Chapter 4
Jackson
I’m not going to lie, I am nervous as hell sitting here opposite Maia. And the idea of the two of us playing a game of twenty questions is a bad one. Although, it has to be better for my self-control than a game of truth of dare. I’d be forced by my hormones to dare something completely wicked. She seemed shaken after that envelope was pushed under the door, and I’m tempted to ask why, but I really don’t know her like that. Not yet, anyway. I rub my hands together in typical villain style. The question I’m searching for is supposed to be witty, cocky. But after racking my brain for almost a minute to think of the perfect question, I give up and go for the easy option. “Where you from?”
“Manhattan. Not far,” she answers without lifting her eyes from the bed.
Okay then, this game is going to last all of five minutes at this rate. Not what I had in mind.
“Same question to you,” she challenges, this time raising her eyes to meet mine.
“Suburbs outside of Atlanta, Georgia,” I answer matter-of-factly. I now realize that she’s just being polite, to get this over and done with as quickly as possible. She knows where I’m from because it’s the same place Jade is from.
Her lips spread into a wide grin then, and a mischievous glint appears in her eyes. For a moment, I just stare. She has f-ucking hot eyes. If ever there were a way to describe bedroom eyes, this would be it. And I may have figured her out all wrong
Because she’s looking at me now like I’m dessert.
“I changed my mind. I’m hungry. Let’s go down to the Bean,” and before I can protest, she’s up and in the closet, changing.
“Okay,” I shrug, mainly to myself.
Walking out of dorm building, I automatically veer towards the Mustang, but then realize that maybe she wants to drive. “Your car or mine?” I ask casually.
“What makes you think I have a car?” she asks innocently.
I roll my eyes. “Please, you come from Manhattan; no way you came here without a ride.” I’m guessing here, but trying to sound as cock sure as possible when I do it.
“I do,” she nods in reply. “But I’d rather go in yours, just as long as I sit in the front seat this time. Last time I had to contort my body into shapes it doesn’t normally go in.”
She says this innocently, but my mind floods with images of her body in various compromising positions and my body reacts accordingly. f-uck! I walk purposely ahead of her as I desperately attempt to get my shit together.
A few times on the way there, she looks as though she wants to speak, but then loses her nerve. By the time we’re turning onto the street where the Bean is located, I can’t help but to ask. “What? Spit it out.” I grin.
She’s taken aback by my question. “What do you mean?” she asks.
“I mean, why do you keep opening your mouth to say something and then stopping? You’ve been doing it for ten minutes now. You’re starting to look like a fish,” I tease.
She rounds her mouth off in an “o” formation and narrows her eyes teasingly at me, feigning offense. And she looks crazy hot. Because that, gentlemen, that look is what dreams are made of, right there. And men who find a chick that hot can think of at least ten things to do with that look. I try to fill my mind with visuals of the century-old nude sunbathers I’m used to seeing on Atlanta’s beaches, to stop myself from thinking what I’m actually thinking. On the plus side, she seems comfortable now, and maybe, just maybe she’ll let go enough to have a little fun this evening. f-uck, stranger things have happened.
Maia leads us straight to the second floor, where the beanbags and bookshelves are, after we order our lattes. It’s pretty empty, because I assume on a Friday night, most people have traded up to the party scene. Truthfully, the old me would have been right there with them. Now, with Maia, I’m starting to appreciate my new, boring self.
“New game,” she turns towards me and places her coffee on the floor before flopping onto a beanbag. “It’s called truth or dare or bullshit.”
“What!” I choke back a laugh. “I’m thinking you’re making this up, but okay, I’ll play. What are the rules?”
“Simple,” she replies flippantly. “No rules. Ask anything. But, if the other person thinks you’re not being completely honest, they call bullshit. That’s where the dare comes in, and you can’t refuse.”
This sounds confusing as shit, not to mention dangerous as hell. Because underneath the studious, quiet girl in front of me, I think there may be a touch of crazy freaky hidden. I’d have chosen strip poker, personally, just to find out.
“Okay, I’ll go first,” she volunteers. “Why were you looking at my ass in the library earlier?”
And there it is. “What makes you think I was looking at your ass? A bit vain don’t you think,” I replying cockily, mainly to hide my surprise.
“Are you going to answer me or should I call bullshit?” she asks defiantly.
“Call bullshit,” I challenge, offering no further explanation.
“Fine, your dare is to go downstairs, find a girl who is clearly out of your league, and get her number. Oh and you have five minutes,” she grins at me with a smug expression. Maia is clearly enjoying this shit.
I shake my head ruefully. “Damn, and here I thought a clever girl like you was going to give me an actual challenge.” I shrug my shoulders and make my way down the stairs.
She knows very well that the last place to find bobble head women in rubber band dresses would be at a café like this, so it won’t be easy. I spot a leggy brunette sitting alone, reading a copy of some trashy romance novel at the coffee bar and introduce myself. I look up and notice that Maia is staring at me intently from the galley railing. We chat for a few minutes, and by minute three I have my phone in hand, dialling on the keypad. By minute four I’m walking back up the stairs. By four and a half she’s asking me to dial the number, to check that I actually did it. By four minutes and forty seconds, I tell her my phone won’t dial and ask her to prank call it to test it, praying that she has her caller ID on. By four minutes and fifty five seconds, Maia’s number appears on my screen. And at five minutes flat, I’ve created a contact with her name.
“So?” she asks me impatiently. “It clearly works, so call her.”
Grinning smugly I call her number from my contacts list. Maia’s expression is priceless when she feels her phone vibrate in her hand. I end the call and raise my phone to snap a quick pic of her slack jawed expression of disbelief. My shoulders shake with restrained laughter and she goes to open her mouth but quickly shuts it. I can’t resist being a smart ass about this one. “Never try to play a player, little lady.”
For the rest of the evening she stays away from difficult questions and I decide to go easy on her. Mainly because the only dares that I can think of for her involve the removal of clothing, and the two of us in extremely close proximity to one another. I manage to wow her again when she asks me to show her my favorite book, and I read her Annabel Lee, from Edgar Allan Poe’s complete works. I close my eyes as I recite my favorite verse, without even looking at the well-worn book.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
I stop reading. The last person I read this poem to was Shana. I shake myself out of the funk I’m about to land myself in and snap the book shut.
“Why didn’t you finish it?” she asks me softly.
Time to man up, screw this shit. “Poe’s depressing as hell.” I answer as nonchalantly as I can manage.
“Do you write poetry as well?” she probes.
f-uck. Just f-uck. I’ve made it my life’s mission these days to avoid deep and meaningful reflections into my past. “Used to. Not a fan anymore,” I answer, the response coming out sounding shorter and more irritated than intended.
She’s silent for a few minutes, staring at me with those huge brown eyes of hers. “Bullshit,” she says softly.
“What?” I look up to meet her eyes. “I said, I call bullshit,” she repeats slowly, not taking her eyes away from mine. “As the rules of the game go, there’s a dare you have to fulfill as a result.” Her tone is playful but her eyes watch me with an intensity that could bring the strongest of men to their knees. “I dare you to read a poem, an original,” she continues.
Is that all? f-uck, I thought it was going to be much worse than that. Then she says it. “At open mic night here next Saturday.”
And there it is. Shit. You know when there’s something intensely private about something you do? Poetry is like that for me. My own fault, I guess when you come off as a cocky, self-assured ladies man; people think you’ve got confidence for days. But still, a dare’s a dare.
“Okay,” I answer thoughtfully, but this could very well work for me, too. “If, you answer a question that I have.”
She looks at me expectantly, and I swear to God I could drown in her eyes. I’m pretty damn sure I could die in her arms, as well. I try to maintain focus again. Dear Lord, this girl has me twisted in all kinds of ways. “What were you thinking when I was reading that poem to you?” I ask seriously.
She turns away slightly and replies, “I love poetry. You read it well. I was just enjoying the words. Besides, you weren’t reading it for me.”
As she answers I walk over to the sofa she’s sitting on and lower myself onto the seat next to her. “Bullshit,” I smile. I reach for her hand. “I dare you to listen again. This time close your eyes.” She complies, shutting her eyes and I recite the verse again. From her hands in mine, I can feel her pulse quicken with each line. “Like I said, bullshit.”
She opens her eyes and leans into me, and before I can fully comprehend what’s happening, her lips are on mine. She tastes so incredibly sweet. Her hair brushes the side of my neck and the now familiar cinnamon and sandalwood scent is intoxicating. My hands grab her waist and I pull her into me as the kiss deepens. She moves a hand to my hip and though the kiss is soft and tender, there is something so urgently passionate about it that the heat it ignites threatens to rip a hole in my jeans. I break away with great difficulty to glance around and make sure that we’re still alone. Only because I know she’d care. Quite personally, whether it’s my raging hard on talking or not, I don’t give a f-uck who walks up the stairs. I lean back in and crash my lips into hers, forcing them further apart. Her back arches in response, and her fingers make their way under my shirt and knead at my back. I pull back gently, before the urge to rip every item of clothing off of her body completely consumes me. The thought has crossed my mind a few times in the last minute. And believe me; it takes every f-ucking ounce of self-restraint I have to pull away. But she’s known me for three days and I get the sense that she really isn’t that kind of girl. She holds my gaze for a few seconds before averting her eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that behind the fiery lust I just saw there, she looks a little wounded.