Chapter 11: DAMON - A Very Good Bad Idea

I was bored out of my mind.

If I had to give an answer for why I did what I did, and said what I said next—that would be the best reason I could offer.

“Take your shirt off.”

But . . . it wouldn’t be the only reason.

And Jade does not disappoint. “Go fuck yourself with a King Kong dildo.”

“It’s the only way you’re getting the lotion. Take it or leave it, doesn’t matter to me.”

She starts to get all fidgety and agitated. It’s cute. Entertaining. And it gives me something to focus on that’s not . . . fucking nothing.

“You’re going to hell for this. Seriously, whatever circle of hell is reserved for enormous pricks—that’s where you’re going!”

I feel better already.

Well . . . part of me feels better. Another part feels like the enormous prick she’s accusing me of being—but I’m sealing that part up behind a mental brick wall. Because it feels good to engage, to debate, to harness the energy of the top-notch brain God gave me. It was close to liquifying from non-use minutes ago.

And Jade is a phenomenal sparring partner. She’s reactive. Sharp. An adversary who can match me move for move.

We’re in my room now, the room I relocated to after Jade irrevocably stunk up the last one. I start to turn away, bringing the coveted bottle of calamine lotion with me. “So, is that a no?”

Her green eyes glow bright with frustration—and murder. “You’re such a bastard.”

I chuckle. “Agreed—but that’s completely beside the point.”

“And a perv! A sexual harasser!”

I point at her. “Now, that’s not true. This has nothing to do with sex. And even if it did, between your yoga outfits and practically nonexistent nightwear, it’s nothing I haven’t already seen.”

“Then why don’t you just give me the damn calamine, let me put it on and give it back to you?”

“Because I’m not gonna risk you sabotaging it with cyanide or salmonella or a flesh-eating bacteria that your evil dictator-in-training of a brother probably has biologists growing in a lab somewhere.”

She tries looking wounded, but she’s not good at it. “You think I’d do that?”

My eyebrows lift. “Wouldn’t you?”

She holds out for another second, then caves to reality. “Probably.”

“I rest my case.” I tilt the bottle back and forth teasingly. “What’s it gonna be, Jade?”

She inhales slowly, her chest rising. Then she growls. “Okay, fine. Whatever.”

Excellent.

But as she reaches for the hem of her black shirt, my voice stops her. “There’s just one other catch . . .”

Can’t make it too easy—where’s the fun in that?

“You have to say please.”

“Are you joking?”

“Not even a little.” I take a step closer to her and my voice drops lower. Softer. Even as I give a command. “If you want it, ask me to give it to you. Nicely.”

Okay, now I really am just being an asshole. But that’s the way of the world—those with the power get to be assholes sometimes. And she’s a Buchanan. It’s not like her old man—and Jade, by extension—didn’t have it coming.

Karma exists. Such is life.

“I hate you.”

“We’ve established that. It’s old news.”

“Why? At least tell me that, Burke. Why go through this charade?”

It’s not something I contemplated deeply—I’m shooting from the hip here, living in the moment—and the order just came out.

So I scrape my teeth across my bottom lip and tell her, “Because I want you to. I want to hear you say it.”

And that’s the God’s honest truth. It’s a shock when I realize it—a little rattling—but no less of a fact. I want this. Really fucking badly.

More than I want to debate her, or toy with her, piss her off, or even win this round, I want Jade Buchanan to look those stunning green eyes up into mine . . . and say please.

I go quiet. I don’t move a muscle. I don’t even breathe. I wait as she teeters on the razor’s edge of indecision. And in the gulf of that waiting, the atmosphere around us grows thicker—heavy and pulling.

Jade’s breaths are shallow now, her nostrils flaring slightly, her cheeks a pretty, pretty pink. Her chin dips just slightly and her shoulders soften, but her gaze holds mine—challenging and unconquerable. And that contrast, the stubborn steel of her that refuses to bend no matter what—that makes her whisper-soft words even sweeter.

“Can I have the lotion, Damon? Will you give it to me? Please.”

The air tears from my lungs and through my parted lips in an almost whistling rush.

Jade grips the bottom of her shirt with delicate hands and lifts it over her head, slowly exposing the taut, pale expanse of her abdomen, marred by a handprint-size, glistening red rash below her left rib cage. Her bra is shiny satin and violet. It cups her breasts at the outer curves, creating a deep line of cleavage and two swells of porcelain globes that look too perfect to be real. Jade’s nipples are two prominent beckoning peaks, poking at the satin. And I wonder if she’s getting off on this.

If she is, she’s not the only one.

My heart pounds in my chest as I pick up a cotton ball from the desk, saturate it with the lotion, and press it to her flesh. Jade gasps at the cool contact—and my body reacts with a vengeance. My neglected cock stirs and lengthens, and a heavy wanting weight settles in my groin. I started this part of the game. This . . . distraction. But I can feel control of it slipping from my grasp with every slide of the cotton across her skin, the drag of my fingertips not touching, but so achingly close.

The only sound in the room is our shared breaths as I meticulously cover the spot on her torso and forearm, and higher along her bicep—coating Jade in layers of fresh thick liquid that dries to an ashy white. And images course through my mind in vivid, decadent detail.

Because dirty and wrong beats the hell out of nice and clean any day of the week, and twice on Sundays. And every single thing about this moment between Jade and me feels dirty and wrong in the very best way.

My voice is rough when I ask, “Are those the only spots?”

“It’s on my back too.” She half turns, lifting her hair, revealing the back of her neck and the sculpted silhouette of her shoulder blades.

I pour more pink liquid onto the cotton ball and drag it over the raised angry rash.

And I have to force my eyes to focus on the task at hand. To not slide lower, down beneath where the material of her jeans curves out from her waist, for an unhindered glimpse at the promised land of her supple ass.

“That actually feels a lot better,” she claims indifferently. “Totally worth it.” Then she half-chuckles. “This rash is so gross.”

I clear my throat harshly. “Yeah. That’s the word that came to my mind too.”

Did I come out on top of this exchange? I’d say yes. It’s a point in my column—I called the shots, Jade did what I told her. I should feel recharged and reinvigorated. And yet . . . as she slips back into her shirt, walks over the threshold of my doorway and out of my room—my limbs and bones, my resolve, resilience, and focus—feel weaker for it.

• • •

JADE

Ignoring things is a forgotten skill—and a fabulously effective coping mechanism. Discomforting incidents that breed unsettling desires or unrealistic wants are best not analyzed. That’s the talent I utilize to banish the memory of “Burke and the calamine lotion” to the deepest reaches of my unconscious. I don’t recall the heated intensity of his gaze on my bared body or the pleasant pressure of his almost reverent touch on my skin. I refuse to remember the rhythmic sounds of our heavy breathing, or the way the blood rushed through my veins so rapidly it made my head go light, or the pulsing clench between my legs, or the tingling ache of my breasts by the time he was done with me.

I don’t think about any of that, at all.

And I’m rewarded for my effort when at last—finally—after what seems like two months instead of two weeks, it’s Piper-and-Ian day! I can say with one-hundred-percent certainty that I have never been as excited to see my assistant as I am right now.

She closes the gate behind her and starts up the walk, pulling a wagon that’s bursting with supplies behind her. Precious runs in manic circles around her, barking like the delighted little lunatic he is.

I push past Burke at the entryway with misty eyes and throw myself into her arms. “I’ve missed you so much, Piper.”

She giggles at first, squeezing me tight for a moment and running her hand down the back of my head. Then her protective nature takes over and she hisses behind me, “What in the name of glitter and chaos did you do to her?”

I hear Burke’s garbled reply that sounds something like, “Nothing she hasn’t done right back.” And the scent of Jersey Joe’s classic Italian sub fills the air. Every resident in Shore Haven could identify that smell blindfolded, and I turn around to see Burke biting into the legendary oil-and-red-wine-vinegar-soaked sub like he hasn’t eaten in . . . well . . . in about ten days.

My own stomach roars like a bear coming out of hibernation.

I pull back from Piper’s embrace, eyes wide and probably half-savage. “Did you bring it?”

It needs no further explanation, and with a quick nod, Piper reaches into the wagon and withdraws a pristine white paper bag. I grab it out of her hands and rip it open, popping off the clear lid on one of five plastic containers, ignoring the thoughtfully placed wasabi and ginger, to grab a handful of spicy tuna roll—shoving it into my mouth. I moan when the phenomenal flavor hits my tongue—chewing loudly and gobbling down another piece in record time.

Because manners have left the building.

After I finish off two containers of fresh sushi, Piper helps me carry my supplies up to my room. Burke and Ian walk to his wing of the house, carrying black garbage bags filled almost to the breaking point with whatever hellish plans Damon has in store for me next. The rumble of their conversation carries down the hall, but their voices are too low to make out actual words. So I focus all of my attention on Piper. I quickly give her a status update on how Burke and I destroyed each other’s food, that the refrigerator is out of commission, and that I’ve yet to find a successful strategy to get the son of a bitch out. Then I soak up every crumb of news from the outside world: work, the goings-on at the office, international events, and celebrity gossip. It’s a jam-packed info dump where Piper barely takes a breath between sentences and I relish every minute.

Now I know what a prison visit must feel like. All that’s missing is the plexiglass.

And it seems to end just as quickly. After the supplies are delivered, Piper and Ian don’t get to stay. Because those are the rules.

Twenty minutes later, my happiness at seeing her turns to a lead ball of sad in my stomach as I stand on the porch and Piper steps out onto the sand beyond the gate. She turns back to give me a happy wave and an encouraging thumbs-up. I watch her retreating form with Ian beside her, and they head down the beach until I can’t see them anymore. I guess that expression is true: You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.

Clara talked about it at one of our Sunday brunches. It’s human nature, Jade. The days go by quick and the years even quicker. Always so busy. We don’t take the time to notice the specialness all around us. The gift of uniqueness. The way the sun sparkles on the water, the dance of two seagulls in the air, the breaths of the person you love sleeping beside you, the feel of their hand over yours, the lilt of their voice and the joy of their laugh. We don’t truly appreciate something—someone—until they’re taken away.

You’d think that would be a lesson I learned already, but I never really had the time to think about it before now.

I head inside to the kitchen where Burke’s sitting at the table, working his way through another sub. It looks like roast beef and provolone, and I make a mental note for Piper to bring me a three-footer on her next supply run.

I pull out the chair and sit down across from him, back straight and eyes narrowed—the same stance I’d take with a corrupt code officer trying to screw me around. “We need to make a truce. An agreement.”

He chews his latest mouthful thoughtfully, before swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing. I’ve got a thing for men’s necks. There’s something incredibly arousing about them—so vulnerable, but sturdy—with strong tendons beneath sensitive skin and the perfect scattering of rough, scraping stubble. Damon has a great neck.

“About?”

I pull my gaze up to meet his. “We can’t sabotage each other’s food again. That has to be a red line.”

“How do I know I can trust an agreement like that?”

“The same way all world powers do—mutually assured destruction.”

He shifts his jaw, thinking it over. “Not good enough. I need you to swear.”

“Swear?” My face scrunches with uncertainty. “What am I supposed to swear on?”

“Something that means the most to you.” He wipes his mouth with the napkin and bunches it into a ball on the table. “For example”—he raises his large hand—“I swear on my parents’ souls not to screw with your food.”

“On their souls?”

Burke shrugs. “I’m Catholic. We’re all about swearing on souls.”

It takes a second to come up with an answer. “I swear on my inheritance not to mess with your food.”

“And you’re a Buchanan,” he replies dryly. “All about the cash.”

I pop another piece of sushi in my mouth with one hand and flip him off with the other.

There’s a challenge in Damon’s eyes as he extends his hand across the table. “And now we have to shake on it.”

I hesitate for a moment, distrusting him. But I refuse to show weakness, so I place my hand in Burke’s and shake. His palm is smooth and warm around mine. Our skin slides together, melding, and the contact jolts me. Because it feels electric, possibly dangerous—like a set demolition charge just waiting to blow.

• • •

I sleep pretty well that night—my stomach satiated on copious amounts of rice, seaweed, and raw fish. Burke must be in a food coma too, because my slumber is uninterrupted. I’m not pulled to wakefulness by fireworks or the sensation of crawling insects.

But what does wake me in the morning is the cold.

The air is chilly, the draft that whistles in from the window frame is crisper, and despite the warmth that still emanates from the radiator, goose bumps ghost across my skin. I sit up in bed with a shiver, pulling the covers over my shoulders and blinking bleary-eyed at the vision of sparkling frost dusting the outside of the windowpanes, like the sugar-coated gingerbread house in Hansel and Gretel’s forest.

The temperature has dropped outside, a Jersey Shore cold snap—maybe a polar vortex.

It’s not uncommon for this time of year, and it shouldn’t be an issue . . . except later in the afternoon, the boiler starts making extra-loud clinking-clanking noises. Around three o’clock, it coughs up billows of sulfury black smoke that seeps under the basement door and coats the kitchen in a gray haze. It’s a last gasp—a death rattle, if you will—right before it goes still and silent and completely stops working.

And just like that, the house has no heat.