What am I thinking?
Am I really that desperate that I’m contemplating hooking up with Jackson Smoak?
“We have a lot to talk about Emilia. I need you to come and see me tonight. I’ll give you the answers you want, but this isn’t the time or place for it,” he murmurs urgently.
I’m all for the part where I ‘come’ – my body is on fire…I don’t want answers I need relief.
My brain needs a serious reality check.
Jackson stands and picks up his laptop leaving my body vacant and bereft. He chuckles at my horny/angry expression.
“Here’s my address.” He hands me a piece of paper and begins to walk away but stops abruptly. Hope flickers through my raging fire of hormones.
“Oh, and Emilia?” I can’t answer him without making some sort of groaning sex-sound, so I just nod. “Don’t come around after nine o’clock.”
I frown at his odd request and am about to question him when he throws me a pair of sunglasses I hadn’t noticed he’d had in his t-shirt pocket. They’re completely tinted.
“So you don’t have any awkward questions or stares,” and as he turns to walk away again, I realize he’s walking off with my contact lenses. The man is a mixture of kind gestures and confident behavior that borders on arrogant.
“Until tonight, Angel,” he calls seductively over his shoulder.
Tonight suddenly feels a very long way away.
Chapter Three
The afternoon drags.
I can’t focus enough to study. I’ve got no friends to call or hang out with and my body vibrates with nervous anticipation for tonight. I give up on doing anything constructive and start rifling through my clothes to find something cute to wear this evening. I know there’s a lot that Jackson and I need to discuss, a lot of confusion that needs clearing up, but I still want to look good. I want him to be attracted to me.
I’ve always been reasonably happy in my own skin and kept myself healthy. I like my lean curves that have more strength than I let on, and I enjoy being on the taller end of the spectrum for a girl. I don’t know where my recent lack of confidence has come from, because if I look at myself objectively, I think I have a fairly decent body.
I laugh to myself at how big-headed that sounds, but I genuinely love the rounded swell of my perky breasts, how my waist pinches in revealing flat but subtly defined abs and then flares out down to my fairly toned ass and legs. I don’t mind how my face looks either. I have full, dusty rose lips and high cheekbones, and long, wavy golden hair. The only thing that doesn’t look right is my eyes.
Jackson said they were stunning, but I’m not convinced. They are a sort of speckled silver grey and from a distance, they look blotchy and like I was born without any pigment in my irises. But up close…perhaps I see what he’s talking about…maybe. They look like pure molten silver and if you really concentrate, you can see the color slowly swirl like melting metal with little flecks that shimmer with the movement. My irises are hauntingly metallic and it’s strange.
Time continues to creep by slowly until its time for dinner and despite not having any breakfast, I’m not able to eat anywhere near as much as I’d like.
I sit on my bed wondering when I should make my way to Jackson’s when the weeks’ worth of sleep deprivation finally catches up on me and I fall into the most peaceful sleep I’ve managed since I met him.
I startle awake three hours later and realize it’s 9.15 pm.
Shit.
I’ve really overslept.
I leap from my bed, run my fingers through my hair until it’s acceptable, grab my keys and bolt out the door, grateful that I put in another pair of contacts before dinner.
Walking to Jackson’s as quickly as possible, without exerting myself so that I arrive red-faced and sweaty, I wonder why he didn’t call me to see where I was?
Then I remember that I’m an idiot who still hasn’t given him my number. Stupid stubborn pride.
When I arrive at his place, I see why he said not to come after 9 pm; a frat party is in full swing, fuelled by alcohol and raucous behavior, the loud bass of music vibrating the street outside.
I’m a little disappointed when I realize I’m not going to get to continue the almost kiss from the library (there’s no way I’m doing anything with him if he’s drunk; I’m not that kind of girl).
Maybe that’s why he didn’t kiss me? I’m not his usual type; easy and out for a hookup. Maybe he really did just mean for me to come around and talk.
Talk about what?
In the harsh light of day, away from the atmospheric library, our intense conversation seems ridiculous. And what answers does he think he can provide me with? I’m having nightmares; I’ve had them before and they pass. These will pass too, given time.
The more I think myself into knots, the less I want to walk up the stone front steps and into his swanky looking frat house. I loiter on the sidewalk, weighing up my options. Just as I make the decision to bail, the front door opens and one of his housemates calls down to me.
“Hey, you wanna come in for a drink?” He has a husky southern drawl and I don’t appreciate how he looks me up and down like I’m something to be devoured. But then, that’s not a new look for him – he was one of the six guys hitting on the cheerleaders last Friday.
I’m starting to think that life for Jackson and his friends is just one long pussy parade.
“Hey, I’m just here to see Jackson,” I say awkwardly.
“Pretty things like you normally are. Come in, I’ll get you a drink.”
Hmm.
I don’t like the stab of jealousy I feel at his comment. I have no claim over Jackson, but I still don’t love the idea of all the ‘pretty things’ he apparently has time for.
I follow the Southern guy up the steps, through the ridiculously ornate oak front door and into a predictably large, dark wood-paneled foyer complete with a sweeping staircase. It reeks of old money. An exclusive men’s club. I expect there’s a stash of cigars and brandy not too far away.
Suddenly I’m uneasy and don’t want to go any further into the house full of drunken bodies and pumping music – I was never much of a partier even in high school.
“Where’s Jackson?” I ask, trying to get my voice above the music.
“He’ll be down in a bit,” he says with a cheeky smirk.
“Okay, I’ll just wait here then.”
He eyes me weirdly – no doubt he’s also used to having women fawn at his feet and follow him around. They really are all disturbingly attractive and the women they’ve invited to this party look like they could all be contestants on America’s Next Top Model…I feel horribly inadequate in my skinny jeans, fitted white blouse, and black ballet pumps. The laughable part is that I thought I’d made an effort with my appearance.
“Alright, I’ll bring you a drink,” obviously, this guy isn’t giving up.
I wait at the bottom of the stairs like some awkward wallflower, staring down the creepy looking gargoyle, but in record time Mr. Southern Drawl is back with a potent smelling alcoholic punch.
He hands me my glass and takes a large gulp from the one he’s brought for himself. Looking around I can see that practically everyone is drinking this concoction. Not being a big drinker either, I take a seat on the second step, just in case the drink knocks me senseless, and take a sip. It’s not the nicest drink I’ve ever had, but it’s drinkable, so I take another sip.