Storms and Dreams (Becoming Jane Book 3) (12 page)

“Well that’s just spooky,” Tom said, his eyes wide.

“You did that,” I whispered. “You set that up!”

“I did not,” he whispered, lifting his hand. “English professor’s honor.”

“Swear on Shakespeare.”

“I swear by the words of the Bard. I did not set this up.”

“Okay.”

“Now, shut up and kiss me.” He slanted his lips over mine and dipped me gently, twirling me back to my feet just as the singer finished crooning the first refrain.

“She’s right, you know,” he said. “The world will come in eventually and try to get between us. But we don’t have to let them. Don’t dream it’s over, Jane, not before it’s even really begun.”

“Okay, now you’ve crossed the line.”

“What line?”

“The one between corny and romantic.”

“Did I? Again?” he said, smirking. “Maybe just a little.”

“Yeah, no, you pretty much like, leapt over it. By about a mile.”

“Admit it,” he said, cocking an eyebrow at me. “You love it.” His expression was dangerous, his smile laced with implications.
“You love me,”
his eyes challenged.
“Admit that.”

I stared at him, my head full of angst and my heart full of mush.
Yeah, I do. I love you, you beautiful British blue-eyed dork. And, that’s a problem, ‘cause I’m pretty sure you’re gonna break my heart.

“Shut up and dance, brainy boy,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Yes, pinky,” he whispered in my ear, and my cheeks caught on fire.

“
I
don’t really think
that, you know,” I said, breaking the heavy silence that had blanketed the car since we’d left the party. We’d said our goodbyes and thank yous to Julie and Roger, and bundled in for the three-hour drive to my mother’s house. I’d spent the last ninety minutes silently chastising myself, replaying the scene with Marcie in my mind, letting it eat at me, until my anxiety boiled over and words came flinging out of my mouth before I realized it.

“Think what?” Tom asked, squinting at me in the dim light, his eyes questioning.

“What I said to Marcie. That I’m a whore. I don’t think that, and I’m not ashamed of what I do.”

“I know,” he said. “What makes you feel you need to say so?”

“It’s just important to me that you understand,” I said.

“Understand what?”

“Why I started stripping.”

“Well, we’ve got at least an hour more to go,” he said, turning off the classical radio station that had been playing quietly in the background. “I’m all yours.”

I took a deep breath, and set about quickly organizing my thoughts. Until now, I’d never really analyzed my job choice. I knew that most of the time I had fun on stage, and that the money was good and that was enough for me. But after this weekend with Tom, after tonight, I found myself compelled to think about it, to explain. Not just to him, but to myself. I wondered what my job said about me, and what it might mean for the future of our relationship, if there was going to be one.

“After Brian…” I said. “After the pregnancy and everything…I didn’t realize it at the time, but I think I was, angry with my body. It had failed, both me and the baby.”

“I can see how you would feel that way,” he said softly.

“When I met Sasha, I was in a really detached place. Emotionally, physically. Stripping paid well and I didn’t have a problem with taking my clothes off, so at first, I figured why not. The money was great and that was all I cared about. But after a while, I started to enjoy it, and through the other girls at the club, I realized, it really is an art. Burlesque, striptease, pole-dancing, all of it. The routines let me tap into my dance background, to be creative, and express myself. Eventually, I started to become friends with my body again. To forgive it, and to trust it, all because of my job, not despite it.”

“I think that’s wonderful,” he said, reaching for my hand.

“I’d always intended to quit, though, after graduation. I figured I’d get another job, and put my expensive degree to good use in something that didn’t involve taking off my clothes.” I laughed quietly, and glanced up, trying to gauge his mood.

“That makes sense.” His tone was even, measured. I could tell he was taking care to simply listen, trying not to color the conversation with his feelings on the topic. While I appreciated the sentiment, neutrality wasn’t what I was going for. I wanted to know how he felt. Did he see us having a future together? Just last night we’d made love by the fire and he’d called himself my boyfriend. But that was yesterday, today was a different matter. Today I’d outed myself to a room full of his colleagues, and despite his claims to the contrary, I couldn’t imagine that if we were together, my job wouldn’t have an adverse effect on his career. Julie had said it herself. It would come out, and when it did, it would be bad. I needed to know, did being with Tom mean giving up my job? Hiding my past? I needed to know if he expected that of me. And I needed to figure out if that was something I was willing to do.

“Sasha offered me another job,” I said.

“Oh?”

“In New York, opening a club for her. Another club like Clouds, except I’d be co-manager and in charge of choosing acts, ambiance and food. I wouldn’t be dancing. Well, not unless I wanted to.”

“Okay,” he said, his tone still frustratingly plain. I had no clue what he was thinking.

“I had no idea, you know, until she offered me the position, what I wanted to do after graduation. But as soon as she asked me, I realized I really wanted to say yes.”

He was silent, his thumb tracing circles over the back of my hand, the only noise the dull hum of the engine and the sound of asphalt beneath the tires.

“But the thing is, I don’t know how that would affect us. How it would affect you.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Yes you do, Tom,” I said, sighing with exasperation.

“No,” he said, releasing my hand and gripping the steering wheel tightly. “I don’t. Here’s why. We just spent the entire weekend sharing more of ourselves with each other than either of us has with anyone in years. I’ve connected with you more deeply than I have with anyone in my life, and I know it’s the same for you. Tell me different.”

I couldn’t tell him different, nor did I want to. I felt the same, and he knew it. So what was the problem? Why was he getting pissy with me when all I was trying to do was consider our future? I crossed my arms and snapped my mouth shut, huffing under my breath.

He glanced over at me, his eyes searching mine, before he turned back to the road, his mouth a grim line, a muscle tensing in his jaw.

“Right. You can’t. We both know what this is, but you, you don’t want to name it. I do, I want to shout it. But you’ve asked me not to. So I haven’t.”

“We both agreed—”

“No, not really, Jane. You asked me not to, and yes I agreed. But only to honor your wish. It wasn’t my idea. It wasn’t my choice.”

“I’m just—I’m not ready for that,” I said. “For those words.”

“But you are ready to talk about a future together, to talk about where you should live and what sort of job you should take? That’s the sort of conversation that a couple has. Two people who’ve acknowledged their feelings for each other. Out loud. That’s not us. So no, I don’t follow.”

“I just thought—”

“You just thought what? That yours is the only heart at stake here? You’re looking for assurances, for guarantees and I can’t give them to you. We’re at an impasse. Each of us needing something from the other that we’re unwilling, or unable to give. You want me to imagine a future, without acknowledging the present. I can’t do that.”

“Okay,” I said, shrinking back into my seat. “Fine, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be brave.”

W
e drove
in silence the rest of the way. His words had winded me, sucked the air right out of my lungs. He was right, of course, absolutely right. But I was helpless, completely at the mercy of my fears. I had no idea how to work around this. He’d said be brave, but ever since Brian, my head equated brave with stupid. My heart wanted to fling open the doors, to let Tom’s love rush in and flood my soul. But my head said that was the stupidest decision I’d ever make in my life. I was twenty-four years old, newly graduated from college, on the cusp of a new life, and new adventures. I needed to get out into the world, to find my own way, not to get sucked into someone else’s shadow. I’d let that happen before, and it had been the worst mistake of my life. And now, come to think of it, maybe he wasn’t right after all. I mean, hormones were at play here, and frankly we were both lonely hearts. Ripe and ready to fall hard and fast into a relationship that was at best ill-advised, at worse, potentially life ruining. What was so bad about me wanting to be cautious and reserved with declarations of affection? He was the one with the doctorate and yet I was the one being smart. He’d wanted me to “live in the dream” with him—well, what the fuck was that? The dream? There was no dream, just reality. Goddammit, didn’t I know that all too well? I was really pissed now, and I could feel my anger rolling off me in waves.

The house was dark when we arrived, just a few lights lining the paved walkway leading to the porch. I got out of the car and slammed the door, my heels clicking loudly on the stone pavers as I stomped to the house. I fumbled in my purse for the keys, while Tom got our suitcases from the car. I unlocked the front door and stepped into darkness, throwing my purse and keys on a table in the foyer, then cursed when I heard the stupid keys slide off the table and hit the hardwood floor. I bent over to retrieve them, threw them back up on the stupid table and reached for the stupid light switch. His hand caught mine, and I yelped in surprise. I hadn’t heard him come in behind me. I thought he was still getting our bags.

“Don’t take it out on the table,” he said, pressing my hand to his chest. “It’s me you want to hit.”

“I don’t want to hit you,” I grumbled.

“Yes, you do.”

“Okay, yeah, fine, have it your way.” I pushed at his chest. “I do. I want to smack your stupid face. There. Is that better? Is that brave?”

“My, you’re eloquent when you’re angry,” he said, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the light, and I could see the grin spreading across his face. My anger ramped up a notch.

“Oh gee, sorry I don’t have a Shakespeare quip at the ready Professor Smarty-pants.” I tried to take my hand back, but he was holding fast, pinning it to his chest. “Ugh,” I growled in irritation. “Fucketh off. How about that? Is that witty enough for you?”

He kicked the front door shut with his foot, and yanked me into him, whirling around to slam me against the wall with enough force that a picture frame rattled and fell to the floor, the glass shattering.

“Fuck!” I yelled. “Stupid frame.”

“Jane,” he said calmly, the completely reasonable and even tone of his inside-voice pissing me off to the nth degree.

“What!?” I yelled. I tried to get around him, but he stopped me, shifting his legs to block my escape. He raised his arms, palms flat against the wall on either side of my head, caging me against him. I looked up and glared at him, wondering if I’d have better luck with pyrokinesis this time, since I had a bigger target.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh my god.” I laughed, the sound gravelly and cynical even to my own ears. “You’re such a jerk right now. Seriously.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I just want to be mad at you, and you go and say you’re sorry. What kind of a low-down move is that?”

“Sorry?”

“Don’t say it again, asshole.”

“No, that was a different sorry. A British one. Meaning, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh.”

“I’m getting the feeling you’re unhappy with me.”

“Yeah. I’m a mite bit miffed, Professor Understatement.”

“Because of our conversation in the car?”

“Yes!”

“Because you want to know where this is going and I can’t tell you?” One hand lowered to my shoulder, gliding over my collar bone, grazing the outside of my breast and down to grasp my waist. His gaze was intent on mine, his eyes impossibly blue even in the dim light. I shook my head, struggling for clarity.

“Yes! No. Wait, hey don’t get it twisted, blue-eyes. I wasn’t asking you to predict the future.”

“Yes you are, and you’re trying to control it.”

“No, I just—”

“You’re trying to control it and me, because all of this vast uncharted wilderness terrifies you.”

“No,” I protested.

“Yes. You’re terrified of words, Jane. Three little words.” He bent his head, brushing soft kisses along my jawline.

“No,” I whispered, sputtering as his lips found the sensitive skin just below my ear. “Th-that’s completely unfair. I’m not afraid of words, I’m afraid of everything that happens after the words. All the expectations and the promises. Everything changes. It’s like a Jenga tower, block after block, carefully planned and placed and then one day, just boom, and it all comes tumbling down.”

“I’ve never played that game,” he said, his lips trailing down the column of my neck. “I can’t offer any nuggets of wisdom in that analogy.”

“Oh right, you’re a one-sixteenth-century-playwright-trick-pony. For a second I forgot. I mean, you’ve gone almost a whole fifteen minutes without quoting him.”

I was really being mean now. I’d called him an asshole and mocked his hero. But it was my only defense. He was crowding me, turning off my brain by short-circuiting my senses. And the bastard knew he was doing it, too.

There should be a set of laws, or like a Geneva Convention or something for lovers’ spats. This shit should be off limits…gaahhh…

His lips found the hollow of my throat and sucked, the hand at my waist trailing down my thigh, his fingers slipping under my skirt to caress the bare skin just below my garters. I gasped, my hands flying to his hair to clutch him to me.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Out with it. I know you want to. I can practically feel the prose pounding in your chest.”

He lifted his head and grinned at me. “There is a quote from the Bard for every occasion.”

“Uh-huh. Lay it on me.”

“The course of true love never did run smooth.”

I inhaled sharply, my eyes swimming at his words.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I used the ‘L-word’. I should be smacked in my stupid face.”

“Was that a real sorry, or a British sorry?”

“British. Sorry. Not sorry.” He grazed his knuckles over my cheek. “I find it hard to be sorry for things I’m not sorry for. And I’m so very not sorry for how I feel about you. Not for one second.”

I stared at him, completely paralyzed by his words, utterly terrified of what he might say next.

“Jane,” he said, and despite the shadows, his eyes seemed to glow. “I, lo—“

I kissed him. Fisted both my hands in his hair and dragged his mouth to mine with all the strength I could muster. My lips crashed over his painfully, teeth mashing against tender flesh, my tongue delving into his mouth to steal the words from him before he could set them free.

“Goddammit!” he roared. Dragging my lips from his, he clamped his hands on either side of my face, his eyes locking on mine, black now and tinged with fury. He opened his mouth to speak and I laid a finger across his lips.

“Don’t…” I stammered, hot tears welling in my eyes. “Not with words.”

His chest heaved as he rested his forehead against mine, his fingers clenching and unclenching in my hair.

“Show me,” I whispered.

He groaned, the sound rumbling slowly through his chest, weighted with frustration and lust. His hands raced over my hips, shoving my skirt past my ass in frenzied handfuls. His mouth claimed mine, his tongue thrusting, tasting and tangling. His fingers slipped under the lace of my panties, stroking through my curls, before fisting the fabric, and twisting it until it cut into my flesh painfully and finally gave way, wrenching from my body in one long rip that seemed to echo loudly off the hardwood and the walls. I arched when he found my center, my fingers digging into his shoulders as he probed through my folds, circling and pinching my clit while his other hand curled behind me to drag the zipper down the back of my dress.