Broken Beast Read online

  I lurch forward and grab my phone. Max hasn’t sent any more texts, thankfully, so I block the number he texted me on and slide my phone down the table. It falls onto the dark blue rug, so I doubt I shattered the screen.

  That makes me feel a little bit better. But not by much.

  I waste a lot of time going through all of the streaming services Jay has before creeping on his recently watched and to-watch lists. There’s a lot of sci-fi here, and basically every reality TV show that requires some skill, like cooking shows or design shows. Interesting. I can’t imagine him sitting down with a beer and watching Gordon Ramsey yell at people, but he’s surprised me more in the past half hour than anyone has in recent memory.

  I settle on an episode of an intense cooking show and sigh. It’s a good distraction, but I want more. By the time the episode is over, I hear Jay’s truck rolling up the driveway again. I crane my neck to look out the window, but I can’t see him. All I hear is him whistling to himself, the sound getting louder as he approaches the house.

  Instead of his footsteps coming into the house, I hear the scuttling of claws on the ground. A small, fat wiener dog comes running into the room as fast as his short legs can carry him, thrilled to see me, even though I have no idea whose dog he is, or where he came from.

  “Whose dog is this?” I ask, reaching down to pet the dog. The fur on his nose is white, and it looks like he’s blind in one eye. “Hey, little buddy.”

  “That’s Curtis.” Jay comes in, barefoot with bags of groceries. “These are your snacks. What do you want first?”

  My mouth drops open. I don’t know what to do or if I even want to eat. Curtis puts his paws up on the couch and I pick him up, putting him in my lap. He tries to lick my face before he curls up in the crook of my arm, sighing. He would be the worst guard dog — I’m a complete stranger and here he is, cuddled up to me like we’re best friends.

  “But… Whose dog is this?” I ask again, staring down at Curtis’s soft ears. I manage to close my gaping mouth. “What? How?”

  “It wasn’t that hard. He’s Andrew and Holly’s dog. I stopped by and told Holly what happened, and she said we could take him for the day.” He’s in the kitchen, but he pops his head out to grin at me. “You could have made your demands more ridiculous, you know. This was cake.”

  I want to glower at him, but I can’t help but smile. “You say that now, but you haven’t given me a pedicure yet.”

  “How hard could it be? I have Google.” He goes back into the kitchen. He shuffles around for a bit and comes back into the living room. He has bagels and two tubs of cream cheese on a big polished wooden slab. I wonder if he made it himself.

  “I have weird feet.”

  “Okay…” He puts the bagels down on the table and sits just beyond my stretched-out leg. He looks at my wrapped-up foot for a second. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “That makes it unpleasant.” I look down at my feet, which haven’t seen a pedicure in months.

  “If I can’t handle a woman’s foot after dealing with some of the shit I’ve been through, then you have the right to grab one of the katanas I’ve made and stab me through the liver.” He pulls apart a bagel. “What kind of cream cheese do you want?”

  “Strawberry please. But I can handle it myself. You’ve already done more than enough, thank you.”

  He nods and hands me the cream cheese, then starts on his own bagel. “What were you watching?”

  “Oh, some cooking show.” I wave toward the TV. “You like all of these competition shows?”

  “Yeah. I admire skill, especially when it requires use of your hands.” He finishes his bagel and sits back with it on his little plate. “I like seeing how other people work, since I work with my hands, too.”

  “Speaking of work, you’re fine sitting here with me all day? You aren’t freaking out about being behind?” I lift my plate from Curtis’s twitching nose and take a bite of my bagel. It has the perfect ratio of cream cheese to bagel.

  “I mean, I’ll probably fall a little behind, but it’s not the end of the world.” He sits back, grabbing another bagel and putting it on the plate in his lap. “You need help and you’re torn up about missing your day at the alpaca farm. So why not take a break and distract you? We can catch up. We haven’t had the chance to besides talking about work, which is kind of boring.”

  He gives me a look that immediately sends a blend of tingles and confusion all up my body. God, he grew up nicely. The angles of his face come together in just the right way to create something that draws me to him and makes me want to just look at him like I’d study at a painting in a museum.

  But at the same time, the more I’m around him, the more he confuses the hell out of me. There’s the side of him who apparently went to prison for, like he said, assault and disorderly conduct, plus resisting arrest — thank you, Google. And then there’s this side of him, who actually went to go find a dog to comfort me while I’m laid up, without asking for anything in return. Well, not that I’m aware of. What could he be hiding? It feels like he has two separate halves. What if he suddenly reveals his crazy like Max did?

  And I haven’t even factored the Jay I knew before into all of this. He had problems at home — his parents were bonkers — which he hid with sarcasm and anger simmering under the surface. The Jay in front of me doesn’t seem angry. But I hardly trust my own judgement anymore when it comes to men, so who knows what’s real...

  “You want me to bring any of your stuff inside?” he asks after swallowing a bite. “Your work stuff.”

  “No, I might as well take a day off, too.” I’ve made a lot of progress. I have a couple of weeks until I go back to the city for Gigi’s birthday and my status meeting with Katya. “I’m down to watch some trashy TV.”

  “Please spare me from the trashiest trash,” he chuckles, leaning back into the couch and putting his feet up on the coffee table.

  “You don’t get a say today. That’s part of the deal,” I tease, picking up the remote again. I’m not such an asshole that I would pick something he hates.

  He looks up at the ceiling and runs his hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know. If I can handle prison, I can handle some trash TV.”

  “Wow, you’re comparing makeover shows to literal prison?” I ask, looking over at him. His hair is messed up, even pushed out of his face, flopping from its usual side part into an upturned curl. If we were closer, I’d have to stop myself from reaching over and tucking some behind his ear. I miss touching him in a non-sexual way. When we weren’t making out or fooling around, we were usually snuggled up on the couch or on a bean bag listening to music.

  “Not directly.” He smirks, then nods his head toward the TV. “Pick something. I’ll get us more coffee.”

  I do as he says, and he brings us more coffee. I settle on Kitchen Nightmares, since it’s a little bit of skill-based something, plus the trashy drama I love. He seems fine with it. We spend the first hour or so watching quietly, sometimes making comments here and there. And then, something shifts.

  “How much would you have to get paid to eat at that restaurant?” Jay asks me. The restaurant is a pizza place that hasn’t been cleaned or updated in twenty or so years. On top of that, their definition of “fresh food” is very different than what most people would think.

  “Depends on how hungry I am.” I tear open a bag of potato chips. One goes flying out, and Curtis eats it off of my chest. “I guess you would have to pay me the cost of the meal at a minimum.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. I have a strong stomach.” I offer him the bag of chips and he takes it.

  “Jesus. You’d have to pay me at least a thousand bucks.” Jay dunks his hand into the bag of chips and comes out with a small handful. He elegantly pours half of them into his mouth like they’re water instead of potatoes. Back in high school, I always used to tease him because he would do stuff like that. The memory makes me smile a little.

  “S
eriously? A thousand?” I take the chips back.

  “I couldn’t stomach it. I’ve given myself food poisoning more than once, and that was when I was trying really hard to be clean.”

  “How is that possible?” I ask. He shrugs, and the motion looks exaggerated, just from the size of his shoulders. It’s hard not to notice how good he looks in just a black T-shirt. How does he pull that off?

  “I told you I don’t cook that much. That’s why. Certain meats and I are in a blood feud.” He peeks under the ice pack on my ankle, which is now more like a bag of slush. He goes to replace the pack. When he comes back, he sits closer to me, close enough for me to feel his body heat.

  “I guess I’ll need my strong stomach for that steak dinner, won’t I?” I grin.

  “Yeah, you will.” He leans back into the sofa again. “Not even kidding.”

  “Oh my God.” My eyes widen in horror. “Did I sign my death certificate?”

  “Not your death certificate — it’s not like I’m going to open up some canned beans rife with botulism and dump them on a raw steak I dropped on the ground. I’m just saying, you threw out the ‘steak dinner’ idea without knowing what you were getting into.”

  “I haven’t barfed in years and I’m not starting today. Or tomorrow.”

  “Congrats?” He laughs, looking at me like I’m a little nuts. The confusion in his eyes, paired with his sarcastic grin, makes me start laughing, too. “What a weird-ass thing to be proud of.”

  I try to kick him with my good foot, still laughing so hard that I wake up Curtis from his spot on my lap.

  “Okay, maybe I’ll cook the steak. But you’re still on the hook for the pedicure.” I wiggle my toes on my good foot.

  “Fine, fine.” He rests his hand on my ankle, as if he’s adjusting the ice pack, but leaves it there. It’s a nice weight, helping the remaining coolness seep into my skin. The tips of his fingers brush my skin.

  I try to focus on the show again, but all I can think about is his hand casually on my ankle. As we continue watching the show, he slides it to the top of my foot, resting the weight of his hand on the pillow so he won’t hurt me.

  I’ve made a massive mistake.

  I always associated foot massages and pedicures with salons, not men. The likeliness of any of my exes actually giving me a foot massage was exactly zero. But Jay’s definitely going to keep his word — I can tell. I don’t have a foot fetish or anything, but a foot massage could lead to a calf massage, which could lead to a thigh massage, which could lead to his dick massaging my vagina. His very big, perfect dick that I can’t stop thinking about when I’m alone at night.

  A few more hours go by, and I don’t think he’s noticed my sudden shift in mood. We’re still joking around and watching reality TV makeover shows. We chat a bit about work, too, and I bore him with all sorts of jargon about design. He explains to me some of the finer points of woodworking and metalworking. He’s put his arm across the back of the couch, and Curtis’s chunky body is the only thing between us.

  “It’s getting late. You want to cook dinner, or do you want your pedicure?” he asks, hitting pause before the next episode auto-plays. He turns to look at me, a lingering smile on his face. There’s a little something else underneath the smile, like he has a secret he’s itching to tell, that makes my heart race.

  “Um, you don’t have to do any of this.” I wiggle my toes on my messed-up foot. It feels a lot better, so I put it on the ground. “I was just being a dramatic baby.”

  “Hey, it was part of the deal. Now I’m kind of curious if I can do it. I’ve never painted anyone’s nails before.” He stands. “Or do you just want the foot massage?”

  He looks down at me, and it’s clear that he really wants to do something with me. I’m not sure if it’s sexual, or that he literally wants to paint my nails, and my confusion isn’t just because I’m terrible with men. I always convinced him to do girly things in high school for shits and giggles, whether it was walking in heels (disaster) or doing winged eyeliner (surprisingly not terrible). I stare at him for way, way too long, trying to figure it out and he tilts his head, like he’s saying, “Well?”

  “Sure…” I say slowly.

  He nods and walks down the hall. I hear him shuffling around and he returns with my nail polish and lotion.

  “How did you know I had nail polish here?” I ask. It’s the one shade I actually buy, a nice pale pink.

  “I snooped.” He sits down on his coffee table with a thump. He has to be at least two hundred fifty pounds, mostly muscle. That’s some confidence in his own carpentry. “You have so many bottles and whatnot that I couldn’t not snoop.”

  “Wow, way to invade my privacy,” I say, jokingly.

  “You know I can’t resist snooping,” he replies. “What do I do first?”

  He’s waiting for my response, and I’m not sure what to do.

  “It might be better to do the massage first, so you don’t get the polish messed up,” I finally say.

  “Alright, then.”

  He grabs the lotion and puts some on his hand. It’s my fancy stuff that smells like jasmine. He rubs his hands together to warm it up and grabs my foot. My feet are pretty average, but they look teeny in his hands. His hands are rough, especially in comparison to my skin, with shiny burn scars on the back of them, trailing underneath the band of his watch. He presses on my muscles gently.

  God, that feels good. I groan softly and sink into the couch.

  The only sound in the room is Curtis snoring on the other side of the couch. My eyes flutter closed as he makes his way around my foot, then to my ankle and low calf. I open my eyes again and look at him, and realize that he’s looking at me, heat in his eyes. His eyes dip back down to my leg, then between them. My sleep shirt is up around my thighs a little bit from sliding down on the couch, and with the massage and my ankle, I’m basically flashing him.

  I try to move my knee to cover myself a little, but I can’t with his hands on my ankle. He looks back up at me, and the expression on his face alone makes me wet. Should I roll with it?

  I think my body is going to roll with it, whether this is a good idea or not. I’m alight with lust and my brain is focused on lighting my body up, not rational thought. I let my knee fall to the side, exposing more of my crotch.

  His hands work my muscles up my calf and my thigh, until his hand reaches my hip under my long T-shirt. The electricity in the air is making me feel a little lightheaded.

  “Simone,” Jay finally whispers. His voice is raspy and low. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  I nod before I can stop myself. I don’t even know what I’m getting into, but I know I want it.

  He pushes my shirt up a little more so he can see my panties, which, thankfully, are my comfortable, yet sexy ones. His tongue darts out along his bottom lip, like he’s finally sat down to a feast after a long day. He goes down on his knees in front of me, stooping to kiss up my calf and inner thighs, stopping at the fabric right over my clit.

  Oh. Okay. We’re starting here? No preamble besides a foot massage?

  I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m so turned on that I can hardly think. It’s been so damn long since I’ve let myself be overtly sexual. My brand of horniness flew in the early stages of my past relationships, but they always wanted me to dial it back once we settled a little. I’ve forgotten what it’s like, just going for it for my own pleasure, not worrying if I seem too eager. I’ve missed this.

  “Do you always walk around wearing sexy underwear like this?” he asks, tugging the crimson lace panties down my legs and off.

  “Um, I guess,” I stammer.

  “Fuck, I kind of regret asking. Now I’m going to think about what you’re wearing under everything all the time.”

  “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a fancy panties kind of guy,” I reply, my voice breathy. I like the way it sounds.

  “I didn’t know I was one until just now, honestly.” He looks down at my panti
es on the floor.

  He tugs me down on the couch, so my ass is hanging off the edge and my knees are pushed back to my shoulders. He wraps my hands behind my knees, so I hold my legs open. Realizing that I’m about to slide off the couch, he grabs the pillow my foot had been resting on and puts it under me so I’m more stable. He pauses for a moment, looking at me all spread out in front of him. To my surprise, I only feel slightly embarrassed. The hunger in his eyes gets rid of any hesitation I have.

  At first, I think he’s going to go diving in since I’m all exposed, but instead, he kisses my inner thighs, skipping over my pussy and up the other one again. I glare at him, but he just grins.

  Finally, finally, he runs his tongue up my slit and just around my clit. My pussy clenches, already anticipating what he’s about to do to me. His tongue dances all over me, from flicking across my clit just enough to make me whine, to dipping inside me, stroking a spot that sends my eyes rolling back into my head.

  I want to grab his hair and hold his face to my pussy but every time I move, he forces me back into position, hardly breaking his rhythm. He might be the one eating me out, but there’s no doubt that he’s the one in charge of this situation.

  He senses my need and stops playing around, settling on steady licks and sucks on my clit. Then his finger joins the mix, and holy shit. My pussy clamps down on his thick finger and my hips buck into his face. I’m lost in feeling.

  I can hardly catch my breath because of the skillful way he’s taking me higher and higher. I look down at his head. His hair is falling loosely to the side, and the sight of the muscles of his shoulders subtly moving underneath his T-shirt is enough to make me squirm, trying to fuck myself on his fingers.

  “Yes, more of that,” I gasp in a voice that hardly sounds like mine anymore. I’m tingling from head to toe, feeling an orgasm building fast from a place deep inside me.

  “You like that, huh?” he rumbles against my flesh, making a swirling motion with his fingers. It makes me come so quickly that I hardly have time to process what’s happening.