Jackson: A Sexy Bastard Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

home.”
    “It’s fine. I . . . know someone.” His fingers fall away as I open the door and the damp night air rushes in. “Thanks for everything. At the club and all.” I pause. I know I’m rushing away, but I can’t have this kind of guy in my life: someone who doesn’t want to just eat and fuck and call it a night. It’s not what I need, not now, not ever.
    “The tacos were great, right?” I finally ask.
    “Yeah.” He looks conflicted, as though he might reach out again, try to draw me back in. “Yeah, they were great, Skylar. Thank you.”
    If he touches me, I’m done for.
    “Awesome.” I smile, hurrying my body out of the car. Hopefully I’ve managed to convey thanks , and goodbye , and it’s not you, it’s me . “Drive safe!”
    The door makes a satisfying slam behind me, and then I’m off, stutter-stepping between one sneakered foot and one bare foot until I’m far enough away. When I hear the engine start behind me, I stop to shove my foot back into the shoe and listen for the clutch to engage. I won’t turn around. I won’t look.
    Finally, I hear the crunch of gravel and the purr of the vehicle moving away into the night. My stomach clenches, but I straighten up and carry on.
    This is good. I got what I wanted: Adventure. Bragging rights. A body-rocking orgasm.
    And now I have a backpack full of dollar bills, too. All in all, a big win.
    So why do I feel like I just lost?

6
    Skylar
    W ell , this is awesome. I have to be at work—at my brand new job —in t-minus fifteen minutes, and I still can’t find my goddamned wallet.
    Digging under a pile of last night’s dirty clothes, I pull out my backpack, wrestle open the zipper, unceremoniously dump the cash out onto the floor, and start counting. Forty-seven one-dollar bills. That’s all the cash I have. Well, I might be able to round up to fifty if I add the partially used roll of laundry quarters on my nightstand.
    Glancing in the mirror, I rake a clawed hand through my freshly showered hair and review my options one more time. If I leave now and walk, I’ll only be about fifteen minutes late, but that might put me out of a job. I can call a cab, but I might be late anyway, and then I’ll be both out of a job and broke.
    Ultimately, I decide to combine the best of bad options: I’ll start walking and call a cab on the way. Snatching my keys and phone from the nightstand, I give the pile of dirty clothes one last kick toward the hamper and leave the apartment. Bounding down the stairs two at a time, I reach the front door and am just about to unlatch the deadbolt when I glance through the glass pane and stop cold.
    Jackson.
    He looks just as handsome as I remember, maybe even more so in the daylight. Sandy brown hair, broad shoulders tapering down to a lean waist. He’s wearing a navy suit—simple and neatly pressed, similar to what he was wearing last night—and he’s clutching a small item that I can’t quite make out. He stops, peers down at it, and then looks around, like he’s lost, or at the zoo, or exploring the moon. I guess Grove Park would be basically the moon to someone like him.
    What the hell is he doing here?
    “Hi.” I push out the door and hurry down the steps before he can come any closer. My first floor neighbors have a lovely little heroin habit. The last thing I need is for him to trip over a needle and stab himself in the knee.
    When he looks up, a hesitant smile spreads across his face.
    “I’m so glad I found the right place.”
    My body is careening toward him, but suddenly I stop cold.
    How did he find me?
    My mind reverses through the last eight hours, trying to remember if I saw any cars on my walk home, or anything weird at all. Could he really have followed me without my knowing? But if he didn’t follow me, how else could he know where I live?
    As if he can hear my thoughts, he holds up the object in his right hand.
    My wallet.
    “Oh thank god!” Before I process what I’m doing, I’ve