisite pain arc straight through me. I scoot my butt up onto the metal grating of a shelf and pull his hips forward. I want him and I want him now. The time at his place was all about seduction between the two of us. This time I just want it hard and fast.

“How bad do you want me to fuck you, baby?” he murmurs against my mouth. This time, I do groan.

“So bad,” I manage to reply.

His response to mine is more of a growl as he dives back into my mouth. He doesn’t even lick his way in—he devours his way in. Tongue. Lips. Teeth. All in combination as he takes my mouth in his. I wrap my legs around him, pressing my center up against his stiffening cock.

“Fuck, I love your tits.”

He licks and sucks as though worshiping my very flesh. As he tastes my body, Jackson slides his hand past my clit and into my pussy. He then retreats slightly before adding a second finger and I grip his shoulders with both hands. My mouth is open now and I’m practically panting.

“I can’t wait to slide inside you,” he says, licking my nipples. He sucks one deep into his mouth, then chuckles when I gasp. “I’m gonna fuck you so good and so deep—would you like that? I bet you would.”

“Oh, holy fuck, yes.”

I couldn’t have held back the words even if I’d wanted to.

“You want more?” he asks, looking up at me. I’m shuddering and nodding at the same time and he grins as he reaches down with one hand to unbuckle his belt. He yanks down his pants and boxers, revealing his long, hard cock. I lick my lips and he groans.

“Let’s wait on that, gorgeous. I can’t wait to feel your mouth on my cock—but I want your pussy first.”

“Jackson,” I pant. “Dear god, tell me you have a condom on you.”

Laughing in my neck, “Of course. Remember the Boy Scout motto . . . always be prepared,” he says as he reaches into his wallet. He can’t get this on fast enough for either of us.

And with that, he slides into me. His entry is slow, but methodical. He pulls back slightly, then slams forward. I let out a sound I’ve never heard from my own mouth.

“You like that?”

“Fuck yes,” I murmur.

He slides into me again, hooking both arms around my knees and spreading my legs wide. He levers himself up over me, dragging his cock through my wetness then deep into my pussy.

“Oh my fucking god,” I moan.

“That good, huh?” Jackson shoots me a grin as he speeds his pace. “Let’s see if we can turn that shit into spectacular.”

He pushes into me again, filling me until I gasp. The shelving lets out a loud creak and napkins come raining down on us.

“Shit.” He raises a hand, attempting to straighten the shelf.

“If you stop to pick those up, I will kill you,” I growl. I reach for a handful of his hair. “Do not stop fucking me.” I entwine my fingers in the brown silk locks.

Closing his eyes, he releases the shelf and thrusts back into me, deep. I let out a soft moan.

“Yessss. Like that.”

I grip his shoulders as he pulls me off the shelf, lifting my ass and spearing himself on me. Over and over.

“Your pussy feels so good. It’s like a glove. Squeezing my dick. Oh fuck Skylar, I am not going to last much longer.” He says through gritted teeth.

The surf within me is roiling as our bodies glide together, slick with sweat. His eyes are squeezed tight, hands gripping my ass, pulling me into him as he pushes his way deeper and deeper toward my center.

“Harder,” I manage to whisper, digging my nails into his skin. My body is rising, floating on a wave that is about to crest. With one magnificent thrust, I am falling, tumbling, crashing through waves of euphoria. My entire body contracts at the same time he gives a massive shudder—all of our muscles tense and release in perfect synchrony.

Limply, I drape against his chest, salty cheek to salty skin. He shudders once more, and then we rise and fall, rise and fall, until eventually our breathing slows.

“I can’t believe you do this to me, Sky,” he whispers. With one hand, he teases apart snarls of hair that are caught behind my ear, while the other hand holds me tight to him.

I can’t believe it either. This is not what I was expecting of the Jackson I met that first night: the tentative, careful, rule-abiding man who couldn’t throw a punch and felt self-conscious about even inviting a strange girl into his car. I just figured I’d push him as far as he would go, and then we’d be done. But he keeps surprising me. I’m beginning to wonder just how far I can push him.

This could get really fun, so long as I can keep emotions out of it. His emotions. And mine.