True for You (10 page)
A
grin kicks up the corners of his mouth. “Because June Bliss
Davenport, aka Mrs. June Bliss Morgan, you’re my new muse.”
*** *** ***
Jackson
“I’m
your what?” Bliss asks, her nose wrinkling.
“My
new muse. The reason I spent the last five hours singing old songs
and composing new ones,” I say, laying it all out there for her
and waiting for some kind of reaction. This sounded much better in my
head. Out loud I sound maniacal, like I should be rubbing my hands
together—evilly.
But
the only kind of reaction I get from her is a blank stare.
I
try again. “You know, muse—inspiration for my music. You
and I are going to be Country Music’s next big act.”
Her
face goes from blank to pale. “But I can’t sing, play an
instrument, or even dance.”
“You
can learn. I’ll teach you everything,” I insist. “It’s
easy to read sheet music.”
She
shakes her head vehemently. “No.”
“But
you have to. You’re my June.”
“I’m
Bliss.” Crossing her arms over her chest, her look turns
mutinous. “I’m not this June, or Violet, or Callie, or
any other girl who’s been your
muse
in the past. They had a talent for it. I have nothing.”
“Nothing
my ass.” Thinking she needs to take a look at what I’ve
written, I grab the notepad I’d scribbled the songs on. “Read
this. See what you inspire.”
She
eyes the notepad like I’m trying to get her to touch a snake.
With a sigh, she finally takes it.
“Go
on. Read it to me.”
“Out
loud?”
“Yeah,
if you read it, then I’ll be able to hear what I missed and fix
it.”
“I’m
not sure—“
I
grin. “But I am.”
She
takes a deep breath, her brow scrunching. “Wha-ish-inguh.
Wishing.” She glances up at me, and then back at the notepad.
“Huh-ahpping, um, hopping for a guh-l-emp-s-e, um, glimpse?”
A
strange feeling washes over me as she continues to read, some words
spoken quickly, but the majority sounded out like she’s never
read in English before. I know my writing is pretty bad, the normal
cursive and print mingling together to form chicken scratch, but how
she’s reading… it reminds me of my housekeeper’s
five-year-old son.
I
take the notepad from her. Bliss meets my gaze, her cheeks pink.
“What did you think?” I ask, not wanting to embarrass her
further.
“I think you
need to find a new muse, because this one can barely read,” she
says flatly, her chin tipping up, like she’s daring me to say
something incredibly insulting to her. Or she’s protecting
herself.
Most
likely it’s both, because I have been cruel to her in the
not-so-distant past.
I
close my eyes, and then open them. I’m such an incredibly
selfish asshole, confined to thinking of only my jealousy or my
needs. My desire to never be second again. “You didn’t
want a college education, did you?”
She
gives me a sad smile, and it kicks me right in the gut. “I
wanted to learn how to read and do more than addition and
subtraction. I hoped in a year or two to get my high school diploma.
Cameron said that the program offered a real one, not just a GED.”
“When’s
the last time you were in school, Bliss?” I dread her answer.
“I
was sixteen. After my school records caught up with me, they stuck me
in a remedial class,” she said. “The teachers were nice,
but I kinda fell through the cracks. I was too quiet, and they were
too busy taking care of behavior problems, so I got left alone a
lot.”
I knew people like
Bliss existed in this world, had done charities to help the poor and
the disadvantaged, but until now, I’d never met someone who’d
lived like her. At least Donna and her family had each other, and
death benefits to see them through.
“What
happened after that?”
“I
ran away from the Coreys.”
I
swallow. Do I want to know why? Do I want the responsibility of
tracking down every asshole who ever hurt her and making their life
miserable?
Her
lower lip trembles, and her hands tremble along with it. Oh hell
yes, I want that responsibility.
“Where
did you go?”
She
shrugs. “Away.”
“Bliss.”
“Cole
Morgan’s momma let me stay with them for a while, until my last
foster parents’ dealer came around looking for me. Then she
said I had to leave, because it wasn’t safe for any of us.”
She laughs, but it’s without humor. “Drug dealers hate it
when their clients don’t pay up, or when their payment doesn’t
stay put like a good girl.”
Stay put like a good
girl? The sensation of bugs crawling over me light up my nerve
endings. “Is he still looking for you?”
“He’s
in jail and so are my former foster parents. Their kids are in foster
care now,” she says. “I feel bad for their kids but
anything’s better than living in that trailer with parents like
those.”
I’m
not sure what I’m supposed to say right now. Sorry doesn’t
cut it, and besides, it would sound trite. Meaningless. So I put us
on even ground instead.
“After
I turned fourteen, Everett made me his new sparring partner in our
gym. Only he didn’t use gloves or head gear.”
Her
eyes grow big. “What did your momma do?”
What
hadn’t she done? “Once, when I was three, she burned me
with a curling iron for playing in her makeup.”
Jackson
Bliss
falls into her usual silence, staring at me for the longest time,
until I start to get twitchy. I rub the back of my neck, wishing like
hell I’d kept my mouth shut and not over-shared.
“We’re
two of a kind, aren’t we?” she finally says. “I
couldn’t find a family, and your real momma sold you to a
family that abused you.”
“How
do you know—?”
She
drops her gaze, pulling up her legs and wrapping her arms around
them. “I heard your dad talking on the phone, before I went in
for my interview.”
Now
that’s not something I want to hear. Yeah, Bliss isn’t
blond enough or skinny enough for Everett’s taste, but I used
to think Bliss wasn’t my type either. Or at least, that’s
what I would tell myself, before I acknowledged the truth. I wanted
Bliss then, and I want her now.
It
almost makes me physically ill to think that my dad and Bliss could
have—“Did he touch you or make you do things to—?”
Her
head pops up. “No. The secretary gave him my resume, and he
barely looked at it. I was hired on the spot while he talked on the
phone.”
“And
that’s it?”
Her
gaze skitters away, and my heart twists. “Yes.”
“Bliss,
if he did something to you… you don’t have to worry
about what I’ll think. He has this way about him that makes
people want to please him.” I laugh bitterly. “Actually,
he’s a fucking bully, and if he looked at you sideways, then I
want to know it, so I can beat the shit out of him.”
“I
swear on my parents’ graves. Your dad did not touch me, at all.
He barely looked at me.”
Pent-up
air whooshes from my lungs. Yeah, I was looking for an excuse to
pound Everett, but I’m so damn relieved I want to hug Bliss and
never let go.
She
leans forward, touching my face and getting my attention. “I
think we’ve had enough sharing for tonight.” She smiles
gently. “It’s three in the morning, and I’m tired.”
I
make a move to leave, but her hand grabs my arm. I turn to look at
her. Letting go, she scoots over and pats the space beside her.
“There’s room for two.”
“Do
you really think it’s a good idea?”
“I
think sleep is an excellent idea.” She tilts her head to the
side. “All I want to do is hold you tonight. Can you let me?”
“Isn’t
that supposed to be my line?”
“Sometimes
the girl gets to be the hero and save the day.”
I
grunt, climbing in beside her as she pulls me to her. I rest my face
on her t-shirt-covered chest as she strokes my hair. Her soft breath
hits the top of my cheeks and nose. The sound of her heartbeat makes
my eyes feel as if they weigh a thousand pounds each.
“Go
to sleep, Jackson.” Then she murmurs something in Spanish. The
only word I can pick out is angels. “I’ll keep away the
nightmares.”
My
eyes pop open one last time. “I don’t have nightmares.”
“Of
course you don’t.”
“Damn
straight.”
She
makes a small noise, and then begins to hum, way off-key but
comforting. Just as I begin to drift away, she stops and says,
“Nightmares are nothing compared to the hell we’ve lived
through.”
*** *** ***
Bliss
The
rain has turned to a soft shower, perfect for sleeping in, or so I’ve
heard. I’ve never actually tested the theory myself, mostly
because I’ve never had the chance.
Even
when I’d fall asleep in some place safe, I wouldn’t let
myself completely give in to exhaustion. There was always the chance
that I’d be asked to leave, or the occasionally perv trying to
cop a feel.
Jackson
stretches beside me, his lean body taking up most of the bed. He
rolls on his side, a heavy thigh falling over mine. His arm snakes
around my front. The warmth of his body relaxes me once more, and
just as my eyes flutter close, I feel his hand on my breast.
My
eyes pop open. I watch as that same hand begins to massage my breast,
making my nipple tighten. His low voice rumbles in my ear, but I
can’t understand what he’s saying.
Then
his lips are on my neck, and I instinctively press back, my butt
coming in contact with his cock. He groans against my skin, his other
hand skimming over my thigh. When two of his fingers slip inside my
panties, I stiffen, but he resumes his torture of my breast, and I
melt against him.
His
fingers sift through my curls, and then part me. I moan.
“Wet…
damn, you’re soaking wet,” he says at the same time he
slips a finger inside of me. My inner muscles clamp down on him, and
he tightens his arm around me. “God, I want to be inside you,
but I won’t do it. I’ll wait until—”
“When?”
Instead
of answering, he slides in another finger, his thumb working at my
clit. I can’t speak. He’s doing all the talking—telling
me in explicit terms what he wants to do with me and how often.
“You’ll
come for me this time, beautiful girl. No one’s here but us.”
He bites down on my earlobe and I whimper. “That’s it. So
damn beautiful.”
In
my next heartbeat, I’m on my back, my shirt is up around my
neck, and his mouth is on my nipple, sucking. “Oh God.”
My hips jerk, desire and heat twining together, until my entire body
is bound by him.
He
curls his fingers inside of me, finding a spot that makes me moan so
loud that I blush. His hips move against me, his fingers seeking, and
his tongue swirling around my nipple.
I
grip one of his wide shoulders, and then let my hand travel lower, to
the bulge outlined by his boxer briefs, gently grabbing him.
“Harder,” he growls. “I’m not soft and
delicate like you.”
I
grab him, like he wants, and he shoves his fingers deeper inside of
me. My back arches, my stomach tightens, until finally, I break free.
“That’s
it… give me more,” he says against my skin, before
letting his mouth travel lower. I barely have time to register what
he’s doing before he licks me, replacing his thumb with his
talented tongue.
My
head falls back against the pillow. Sparks dance behind my eyelids.
The stubble on his face scrapes my inner thigh… and my body
rises and falls once more.
“I
can’t take it,” I gasp, trying to push his head away, but
I’m too weak from the orgasms.
“But
you taste so good.” He pulls out his fingers and licks them,
like they’re covered in frosting, and he has to get every bit
of it off.
“What
about you?” I ask. “If you show me what to do, I’ll—”
He
rises above me, shucking off boxers and stretching out beside me,
before joining our hands together. “Up and down, and over the
head,” he instructs.
“Like
this?” I push his hand away and follow the pattern he’d
set.
“Hell,
yes.”
In
no time at all, he’s the one groaning and shaking. It’s
his head falling on the pillow, his body bowing, and when I kiss his
lips, he goes over the edge.
***
I’m lying in
bed with Jackson, drowsy and satisfied.
We
haven’t gone any further than what we did earlier. In fact, he
hasn’t touched me like that again, but I’m so content
right now that I feel like a lazy, fat cat sunning itself. Only
Jackson’s the sun warming me and instead of the ground, I’m
in a bed softer than marshmallows.
“I’ve
been thinking,” he begins, and I look up at him. He places my
glasses on my nose and carefully pushes them into place. “Better?”
“This
close, I can see everything without them.” I take off the
glasses and hand them to him. He sets them to the side and then cocks
his head.