Jahleel (13 page)

“How dare you accuse me of—”

“Not accusin’ you of anything, Sassy.” Pausing, he slid his fingers back through his hair, “You know what, fuck this. I’ll fall back.”

“Okay, then.”

“Okay, then,” he echoed, pushing off his bike. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them in a ‘job complete’ gesture. “So, can I go now?”

He asked the question but was already swinging his leg over his bike.

I didn’t want him to go. I’d acted like a bitch when he was, for a first, being nice—a refreshing break from his arsehole side.

And even being pissed off and annoyed with him, I loved the feeling of him being near me. Also, I
needed
to make up with him, or Ferbie might hate me forever for chasing off his mate.

“No,” I answered.

Scoffing, he muttered, “Wasn’t really askin’, sweetie.”

Sweetie? Ew.
I hated that word as much I hated ‘baby girl’, and I figured he’d used it condescendingly, not as an endearment.

Pushing off from the column, I made the few steps it took to close the distance between us. Shamelessly, I curled my fingers around the bike handle as a non-verbal way of asking him to stay.

But as if I wasn’t there, he reached for his helmet from the other handle, his complexion a beautiful olive glow under the sun.

“What kind of bike is this?” I asked, hoping he’d answer.

Pausing his movements, he set the helmet down between his manly thighs, watching me without a word for several heartbeats. After a long moment of intense silence, his gaze fell to my lips and lingered. “Suzuki Hayabusa.”

“Oh,” I trailed my fingers against the cool metal, grappling for something else, anything else to ask.
What can I say to make him stay even a second longer?

“You give a shit about this bike, Sassy?”

Biting back a smile, I dropped my head and answered honestly. “No.”

Leaning in, Jahleel slid a finger under my chin and lifted my face up so our eyes met. “So, can I go now?”

As searing as his gold gaze was, I fought to hold it like a woman. “No.”

With a sigh, he dropped his hand from my face, turned his eyes from me, looking off at some imaginary oasis in the distance. His eyes narrowed as he seemed to wrestle with some decision, his wheels churning.

“Fuck it,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing up the helmet from between his thighs.

Thinking he was still going to leave, I moved in even closer, contemplating begging him to stay. But I was close enough now that he reached up and jerked the helmet onto my head, shifting my wild curls around so it fit snuggly.

Snapping down the visor, he ordered, “Get on.”

What? I looked back to the house—I couldn’t just leave.

“Take a risk, Sassy,” he dared, revving up the bike. “Get on.”

Fuck it
.

I pressed one foot on the side pedal and smoothly swung my other leg over, fixating it to the pedal on the other side. Bum sticking out, I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around his middle, ready to roll.

Jahleel glanced over his shoulder, “Didn’t even have to give you instructions. You’re the real deal, Sassy.”

Not quite.

When I was eighteen and a bartender back home, I used to fool around with an outlaw biker. Bad attitude, swore like a sailor, and loved having my arse perched out on the back of his bike.

But I preferred to let Jahleel think I was a ‘badass’, so I kept my trap shut.

He kicked up the stand, and took off with a jolt and a zing.

Thrilling!

Chapter Eight

J
ahleel rode around with me without purpose for half-an-hour, and I got the feeling he wasn’t sure just what to do with me.

While I could come up with a million things he could do, I enjoyed being pressed up against him while we rode at blink speed, life passing in a blur. So, I relaxed and revelled in the moment, because only God knows if his mood would be this good and tolerable the next time I see him.

One never knew with Jahleel Kingston.

Each time we stopped at a stoplight, he glanced over his shoulder to ask if I was doing alright, and being more than alright, I’d nod in reply.

We ended up in Union Square, where he pulled over at a Levi’s outlet on the corner of Post Street, parking at the curb. Getting off at the same time as him, I made to remove the helmet, but he stopped me. “Keep it on.”

“What?”

Without answering, he took my hand and tugged me off into the store—me looking like an idiot with this helmet on. He made a beeline to the back of the store, to a section of denim jackets. Releasing my hand, he fingered through a few options before selecting a denim jacket two sizes too big with a black cotton hood attached to the collar.

“Wait here,” he mumbled, slipping off through the clothing aisles to the cashier.

He returned with the jacket tossed over his shoulder and reaching up, he took off the helmet and handed me the jacket. “Put this on.”

Eying the jacket with disdain, I scoffed. “Pssh.”

Biting back a smile, he explained, “I wanna have a drink with you.”

“So have a drink with me.”

An eyebrow winged up. “Do you want your picture blasted all over entertainment news with some lowly dancer?”

“You’re not—”

“Okay,” he cut me off. “Do you want it out that you’re sneaking roun’ with Tiara’s guy? She idolizes you, you know. It wouldn’t look right.”

A slap to the face. All I could do was stare at him open-mouthed, as he stared back at me, pokerfaced. Again, he was being a dick just for the sake of being a dick. No reason behind it.

There had never once been any kind of gossip linking JK to Tiara, so, clearly, he liked toying with me. It was him who didn’t want to be seen with me, for whatever reason. Protecting me, or protecting himself?

“
Are
you Tiara’s guy?”

“Next question,” he responded without so much as a blink.

Arrgh!

Fists clenching, I resisted the urge to punch him straight on the forehead and grabbed the jacket from him instead.

“This isn’t even going to fit,” I grumbled, angrily fisting my arms through the sleeves.

As if he was used to people moving when he moved, he stalked off, saying, “That’s the point.”

Like an obedient disciple, I followed as he made his way back out of the store. “It’s not even sexy. I look stupid.”

Jahleel suddenly stopped walking, and I slammed into his back. He pivoted to face me, “You’re not that girl.”

“What girl?” I asked, still peeved.

“The one who tries at being sexy.”

Another slap. “So you’re saying I’m not sexy, then?” I shouldered past him. “Gee, thanks.”

Grabbing my arm to stop me, he spun me back around to face him. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Tell me, then.”

“What I meant was…you’re a natural. And your rawness breeds this rabid attraction in…” Pausing, he shifted on his feet, or more like squirmed, “You have no idea, do you?”

Still unsure whether he meant I was sexy enough for him, or if he just admired my non-girly style, I pushed, “Tell me.”

He caught his lower lip and pulled it between his teeth, staring at me with this ‘
I can’t believe you’re that clueless’
look. Which I was—where he was concerned. I needed to hear the words clear and straight from his lips:
‘Sassy, you’re fucking hot, and I want you.’

The muffled sound of DMX’s ‘
What these Bitches Want
’ went off between us, and Jahleel frowned as he dipped in his pocket and withdrew his phone. “Yeah?…Shit.” He glanced at his Richard Mille. “Aw man, I lost track of the time. Go ahead and start without me. Warm ups, then go over the routines with them….yeah…be there soon.”

When he ended the call, I shot him a look of revulsion. “Are you kidding me?
That’s
what you have as your ringtone?
Seriously
? Could you be anymore obnoxious?”

“It wasn’t me,” he protested, still frowning.

“And now you sound like Shaggy,” I murmured.

Jahleel barked out a startled laugh, and I bit back a smile. I loved when he laughed.

“Trust me. It had to be Krissy. She’s the only one who knows my password. She pulls shit like this all the time,” he explained, returning his cell to his pocket. “Look, I forgot I had a two o’ clock today. So drinks are off. Gotta make a quick stop by my house for somethin’, then drop you home, okay?”

“I can’t come with you?”

“Work’s work,” his tone brooked no argument. “Can I come on stage with you when you’re workin’?”

Though my heart plummeted in disappointment, I rolled my eyes and walked ahead of him.

Jahleel lived in Pacific Heights, where most of the homes were charmingly attached so close one couldn’t swing a bat. They were Victorian-style—which, despite their quaint simplicity, cost an arm, a leg, one eyeball, and a wisdom tooth.

Jahleel revved up a seriously steep hill as though it were no mean task. Leaving the claustrophobic clutter behind, the hill soon levelled out into a beautiful neighbourhood that rebelled against the rest of the community with its wide roads, modernistic houses and front yard space with driveways. Some real estate mogul was breaking tradition to make a statement, no doubt.

Jahleel pulled over to the curb of a detached split-level, more imposing than I expected, painted grey and white with all its square and sharp angles modernity. A well-manicured lawn flanked both sides, the driveway wide enough to fit more than two vehicles and parked on the left was a red topless, door-less Jeep—a Jeep I couldn’t picture anyone else driving but Jahleel.

I climbed off the bike at the same time he did, and he turned to take off the helmet as if I were incapable of doing it myself, mumbling a “Huh”.

“What?”

Using his free hand to ruffle my curls, which I assumed were flattened by the helmet, he leaned in, so close I was overwhelmed with his scent of bike exhaust, earthy cologne and…raisins? “I like havin’ you behind me on my bike.”

He swept a fluff of hair over my shoulder, and I shuddered at the light contact of his fingertips against my skin. “You grip… squeeze…and hold on so well. You don’t lean to the side when I make turns, and you don’t peek over my shoulder or beg me to slow down. You just hang on and enjoy the ride. It’s fuckin’ perfect.”

Wishing he would kiss me, I held my breath, lips quivering in anticipation. But he didn’t. He just kept his luscious lips hovering over mine, his finger idly twirling a lock of my hair.

Right in the middle of this sultry moment, the memory of this same finger twirling Jamie’s hair came to me, and my mood vanished, along with my wish.

“Uh, thank you?” I muttered churlishly.

His eyes remained on my lips a minute longer before he stopped touching my hair. He placed the helmet on the handle of his bike and started up the driveway.

I followed.

“How can you afford this?”

I instantly regretted the question. It was the kind that could only serve to spike him straight into a-hole mode.

But surprisingly, he didn’t sound offended when he answered, “Parents.”

Crap. I forgot his parents were famous Christians. The kind who air weekly on television, convincing millions of people to sow one thousand dollar seeds if they wished to see blessings and prosperity in their lives. I could even remember his father, Pastor Kingston, testifying to being anonymously gifted a private jet. Lucky servants of God they were, eh?