True Divide (21 page)

“But don't say you aren't nice or good-hearted. Your heart is right there every time you look me in the eye. It's a good heart. Don't try to hide it.”

A wail sounds in the room. Thank God it isn't from me. Nic is the only one crying, and my getting up to hold him will keep it that way.

After we leave Kate and Trevor's, we make it home and Jake takes my hand in his, wearily dragging us up the stairs to bed. For someone who contributed nothing to our babysitting job, he still claims exhaustion. When I emerge from the bathroom, face scrubbed clean and hair pulled up into a messy bun, I find Jake stretched across the duvet, perched on his elbow, flipping through the high school yearbook he found on one of the bookshelves downstairs.

I switch off the bathroom light and finish rubbing dabs of shea butter into my arms. Without looking up, Jake continues to flip the pages, pausing occasionally to take a closer look.

“God, all this seems like such a long time ago. A fucking lifetime.”

Crawling up onto the bed, I tuck myself in behind him, cross-legged. Jake shifts and lies back until his head is resting in my lap, then props up the book on his chest. It's open to the page of our senior pictures, Jake's photo in the bottom corner. He's wearing a plain white button-down, the top button left undone, so you can tell that he just threw it on over whatever black T-shirt he left the house in that morning. There was probably the image of some very cool yet obscure and misunderstood band emblazoned on the front of it. He's sporting this wry grin in the photo, like he just thought up something snarky and hilarious, but was keeping it to himself.

Jake turns another page and lingers with a little smile on his face. My photo is conveniently in the exact center of the top line. Not only was my hair too poufy, but I hadn't quite come to understand that it was actually possible to overpluck your eyebrows. At least I had a pretty dress on. I was smiling, but it was my smile for the outside world, practiced and stiff—the one I used when I was trying too hard. Our smiles alone are enough to remind me of every reason we didn't make a lick of sense then.

“What was it about me that you could possibly like back then? I mean, look at me: the hair, the eyebrows, all of it. I can't imagine what made you pay a minute of attention to me.”

Jake sputters out a laugh. “Is that a serious question? Do you really want me to answer that?”

“Yes. We were night and day. Why did you even bother?”

His tilts his head back and gives me a smirk. “You were really fucking hot.” I make a sound of disbelief and Jake returns his gaze to the book with a sigh. “Come on, you were so gorgeous. I may have been fully committed to the whole act of being a moody outcast wearing all black, but I wasn't immune to the charms of a smokin'-hot blonde cheerleader. I wasn't stupid. No way would I pass up a chance to have you near me.”

“That was it? I was hot?”

Jake shrugs a little. Raising his hand, he uses one finger to trace the shape of a heart around my photo. “At first, yeah. That first night at the hot springs, I was mostly trying not to pass out from seeing you naked. I couldn't see everything, but at seventeen, it was enough to make my head feel like it was going to explode. But when you came back the next week, you actually looked at me. After that, I was done for.”

“Because I looked at you?”

“Not just looked at me. You
saw
me. Then I started saying dumb shit just to make you laugh or blush, and sometimes it was like you were just waiting for me to do it again. After I figured that out, I was hell-bent on doing whatever I could to make you laugh. Or smile. Fuck, I didn't care what it took, as long as it meant you would keep coming back.”

His eyes flicker to mine for a beat. For an instant, he's that kid again, asking me for something. Permission to touch me. The quiet concession of him asking for my attention. Once he has it, his eyes drop back to the photo.

“I used to have this ritual when I got home after we would meet up. One, jerk off.”

I start to laugh and thump his shoulder gently with an open hand.

“Don't laugh. I fucking had to. I was in pain. Especially after we started messing around. I had a damn hair trigger. After I got that out of the way, I usually ended up staring at the ceiling for hours and telling myself: Don't fall for this girl, you dumb shit—she's out of your league. Once she's done walking on the weirdo side, you'll be screwed if you're in love with her.”

Tracing my fingers through his hair, I stop and give a push on his shoulders. “I wasn't out of your league.”

Jake shakes his head. “Bullshit. We both know you were. Didn't matter anyway. When you and your dad left over Thanksgiving to go visit Kate that year, I was miserable. Sat in my room and listened to every brooding singer-songwriter record I had, convinced that every song was written about us. Had I owned a journal, I would have filled the thing up with my sulky musings over those five days. I was sufficiently fucked after that.”

The day I got home from that trip, I dropped my bag in my room and started for the old canning factory, hoping to find him there. When I slipped inside and saw him in our usual spot, he was sitting with his knees pulled up, reading and absentmindedly munching on handfuls of pretzels he plucked from a big bag. He didn't notice me for a moment, but when he did, the boy's face melted into the sweetest smile of pure relief I had ever seen. For so long after he left, I wanted a guy to look at me that way again. I chased that look, the sincere tenderness in it, for years.

Jake grabs one of my hands and kisses my fingertips. “Your turn. What in the world did the teenage Lacey see in me? Was it the same thing? You thought I was unbelievably hot?”

I avert my eyes and press my lips tightly together in a barely suppressed smile. “Not really.”

Jake sits up and puts on being affronted by slapping one hand to his chest. “What? I was a hundred and forty pounds of pure man! How could you not be wildly attracted to all that skin and bone?”

Flopping back to the mattress, I laugh, then push the hair back from my forehead and let my head drop to one side so I won't have to look at him.

“I never really noticed you at all.” A heavy sigh leaves me. “Then, all of a sudden, there you were. Standing in the dark at the hot springs, telling me you liked my boobs and saying Dusty was a dipshit. Not exactly poetry, but it was like I looked up and here was this boy I'd never seen before, but he was so cute and sweet, and he made me want to take my clothes off. I never wanted that before. And, God, you kissed so good.”

Jake's hand comes to rest at my ankle, the gentlest of touches, then starts to move up my leg achingly slowly. Fingers tracing my calf, behind my knee, the soft skin on the inside of my thigh. When he reaches the top, my legs unconsciously drop open a bit, but he doesn't move up to touch me more provocatively, just lets his hand graze along my hipbone and then settles it there.

“So I said dumb crap and kissed like a pro. What else? That can't be what did it for you.”

I turn my head to see him. His hair is a mess, one lock in the front long enough that it flops over his eyebrow just a bit. A gentle smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.

“You used to ask me things. You were the only person who ever acted like they cared about my answers. I loved feeling like I mattered to someone.”

Jake drops his head to my shoulder and puts a small kiss there. “You have no idea how much you mattered, Lace. Having you in my life, it saved me. If we hadn't found each other, this place would have eaten me alive.”

Until now, I don't think I realized how much he saved
me
that year. How differently my life path might have diverted had we not stumbled into each other's hearts. Without him I would never have understood how electrified the confines of a small town could feel when you were hiding out with someone you loved. In the end, very few places exist in Crowell that don't recall something about Jake Holt for me.

The hand he rested against my hipbone starts to move again, snaking up under the hem of my tank top. Jake curls his head to come near my ear, planting one kiss to the shell.

“OK, serious question now. When we would leave each other and go home, were you so worked up, just like I was, that you couldn't resist touching yourself?”

I give a belly laugh that ends in a little snort. Jake's hand continues upward, tracing his finger on the underside of my bare breast. His mouth curves into the skin on my neck once my laughter dies down. “You didn't answer the question.”

My lips press together so I don't laugh again. When Jake lifts his head to see me, my mouth settles into a small smirk and his expression turns prompting. I avert my eyes a little.

“Oh. My. God.” Jake's jaw gapes into a loose grin. “You totally did. Admit it. You went home and got off.”

“I was a good girl, Jake.”

“Yeah, one who liked rubbing one out after I got her all revved up. With my expert kissing and my dirty mouth.” Jake flops to his back and shoves his hand through his hair. Another sigh. “Good girl, my ass. You're just lucky I believed your story back in the day.”

13

A
fter we fell asleep last night, we were both dead to everything but our limbs twisting around one another until the alarm sounded at an ungodly hour this morning. He set the alarm. If I had, it wouldn't have gone off at five a.m., that's for sure. Maybe seven a.m. But more like nine if I had my druthers.

When I growled loudly and pulled the covers over my head, Jake tossed himself back on the bed and began to tug the duvet away. Once my face was uncovered, I demanded an answer. Why, for the love of everything, does he insist on waking up so damn early? Why?

Apparently, piloting is the reason he is such an early riser. According to Jake, between corporate CEOs always needing a rise-and-shine takeoff time and years spent in the Alaskan bush, where first-light flights were the norm, his internal clock is set for a rooster crow. On top of it all, he doesn't grumble much in the morning; he grins and kisses and nuzzles until those of us who aren't partial to enjoying the morning finally get it together. While I don't mind the kissing, I swear I could live without the chipper, chipper attitude.

But I played along and got out of bed at five and took a shower, did my hair and face, then slipped on the little blue dress I purchased specifically for this occasion. It's a wrap dress with a low neckline, in a travel-friendly matte jersey fabric that won't wrinkle during the four hours it will take to get to Orcas Island. The last thing I want is to stumble off his toy-sized airplane looking disheveled. The likelihood that my mascara will run from crying out of blind panic and my nails will end up chewed to the quick is high enough. No need to add a wardrobe mishap to the mix.

Jake glides through the doorway from putting my bag in the car just as I land at the bottom of the stairs. He stops and points at me, zigzagging his finger through the air to gesture at my outfit.

“Is that what you're wearing?”

I look down my length, then back up face him. “You don't like it?”

“I love it. But you're going to freeze your ass off.”

“I have a coat.” As if to prove my point, I take my jacket from where it's tucked under my arm and hold it up in front of me.

“Sweetheart, my plane doesn't have heaters. It's like the Yugo of airplanes. It's slow, hard to find parts for, and lacks any number of basic conveniences. Such as a heater. Imagine driving in a car, at a hundred miles an hour, in the cold of January, with all the windows down. Your legs will be cute little icicles by the time we land.”

A grimace quirks across the side of my face. This is what I wanted to wear. When Jake sighs and tells me to go change, I just stand there and stare down at my outfit.

“I have knee-high boots on. That will help. What if I wear a scarf?”

A minor staring contest ensues. Finally, likely because I give a tiny pout face to encourage him, Jake gives in. “Only because you look so fucking cute when you pout and that dress is sexy as hell on you. Those are the only reasons you're winning on this one. Do you have a wool blanket anywhere? We should take it to cover your legs.”

After I point him upstairs, with directions to look on the top shelf of the linen closet, he shuffles up the staircase.

“No whining, got it? I don't want to hear one little peep from you about being cold. No teeth chattering, no shivering. You can't complain; I tried to save you. Remember that.”

He was right. I froze, even with the blanket tucked all around me. It was so cold, I don't know what outfit would have been enough to stave it off, though. An Everest-expedition-approved parka? Coupled with a pair of fur-lined snow pants? No clue. The whole experience was like riding an old, wooden, should-have-been-put-out-of-commission-a-century-ago roller coaster that was haphazardly assembled by drunken carnies through the Arctic circle. Just as terrifying, just as frigid, just as loud. He made me wear a pair of ugly, awful headphones. Evidently, so I could properly hear him laughing at me. They didn't fit, kept sliding down and covering my cheeks instead of my ears, and they messed up my hair.

Did he look cute enough to distract me? Yes. Did I find the way he pushed down his old-school black Wayfarers from the top of his head onto his face with a huge grin just before we took off to be insanely sexy? Yes, so much of the yes. If I hadn't been nearly ready to descend into a full-fledged panic attack ninety percent of the time, I would have enjoyed the view a bit more. But I had to close my eyes so much, I missed at least half of the ride.

Finally, in the last hour, I managed to calm down enough to smile, enjoy the way he looked so in control and capable, and trust he wouldn't let us fall out of the sky. When we landed and came to a stop, he insisted I kiss him immediately. I was praised for doing so well, not puking, and not whining about my legs. Then he ran his hands up and down my thighs, under the blanket, until my skin was properly heated again.

According to every bit of signage and advertising all over the island, there should be whales everywhere, but we don't see any. Jake claims we would have to get on a charter boat and sail out to see them. And, currently, I don't care about seeing a whale enough to step foot off solid ground. I'll stay ashore and out of the air until tomorrow, when we get back in his plane, thank you very much.

“All right, then. Where do you want to stay tonight?”

We're standing near the middle of Eastsound's quaint downtown tourist district, Jake with an arm slung over my shoulder and holding an overnight bag with our things in it with his other hand. Although he claimed he would take me anywhere, the practicality of needing to stay close enough to make it there and home so we could both get back to work means this is an overnight getaway. Even so, I found that packing only two outfits was nearly impossible. I had a full suitcase packed, but when he saw the size of it, Jake flipped the top open and stood there until I pared things down enough to suit him. With a grumble, he started to take an inventory: “When we're alone, you'll be naked. All you need really need is something to wear tomorrow, Lacey. The rest of your wardrobe can stay here. Jesus Christ, are there actually six pairs of shoes in here?” After he was done editing my selections, I ended up with only what would fit in a bag smaller than my purse.

One pair of shoes and one suitcase paring-down later, he kissed the back of my neck and promised that we would spend the next two days thinking about anything but my lack of available costume changes. Apparently, he didn't think about where we were going to sleep, either.

I stop and turn to him, raising both eyebrows. “We don't have a reservation somewhere?”

Jake shrugs. “I figured we could just find a place once we got here.”

Oh, sure. Mr. Fly by the Seat of his Pants figures we'll just lay our heads wherever. If, at any point, he suggests camping, I will kill him. Still, I try to keep my features from screwing up into a mass of wrinkles and creases while stifling the instinct to grab his shirt collar into my fist.

Jake laughs. “Calm down. Your eyes look like little fireballs right now.” He slips his arm off my shoulders and steps off the sidewalk to gaze up and down the street corridor. Turning back to face me, he grins. “Why don't you walk around the shops some more? I'll go find us a place to stay tonight.”

When he starts down the sidewalk, ambling backward at first, he throws his arms open wide and calls back. “Ye of little faith! Would I ask the prom queen to sleep anywhere less than acceptable?”

The short days of winter work to his advantage. Only because the late-afternoon sky is already casting dusky shadows when he tracks me down an hour later does the outside of the “motel” he found look even remotely like a place I would ever step one foot in. He tries to be playful, covering my eyes and whispering about carrying me over the threshold as we walk across the dingy parking lot to the door of the room he rented.

Once inside, he keeps my eyes covered with one of his hands and then uses the other to wrap around my body as his mouth finds my neck. Tricky, tricky, this one. Using his wonderful lips to distract me. Regardless, I can still smell the musk of mildew. Poorly covered up by lemony-scented industrial disinfectant. Stale cigarette smoke. And, quite possibly, the faint scent of fear emanating off Jake.

“Before I reveal this love nest to you, I want to say one thing.”

“Jesus. Is there an actual dead body in here? One they haven't carted off yet? Because it smells like they're trying to cover up a crime.”

Jake kisses my neck again. “No. No dead bodies that I can see. Just . . . well, I didn't realize how busy it would be this time of year. I tried six other places that were more
Lacey appropriate
, but they were all full. How the hell was I supposed to know there would be the world's largest chakra healers' retreat going on this weekend?”

Twisting my head around so he will just drop his hand and get this over with, I give a growl when he clamps down harder.

“I swear I'll spend the entire night keeping you distracted with all the things that make your eyes roll back in your head. “

“You're making it worse, you know that, right?” I take his hand and wrench it away.

Immediately, I want his hand back.

Green shag carpet. Two double beds with sags so deep they are obvious from ten feet away. Mauve bedspreads with the most horrific spattering of '80s-era flowers patterned all over them, perfect for hiding a myriad of stains. A folding card table topped with an enormous amber glass ashtray, full to nearly overflowing with butts, and two precarious-looking folding chairs on either side. Painted white walls that have the most disgusting yellow drips of who knows what, oozing where the walls meet the ceiling. The dim light from the one lone lamp between the beds is a saving grace, I suppose. Good light would only expose more of the awful. Although it might send the roaches or the rats or the snakes skittering back into the darkness under the beds, perhaps.

Jake cranes his head to see me. I slant my eyelids a bit and give him a pointed glare. Despite the fact he should be begging for mercy right now, damn him if he isn't fighting a grin. He purses his lips, then puckers them, then sucks in one cheek to stifle the laugh I'm sure he wants to bellow and cackle out.