"How'd you get so smart?" I ask him.
He shrugs. "I had a great role model. My dad is the best. Now can you please take me out for pizza? I'm starved."
I smile. "Yeah, I can take you out for dinner."
When Zane and I are done eating and I'm on my way back to Atlanta, I pick up my phone and call Derek, trying to do as my son said and grab life by the balls. It goes straight to voicemail. "I know you're freaking out as much as I am, but … let's just have fun. I wanna have fun with you, Derek." I deserve it. "And we're taking that class. I don't care if I have to carry your little ass there. You're the one who climbed into my Jeep that night and now you're stuck figuring this shit out with me too."
16
Derek
It's been three days since I've listened to Jackson's message.
He wants to have fun with me? When I think of fun, I think about him shoving me up against a wall and pulling my hair while his cock slams against my prostate. I don't think about tango classes, which is like the datiest thing in the world.
Gross.
I haven't gone on an actual date since Christian. I've hooked up with plenty of guys. Had more serious hookups that I hoped might evolve into something more, but we never went on any dates.
This is totally unfamiliar territory for me. I'm used to understanding what's going on.
Sex is easy. Top, bottom, condoms, lube … and me giving a guy the best night of his life. That, I get. But taking tango classes with a guy I like being around, but not just as a friend and who I want to fuck but never get to fuck? I don't get that.
Jackson's an incredible guy, and I'm sure a god in the bedroom, but what he wants isn't something I can give him. And even worse, when I listened to his voicemail, it wasn't that I didn't want what he was talking about. It's that I did, and that scares the fucking shit out of me. He wants to get to know me, but he doesn't understand that when he finds out who I really am, it's not going to be pretty. It's not going to be this fun, frisky kid he's used to seeing. And he'll leave. Just like everyone else has.
He's called and texted since that message. I responded via text to let him know I'm busy right now. I had to say something. I didn't want him to worry about me because I know how he is. How he cares.
When I get home from work, I feed Charlie-boy and curl up on the couch with my Kindle. Time to escape from the world a little bit, but I can't concentrate on reading right now. I just miss Jackson so much, and I want to see him again, even though I know what a crap idea that is.
My phone vibrates beside my leg, and I check it.
He's calling again.
Who the fuck calls this much anymore? Seriously … did he forget how to text?
I want to answer, but I need to put my foot down. We can't keep doing … whatever it is we're doing.
Not five minutes later, I hear a knock at my door.
He did not come all the way over here to see me. He … did … not.
Of course, I know he totally did. That's so something he would do.
I answer the door, and Jackson stands there in a black polo that's snug against his body and a pair of jeans that wouldn't take long to shove to his feet so I could suck him off. That annoyed expression he's making only makes me want to give him even more relief.
"Can't get enough of me?" I ask.
"Why aren't you returning my calls?"
"I texted you."
He arches his brows.
"I'm not your kid. It's not my job to respond to everything you send me. But I'm sorry. I've been busy at work."
"You cut hair nine to five."
"Then I guess I've been busy with other things."
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. His silent disappointment says it all.
"You're really good at giving that father guilt."
"I rarely have to use it."
Silence. I can tell he's not budging. He wants to talk to me. And maybe we need to talk about this, if only so that we can end this now. Problem is that I don't want to end it.
"You might as well come in," I say, turning and leading him into my place. He follows me into the living room, and I take my seat on the couch, moving my Kindle onto the side table. He sits down, keeping a good distance between us.
"What are you reading?" he asks.
"Some stupid book. He's the slave of a princess on another planet. She has a rebellious spirit and needs the love of a big, strong man."
He grins. "Kind of like you?"
"I mainly read books like this to make fun of them," I lie. "Anyway, why are you sitting way over there? You afraid your lust will consume you, and you won't be able to deny the potent desires that rage within your aching heart?"