Yeahhh...no matter how old you get the idea of your parents getting it on is still a little weird.
“None of it worked,” he sighed. “And then when I was eight, maybe nine, I came home from school and I remember feeling this burst of excitement because my father's Jag was in the driveway. It was weird because he was never home until I was practically in bed. It was--" His lips tilted into a sad smile. "--exciting. I walked in the house and my father was in the living room. Somber. Quiet. His eyes were trained on the coffee table. It was littered with bottles and a rainbow of pills. Every damn size you can think of. I asked where Mom was and he said she was tired and not to be disturbed. When it happened two months or so later, he told me she was sick. That she tried to hurt herself."
I felt a knot form in my throat that wouldn't get away. After what he'd almost done with the shotgun...
"I was eleven when she started routinely harming herself,” Jacob’s voice was hollow and cold. “Interestingly enough, these urges happened right before long business trips or after she and Dad had some heavy argument."
I gripped his hand tight. It was impossible, but I wished I could take away his pain. How she could do that; use suicide as some ploy for attention, it just...I couldn’t even fathom it.
He cleared his throat and rose to his feet. “But that’s in the past. I never should have taken it out on you or Mia. And if she wants to be our client, I support it fully. I support you.”
I wanted to hug him, to be close, to let him know I’d never let anyone hurt him ever again, but he made a beeline for the staircase.
“I’m gonna grab a shower. I’ll see you upstairs.”
Sec 4
I leaned against the frame of the door, looking into our dimly lit bedroom, watching Jacob. Blue eyes were on the screen of his iPad, bright beneath a mop of still damp hair. My eyes lowered to his chest, bare and glistening from the shower. I wanted to move closer, to smell the musk of the soap on his skin. But there was no way I could be that close to a near na**d Jacob and keep my hands to myself. And considering he’d all but dashed upstairs alone and was reading intently with an invisible ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging above his head, I didn’t think now was the time for seduction or submission.
And the glimpse of his past was enough to make my libido all but shut down. I knew that Alicia Whitmore wasn’t what she seemed the moment I laid my eyes on her. Her glossy, manicured exterior was hiding secrets of something dark. The kind grin she wore as she nonchalantly talked about writing me a cheek to go away. Talking about her love of Jacob in the same breath she used to disparage him. Disregarding what he wanted. What he needed. And now I knew she used the threat of suicide to control her husband and son.
I looked at Jacob, my strong man who fought so hard to contain his emotions, who was once different; happier--until the woman who brought him into the world snuffed it out. Hardened him.
My mother was no saint. She was flighty, impulsive and if you looked up ‘overprotective’ in the dictionary I was pretty sure you’d see her snapshot beside the definition. But hearing about the things Alicia did to Jacob made me want to hug my mom tight and never let her go. It made me want to go back to the Leila who used to complain and say horrible things in the heat of anger and shake some sense into her.
I was lucky to have a mom like her. A mom that told me she loved me so much it made me groan. A mom whose extent of manipulation was things like playing matchmaker and hiding my flats so I had to wear stilettos to the interview that changed my life.
Jacob looked up, his eyes curious as he took me in. “Everything alright?”
I chewed on my bottom lip as I padded across the room toward him. "I should be asking you that after what you told me."
His forehead wrinkled in confusion for a moment before he caught my drift and let out a laugh that avoided his eyes. “Ah. That.” He flipped his cover over his tablet and shrugged. “I’m good.”
I was prepared to let it go, climb in bed beside him and push away anything Alicia Whitmore related. But the smile on his face looked physically painful, like he was trying so hard to put on a brave face for me when everything was falling apart.
I eased onto the bed, trying to keep my voice steady. “Jacob, you can’t just tell me something like that and...” I felt the emotion I’d tried to bottle up, stash away to keep from poking at an old wound rush to the surface. He was sitting there unblinking, nearly erasing every trace of the moment of vulnerability. Openness. Well, I was wide open--and I was about to cry. “And...”
“And what?” he said finally, studying me. “You want me to start sobbing about how devastating it was to actually wonder if she’d actually go through with it? That the maid would be a few minutes too late? A few seconds? I’d pick the wrong day to go over to a friend’s? Or maybe I’d be on the other side of the world, too far to save my mother from herself?” He grit his teeth in disgust. “This was why I didn’t want to say anything.”
The tears evaporated as I cocked my head to the side. “You don’t mean that.”
He massaged his temple and let out a tired sigh. “You’re right. I don’t. I don’t want secrets between us.” He gave me a reluctant smile. “I just don’t want it to be a production. I don't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she affects me. So I act like I don't feel anything at all.”
I relaxed, feeling the smile pull at my mouth. “You don’t have to be Big Bad Jacob. Not with me.”
He licked his lips and I followed the hot trail he made, tongue sweeping left before it flicked right. "What's wrong with big, bad, Jacob?"
His eyes glittered dangerously. It was the smallest of movements, but it was like someone doused us with pheromones. Some eau de Whitmore that made my heart speed up in my chest and the tingle of warmth build in the pit of my belly. Nothing could scratch that itch but him.
I swallowed hard as he drug his fingertips along my arm, sending an electric jolt to my system that fried the serious conversation I was trying to have with him.
The smile that played on those lips weren't messing around now, drawing my eyes back to them. Filling my head with all the things he could do. The places he could touch and lick.
"Jacob..." His fingers were drawing up, rounding my shoulders, skating my neck. Cupping my chin.
"Say it again."
You're not okay, are you? The reason eating at me when I climbed the stairs, screaming when he snapped, tickled the haze that had taken up residence in my head. But that wasn’t what he was talking about. Jacob was using the dominant voice. That dark, authoritative, dangerous thing that used to scare the crap out of me but now it made me melt.