Chapter Thirteen

Jaymeson

Priscilla rolled her eyes and unlocked the front doors to the church. She held the door open, waiting for me to walk through.

I froze.

“You coming?” she asked in an irritated voice.

“Sure.” I stood still. “Just… preparing myself.”

“For what?”

“Judgment day.”

Priscilla let out a heavy sigh. “God doesn't smite whores. If He did, you'd already be dead.” She grabbed my hand and tugged me through the door.

I would be lying if I said I actually kept my eyes open. Instead, I squeezed them shut and waited for lightning to strike.

“See?” She released my hand. “You're in one piece!”

A light fixture chose that exact moment to fall onto my head.

Priscilla screamed and stumbled backward.

“Holy shit!” I jumped out of the way and pressed my body against Priscilla's, slamming us against the wall.

My heart damn near burst free from my chest as I hovered over her, still trying to figure out if that was a sign or just an unfortunate coincidence.

“You gonna be okay?” she whispered softly, her lips curving into a teasing smile. Damn, I wanted to bite those lips again. Correction, I wanted to bruise them with mine.

“Yeah.” My voice was hoarse, forced. “Californians… you know how we are with earthquakes.”

“Earthquake my ass.” She laughed.

My eyes widened. “Sinner. You just said ass in church.”

“You said shit and you've slept with at least half your Twitter followers. Pretty sure if there's a choice of who goes to Hell the scale's going to tip toward you, my friend.”

“Think you're funny, don't you?”

“Hilarious.” She stepped out from underneath my body and started walking briskly down the hall. “Come along, slave, we have work to do.”

“When you say work, you mean—”

“I mean we have boxes to organize.”

“Allow me a moment to reign in my excitement.” I paused for a minute and then lifted my hand in a lame fist pump. “I can't wait.”

“I knew you'd be excited,” she called from up ahead. “Now keep up.”

“It's not a race,” I grumbled under my breath as I jogged after her.

****

When the girl said she had boxes to organize, I'd somehow thought it would be ten.

Not thirty.

The boxes ranged from diapers to shoes to clothes to books. And each one of them needed to be labeled and organized for The Goodwill.

After box ten I announced, “I'm bored.”

“Because you're not drinking and having sex?” Pris fired back without looking at me.

“Yes.” I rolled my eyes and taped the box shut. “Because it's humanly possible to have sex twenty-four seven while drinking.”

And silence.

“What?” I snorted. “Nothing to say to that?”

“Oh, sorry.

“I didn't know you were being sarcastic.” She turned around and gave me another one of her silly grins, the ones that made me want to jump into her head and find out what about me made her laugh so damn hard.

“I miss work,” I said breaking eye contact. “I miss fake guns, jumping out of cars, saving the damsel, and working for the CIA.”

It was true. I did. But most of all? I missed the feeling of accomplishment that my job gave me. It wasn't that I was against donating my time to fill boxes, I was just used to more going on.

I didn't do vacations. I didn't do relaxation time. The last time I vacationed it was forced, because technically it was a working vacation here in Seaside.

Vacations made me feel insecure — they made me feel like I was going to fall off everyone's radar. If I wasn't seen and heard, how would I get cast?

“Hey.” Pris nudged me. I jumped a foot. “You okay? I asked you if you wanted to take a break for lunch and you completely ignored me.”

“Uh, yeah.” I taped the box she was holding and nodded. “Sorry, I guess I'm tired or something.”

“Box taping.” She winked. “Does that to a person.”

“Right.” I forced a laugh. “So does that mean I get to take you to lunch?”

She tucked a few pieces of dark hair behind her ears, as a blush stained her cheeks. “Well, I mean, we can just go grab something really quick or—”

“Or you can stop trying to think of an excuse to not spend time with me, and let me take you to lunch.

“Let's not.” She lifted her hand. “Let's not go there, okay? Just leave it.” Her shoulders slumped just slightly — enough for me to know that the subject was that hard for her to talk about.

And it was my fault.

“Alright,” I said slowly. “Let's go, I know a place.”

“Oh yeah? The great Jaymeson knows a place? In Seaside?”

I smiled and wrapped my arm around her shoulder. “Just you wait, love, just you wait.”

Instead of getting into my car and driving somewhere, I decided it would be way more fun to walk and talk. Right, I know, you heard it here. Jamie Jaymeson had just grown ovaries.

True story.

I wanted to talk.

The last time I actually voluntarily talked to a woman without intentions of getting her into bed: kindergarten.

“I love this place!” Pris touched my shoulder and then walked up the stairs ahead of me.

My damn shoulder was in heaven.

“Come on!” she yelled ahead of me.

“Yeah, yeah.”

The waitress met us at the door. “Just sit wherever you want! I'll bring you some menus.”

“Seaside Brewery,” I read the sign. “Best beer in town.”

“Oh yeah?” Pris tilted her head. “What's it like?”

“What's what like?” I leaned forward, you know, to hear her better, it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I was trying to smell her perfume, or kiss her, or, you know, touch her face.

“Beer,” she whispered.

It was adorable.

I probably had the dopiest grin on my face, but I couldn't help it. Her innocence wasn't just shocking, it was invigorating.

It made me wonder what else she didn't know about, and it pissed me off that anyone else would dare introduce her to new things. It should be me. Only me.

“Like shit,” I answered honestly. “It's kind of like coffee.

“Really?” Her nose scrunched up.

“Really.” There went that damn grin again. Hold it together, man!

“So, it tastes like… wheat?”

I laughed aloud. The waitress brought us two dinner menus and placed them on the table. “No, love, it doesn't taste like wheat.”

“Grain?” Her nose scrunched even more.

“It tastes like…” I paused. “Tell you what. I'll let you taste it.”

“No!” She put her hands out in front of her and whispered, “That's illegal.”

“Holy shit.” I covered my face with my hands and laughed.

“I seriously want to take you home with me, and not in the way you're thinking — I mean, yeah, that's crossed my mind several times.” Her eyes narrowed. “Oh please, I'm still me.

“I'm just saying, you're so damn adorable. Remind me why we can't live together?”

“You're a whore.”

“Please.”

“It's a sin.”

“Come on.”

“You'd die without sex.”

“I'm not that weak.”

“I'm eighteen.”

“Low blow.”

She gave me a saucy grin and picked up her menu. “So what's good?”

“Everything.” I licked my lips. “Every damn thing. And I'm getting you beer. Actually, I'm getting me beer and praying I don't get arrested for letting you taste it.

“And if I were you, I'd go for the fish and chips. You can never go wrong with fish and chips at a pub.”

“Sold.” She dropped the menu and reached for her water. I'd be lying if I said I didn't watch her lips squeeze around the straw and feel that particular squeeze all the way down to my pinky toes.

The waitress walked up and took our orders. As promised, I ordered one of their Oktoberfest beers for Pris to try.

When it came, she stared at it.

“Love, it's not going to bite.”

“No, that's your job, right?” She rolled her eyes and smirked.

While I gripped the table so hard I'd probably wake up with splinters in each finger. Bite. Why the hell did I have to say bite?

My laugh was lame.

My body was tighter than a drum.

I released one claw from the table and scooted the beer over to her. “One sip. I don't think you'll like it, but everyone should try it once.”

“Okay.” She picked up the beer and sniffed it, then sniffed it again, then looked into the cup.

I rolled my eyes. “It's not a date. You don't have to check it out first, just drink.”

She closed her eyes and lifted the glass to her lips, taking the smallest sip known to humanity. And then her eyes opened, and she took another sip.

Her smile was wide as she set the beer down and laughed. “It's good!”

“What?” I swear to all that is holy, if that woman smiles at me one more time, I'm going to lose my mind.

“I, um…” There went that damn blush. Be ugly, for crying out loud! “I kind of like it.”

“Does this mean that I can introduce you to more brews in the future? Make a big deal out of it, have some taste testing?”

“Depends.” She seemed to retreat back into herself. “Are you going to invite more skanks to join in on the party?”

The arrow hit dead center. I leaned back in my chair and cursed, looking away, unable to actually make eye contact because the shame was that hateful.

“I'm sorry,” I said softly, still not looking at her. “I have no excuse for my behavior, only that I'm an ass. To be fair, you were warned.”

I stole a glance.

And wrong thing to say.

I backpedaled. “But that doesn't make it right, or better, or any less awful.” I reached for my beer and took another gulp.

“What?” Pris's eyes bore into mine. “To say what?”

“Sorry,” I whispered. “To say sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” She grinned. “And yes, I would love to taste more. It could actually be really fun. You know? As friends? I've never had a guy friend before.”

She was talking so fast my mind was having trouble catching up with what she was saying.

She just accepted my apology? No reprimand? No tears?

And what the hell? Now I was in the friend zone?

How? How did that happen? How had I let it?

Our food arrived.

I wanted to smash my face into it.

“So, how about it?” Pris reached across the table. “Friends?”

Hell no.

Never.

Because if I was her friend, I couldn't screw her. If I was her friend, I couldn't kick Smith's ass for stealing my girl.

My only excuse for reaching across the table and shaking her damn hand was because for once in my life…

The sacrifice was worth the reward.

If I didn't agree to it, I'd lose her.

And I wasn't ready for that.

“Sure.” I gripped her small hand in mine. “Friends.”