Pierce My Heart (Women of Willowbrook Book 1) (22 page)

“It stops now, Anna. No more. It’s not the fucking truth, it's fucking
shit
. Everyone around you knows it’s shit. If you can’t accept it, I’ll make you,” he says, his face getting harder.

I look away, trying to hold back tears.

He doesn't get it.

He hadn’t been the one talked down to almost every day.

He hadn’t been the one who put his faith, trust, and love in someone so wrong.

He hadn’t been the one who pushed away everyone he loved to protect the wrong person.

He hadn’t been the one who’d
laid
with the person who abused them.

And he hadn’t been the fucking
idiot
who forgave them.

He doesn't. Fucking. Get it.

“You don’t get it, Jake,” I whisper, my eyes clenched tight as I fight the emotions rolling through me.

He gives me a shake to get my attention, and when I give in and open my eyes to look at him his face has gone soft. His eyes too, but they have a different light to them.

They're soft, but intense.

Gentle, but hard.

Tender, but possessive.

They look a lot like Robby’s and Nate’s had after they’d found me, but that different light in Jake’s is what separated the familial feelings from the not so familial feelings.

“No, sweetheart, I don’t. But what I do get is that I’ll work my ass off to get rid of that shadow that’s clouding your judgment.”

Christ, there’s that shadow thing again.

“And while I’m doing that, I’m going to make sure you know exactly how beautiful you are to me and everyone around you.” He sees me open my mouth, but he just shakes his head and gives me a squeeze. “No point in arguing when I’m right.”

The fight to hold back my tears has won since they get squinty again.

“You’re also arrogant,” I tell him, though I’m sure he already knows.

It's confirmed when he shrugs, obviously not finding it an issue.

I roll my eyes.

“You gonna let me help you, or you gonna be a pain in the ass and fight me on it?” he asks.

I roll my eyes back to him and give him a snooty look.

“I’m thinking about being a pain in the ass. Especially since you assumed I would be,” I tell him.  

He grins.

“Are we done? I do have work to do,” I ask impatiently.

“Yeah, babe, we’re done. Till tonight at least.”

“Goodie,” I say in a flat voice.

His grin turns into a smile and he chuckles.

I lose my irritation, but keep the look on my face.

Mostly for show.

“Care to let me go then?” I ask him.

“Told you how I feel ‘bout letting you go, sweetheart,” he states.

My body warms, but I don't let it show on my face.

“Jake, I
need
to get some work done. It’s only my second day here, I can’t be slacking off already,” I remind him.

He leans down a little more. “Let you go, you give me a kiss.”

I stop struggling and look up at him. “What?”

His lips tip up, but his teeth are a no show. “Kiss me and I’ll let you go.”

“No,” I say stubbornly.

I want to kiss him, boy do I, but I am not giving in to his demands.

His eyebrows raise in a challenge, but he says nothing.

We stare at each other.

This goes on a while.

Unfortunately, I don’t have the patience for it to go on a long while. I have work to do and really, kissing him isn’t that much of a hardship.

Or any hardship. At all.

I roll my eyes, let out a sigh to indicate my reluctance (that’s just for show) and rise up on my tiptoes, tilting my head back in invitation.

And that’s as much as I have to do.

The next second his hand is fisted in my hair, angling my head opposite of his, and plunging his tongue in my mouth for a quick, wet kiss.

He yanks his head back, takes a breath, then comes right back and drops one, then two closemouthed kisses on my lips before he’s moving towards and out the door.

“Tonight. Seven o’clock. See you, sweetheart,” he says, then he's gone and I'm left reeling, trying to stay upright on wobbly legs while I stare at the empty doorway.

Shit.

Jittery as A Jack Rabbit
 

It’s three till seven, Jake’s going to be here any minute, and I am
freaking
out.

*              *              *

Luckily, the rest of that day had gone smoothly after Jake had left me alone.

No asses were accidentally (or purposely) dunked in toilets.

No arguing was done with suppliers.

Just easy sailing.

Robby stopped by to take me to lunch at the small Mexican joint Dad and him always hit when they were working around this part of town, Abuelas Cocina. I’d been there a few times before with Robby, Dad, Mom, Evan, Nate, and Maddy, or any mix of the bunch. They had a to-
die
-for fajita taco salad and they made a mean margarita. Usually when I found something I liked I stuck to it, so I ordered my usual steak fajita taco salad, minus the mean margarita.

Wouldn’t be good trying to fill order forms or send statements with tequila pumping through my veins.

The lunch itself was uneventful.

Robby asked about Jake once and that was to see if we were still on for that night. When I gave him the affirmative he almost had a pleased look on his face, but it was gone so fast I couldn’t be sure. After that, it was all talk of work, family, and TV.

I got the call from Evan around two (earlier than I expected). She called to voice her grievances at me. Apparently, the UPS guy who was delivering the clothes I’d ordered, was now on her hit list.

I rolled my eyes, but listened to her complain. Fortunately, she’d been running late for work and didn’t have time to delve deep into anything.

I thought I was home free.

That was until I got a text right before I left work.

E: Btw, you’re not off the hook. Bitch.

I did the smart thing and ignored the text, continuing towards my car so I could head home and start on the dessert.

Fortunately, I had all the ingredients I’d needed.

Unfortunately, I had no fresh strawberries for the middle.

So, after a little melt down (because my strawberry cake wouldn’t be
my
strawberry cake without the macerated strawberries in the middle) I remembered that I had a bag of the frozen ones in my freezer—I used them for smoothies.

Crisis averted.

After I had the cake baking, I ran into another problem.

Trying to decide what kind of frosting to use.

I was a big fan of
just
the cake, so the frosting was never a make-it-or-break-it type thing for me. I’d done vanilla, chocolate, and even strawberry, though that was a tad overkill (okay, seriously overkill but still seriously delicious).

Since everyone had had the cake with all the frostings at least once, I decided to do a vote through a group text (I’d apologize later).

A: Strawberry cake, what kind of frosting? Chocolate, Vanilla, Strawberry?

Some would answer rather quickly while others—Mom and Dad—would take a while.

After making sure the counter was cleared off so Juliet didn’t get into anything, I headed to the bathroom for a quick wash down, giving everyone ample time to answer.

Twenty minutes later, a layer of skin gone, a shaving touch up, and the herculean task of keeping my hair dry achieved, I left the bathroom feeling clean and thoroughly scrubbed. Walking in my room I thought about changing into what I was wearing for the night, but thought better of it.

Knowing me, I’d end up dumping the frosting down my shirt and have to change.

Instead, I settled on fluffing up my hair a bit and putting on my face.

Another twenty minutes, sprayed and fluffed hair, powdered face, black lined eyes, glittery gold eye shadow in place, a mix of my pink and red blush with bronzer, and two-hundred swipes of mascara (which was really like twenty), I headed out in my sweats and tank to check my phone and the cake.  

I opened the oven, did the toothpick test—the toothpick coming out with some gooeyness on the end—and hit another five minutes before grabbing my phone.

Good news, everyone had answered.

Bad news, they were arguing over the frosting.

E: Chocolate all the way. And I better get some!

M: Evan, you’re crazy. Vanilla tastes way better.

M: And if she gets some, so do I. WITH vanilla frosting.

Mom: Now, now girls. I think the strawberry is yummy. It’s sweet, though, so I can only have a small slice, Anna.

R: I don’t care, as long as I get a piece.

M: Robby, pick vanilla. That way she picks vanilla.

N: Would you guys shut up! I’m at practice. Jesus.

Mom: Nathan! Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.

N: Sorry, Mom.

R: Hahahahaha

N: Bite me, Robby.

E: CHOCOLATE

E: CHOCOLATE

E: CHOCOLATE

M: VANILLA

N: Dammit, Anna. Thanks a lot.

Dad: Pecan Pie

Jesus Christ.

Absolutely no help.

I dropped my phone back on the counter with a sound of annoyance.

Seeing there was only forty-five minutes until he was supposed to be there, I started hyperventilating a little bit. I still had to make the frosting, wait for the cake to cool, frost the cake, and get dressed.

Mentally shaking myself I made a quick choice and got started on my gran’s vanilla buttercream frosting. It was so good that it was the only frosting Gran ever used for Gramps, Dad, Uncle Bill, and Uncle Eric (Dad’s older and younger brothers) birthday cakes.

Once all the boys married, Gran took the wives and taught them the secret. Same story once all the grandkids were of age.

Mom, Aunt Natalie, and Aunt Sarah agreed to do the same with all their grandkids—though, Uncle Bill and Aunt Natalie were the only ones who had a grandbaby at the moment.

After I finished the frosting, I stored it in the fridge to chill while the cake cooled down and I went to get dressed.

I didn’t want to try too hard but I also didn’t want to look like I wasn’t trying at all.

I went with my best jeans that were lightly faded (this only partially from wear and the other part from buying them that way) and bootcut, and even
I
had to say my ass looked
awesome
in them. They lifted in all the right places and rounded me out in all the others.

Since they were tighter than my other pairs of jeans, I balanced the look with a billowy top—black, gauzy (seeing a pattern?), and cinched at the chest before flaring at my midriff and down to the top of my hips.

It was flattering, but sexy. And it was sexy because of the cinching and the
deep
V that showed off more than a hint of cleavage.

Since we were staying in, I decided to go barefoot, showing off the deep red, almost wine color I’d painted my toes and fingers the other night.

Besides black, it was my favorite color to wear.

Especially during fall.

I sprayed some
Modern Muse
on my wrists and neck, and then finished off with extra light silver—extra light being my Tiffany’s necklace, my normal three earrings in one ear and four in the other (same earrings I’d worn when I met Jake, actually), my watch, my charm bracelet, the three braided rings I wore on my left middle finger, and the heart and jeweled ‘A’ I wore on my right index.

I checked myself in the mirror to make sure everything was in place and looked good before heading back out to the kitchen to get to frosting.

Which brings me to the three minutes till his he’s supposed to show and my freaking out, rushing around the house while trying not to rush (I do
not
need to start sweating) to make sure everything is clean.

It isn’t like there’s that much space to make sure is clean, but Juliet had done her “fun” bowl trick again and there’s food
everywhere
.

After I have everything straightened up and all her little kibble missiles back in her bowl, I check the time.

7:02.

He’s late.

Time to freak out for a whole different reason.

What if he doesn’t show up?

What if he’s lying in a ditch somewhere with two broken arms and he can’t call for help?

What if he’s unconscious in his bathroom from falling and hitting his head on the counter and there’s blood
everywhere
?

That one has me shaking my head at myself.

Crimeny, I need to stop.

Deciding a glass of wine is what I need to stop the pacing (and probably saving the carpet in the process) I venture into the kitchen for the only bottle I have left.

Grabbing a stemmed glass from my cabinet, I open the bottle and pour. After a much needed gulp (or two), I refill and cork the bottle.

Just as I take my third sip I hear a knock on the door and Juliet’s bark from her bed, where she’s been watching me act like a loon.

All my nerves come flooding back.

I suddenly have the strongest urge to pretend I’m not home (or hurl, they kind of feel the same). Instead of doing either, I take another sip, set my glass on the counter, suck in a deep breath, and head for the front door.

I flip the top lock and have my hand on the knob, ready to swing open the door. “Here goes nothing,” I mutter to myself and turn the knob, coming face to face with Jake.

I forgot how to breathe as I stand statue still and take all that is him (and there’s a lot) in.

He’d abandoned his usual Henley for a fitted, black button-up shirt; a shirt which has the top two buttons undone and showing off a sprinkling of dark hair, under the same black jacket he’d had on yesterday. His jeans are dark and worn, but worn in a way that he
wore
them, not bought them that way, what looks like black motorcycle boots on his feet, and finishing off his look is at least three days’ worth of stubble.

God, he's beautiful.

Now I wish I had tried a little harder and thrown on some heels or
something
.

When I don't move, speak, or even breathe, he smiles.

“You gonna let me in, sweetheart? Food’ll get cold,” he says, bringing his arm up to show the bag of Chinese he has in his hand.

I start, blush a bit, then take a couple steps back, opening the door wider as I go.

Once he clears it and is headed down the hallway, I close the door, flip the locks and follow, breathing deep to control my nerves.

I hit the room and turn towards the kitchen. He’s taken his jacket off, has his shirt sleeves rolled up, showing off his tanned forearms, and is removing the cartons from the bag.

He pauses, watching me while I fidget, my nerves obvious.

Abandoning the food, he walks over to me, slides his arms around my back and leans down to give me a short, soft kiss before lifting his head and giving me a squeeze.

“Annie, relax,” he commands in that intense voice of his, an unhappy look on his face.

I wiggle my arm out from under his and slide my fingers between his brows where they’re furrowed. His brows ease and I drop my hand down to his chest, wriggling my other arm free to join it.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, the worry in my voice creeping out.

“What’s wrong is you’re jittery as a jackrabbit about to get run over because of me. Got no clue why seeing as you have no reason to be.”

I blink, the surprise evident on my face.

“I’m not jittery as a jackrabbit,” I deny.

He gives me a look.

“Babe.”

I roll my eyes.

He’s too smart for his own good.

“Okay, whatever, maybe I am. But it’s not like I don’t have a reason,” I argue.

“Care to explain so I’m not in the dark here, wondering,” is his sarcastic response.

I feel my eyes squint.

At this rate, I'm going to have some serious crow’s feet, and not the good kind that comes from laughing too much, but the kind that comes from too many difficult men.

I poke him in the chest and commence throwing attitude the likes that even Evan would be proud of.

“Maybe because this is my first date in over a year? Or, because that guy was a jerk? Might even be because before that it’d been
two
years,” I snap, holding two fingers up then dropping them once his eyes have flicked back to me. “Could be because of the reason it took so fucking long
to
get close to a guy again. Or, maybe because you’re beautiful and way out of my league, and I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here or even what I’m doing here and it’s been three years since I’ve been with anyone
that
way, and I have no idea where this is going to go or if you’re expect—” I'm cut off by his hand covering my mouth.