Page 19 of Best Man on Campus

“Are you sure you want me?”

“Don’t be a fuck-head.” She wraps her arms around my back and digs in her nails, holding me.

“Damn, Jazzy. Are you trying to draw blood?”

Her hands fly off me and she pushes at me. “No you bastard. Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.” Her panic is real now as she scrambles away from me. She’s such a fucking hot mess there’s no way this is happening. I don’t bother trying to hold her to comfort her since I’m her demon of the moment, so I get up from the flimsy pull-out couch, causing its springs to squeak and I wonder how it lasted beneath us this long.

“Where are you going?” She huddles with her arms wrapped around her knees, tracking me. “You don’t have to leave. Give me a minute to calm my shit.” She sounds calmer already, almost sane. What the hell am I doing with her? What am I trying to prove?

Am I doing more harm than good? Because the last thing I want to do is more damage to this clearly damaged girl. I heave a breath and decide sex isn’t the way to go no matter how fucking out of the world and restorative it seemed last night and this morning. Music is her thing, so I grab the guitar off her stand and bring it over to her, sitting on the edge of the mattress near her, not touching.

“Play me a song. I want to hear your sweet voice.” I add, “It’s the only time anything sweet comes out of your mouth.” She laughs and swats at me, disarmed for the moment as she takes the guitar and settles in.

“Any special requests, unicorn boy.”

“I’m back to a unicorn now?”

“Sure. You didn’t run screaming after I clawed your back. You get double points for that.”

I laugh and lean over and kiss her forehead without thinking, without expectations. She takes the affection valiantly, only with a screwed-up mouth like she’s a kid being forced to allow an old aunt to kiss her, distaste and impatience automatic. But she doesn’t hit me or swear at me, so I’ll take it.

She sings and plays her guitar, nothing I’ve ever heard so I assume she’s written it herself, or maybe she’s making it up in the moment. Amazed doesn’t begin to describe how I feel as I listen to the vibrating sonorous sounds of her voice and feel the emotion. While she plays she’s completely absorbed and I sense peace underneath the letting of pain in her words and the sad chords. One last strum and she opens her eyes, staring straight into mine as if she knew I was watching her.

“You let out all your true passion, all your emotions in your music.”

She struggles behind her closed mouth and I try to read her mind. Then she turns away and shrugs.

“You wrote the song, didn’t you?”

“Bingo.”

The sun is setting as we lie together in the remains of her bedding and the half-eaten pasta on the coffee table. We’re still half dressed and it’s time I left. Long past time, if I let reason and reality have a say. I hug her to me and kiss the top of her head. She pulls away, dismissing my affection. Climbing off the sofa bed, I pick up my pants from the floor and pull them on.

“Who said you could leave?”

I laugh. “You want me to wait for you to throw me out?”

“I like to be the one in charge of coming and going.”

“I got that.”

“You’re going to leave me with this mess?” She rises from the bed, her T-shirt with my number on it stretching across her breasts, defining her nipples, forcing me to squelch a groan and turn away. She puts her guitar on its stand and I pick up the dishes and bring them to her kitchen.

“Wow. Maybe you are a unicorn,” she says, following me. “I didn’t expect you’d actually help clean. Truth? I expected you to run about eighteen hours ago.” She’s not smiling. Neither am I.

“I want to see you again, Jazzy.” It’s true, but it implies I’ll allow it and I don’t know if I will. I know I shouldn’t. She’s a hot mess I can’t afford, the furthest thing from the kind of lighthearted fun in bed I’ve been managing. Exciting as hell. More challenging than any woman I’ve ever met. The exact wrong person at the exact worse time in my life. Even if I could save her from her demons. Which I know damn well I can’t.

She grunts a laugh and pushes me, grabbing up my jacket from the kitchen stool and shoving it at me. “Not happening.”

“Why not?” It’s automatic. I want to know why she’s so afraid. I shouldn’t give a crap, but I can’t help myself. I do give a lot of craps. She’s broken and beaten down, sure, but she’s whole and passionate and taking chances, putting herself out there with me, even scared shitless.

“Because I don’t believe in unicorns. Get the fuck out of here.” Her words lack their earlier sting, from the first and second time she wanted to throw me out. This time weariness soaks her voice as she shoves me backward to the door. I let her. I turn and open it, but I don’t want to leave like this after all. Turning back to her, I want to give her one last kiss, something positive, to end on a good note. But she stops me. With the scent of her lingering on my clothes, I catch her eyes.

The moment of vulnerable defeat, the misery I see, sears through my heart, through to that deep place in me that’s compelled to do something, the thing that makes me rescue kittens from trees. But she’s no kitten and where she’s stuck is more dangerous than a tree. She’s more like a wild tiger backed up against a rock facing down evil demons.

She slams the door in my face and it thuds closed. I stand looking at the scarred wood surface wondering where the fuck I go from here. Does she really want this to be the end or is she taunting me to fight for her? And should I do it? How much do I want her world of trouble and turmoil?

But where I need to go right now is back to BMOC House. Trotting down the stairs to my car, a ten year-old Jeep Wrangler. It takes a few beats for the cold air to penetrate my sex- and Jazzy-muddled brain. No way can I make a decision what to do about her until I get some distance.