All Jacked Up Read online

  Jack clears his throat, glancing at me as though he expects me to dart out the dog door like his fox. “Have you ever slept with someone of the same sex?”

  “No,” I answer, exhaling the breath I’d been holding. “Have you?”

  “That’s not my question to answer,” he says. “But no.”

  Laughing, I take the phone and read the next question. “Have you ever been in jail?”

  “No, and I’m not impressed with this game yet.” He takes the phone and clicks a couple of settings. “Ah, there we go.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Turned off the language filters.”

  “Oh.” My mouth turns dry. I grab my water and take a big gulp. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  Jack taps the side of his head. “I didn’t get through vet school because of my looks.”

  Though he could have, I bet. ‘Cause damn. He has that dimple on his chin, the dark blue eyes and bright white smile that can get a girl’s panties wet in about one point two seconds. Mine included.

  He looks down at the phone screen and grins. “How many blowjobs have you given?”

  “Um…” That one’s not worth answering, since my history of blowjobs is abysmal and practically non-existent. I take off my tennis shoes.

  “There we go,” Jack says with a wink. “Your turn.”

  I take the phone and read the next question. “If you could go anywhere, where would you go…on your honeymoon?” That might be the worst question I could ask him.

  He says nothing, just strips off his T-shirt and tosses it over the arm of the couch. “No shoes,” he says with a shrug and takes the phone from me again. He had come down from the shower wearing a T-shirt, athletic pants, and is barefoot. I wonder if he’s skipped the underwear too.

  I peel my eyes from his sculpted chest and its fine layer of dark hair. “Okay, then. My turn, I guess.”

  “Are you a fan of anal sex?”

  “Are you sure those questions are even on there?” I ask, reaching for the phone.

  He holds it out of my reach. “No you don’t. You have to answer first.”

  “Fine.” I take off my socks.

  Jack looks at my feet, a slanted smile on his face. “Let me guess, you have pantaloons, a corset, a shift, and some kind of chastity belt under there too.”

  “Ha!” I try to sound serious. “Maybe. Only one way to find out.”

  “Is there a quick play version of this? A move ahead five spaces question or something?”

  “Nope.” I take the phone from him, but he’d already tapped next so that his supposed anal question wasn’t up anymore. I decide to turn the tables a little. “Why are you so afraid of marriage?”

  He huffs a laugh. “What setting is that?”

  I shrug. “The deep, dark personal secrets setting.”

  “Hmm. I didn’t see that one on there.” Jack stands and pulls down his athletic pants. To my slight disappointment, he’s wearing black boxer briefs that show off the size and firmness of his package.

  A really fine package.

  He takes the phone and reads the next question. “What’s your favorite sex toy – big, buzzy, constraining, or whippy?”

  I grin. “Buzzy.”

  He frowns and hands me the phone.

  “You’ll have to step it up, Dr. Maddox, if you want to get me naked.” The next question is actually: Did you ever have a secret crush on a teacher? I think of another instead – because we’ve obviously veered off the game path into what-the-hell land. “What was your parents’ marriage like?”

  “Shitty.”

  I blink at him. “How so?”

  He shakes his head. “You didn’t ask for details, and you only get one question at a time.”

  “Fine.” I hand him the phone.

  He takes a cursory glance at the screen and raises his mischievous eyes to meet mine. “Did you have a crush on me in high school?”

  Heat climbs my cheeks. Should I tell him how many times I’d sat in the bleachers pretending to be studying, watching him while he practiced basketball, or the times I’d carefully chosen my seat at lunch so that I could catch glimpses of him laughing with his friends? I had forgotten how it felt until now – being invisible, overshadowed by the popular girls. It made me feel small, worthless.

  If I’m going to do this, though, I have to grow a virtual pair. I sit up and take off my tank top. Goose bumps prickle across my skin. I still have on my bra and shorts, but feel totally naked already.

  “Oh my, Miss Price, did you really have a crush on me?” Jack asks, eyes scanning my breasts as though he can’t wait to feast on them. He hands me the phone.

  I take another drink of water, trying to quench the desert that is my mouth. Staring at the screen and the innocuous question, Did you ever steal anything from a store?, I know I shouldn’t release the question on my tongue, but it comes out anyway.

  “Did you ever notice me in high school?” I slowly lift my gaze from the screen to see his reaction, and though I know the truth, part of me wants to hear a lie – that yes, he noticed me, and just never spoke to me because he was too nervous.

  Jack averts his eyes, inhales, and lets it out slowly through pursed lips. He stands and removes his boxer briefs. His dick bounces like it’s ready to spring into action. He stands there, straight and still, while I’m left staring at this magnificent specimen of man. But the longer I stare, the more his unspoken truth scares up all those horrible things I’d felt back then.

  Of course he’d never noticed me. I doubted he’d even noticed the horrible bullying I’d endured from his younger brother. If he had, he sure hadn’t intervened. No, Jack was too busy dating buxom blonde cheerleaders to ever notice the overweight, acne-faced, braces-wearing girl that I was back then.

  And just like that, the mood is shot. I couldn’t even fake an orgasm now if I had to. I stand from the sofa, grab my tank top, and put it back on.

  Jack gives me a questioning look with a hint of shame darkening his eyes. “You won. Game over. You can do what you want with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say hoarsely. “I’m not feeling well. I need to go.”

  I don’t bother with my socks, just stick them in my purse, and slip my feet into my shoes.

  Jack picks up his boxers and puts them back on. “Look, I’m sorry if I said something that…”

  “It’s fine. I’m just not sure if this is such a good idea. It’s kind of…I don’t know…sudden.” He’ll hate me now, call me a tease or a blue baller.

  But he doesn’t say any of that. His face turns somber, his voice quiet. “I can drive you home.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nods, slips his clothes back on, and heads upstairs. I follow, stifling tears that burn the corners of my eyes. I don’t know if I’m stupid for agreeing to a sex-only relationship or more stupid for not being able to go through with it. Most women would have jumped on the chance to sleep with Jack Maddox.

  I’ll have to make a counseling appointment with Leigh and figure it all out. But I can already imagine what my best friend will say: “Girl, you done messed up.”

  Chapter Three

  Avery

  Sitting in my car where I’d left it in front of the coffee shop, I start the engine and crank up the A/C. It’s hot as hell, hotter still with my pulse still racing from my utter failure as a sex goddess. Jack’s scent clings to my clothes, wafting up in the hot breeze from the air vents.

  I dial up Leigh before I think twice about it. Forehead on the steering wheel and phone to my ear, I wait for her to answer.

  “Hey, Ave! How did your coffee shop date go?”

  “It was… Well, that part was okay, I guess.”

  “You guess? Okay, what happened? Was he a jerk?”

  “No, not at all, but…”

  “But what?’

  “Well, he… We came to sort of an agreement.”

  “What kind of agreement?” Her voice is heavy with suspicion.

  I sc
rub a hand over the nape of my neck. It’s sweaty. Everything’s sweaty. “It’s nothing much…”

  “Avery.”

  “All right, fine, Miss Counselor. Sometimes it freaks me out that you know me so well.”

  “That’s my job.” Leigh laughs. She’s a fantastic counselor and my BFF since we were kids. Of the two of us, we both expected me to be the one hopelessly in love first, but instead it was Leigh. She’d fallen hard for Deputy Jesse Maddox, of all people, and by all appearances, he seems just as smitten with her.

  “So, was he just as hot this time as he was at the speed-dating thing?” Leigh asks, pulling me back into our impromptu counseling session.

  “Hotter.”

  “And what did you do after coffee?” She has this tone that is eerily able to coerce information out of the most troubled of individuals. I’m probably way up there on that list.

  Sighing, I answer, “We went to his place.”

  “Oh. What happened then?”

  “We, um… I met his roommates?”

  “Roommates? Who were they?”

  “Animals, actually. He takes in discarded exotic pets. It’s really sweet.”

  “That is sweet. Then what happened?”

  “We played Truth or Dare.”

  “And?”

  “And…it didn’t go well.”

  “How so?”

  “We were supposed to…well, end up naked and you know, get busy, but…”

  “But what?”

  “I chickened out.”

  “Had you agreed to sex beforehand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. And was this a sort of friends with benefits arrangement?”

  “Sort of. Less than that, actually, since we were never really friends.”

  “You agreed to a non-committal sexual relationship?”

  “Yes. And I chickened out – I remembered how he didn’t notice me in school, and one thing led to another, and I asked him to take me home. Or to my car at least.”

  “Ave, you know those kinds of arrangements very rarely come without consequences. Someone usually ends up hurt. Maybe it’s a good thing you backed out.”

  “Maybe. Don’t tell Jesse, okay? I don’t want any weirdness between them.”

  “What happens in our sessions stays in our sessions.”

  “God, you’re annoying sometimes.” My phone buzzes. I take it away from my ear, hoping to see a text from Jack. Nope – it’s Glen with a text that reads: We have to do this! Knowing my assistant manager, that could mean anything from take immediate shelter to a sale at Shoe Carnival. “Hey, I gotta go. Can we take a raincheck on this conversation?”

  Leigh laughs. “Sure. Laters.”

  “Laters.”

  I pull up Glen’s text, which is followed by a link to an article on Country Brides & Grooms Magazine. I click the link, but the coffee shop’s Wi-Fi sucks and I’m too close to maxing out my data plan. Another fifteen bucks on the bill wouldn’t make most people blink. But fifteen bucks to me meant being able to pay a dry cleaning bill or shipping fees for out-of-town customers.

  I call Glen instead. He answers, “Hey, babe, what’s up?”

  “That’s what I should be asking you. What’s up with this text? What should we be doing?”

  I can barely hear him over the din of background voices and whirring machines. “…contest…fifty grand…wedding.”

  He had me at fifty grand. “Glen, for God’s sake, get somewhere quiet and tell me what’s up.”

  “Okay!” A few seconds later, the background noise lessens to a dull roar. “Okay, so as I was saying, I got an email for this contest in Country Brides & Grooms Magazine. Fifty grand to one bridal shop for the best outfitted wedding.”

  “Really? But we’re just a small shop…”

  “That’s just it – it’s for small businesses in small towns like ours. You don’t have to worry about David’s Bridal showing you up.”

  “This is amazing. What else did—?”

  “Sorry, I have to go. Our macchiatos are ready.”

  “Glen, you seriously have a Starbucks addiction.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sign me up for the support group. See you tomorrow, Ave.”

  I stick my phone in my purse and smile. Fifty thousand dollars would be enough to move out of that dilapidated shop and buy my own building. It’d be enough to expand my business to include photography, the one thing besides fashion I’m passionate about. That greedy jerk, Larry Crabtree, who owns my current building, can take his ever-increasing rent and shove it.

  There happens to be a great place across town which was once Two Sisters Cupcakes before said sisters moved their business to Main Street, where my current shop now resides. I’ve spoken to Paige and Morgan about buying it but haven’t had the funds.

  Wiggling in my seat from excitement, I put the car in reverse and start backing out of the parking space. If this contest pays off, I can buy their old shop, no problem, provided someone doesn’t beat me to it.

  A horn blares. I slam on the brakes, barely avoiding a worn-down pickup truck. Clarence Barnett, Beach Pointe’s resident alpaca farmer, yells something out his window. Probably a few choice obscenities I can’t hear over his engine. It roars and hiccups like an angry, drunk bear.

  “Yeah, yeah, move on, Old MacDonald!” I grip the steering wheel hard to avoid giving him a one-finger salute. When my heart stops trying to break through my chest, I pull out of the parking space and onto Main Street.

  Behind me, the train that crisscrosses downtown sounds its arrival, rattling along the tracks on its way to wherever it goes. It’s all a little too much. Loud noises and stressful situations mess with my head ever since that freaking accident that landed me in a hospital with a traumatic brain injury. I need to get home, get into a warm bath – no, strike that – I need an ice-cold soda, some popcorn, and an evening of Netflix.

  I’d prefer an evening of Netflix with Jack, or simply an evening of Jack, but that’s not happening. Probably never will.

  ∞∞∞

  Back at my tiny apartment, in the complex lovingly dubbed “Millennial Towers,” I change into my pajamas and start up some microwave popcorn. Three minutes and a frosty bottle of root beer later, I settle onto the couch and reach for the remote on the coffee table, but it’s not there. Heaving a sigh, I set the popcorn aside and search under the couch cushions, under the couch, under the coffee table, under the end tables, under the entertainment center. I stomp into the kitchen and scour the counters, even the junk drawer. Head down and arms rigid, I march into the bathroom and search the sink, under the sink, the tub, even the toilet bowl. The bedroom produces nothing either. I don’t have a TV in there, or I could just lounge on the bed, popcorn and all.

  The remote is nowhere to be found. That’s one of the crappy aftereffects of a traumatic brain injury – I can’t remember where I put things, or what day it is, or whose wedding I’m supposed to be working on. I write everything down, put reminders in my phone, and depend on Glen way too much. He’s great about it, really, but I feel guilty putting that much responsibility on him. There are also the mood swings, the occasional inability to make decisions, and impulse control.

  That might explain my decision to have a sex-only relationship with a guy who doesn’t really care about me. And then my chickening out not long after.

  “Just lovely.” I push the power button on the TV, but with no way to pull up Netflix, I’ll have to settle for whatever stupidity is on basic cable. The laptop is in the shop, and I don’t own a tablet. I sure as heck don’t want to stare at my tiny phone screen all night.

  A smiling guy in a suit is handing out roses to women in evening gowns. One of them doesn’t get one and breaks into an ugly cry. Totally groan worthy. I hate The Single Guy with a passion. It’s nothing but a dolled-up cattle auction.

  I click the TV off. “Oh! Glen’s email. Um…where’s my phone?” Panic tightens my throat until I spot it on the couch by my popcorn. “Thank God.”

/>   I sink onto the couch again and pull up Glen’s text. I can deal with a Netflix-less night if I have a chance at fifty grand. Smiling, I click the link and imagine the look on my parents’ faces when my name shows up in Country Brides & Grooms Magazine as the best small-town bridal shop owner. I’ll have to make sure the newspaper gets wind of it, too, or my family will never believe me. The only big thing to decide is whose wedding I’ll have to shoot for the magazine. I can’t remember who’s on the calendar. I’ll look at the schedule later.

  Drumming my fingers on the armrest, I wait for the website to load. Finally! My eyes and smile widen as I scan the page and read aloud. “Fifty thousand dollars to one lucky small-town bridal shop owner…submit your photos by September 30…want to see what bridal experts wear to their own weddings…” I raise my head slowly, blinking a couple of times to let it sink in. “Their own weddings? What? No, I must have read that wrong.”

  I scan the whole page with laser-beam focus, something else I find difficult thanks to my banged-up head. No, it becomes clearer with every word. The contest is for bridal shop owners’ weddings.

  I text Glen, messing up every other letter because my hands are trembling so badly. It’s fr oners!!! Ownrs!

  He replies a few seconds later. Simmer down, Ave. What are you freaking out about?

  The contest. It’s fer onners only. Briddal shoip owners getting marries, not their clients.

  Are you drinking?

  No, but I needone bed.

  Forget it. I can’t type for shit right now, so I call him up instead. As soon as he says, “What’s –,” I let in on him.

  “Damn it, Glen. That contest is for bridal shop owners getting married. I’d have to get married. You understand the problem here?”

  He’s quiet. I can hear Jeff in the background, yelling, “Dinner’s getting cold, sweetie! I didn’t spend an hour on this pad thai to eat it cold.”

  “Just a sec! You always put too many peanuts in it anyway,” Glen yells back.

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not happy right now.”

  “Uh, yeah, I gathered. I must have read the email wrong. I’m sorry. It was half off macchiatos at Starbucks. We were in line for almost an hour. It was a madhouse.”