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7
Jimmy
Court, Day One
Ibutton my dress shirt and fuss with the straight pleat in my trousers. I hate these monkey clothes. I’m already tugging at the neckline. Already wiggling to get the stiff fabric to sit right.
I’m a fighter.
I wear shorts all day.
Rarely do I even wear a shirt or shoes to work, so this buttons, long sleeves, ties bullshit pisses me off before I even get to the shoes.
I bend my neck from side to side and groan at the pops as I stretch. Studying myself in the mirror, I pat down my shaggy hair and check my watch. I should’ve gotten a haircut. I’ve been adding it to my to-do list every day for a month. Longer, even.
And now it’s too late.
We’re going to a criminal trial today, I’d rather walk in there shoeless and shirtless, and I need a haircut.
Jesus, I’m a mess.
I roll my head and groan at the dull pain in my neck and shoulders. Sleeping in the Jeep is really fucking annoying. I’m not complaining. Not really. But still, I should’ve bought a damn bus and laid a mattress out along the floor.
Taking one last look in the mirror and fluffing my bitch hair, I head to the kitchen and make a protein shake. Cup in hand, I grab my wallet, phone, and keys, and head out to go see the love of my life.
Err, I mean Izzy.
Pulling into Izzy’s driveway a few minutes later, I park behind her new-old car. A semi shitty hatchback, it’s older than us, has more miles than my Jeep, and fading paint, but Bobby checked it out and took it to our mechanic. It’s safe and reliable.
Until she agrees to accepting help, I can’t force her into a better, safer, newer model. This will have to do.
I walk to her front door, and although I technically have a key, I knock instead. I don’t want to give her more ammo on theinvading her personal spacething. I mean, except for the whole overnight surveillance and the pending security system… I’m leaving her space alone.
She rushes around the house and mutters unintelligibly. I wish she’d slow down. I don’t want her to fall and hurt herself.
I stand with hands in my pockets and listen to the locks disengage. One. Two. Three. The door swings wide and her eyes turn from curious to a simple, ‘oh.’
“Jim.” She closes the door enough to cover her body – her still pyjama clad body. “Sorry. I thought it was Jon. What are you doing here?”
“I’m picking you up.”
“But, I have a car now.” She looks past me to the driveway. “I can drive myself.”
“I know. But I’d really like to drive with you. We can take your car, I don’t mind. But I’d really like to go with you.”
“Oh. Okay. Alright.” She moves back and allows me to step in. Turning to watch her relock it and blow hair out of her eyes, I finally get a full body view of her. Her hair is bed-messy. Her right cheek marred with a wrinkle from the pleat in her pillowcase. In an ugly brown gown and bare feet, I get why she hid behind the door.
She looks atrocious… in the most ridiculously endearing way.
She’s absolutely, devastatingly, heartbreakingly beautiful, and I’m tempted to simply scream at her. Demand, ‘Love me! Love me back, dammit. I can make you happy.’
But I don’t.
Instead, I study her beautiful bump. Her strong shoulders. Her still twerk-able ass. Ever since I was old enough for my dreams about her to change from innocent, running in a field with a puppy shit, to flat out, wacking off as soon as I wake, I’ve had to learn the art of willpower. No touching. No staring. No telling my best friend what’sactuallyon my mind.
My eyes follow the line of her body, down over the bump that’s surprisingly beautiful to me, to the long sexy legs that I’ve dreamed of having wrapped around me so many times, I doubt I’d even know what to do if I got my wish.
I’d choke on my tongue and die.
