Can I leave and never see him again? Sure. In fact, I know that's the best course of action. I'm not a stupid person. I've just made bad decisions when it comes to the people in my life. I can't afford to make another decision I end up regretting.
But what if I only end up regretting leaving here without giving in to what's obviously between us? What if I never see him again? What am I supposed to do, forget he's out here all alone? Wait and hope to see him walk through the door of my shop again? Drive past the house late at night to see if he's here, with my car radio playing songs that remind me of him? Ugh! This is all a mess.
I lay in bed for a long time, a lot longer than I need to, trying to get a hold of my brain-and, frankly, my body. I feel an actual physical ache when I think back to how he looked last night. Before that moment, when we met in the hall, I'd only gotten a brief glimpse of him. Over the jeans, under the tee, just a wide strip of skin and the muscles beneath.
When he flipped the lights, I got a view of the entire package, or at least eighty percent of it. My elbow had been hurting like hell until that moment, from where I jammed it into his ribs and then into the wall when I rebounded from him. Then I saw him and the pain was forgotten.
Broad shoulders, bulging biceps. Defined pecs and an eight-pack leading down to his slim waist. Those "fuck me" lines were there, the ones leading diagonally toward his groin, so clearly etched. His strong, thick legs were clearly the result of a lot of bending, squatting, carrying heavy bags of mulch and soil. He was every woman's fantasy come to life, plain and simple.
I even caught a glimpse of what looked like a fairly substantial bulge in his shorts. I'd half-hoped the fly would be open so I could get a peek at it before I forced myself to avert my eyes. The more I looked at him, the more certain I was that I needed him. I had never, ever felt such a strong physical need for another person. I never had to tuck my own hands under my crossed arms to keep myself from touching someone or something. It was lust, straight-up, and I was completely lost in it
I realized, at that time, that I was pretty much undressed. I felt my nipples harden from arousal and the cold and knew he could see them. Instead of being embarrassed, though, I was glad. I was desperately, wildly praying that Jax would make a move on me so I could give in to everything I was experiencing without feeling like a slut later on.
He didn't, of course. He sent me to my room, like a child. That's probably how he thinks of me.
But wasn't he maybe, just maybe, staring at my chest? I thought he might have been, just before I turned back toward the bedroom.
Now, with the bright morning light streaming through the window, I'm a little cooler. A little calmer. More in control of myself. For now.
It's almost painfully bright, actually, the sun reflecting off the fresh snow. This is a cheerful bedroom, very country style. Again, nothing like I would expect a man like him to own. Especially now that I'd seen the extent of the ink on his body.
There was a lot of it. That was one more aspect of him I found puzzling, especially since I'd never particularly been attracted to men with tattoos before. I always thought they were a little low class, a little common. Sometimes I'm a snob; I can admit it. On Jax, though, they looked natural. Defiant. Sexy. Not the sort of thing a guy would do after getting drunk and dared to by his friends. Not some stupid fake tribal symbol. Not a collection of Chinese characters the tattoo artist swears means "strength and honor" but which really translate to "chicken chow mein." This was the sort of ink a man wears.
The biggest piece of all, covering much of his chest, depicted an angel surrounded by flames. There was no color, yet the vividness with which it was drawn spoke volumes anyway. She looked afraid, in pain or defiant-I couldn't decide which. It was around that time I forced myself to stop looking for fear of leaving a drool puddle on the floor.
I roll over onto my side, away from the glare of the outside, holding a pillow close to me. A man like Jax probably has a lot of demons. I remember how pensive he looked when I pointed out the way he lives here alone. There might even have been sadness in him as he stared into the fire. There has to be a backstory to this man. He's young and gorgeous, and I can't help admitting that he's pretty smart when he's not acting like a prick. So why is he closed off from the world? Why shut down the way he has? Living with just a hound dog.
I can't have anything to do with a man like this. Why does it seem like I'm always attracted to the guys with the shitty demons? I punch the pillow, frustrated with myself and the way life always tends to go. I keep getting led down the path toward guys like Jax … and my ex.
Tommy. Just the thought of his name sends a chill down my spine and leaves me feeling nauseated. At first, things with him had been great, wonderful, the way so many relationships start out. We were in the "puppy love" phase for a while, where nothing could convince me love was anything less than magical and beautiful.
Hindsight is twenty-twenty, though. Looking back, I see now the little things I missed then. The way he'd pout when I'd suggest spending time with people other than him. Back then, I told myself he loved me so much that he couldn't stand being away from me. Then there's the way he'd overreact, blowing up at the stupidest things. The car was running low on gas and we were running late. We'd go out to dinner and the waiter wasn't attentive enough or the food took too long to get to us. Just stupid, little, everyday things like that were enough to send him into a tailspin. I told myself he was passionate, highly strung, used to having things his own way. I'd help him get past all that nonsense, I was sure.
But I didn't. And before long, the puppy love was over and reality slapped me right in the face. Literally. I was left on the floor, hand to my burning cheek, staring up at him. I was too shocked to cry, even though my face felt as though it was about to explode. All I could do was look at him and wonder how he could hurt me like that when he told me he loved me. That first time, the sight of me on the floor was enough to snap him out of it, and he helped me to my feet with tears in his eyes and a million excuses on his lips. He'd flown off the handle, he'd never hit a woman in his entire life, it would never happen again because he loved me so much and now he was so ashamed of himself. I'd ended up being the one to comfort him, come to think of it. Holding him in my arms while he cried, wishing I had an ice pack to put on my cheek.
It had been six months before he hit me again, and the second time he wasn't sorry as quickly as before. This time when I looked up at him, where he'd knocked me to the couch, he didn't look ashamed and guilty. He looked angry. Disgusted. He made a move at me, as though he was about to hit me again. I flinched, drawing back. And I saw what I knew was satisfaction in his eyes. He'd made me afraid of him, but he wasn't ashamed now. He was proud of himself.
Things didn't get much better from there. Finally, I left him, after much too much pain and too many nights spent in tears. I moved away and bought a coffee shop and I've been happy ever since. Happy for me, anyway. I don't think I'll ever truly be happy unless he disappears off the face of the Earth. Because he's still out there, still wanting me. Every so often he'll text or call, just to remind me how I broke his heart when I left. Once, he left a vicious, drunken voicemail in which he promised to make me pay for hurting him. It's knowing that he can contact me at any moment that robs me of any real joy. He's always lurking in the corner of my mind, waiting to spring.
Tommy has his demons, and I have no desire to get to the bottom of them. That's why I can't get involved with somebody like him, somebody like Jax, though time and again I find myself drawn to broken men. Angry men. Hurt men. In the end, they always end up hurting somebody else. I won't let it happen to me again.
I hear a loud bang coming from downstairs and know Jax has gone outside, probably to clear more snow. He must think I'm asleep up here, though the way that door banged tells me that he wants me to wake up and get my butt out of bed. Maybe he's tired of playing host. I can't blame him. If he's not used to being around people, it has to be a shock to the senses. I'm sure he's tired of me already. Maybe he even wonders why he bothered saving me in the first place.
I get out of bed and go to the window, peering through its white lacy curtains. There he is, plodding through the snow that had fallen overnight and covered the work he already did. It's not terrible, though, and he's making quick work of the few inches left over. I see a great hulking white blob in the distance and realize it's my car, parked by the side of the road. I could be in there right now. Dead. I know now that if I'd stayed asleep, I would definitely have frozen to death. I hadn't even had a blanket in the car, as Jax had helpfully pointed out. The jackass.