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Cara
“Come on, Wesley. Be a good boy for Mommy tonight.” I rock him, trying to get him down for the night. It’s an hour earlier than normal, but I’m guessing Jackson’s going to be home anytime, and I really wanted to talk.
Talk about us.
We haven’t really had time to delve into what’s going on between us. It makes it hard when there’s a baby constantly in our faces, getting more active and alert as the days go by. I know having a sexual relationship is going to be more difficult, but we’ve been having these glances between us since that day in the truck, and I want to try more. More of what? I don’t know, but I do know that we need to figure it out because these sneaky glances between us are making me hot and bothered.
I see him glancing at me when I get out of the shower.
I notice him watching me when I wake up in the morning, a yellow heat in his eyes swirling with the green. It makes an intoxicating concoction that I can’t tear my eyes away from.
I want him. I want him so bad. Just because we can’t have sex, doesn’t mean we can’t have other things.
We’ve been in this weird in between, where we kiss each other blandly, tearing away before it gets too heavy. Our touches linger a little longer than necessary, the electricity tingling its way up my fingertips and into my chest.
Then my chest quakes, and I swear his does too by the look in his eyes, but I can never be so sure. Because Jackson is, well, Jackson. And Jackson has the biggest poker face in all the land. I never can tell what he’s thinking, and since he’s gone back to his usual muted self, he hasn’t been one to delve into conversation or feelings.
It makes me feel alone, even lost at times. Lost in his silence and I’m afraid if I make one wrong move I’ll be trapped in this vessel of silence for the rest of time.
When my arm starts aching, I go to shift Wesley when I realize he’s asleep. “Holy shit,” I whisper. I’ve never, in the history of his existence been able to get him down before eight at night. He’s basically nocturnal, so this is fucking amazing.
Slowly as ever, I rock-walk him over to his crib that we’ve started using. I hope that he can at least make it a few hours before waking up to feed.
Every time the floor creaks or groans, I pause in my step and look wide-eyed down at Wesley, expecting him to be staring up at me with his big hazel eyes. Eyes that are a replica of his father’s. But he’s still asleep, his little mouth making a sucking motion like he’s dreaming about eating.
Probably is, actually.
When I get to his bed, I lay him down and cringe when he rustles, letting out a little whimper for a moment before falling back into his dream.
I hover over his bed for a moment, too afraid to move a muscle. When I feel like the coast is clear, I back up slowly, holding my breath until I walk through the doorway, closing the door but leaving in cracked open just in case.
I walk over to the kitchen counter, grabbing the baby monitor and powering it on moments before headlights appear through my front windows. The rumble of the loud engine tells me it’s Jackson, and massive butterflies start flapping their wings in my stomach.
Glancing down at myself, I cringe as I wish I would’ve put something a little sexier on. I didn’t know if Wesley would be asleep though, and I think Jackson would’ve wondered what the hell I was doing if I was waltzing around with Wesley in a short shorts and a tube top. No, this new mom is all about comfort in her sweats and tee sets.
But at least I got half ready. I put on one of my more revealing tank tops today instead of a t-shirt, and these black shorts might not be the sexiest pair ever, but they’re more like spanx and make my ass look fan-fucking-tastic.
When I hear the whirr of Jackson’s chair making it up the ramp, I walk over to the door and open it up for him. “Hi, that took a whi—holy fucking shit.” I slap my hand to my mouth and back away from him.
Covered in head to toe—and I mean that literally—is Jackson. Blank-faced Jackson, staring at me with his dead, soulless eyes. He looks like Carrie after she had blood spilled over the top of her head at the dance.
Completely covered.
“What happened?” My voice trembles uncontrollably along with my body. I’ve never seen so much blood, and I know without a doubt that person is very, very dead.
He shakes his head, closing the door behind him.
“Whose blood is that? Is everyone okay?” The thought that anyone that I know or care about being hurt makes my stomach flop. An instant ache forms in my chest and I have to bring my palm up to rub it away.
He sighs, already irritated with my questions. That’s too fucking bad, because coming home like that is not fucking okay.
“Jackson, answer me.” My voice is sharp as a whip as it lashes out and curls around him. His upper body tenses as he looks over at me.
“My father’s.”
I trip over my own feet as I walk backwards and land on the couch behind me. “R-R-Randall? I t-t-thought he was d-dead.”
He looks down at his hands, flipping them over from front to back. “He is.” He says, absolutely no remorse in his tone. Void of sadness or grief that he took his own father’s life. He doesn’t even see happy of the fact. He just… is.
