Lead (Stage Dive 3)

“Let’s,” he said in his deep voice.

# # #

Four days later …

“Lena, you seen my old black Led Zep shirt?”

“Nope.”

“You sure?” His brows became one dark cranky line. The scratches on his face were healing well, thank goodness. Though it didn’t reduce my desire to throttle his mother on a daily basis.

“Yes. I haven’t seen it.”

“Can’t find it anywhere…”

“And this is a surprise, how?” I slipped my hands into my back jean’s pockets. “Jimmy, you own more clothing than Cher, Brittney, and Elvis, put together. Things are bound to go missing.”

“Sure you haven’t seen it?”

“For goodness sake, what do you think, Jimmy? That I stole it to sleep in or something?” I laughed bitterly. Sure as hell, the truth deserved a good mocking. I’d sunk so despicably low.

I hadn’t even meant to steal the stupid thing, but the shirt had been mixed up with my laundry a few days ago. It’d been the first top I laid my hand on after stepping out of the shower, ready to go to bed. Without thought, I’d put it on and it’d been so soft, the scent of him lingering beneath the laundry detergent. Every night since, I’d found myself in it come bedtime. My shame knew no limits. And no, I still hadn’t quit. The words still hadn’t come even close to leaving my mouth.

He frowned. “No.”

“That I have some deep secret longing to feel close to you resulting in my stealing your shirt like some creepy perv?”

“Course I don’t f**king think that,” he replied crankily, reaching up to grip the top of the doorframe. All of his bulging muscles stretched the arms of his white T-shirt in the nicest way. It was all I could do not to start drooling, my heart beat taking up residence somewhere down between my thighs. And who could blame it? Not me. Maybe if I got laid, this would go away and things would return to normal. It’d seemed safer to avoid rubbing up against any men just in case I got carried away and started dating again. This new situation, however, changed everything.

“Well, of course not! That would be crazy.” And wasn’t that the god’s honest truth? Cray-zeee. Lock me up and throw away the key because it wasn’t like I didn’t know better.

“Just can’t figure out where the hell it could be.”

Angels couldn’t have smiled as innocently. They might have tried, but they would have failed, the dirty-mouthed, winged, little liars. “Jimmy, I don’t know where it is. But I’ll look around for it later, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, and then added as an afterthought, “and stop looking at me weird.”

“I’m not!”

# # #

Six days later …

“No, c’mon,” he cried. “I saw that. That was a look.”

“What?”

“You looked at me.” His pointy threatening finger sat beneath my nose.

I smacked it away. “I’m not allowed to look at you? Really? Is this like one of those strange directives you hear about famous people having? No one’s allowed to talk to you or look at you, and there must be bowls of chocolate pudding everywhere you go from now on?”

His eyes narrowed.

I might have felt a smidgeon of guilt deep down inside. But this was about survival, I had no choice.

“I’m not on anything and I’m not gonna flip out again,” he muttered.

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“So then it’s not me, it’s you.”

Sirens and alarm bells rang inside my head. “What are you even talking about?”

“Deny it all you want, but I’m right. Something’s going on with you,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t know what the f**k it is. And I don’t want to know. I just want it to stop. Got it?’

“Jimmy, seriously, nothing’s going on.” I wound up my long hair and tied it into a loose knot, keeping my hands busy less their shakiness betray my guilt, the bastards. “And have you called David back yet? He called again. I’m getting tired of making excuses for you.”

“I’ve been busy.” He turned his back on me, staring out the window. “And I pay you to make excuses for me.”

“I think I’m going to start charging you extra for lies. Someone needs to pay for the stain on my soul.”

No reply. His broad shoulders seem to be bent beneath some weight, his spine bowed. Not good. This was a mood I apparently couldn’t joke him out of.

“You know you’ve been really tense lately,” I said. “Why don’t I book you a massage? Wouldn’t that be nice? And then afterward, we could chill out and watch some TV.”

He watched me over his shoulder, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Sure, sounds good. I’m going for another jog.”

“It’s raining.”

“I won’t melt.” Without further ado he left, disappearing into the hallway. He was right of course, something was going on with me. What was going on with him and his brother concerned me much more.

# # #

Seven days later …

“You’re doing it again!” Jimmy stopped mid push-up, sweat dripping off his handsome face. “I’m not imagining it. You’re f**king doing it again.”

“Hmm?” I replied calmly, sitting at the kitchen counter. Black-and-white Italian marble because only the best would do for Jimmy. His house was expensively, luxuriously austere to a fault. Three levels of stark grey walls on the outside and black-and-white décor within. It basically looked like a post-modernist had thrown up in here and the decorator decided to call it a day. As if a splash of color would kill anyone. I was half-tempted to start buying obnoxiously bright rainbow-colored accessories, cushions, and a vase or two, and leave them around the house in protest just to see what he’d do.

“You are looking at me weird all the time.”

“No, I’m sorting your email. A different thing entirely.” I pried my gaze off his hot (in every sense of the word) body and returned it to the laptop. “Oh, look. Lingerie Girl has sent you another picture. A demi-bra this time, hot pink with tassels. I think the tassels are a nice touch. She’s even attached a video of her making them swing. Such a thoughtful girl.”

“Delete it.”

“But what if she says something important?”

“She’s a complete stranger sending me pictures of herself nearly na**d dancing and bending over furniture.”