To Each Her Own Page 12

  As if that explained or excused anything.

  With his free hand, Jay tipped her chin up so she had no choice but to look at him. “Darlin', you can do better.”

  Her eyes filled with a sadness and hopelessness that made his heart ache. “I'm sure Trynt would disagree,” she said dryly.

  Jay leaned closer to her and slid his fingers into her silky hair, stroking her delicate jaw with his thumb. She smelled like spring and apples, and her skin was like satin. He was almost close enough to kiss her. His heartbeat kicked into overdrive, pumping endorphins into his system. Voice thick with need, he locked his gaze onto hers and said, “Trynt's a fucking idiot.”

  Her eyes went all sultry, and she leaned closer to him, making him think she wanted the kiss as much as he did.

  Just as he closed his eyes, anticipating that her lips would be as soft and inviting as they looked, she put a finger to his mouth, stopping him. “Careful, Jay,” she said in her smoky voice, then pulled back a little. When he opened his eyes, hers were trained on him, cool and direct. “Wouldn't want you to think I'm getting horny, now, would I?”

  Disappointment sluiced over him like a bucket of ice water.

  She got up, retrieved her crutch, and limped down the hall toward her room without even glancing back.

  It was cold payback, but nothing Jay didn't deserve.

  Chopper snorted, almost like he was saying, Way to go.

  Jay suddenly felt empty. He groaned and dropped his head back against the couch in defeat.

  * * *

  By the time Erin made it to her room, her hands were shaking and her knees felt weak. She made it to her bed and plunked down on the edge of it, setting her crutch on the floor.

  Jay had been sending out some serious pheromones, and her treacherous body had responded. Now it was like she was going through withdrawal. Being so close to him, touching his hand, feeding off his heat, had caused her blood to soar through her veins.

  Holy crap. She'd almost kissed him.

  She went through her mantra, telling herself over and over she wasn't attracted to him. He was blond. He was a wheeler. She was done with being a dev.

  For that matter, he was a guy. She was done with guys—at least in any kind of capacity that required feelings. She didn't need anyone. Her main goal in life from now on was to guard her heart and regain her self-respect.

  But part of her brain was calling bullshit on that.

  Tonight, she'd been drawn to Jay from the moment she saw him sitting on the couch—and it wasn't because she was getting off on his pain. It was because he'd been a striking figure sitting there, with his broad shoulders and his strong, handsome face limned in the glow from the TV. And then she'd noticed how tense he was and how drawn his features were.

  She'd hated seeing him hurting, and it had been obvious he was, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. She wanted to fix it, to ease it somehow. It was ingrained in her, a compelling need she couldn't control, not even after he'd insulted her. And that insult had fucking hurt. It had slashed through her like a knife, razor sharp and vicious.

  “Is the thought that I'm hurting making you horny?”

  No. The fact he was in pain didn't make her horny. It made her infinitely sad. It made her clench her fists and want to wince in pain along with him, to take some of the burden and bear it for him.

  He'd apologized. She knew he hadn't really meant to hurt her. She'd been around him enough to know he wasn't quite the ogre she'd originally thought, that he wasn't the type to intentionally hurt someone. It was probably the pain and exhaustion talking. That kind of constant pain could make anyone short-tempered.

  But still, he'd said it. It was an indication he still harbored an innate disgust toward devs, no matter how much he'd tried to act differently in the last few weeks. She would do well not to ever forget that, no matter the kind words he said or how seductive he could be.

  And why had he tried to kiss her? She wasn't sure. Maybe he was as conflicted as she was, caught between lust and principle. Whatever the reason, Erin refused to be some experiment, some way for him to sate his curiosity about devs, or even just an easy lay. She would save that for the next AB guy that came along, someone it would be easier to protect herself from.

  Jay was dangerous. He'd already hurt her—more than once—whether he'd meant to or not. What would he do to her if she opened herself up to him, let herself trust him? Closing her eyes, she pictured almost kissing him. They' d been so close—close enough to share each other's air. Her pulse surged, and she got a tight, urgent longing in the lower part of her abdomen at the mere thought.

  Her body burned for him, craved him, and the more she denied herself, the more she thought about him. Maybe she should just kiss him after all. Maybe it would be awkward and slobbery and nothing like what she imagined. Maybe he would say something hurtful again that would make her come to her senses and forget about him once and for all. One thing was for sure: She needed to do something to get him out of her system.

  Her body seemed to move of its own volition, her heartbeat pounding in her ears and overriding any protests from the rational part of her brain that told her this was one of the stupidest, most irrational ideas she'd ever had. As if under a spell, she crutched from her room in search of Jay and refused to let any more thoughts through, until she bumped into the back of the couch and it jolted her back to reality.

  The living room was silent and almost pitch black. Only a feeble amount of moonlight glowed through the sheer curtains at the windows, and there was no Jay.

  Disappointment and an aching loneliness swept through her, and Erin let out a long, deflating breath.

  He must have gone to bed while she was in her room. She'd been so busy freaking out about almost kissing him that she hadn't heard his chair roll by or the click of Chopper's toenails on the hardwood in the hallway.

  Gripping the padded handgrip of her crutch, she tried to smother her raging hormones, which still begged for Jay.

  Good Lord. She should be happy fate had intervened and kept her from making a fool of herself. This was a sure sign she should just stay away from Jay like she'd told herself a million times before—but, obviously, that was easier said than done.

  Chapter 14

  Panhead: Where have you been? It's been a while.

  emanomaly: Sorry. I started working again. Haven't had as much time to chat.

  Jay clenched his jaw in annoyance. Three times. He'd seen her three times since the almost-kiss three weeks ago. She'd gotten the go-ahead from her orthopedist to ditch the boot and crutches a week ago, and she'd immediately gone back to waiting tables at the bar.

  Jay didn't think her doctor would approve of her going back to work so soon, and he said so the one chance last week he had to talk to her. She'd insisted she could handle it, said her ankle was fine as long as she wore a brace. Judging by how badly she still limped, he wasn't convinced. She was still in physical therapy, for Christ's sake.

  But what really bothered him was that when he opened her bedroom door to let in Chopper in the mornings, she wasn't there and her bed hadn't been slept in. Where the hell was she sleeping? More to the point, who was she sleeping with? Surely she hadn't gone back to the douchebag.

  Jay wanted to know the answer, so he kept up the pretense and started typing.

  Panhead: I didn't know you weren't working.

  emanomaly: Yeah. I had to stop for a while. I broke my ankle in that car wreck I told you about. I was on crutches for twelve weeks, and I still have to wear a brace.

  Panhead: I thought you said it wasn't a big deal.

  emanomaly: Well, I guess the broken ankle kind of was. I had to have surgery on it to screw everything back together.

  Panhead: You sure it's okay to go back to work?

  emanomaly: Yeah. It's fine. And working gets me away from my roomie.

  Jay's heart plunged. She went back to work—too soon—just to avoid him?

  Panhead: Wow. You really must not lik
e this guy.

  emanomaly: It's not so much that I don't like him. I just need to stay away from him.

  Panhead: Why?

  emanomaly: He's trouble that I don't need.

  Panhead: Hmm. Vague much?

  emanomaly: Um, can we not talk about my roommate? Besides, he's not the only reason I went back to work. I need the money.

  Panhead: Oh, like that's a good reason.

  emanomaly: Yeah. Who knew? It helps pay for the little things, like food and electricity.

  Panhead: Right. So, have you heard from the douchebag again?

  emanomaly: No. Another relationship bites the dust.

  Panhead: Sounds like a good thing, to me.

  emanomaly: Yeah. I guess. I'm seeing someone else now, anyway.

  Fuck. Not that it came as a shock. Empty beds didn't lie. It wasn't like she'd been at a slumber party painting her toenails and doing karaoke every night.

  Jay raked his hands through his hair in frustration. She sure as hell didn't let any grass grow under her feet, did she?

  Then again, why did he care? He needed to get over this obsession with Erin. He needed to get out more, find another woman. Trouble was, now that he was acutely aware of the whole dev thing, he wondered if every woman he met who showed an interest in him was secretly attracted to his disability.

  He wasn't quite sure what to think of that. In fact, a part of him was angered and disturbed by it, the idea that no one but a dev would want him. But another part of him—the part that now knew and understood more about devoteeism—just shrugged it off. And if he was going to end up dating a devotee anyway, he wanted it to be Erin. Hell, even if there was a chance some girl who wasn't a dev might be interested in him, he still didn't think he'd want her.

  Jesus. He swallowed hard, taken aback by the realization. He wanted Erin and no one else. Period.

  emanomaly: You still there?

  Panhead: Yeah. So, you work fast. You going out with another AB?

  emanomaly: Yeah. No more wheelers, remember?

  Panhead: We're not all bad.

  emanomaly: You're not all good either.

  Panhead: Who is?

  emanomaly: True. So, what have you been up to? I feel like we always talk about me. I don't really know anything about you.

  You know more than you think, thought Jay. He was entering dangerous territory here and needed to be careful.

  Panhead: There's not much to tell.

  emanomaly: Ah, come on. At least tell me what you're thinking of the whole dev thing now.

  Panhead: I'm understanding it more. I've been lurking on the boards, reading what others say. I also have a friend who's dated a few devs.

  emanomaly: Do they still freak you out?

  Panhead: Some do, like the ones who are into S&M and want to dominate their gimpy partner and shit like that. And the ones who want to lick the footplate of my wheelchair.

  emanomaly: Ew!! No doubt, there's some crazy-assed ones, but I don't think they're the norm. I swear I'm not like that. And there's sleazy wheelers, too, you know. Did you see the guy who posted various pics of himself in his wheelchair with a boner?

  Panhead: That's not desperate or anything.

  emanomaly: It's okay if it was you. I won't judge.

  Panhead: You're hilarious. Sorry to disappoint you, but it wasn't me.

  emanomaly: Right. So what about you? You had any serious relationships?

  Panhead: Yeah. Long time ago, but nothing serious since my injury. Actually, I'm kind of interested in a dev now, believe it or not.

  emanomaly: Did you meet her on the dev website?

  Panhead: Not really. I met her through my friend.

  emanomaly: Just be careful. If your friend introduced you online, make sure the dev's not really a sixty-five-year-old man from Nigeria.

  Jay smiled.

  Panhead: I'm pretty sure she's not.

  emanomaly: Have you seen pics of her?

  Panhead: No. I've met her in person. She's beautiful.

  emanomaly: Wow. So it's gone pretty far if you've met her in person. I can't believe you're just now telling me!

  Panhead: It hasn't gone that far. She's made it pretty clear she's not interested.

  There was a long pause before she answered.

  emanomaly: Sorry. That sucks.

  Panhead: You're thinking I'm roadkill, aren't you?

  emanomaly: No.

  Panhead: Liar.

  emanomaly: Lol. I swear I'm not. Maybe you're just not her type.

  Panhead: I'm not giving up. And, for the record, I'm not roadkill.

  emanomaly: I wasn't thinking that! And it's good you're not giving up. Maybe she's just been burned like me. Maybe she's just gun-shy.

  Panhead: Maybe. I think there's still hope. I swear she almost kissed me the other day.

  Erin didn't answer, and Jay's pulse jumped. Had he said too much? Had she figured it out? Finally, to his relief, she started typing.

  emanomaly: How do you know she almost kissed you?

  Panhead: We had a moment.

  emanomaly: A moment?

  Panhead: She just had that look.

  emanomaly: Was she puckered up and making kissy noises?

  Panhead: No. But, you know. Sometimes you can just tell.

  emanomaly: Or you're delusional.

  Panhead: Or that. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

  emanomaly: Haha. Just teasing you. You should keep things in perspective, though. Don't waste your energy if she's not interested.

  Panhead: I won't. But she's worth a little effort before I think about giving up.

  emanomaly: Good luck, then.

  Panhead: Thanks.

  emanomaly: So, changing the subject, can I ask you a personal question about your injury?

  Panhead: Sure.

  emanomaly: What level is it?

  Panhead: T9 complete. Do you know what that means?

  emanomaly: No muscle function or sensation below the area just above your belly button?

  Panhead: Right. Why do you want to know?

  emanomaly: Remember I said I'm a writer?

  Panhead: Yeah.

  emanomaly: Well, I'm writing a novel, a mystery, and the hero is a wheeler.

  Panhead: Sort of like a gimpy Sherlock Holmes?

  emanomaly: Well, yeah. Kind of. Except he's American, it's set in modern times, and he carries a Glock instead of a magnifying glass. He's pretty badass.

  Panhead: Sounds interesting.

  emanomaly: His injury level is similar to yours—T10 complete. I was wondering if you'd take a look at it, tell me if I got anything wrong. I'm really hesitant about showing it to anyone, but I want it to be realistic, and I need someone to tell me if he's doing something that's not possible or if there's something he's capable of that I didn't think about.

  Jay was glad she was asking him to do this, but if she knew who he really was, there was no way in hell she would ask him to look at her writing. Jay Bontrager wasn't supposed to know she was writing a novel or that she was even a writer. She'd never shown him a glimpse of that part of herself in the three months they'd lived together.

  Guilt settled in his gut like a brick, and he blew out a long exhale through his lips. He should say no, give her some excuse and respect her privacy, but he wasn't that honorable—and he was curious.

  Panhead: Sure. I'll take a look.

  emanomaly: This is a big deal, you know. No one else has seen my work before. It's really hard for me to trust someone enough to let them see it. I'm very protective of it, but I'm to the point where I need input from an outsider.

  Panhead: I'm glad you trust me.

  He grimaced as he typed that.

  emanomaly: I don't know why, but I do.

  Panhead: It's that anonymous thing.

  emanomaly: Yeah. Must be. So, I'll e-mail it to you.

  Panhead: OK.

  emanomaly: And I need you to be honest and tell me what you really think. I won't freak out. I can take co
nstructive criticism, even if you think it totally sucks.

  Panhead: I'm sure it doesn't suck.

  emanomaly: Ha. Reserve judgment until after you read it.

  Panhead: OK. But I'm still sure it won't suck.

  emanomaly: BTW, if I do freak out, it's not like I know where you live, right?

  Panhead: Ha. Right.

  emanomaly: Gotta go. I'll send you the file in a sec.

  Panhead: OK.

  emanomaly: TTYL.

  Panhead: Later.

  * * *

  Erin attached her novel file to an e-mail to Panhead and hit Send. “Here goes nothing,” she muttered to herself, wiping her palms on her jeans. Just the act of sending him her novel made her sweat.

  She'd written other novels since she graduated from college, but this was the first one she'd ever thought might actually be decent. Then again, she was biased. This particular story was her blood, sweat, and tears from the last five years. It was countless nights of staying up until all hours of the morning after she'd gotten home from a gig with the band or waitressing at Lars—that is, when she wasn't too wasted to write.

  She cringed, thinking about the past week. She'd hardly written at all because she hadn't been home. She'd sort of taken up with the bass player for The Poonmatics, staying nights at his house so she could avoid Jay. Good for that problem, but not good for her career as a writer.

  She'd been thinking since Trynt made his nasty dig about her writing. He was right, even if he was an asshole. It was way past time she stopped being so neurotic and started doing something about getting published. It was probably a pipe dream, but she was still going to give it a try. She didn't want to serve beers at Lars forever.

  Letting Panhead see her work was the first step, like a Neil-Armstrong-walking-on-the-moon first step. It was that big of a deal to her. Why she was sending it to Panhead, she wasn't sure, other than she liked chatting with him and for some reason—and maybe this meant she was a complete idiot—she trusted him.

  Plus, it wasn't like she would ever have to face him in person, and his injury was almost identical to her protagonist's. Panhead's insights would be invaluable.

  She thought about Panhead, wondering for the millionth time what he looked like and what his real name was. He seemed intelligent and confident—not creepy or nerdy—but she was probably projecting. Maybe it was the pathetic romantic in her that imagined him to be totally hot. It wasn't completely farfetched, though. After all, she'd been right about Luis, at least in the looks department. She'd known he would be hot before she'd ever seen what he looked like. Too bad she was such a horrible judge of what he was like on the inside.