So I did.
I dropped down on my right knee, curled my body forward, and yanked him by his Gi over my right shoulder.
Jase flew over me and landed flat on the mat in front of me, slapping out in a perfect fall.
Power.
Strength.
Pride.
I was hooked.
He looked up at me from the mat, blue eyes blazing, lips spread in a huge smile. “Not bad. Get up! Let’s try it, again.”
Hundreds of times. Stances. Punches. Kicks. Again and again.
The three of us, in the dojo, in my backyard. Over and over, Jase taught us to defend ourselves. “You don’t start the fight, guys,” he would say. “But you don’t let anyone push you around. Because once they push you, even an inch, they’ll keep doing it. Teach them that nobody can ever hurt you.”
Jase didn’t kiss me again after our seven minutes in Heaven, and we never spoke about it. But sometimes…sometimes, I would catch those blue eyes on me, and when I did…
I would look
Right back at him
And he never
Looked away.
Chapter 5
Jase
What the hell was I doing?
You don’t even have to ask me, I’m asking me. What the hell was I doing?
I was in her apartment: Day Three. The floors and table were littered with dozens of bottles of wine, pillows, and empty condom wrappers.
Yeah, I was screwed.
Brooke was sitting across from me, in my damn shirt, lifting a forkful of the greasiest Chinese food I’ve ever tasted to her mouth. Her eyes lifted to mine as she opened her lips; her tongue slid along one of the hanging sesame noodles and seductively glided it into her mouth.
Yeah, I was so screwed. I didn’t want a relationship with Brooke, but she wouldn’t listen. It was almost as if she didn’t care what I said. She was wearing my shirt, eating take-out after work with me, and there was a mess of sexual evidence strewn about the apartment. Sure as Hell looked a lot like the relationship I didn’t frigging want. Not now, not with her. Nope, wouldn’t hold up in court. I’d get thrown in some khakis and tied down with a ball and chain wrapped around my neck and secured to my nuts.
Brooke flung her fork back into the little takeout cardboard box our food was delivered in and crawled on all fours over to me. “You’re so sexy sitting there. Now I’m hungry for something else,” she purred.
Who the hell was I to say no, right? She was hungry, she just said it, and me, well,—I was horny. Again. I am a man, and we were two consenting adults. I didn’t want to think about how screwed I was. I didn’t want to think about how this was someone I worked with. I always tried not to shit where I eat, but hell, when the food was free, and she didn’t mind the smell, screw it. And I’m going to. Screw it, again.
“You’re so sexy,” she murmured, in probably what she thought was an erotic tone. It wasn’t. “Just so, so, so sexy,” she repeated. Yeah, I got the memo; I’m sexy. Awesome. Let’s just have a quickie so I can get the hell out of here. I hadn’t been home in three days, and I started to feel a little smothered with what I like to call the bridal gaze she was giving me. You know the one. After a few nights of sleeping with a girl, and she starts staring at you like she’s listing the names of babies in her mind at the same time she’s redecorating your apartment with little, smelly-ass candles and her personal belongings.
Like a box of those tampon-pad-things. Hell, I don’t even know if I’m saying that right.
Why would I ever need a box of those things next to my damn shaving cream in the bathroom cabinet? Or one of her glittery tubes of lip puffer-upper-whatever-the-hell-that-stuff-is. And all because you’ve stuck a part of your body in a part of her body? What in the world makes women think that means we want to marry them?
Her hands drifted to my bare chest and she slowly traced the lines of one of my tattoos with her index finger. Every muscle in my body went on alert as she gave me a slow, sexy smile and straddled me. She lazily trailed her finger between the two names I had inked over my chest; her eyes questioning everything they saw. Lowering her mouth to my skin, she gently flicked her tongue along the pathway of the two names.
My hands closed into fists against my thighs; my body coiled tight with tension, waiting for her to ask me about crap I had no intention of telling her about. Ever.
“I always wondered about your tattoos,” she murmured, licking and teasing my skin. “Who are Joey and Charlie? And what’s the story about the tree and rabbit hole?” she asked, skimming her tongue along the lines.
Hell, it was making me sick. Having someone else’s tongue on me saying their names. The tension twisted my muscles and strained against my skin, my fists clenched tighter.
Charlie. Charlie.
That was a hell of a shit story. I leaned back against the edge of the couch and chuckled to myself. This conversation was a fight waiting to happen. That’s another thing I don’t get about women. Why do you ladies want to know about the girls before? It’s not going to make you happy, especially when we explain to you our first great relationship, the one you’ll never live up to. Ever.
I wasn't going there.
I needed a quick fuck and a quicker getaway.
Slumping my head back against the cushions of her couch, I loosened my fisted hands to open the button to my jeans and unzipped them. I tugged myself out, stroking, squeezing; then letting it spring free. “Don’t want to talk,” I said, tangling my fingers through her hair and spreading a hand across the back of her neck to push her mouth over my cock.
With a low moan, Brooke took me all the way in and gagged. Setting up a slow pace, she bobbed her head up and down, softly raking her teeth against me.
Man, I needed it faster. And what was with the teeth? Damn, no teeth. Ever.
I had to get the Hell out of there.
I tightened my grasp on her hair, twisting the strands through my fingers—pulling and pushing, quickening her speed, pressing her deep, getting the rhythm I needed.
She pulled her mouth off me with a small whimper and looked up at me. “Tell me who they are,” she whispered, running circles over me with her tongue.
Big turnoff. I hate the sexual power games women try to play.
One of her eyebrows lifted. Her hand wrapped around my shaft, and with perfect pressure she continued to try to torture the truth from me.
Another small swirl of her tongue and both eyebrows lifted up as she tilted her head to the side.
Brooke was waiting for my answer. She was looking at me with those giant blue eyes, her wild, sexy hair framing her cute face, and she looked like a life size Barbie doll. Any man would probably cut off his left nut to spend a night with a woman like that, and I’d be a fool to tell her anything about my past. So as always, I kept my thoughts to myself. I kind of liked my manhood in one piece, and since it was in her mouth at that moment, I was feeling if I started talking about Charlie, she might bite it the hell off.
And what the hell was she thinking, asking me that stuff when I was in her mouth? What did she think—she could suck and slurp the answers out of me?
One long swipe of her tongue, from bottom to top, “Tell me, Delaney. Or do you want me to stop?” she teased.
But I didn’t want to think about that shit.
I tried to forget. I tried to forget how everything happened, how the whole damn Charlie-Joey-fuck-my-life-situation played out. About how I tried getting it all back, but I couldn’t bring back shit.
I couldn’t do anything.
So, I always kept my thoughts about everything in my head. I didn’t give a voice to them anymore; it was just a wasted effort.
I just stopped trying to get everything back.
Everything.
Everyone.
Was gone.
Sometimes, when I’m working, and I see a woman with that long, silky chestnut colored hair standing in a crowd, my body freezes, and I stare at her until I know for sure it isn’
t Charlie.
It’s never Charlie.
No one had that cinnamon colored hair; nobody held a cigarette the same way Charlie did. Nobody ever had a book clenched tightly to her chest, and nobody’s laugh sounded anything like hers. And no one ever looked at me the way Charlie did.
It had been years, and no one had ever come close to being anything like Charlie. And Joey, well that was a whole other different level of shit.
“You seriously won’t tell me about them?” Brooke asked, leaning back.
“Nothing to tell,” I said after I climbed up off the floor and walked away with just a small, backward glance.
Her mouth was still open; my cock just left her hanging.
I tucked myself back in my pants and buttoned up. Total loss of wood.
Now, don’t go thinking about me like I’m a grade A asshole, I’m really not. I wasn’t trying to be a jerk to Brooke, but I’m not the sort of man that can be forced into shit. I don’t like games, and she just tried to play one with me. You saw what she just did.
Why didn’t I just tell her? Of course, you would ask that.
There are just some things in my life I don’t want to relive. I don’t want to feel them again or have anyone else know about the worst and hardest parts of my life. Guys don’t want to rehash and talk something to death. And, if us guys talked about our stuff, it would be with someone we chose to do it with, not with someone who forced us into it. I didn’t want to tell Brooke.
I didn’t want to be that close with her.
I wouldn’t be that close to her.
I laid it all out on the line with Brooke when we first met for drinks after work one night—over a month ago. I told her point-blank I was not looking to get into a monogamous relationship. It’s not that I was a guy who messed around, because let’s face reality; I don’t have a bunch of different beautiful women jumping into my bed every night. That’s just frigging unrealistic. That crap only happens in movies and in girl porn, it just doesn’t happen in real freaking life. And, let’s face it, I’m just a normal guy. There’s nothing wrong with me, but I’m not anything special either. I’m not a player. I don’t have money falling out of my pockets. I’m not a rock star, movie star, cutter, drinker, drug user, bipolar, card-carrying man-whore club member, or anything else that’s trending right now. And what the hell are these things trending for? I’m just a city cop who doesn’t have mental or emotional issues; I see the filth of life firsthand, working day-to-day, and I try hard not to take that crap home with me.
Brooke and I had a deal. This girly talk and getting to know each other’s deep, dark secrets was not part of the deal. And I’ve known Brooke since she got on the job about four years ago; she was always a serial dater. I know at least three other guys she’s been with and I’ve never held them against her.
Brooke slithered up and ran after me. “Okay, okay, sorry, Delaney,” she said, pulling on my waist to wrap her arms around me. Yeah, I didn’t like that crap either. “I just wanna know you better. Just tell me who they are.”
“What the hell Brooke-Lyn? Stop with the personal inquisition of my life. You’re smothering the Hell out of me.”
She stepped in front of me, long, tan legs posturing, fist planted on her hip, the hem of my shirt she was wearing riding up over her thighs. ”It’s just that we’ve been together for a few weeks, and I kind of was hoping that you’d…”
“What? Change?” I asked.
“Well…a little, maybe…” she mumbled, looking down at something on the floor.
“What is with the female population of New York City? There’s nothing WRONG with me. I like who I am, and I don’t want to change.”
“I just wish we could, you know, maybe talk or…”
“What the Hell do you need to hear from me? All of a sudden, you want to be my shrink and listen to me cry about my messed up childhood friends. What next? You going to ask me what it was like when I went overseas? Want my body count?” I walked up real close to her face. “Stop looking for something more in me, when I’m telling you, I can’t give you anything else.”
“It’s not that you can’t. It’s that you WON’T!” she yelled aggressively.
“That’s right, because I don’t want to,” I said, calmly.
“Alrighty there, Detective Dickhead, I don’t even know why I bother!”
“That makes two of us.”
With a frown, Brooke started pacing in front of me, blocking my way out of the apartment. Yeah, that’s not a game either, right?
I’d been nothing but honest with her.
She started pacing faster, getting more agitated. Then—here’s my favorite part—she ran at me and shoved me with both her hands, hard against my chest.
Don’t worry, I’m not a little punk who would hit a woman back; I just stood there and let her get it out. After a while, I had to admit, it kind of annoyed me, but I didn’t have the heart to stop her.
“You!” she screamed, shoving me a last time. “You don’t even know my middle name. You don’t even know my favorite food, or color, or movie. And I know NOTHING about you, except for how big your dick is!”
Well, now. You heard her say BIG, right? Just making sure.
“Your middle name and favorite color? What the Hell does that have to do with fucking? Because that’s all we’ve been doing. And don’t get high and mighty with me Brooke, you don’t know shit about me. I don’t know shit about you either, because we both agreed it would be just fucking.”
“My God, Delaney. Whoever broke your heart ruined you for every other woman after her, huh? What are you afraid of?”
“Clowns, mostly.”
“What?”
“Yeah, clowns kind of freak me out.”
“You are the biggest asshole I’ve ever met!” she screamed.
“Then you definitely shouldn’t waste any more of your time on me.”
“YOU have an answer for everything! Can you talk to me seriously for a minute? Fuck, Delaney.” Then she added in a low whisper, “I think I’m in love with you.”
Okay, so that statement caught me a little off guard, especially when she looked as if she were wiping away a tear from below her eye.
And for a small moment, a very small one, I considered what she said. Then, I watched her expression carefully; defiant stance, hand on hip, the other hand swiping at a pretend tear, eyes fixed on mine, and a daring smirk across her face. I read people for a damn living, and she was lying her ass off. That’s not love. I’ve seen love. And if that’s the kind of shit Brooke thought was love, I didn’t want any of it from her.
“Brooke, five minutes ago you told me that you know nothing about me. How can you say you love me if you don’t know me?”
“Delaney…”
“You don’t even call me by my first name.”
“Jase…”
"Did I forget to tell you about my wife and kids? That's okay; I didn't mention my herpes, either—did I?” I said, annoyed.
“You better be kidding around!”
“The point is Brooke, you don’t know. You don’t know me; so don’t tell me you love me. If you don’t want to continue with the way things are, that’s fine. But Brooke, I’m not offering anything else. I can’t.”
“Jase, I’m standing here crying in front of you. I want to know you better.”
“No. You’re pretending to cry in front of me, and I told you I’m not offering anything else. It’s your call.”
“Are you going to be sleeping with someone else?”
“Here comes the crazy,” I mumbled, grabbing my boots and stomping my feet into them. My own damn hand made for a better relationship than anything I’ve had in the last few years. Looks like I’ll be hooking up with that every night from now on.
“Okay, fine. I’m sorry I asked about the stupid tattoos.” She took a deep breath and gently put her hands over my chest. “I just want to know if maybe someday we could talk and get closer, maybe…I don’t know.”
; “Whatever, Brooke. I gotta go.”
“You think you could find someone better than me?” she whispered as I walked out the door.
“Nah, Brooke. I’m not looking for anything or anyone,” I said, closing the door behind me.
And that was the truth, because for the last few years I’ve Googled Charlotte Stone and have never found her, so I just stopped looking. Every search came up empty, like she had just disappeared. Being a cop isn't like it is in the movies. You can't just run someone's name and find his or her location. We aren't allowed to run a name through the department's computers unless it's part of a case. Besides, if she never committed a crime, her name wouldn't turn up in our criminal databases.
I just wish the memories could have gone with her, because I can still see her in front of me.
I don’t remember exactly how old we were, maybe thirteen, I don’t know…I remember it being the second or third week of eighth grade and sitting in the back of Honors Literature. “Jase? Jase…” Mrs. Kaplan called out from in front of her desk.
I pretended not to hear her. I was too busy staring and daydreaming about the back of Charlie. She had curves all over. Even from the back of her, I could see the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, and the slope of her neck… I could even tell the crazy thoughts that were probably running through that head of hers as we sat there reading through Romeo and Juliet. She’d probably read that damn play over a thousand times.
All that beautiful crazy just sitting in her head. Her glasses were pulled back over the top of her long, silky, reddish-brown hair, and she was wearing her vintage Metallica, cap sleeved T-shirt. My little bookworm.
That Kaplan lady didn’t give up though; she started banging on the top of her desk with one of those long ruler torture devices while she screamed, “Jase Delaney! I know you can hear me calling your name!”
I looked up and gave her a small wink. Of course, I could hear her banshee scream; the damn bodies in the cemetery across the street were covering their decaying ears with their decaying hands trying NOT to hear her.
“Sorry, Mrs. Kaplan. What was the question again?”