Chapter Fourteen

B O U N D

Saturday, June 20th

When I can't feel my left arm panic sets in and I bolt upright. I shake it about until the pins and needles sensation kicks in. It's cold to the touch, I must have slept on it. The full weight of my body crushing it for god only knows how long.

"Oh fuck," I groan, when my eyes begin to open, regain focus. I pound my fists into the soft bedspread, a fluffy pillow falling onto my head. Frustration and annoyance unleashed into it in silent screams. This really isn't good.

This is a sobering wake up unlike any other.

Because Jack's bedroom, and the dark grey carpet, the crisp bedsheets and dark wood furniture make my stomach flip. This isn't what I'd been expecting I'd wake up to. Or in, for that matter, sprawled out on his large bed, last nights clothes still on.

Slowly I turn my head, holding my breath. But he's not beside me. I'm alone.

Careful in my footsteps across his room, I peer out the window and intense daylight blinds me. Creeping over the bed to check my face in the tall floor length mirror I find that I've got mascara clotted to my eyelashes and hair tangled up in my necklace. I am not a pleasant sight.

When I hear the faint sound of music under the closed door, I weigh up my options. Whilst I have a quick snoop of course. I've never been in here without him, and I've always been much to pre-occupied in other activities to explore.

I've got some time before I attempt to slip out undetected.

As I sneak about I find that he's got a lot of clothes. All much nicer than mine, clean and ironed too. A few flannel shirts hung up on the side of his wardrobe which surprises me. I don't think I've ever seen him in anything other than Fred Perry polo's and button up shirts at work, the odd cardigan, or those damn grey joggers he likes to prance about in.

He's got a lot of cologne too, along side rows of picture frames, some of which I guess are of family. A young looking Jack, unmistakably so with his devil may care smile holds onto the neck of a puppy, the beach in the background.

As I trace the faces with my finger, I hear the music grow louder. My time has come.

But as I pull the door slowly, an inch at a time, Jack's wild eyes draw mine up and he waves from the kitchen, a coffee pot in hand, a mug in the other.

Busted.

I step out and let the bedroom door slam. Keeping my head low as I tread the cold wooden floorboards over to the kitchen. Jack still grinning as I steady myself up onto a leather breakfast stool.

"The lady has risen," he laughs, his voice gruff. A mug of steaming coffee is thrust over. "Thought you might need that."

I try and keep my composure, resist laying my head down on the cold kitchen worktop because I don't want him to notice I am still unbelievably tired. That the weight of my shame at falling asleep, drunk in his bed hangs heavy.

"Thanks."

Jack moves round the kitchen, the radio playing in the background - some station tuned to golden oldies, classic rock. The heavy guitars make my headache turn in fits. He stops by the hob, and I watch him take hold of a frying pan. His hands reach into the small plastic box to the side and he sprinkles dark blueberries into it. The smell of pancakes hit me.

"You feeling alright?"

I nod, though it hurts. "Just a bit tired."

He grins over his shoulder like he's happy to rub in the fact that he's so fresh-faced and awake. Youth on his side. No obvious signs of a hangover.

"What time is it?" I ask, bleary eyed.

He comes to the opposite side of the counter, rests his elbows down, mug clasped tight in both hands. "Just gone midday, thought you could do with the rest. I'm making some breakfast, blueberry pancakes if you want some?"

Internally I groan, politely decline and take a sip of coffee, close my eyes. There's two reasons for this - one being that I don't think I've got the energy to keep them open and the second because it's a necessity. Jack's shirtless, a white towel wrapped loose round his waist, hair slicked back and it's too distracting. Droplets of water still cling to the tops of broad shoulders, and trickle down to the trail of hair under his bellybutton.

"You talk in your sleep a lot, you know that?" he smirks. "I could hear you even from the sofa."

"The sofa?" I say, squinting to look behind. A crumpled up duvet cover resting over it, and a pillow. Jacks shoes propped up by the coffee table. "Did we...?"

"Nah, course not. I made you some toast, at your insistence cos you were hungry apparently, then you wandered off and I found you asleep in my bedroom. You wouldn't wake for nothing."

I am a puzzle with lots of missing pieces. I don't remember much. Only the blurry face of the taxi driver, and the tortuous climb up the apartment block steps. The lift out of order.

"And I tried to take your necklace off cos I thought you might stab yourself in your sleep but you wouldn't let me," he sighs.

"Sorry," I reply quietly, peering down at my neck, a small red imprint visible. "You could have just kicked me out, put me on the sofa."

Jack shakes his head, wry smile on his lips. "Didn't think you'd appreciate it, besides it's fine. I actually had an alright nights kip."

"You sure? I honestly don't remember anything." That is a little fib, I remember laughing a lot, so much that my ribs still ache when I turn on the stool.

"I'm not surprised. It was a challenge to get you up the stairs, and you wouldn't budge from the taxi. Kept telling the guy you don't actually hate me as much as you thought you did. He wasn't interested," he laughs, tossing a pancake. "It was funny though."

I can only imagine. I have to. I've no recollection of any of it. "Again, I'm sorry. This is why you should never ask me to stay for one more drink."

"I had a laugh. You're actually not so bad company once you let yourself have some fun," he sticks his tongue out, green eyes wide. I have to look away before the dimples appear.

Another sip of coffee clears my head a little, moves the fog aside so I can get a hold of my bearings. Still it's disorientating being in his kitchen, half asleep. I've never stayed the night before and it's a miracle I've managed to keep my clothes on. Waking up alone in his bed fully dressed not something I'd thought possible. Maybe he is decent. Capable of being a gentleman. He did remember to remove my shoes after all. And make me strong coffee.

"I should probably go," I tell him as he stretches his arms above his head. There's too many wonderfully defined muscles on display, his rib tattoo stretching up. It's a warning sign. "Sure you got lots to get on with."

"Jem, it's the weekend. I'm gonna do bugger all and enjoy it. You don't have to leave," Jack laughs. "There's no rush unless there's somewhere you need to be."

"Oh Bollocks," My mind jumps and panic rises. Just gone midday rings in my ears. I am in big trouble.

"What?"

"Where's my bag? My phone?" I'm already off the stool, wobbly on my feet, searching.

"In my room I think. I dunno, why? What's wrong?" he looks concerned. "You want me to get it?"

"No, no it's fine I'll do it," I reply taking off in the direction of his room. Besides his bed side table, I find my bag stuffed close to the bed. My phone resides in the side pocket. I've a ton of missed calls from Abbie and a stern text message, that flashes up with a preview of dread.

How could I have been so forgetful?

"Jem, what's up?" Jack asks when I slope back in, phone cradled in my hand. I might just cry.

Because between the drinks and shots, Jack's winning ability to flirt me right into a cab, up to his and my need for sleep I've forgotten all about meeting up with Abbie for an overdue brunch and catch up.

She'd arranged it, told me that because we've both been so busy, like passing ships in the night it would be nice to take some time out. Have some food, enjoy each others company for more than the twenty minutes at a time, or however long it takes to have TV dinners with her and Dave.

We're supposed to meet in the kitchen, like we usually do, and walk down to the french cafe together. A table booked for eleven am. I am so awful. And late. Much too late to expect any forgiveness.

"My friend. I'm supposed to meet her," I sigh, scrolling through the missed calls, the text that tells me she's been waiting and waiting. Asks where on earth I've got to. If I came home last night.

"Crap. When?"

Furiously typing out a reply, I mumble. "An hour a go."

When I decide that my grovelling message, and assurance that I am indeed fine, and not in some gutter isn't enough I try calling. Again and again and again, and a few extra times for luck but Abbie doesn't pick up. One more try leaves me hanging onto her voicemail. It's obvious she does not want to talk to me.

"They gonna be pissed?" Jack asks, still in his towel. Still staring at me.

"She will be. I mean she already is."

I'm sure he's happy to hear the word she, instead of he. His eyes finally settling as he washes up my empty mug. When my phone vibrates he turns, watches me hold it up close to my face to read Abbie's reply.

Well least your not in a ditch. I waited over an hour, Jem. Going to see Dave's parents now for the weekend so have left. Put a key under the door mat. You've probably forgotten yours again. C

My eyes linger on the later letter C - an in joke of ours come to life. I know she's used it on purpose, C standing in for what would normally be a kiss, an X.

C is the short form for when someone's pissed you off, been a complete c * * t.

Oh how we'd laugh about that when I'd sent such a thing to a horrible ex-boyfriend.Now the jokes on me.

Jack waits till I've laid my phone back down."You want a shower? There should be some hot water left."

I hesitate, because I'm desperately in need of one but I'm aware that this only complicates matters. Over staying my welcome, being near him in a capacity that's unfamiliar. In and out being the usual motto I apply to all things Jack . Literally and figuratively.

But I smell. And my hairs a knotted mess, a nest of restless sleep. I can still taste the apple sours, sticky residue stuck on my fingertips, but most of all I feel dirty for letting Abbie down. I pinch the bridge of my nose to push out similar feelings about Dylan. A name I can't even stand to think about right now, because it makes my stomach and chest churn in guilt.

"Yeah thanks, if you don't mind."

Jack just nods and waves me ahead. "I got a new shower head. It's pretty powerful so watch yourself. Turn it like this," he instructs once were in the bathroom.

I had expected to be shown the door and left alone but he's too busy showing me the different pressures, how to slide back the glass door so it doesn't jam.

I know he's just trying to be sweet, and kind. Helpful but it's all too much to take in.

"That's a clean towel, and a smaller one too if you need it," he says quietly. The steam from his earlier shower clinging to the small white mosaic tiles, the mirror still fogged up. I doubt he has to give tours of his bathroom that often.

It's actually quite fancy, and well kept for a bachelors pad. I'd half expected to find him sweeping away dirty underwear and Maxim mags from the wicker basket by the toilet but there's actually books in it. Up on the windowsill above the sink he's got one of those scented candles, pomegranate and pineapple. A surprisingly sweet, pleasant smell lingers.

"There's shampoo in one of the draws, I think and shower gel," he mumbles, pulling open one only to quickly slam it shut again. "Don't usually have many women-"

I put my hand up fast to silence him. I get it. He doesn't need to remind me that I've broken the cardinal rule.

"Thanks," I say, as he hovers by the door with puppy dog eyes.

"No problem. Um, yeah so. I'll let you get on," Jack backs into the door, and fumbles for the handle. Hoisting up his towel that threatens to unwrap. "Have a good shower, yeah."

Once he's left, I count to ten and lock the door. Tossing my clothes on the floor, I test out this supposedly banging new shower head. Turns out he wasn't lying, it really is strong and it takes me a while to adjust the pressure so it doesn't feel like knives in my back.

When I've washed everything clean away, I wipe the condensation off the mirror and rummage through the sink draws. I've got no toothbrush, but I do find a small tube of paste and use my finger to drag it across my teeth, rinsing until the bitter coffee taste vanishes. In my quest to find some tissue, or cotton buds to remove my make up I pull out the draw Jack had been quick to slam shut and I find that it's filled with boxes of condoms, some open, others not with shiny coloured slogan promises of a good time, something for her pleasure.

My stomach turns and as I try to stuff them all back in, a sharp, stinging pain jolts through my hand. Mouth open, the shock of it, leads me to shout fuck.

Holding it up to the light, a trickle of blood escapes. By the time I've realised I've cut it on an rogue razor blade tucked behind the boxes it's running down my hand and into the sink. The cautious knock at the door spurs me into panic mode as I try and grab for some loo roll, to stem the bleeding. It's no use.

"Jem, you alright?" Jacks voice is quiet to begin with as I hold my breath. Then he hammers again and calls out my name louder. "Jem?"

Tucking the towel round my chest, making sure to loop it tight, I fumble round with all the stupid condoms and slam the draw shut. When I give up trying to apply pressure to the inch long cut, I unlock the door and poke my head out.

"I'm fine, really."

Jack doesn't believe a word of it. "I heard you shout. Thought you might have hurt yourself."

With a sigh, I reveal my bloodied hand and his face turns white. "Just a scratch, I cut myself. Not sure how." What a lie.

"Run some cold water over it in the sink and I'll go fetch a plaster," he says springing into action. "Just hold tight."

I do as I'm told, run it under the water till my fingers numb. When Jack dashes back in he's got a bright pink tin in his hands, adorned with glittery hearts, rainbow jumping unicorns.

"Hold your hand out," he instructs as I laugh. "What's funny?"

"Those," I reply. Still laughing.

"I keep them just in case, for my niece," Jack says, peeling back the paper layer. Gently he curls it over the cut, blood seeping into the cracks. "She stays over some weekends. My sister's going through a messy divorce, it's nice for her to have a break every once in a while."

I'm not sure what explanation I'd been expecting but it defiantly isn't that. The thought of Jack caring for another human being, a small child at that not one I'd ever entertained.

"Is that too tight?" he asks quietly, smoothing down the wayward edges of the plaster.

"It's fine."

His eyes meet mine for a beat longer than necessary. "There's still some blood."

I look down at the finger, and Jack raises up my hand, twists it so I can see the trickle that sinks into the cracks between. I shrug. "It'll stop soon."

When he places it in line with his bare chest, I know that I should've just run it under the tap, that I should've kept my cries of pain under wraps because this should not be happening right now.

The towel hung over his hips, much too low and much too close to mine, the only barrier between us.

And I know it's wrong. That it goes against everything I've promised myself. A step back in the wrong direction but the inevitable regret plays second fiddle to the burning in my chest, the rippling dangerous desire to close the tiny gap. I'm like a feather caught in a whirlwind.

The need for momentary satisfaction blurs any boundaries I've laboured to build.

And destiny is already written - a repeat of a repeat. Five times over. What's one more going to do? What's the harm?

I'll only have myself to blame.

With surprising strength I push my body up against him. Jack backs slowly into the door, slamming it shut with a loud thud. My hands instinctually tug at the towel but he stops me, even though he's hard against my inner thigh.

His hair's still damp as I run a hand through and his eyes are on mine as I try to instigate his touch. But Jack stands tall, almost motionless. Like he wants to test me, enjoying the urgency of my wandering hands. And I'm failing miserably.

His eyes keep watching mine as I bring my mouth close. Breath catching between our lips, my heart pounding. Yet he still doesn't lay a finger on me and I start to wonder if he really is still concerned perhaps, about my cut. Not that he should be. All the bloods rushing from it and straight down again to below my waist.

I need him to kiss me. Because it'll make this all so much easier. Sharing the guilt of giving in. But he just stares straight into my eyes, even as my arms brush over his shoulders, and round his neck. If I couldn't feel the pulsing pressure against my thigh I'd worry he's forgotten how to breath.

The slow tension is killing me.

"Jack," I whisper, under his ear lobe. "I need this."

The warmth of his strong hands on my back light the spark. My impatient lips crash into his and it's game over. All rationality falls away like the towels between us. There really is nothing stopping us now.

And he tastes like morning. The scent of his skin new. No cologne, or body spray. Like talcum powder, and strawberry shower gel. It gives me a heady rush to breath him in. Like a long drag of a cigarette after a difficult day.

He's old ash, some still left to scatter.

An overheard saying comes to mind, as Jack licks my lips, biting down, tongue wild. That a mans kiss is his signature, and I believe it now to be true. My aching mouth has got him written all over it.

"Fuck Jem," he whispers, when I pull away, his lips curling up to say my name. When he brings me back in, I'm unable to resist. I slide my hand down his thigh, gripping all of him tight as his kisses become slow and deep.

Underneath my wet hair, he runs a finger up my neck and down again as my tongue dances in sync with his. Then he traces circles beneath my collarbone, teasing me when he reaches my bare chest, stopping only once he reaches the curve of my hips.

It's like a dance, the first steps wary. Savouring the moment until our mutual hunger takes over.

He reaches for the handle of the sink draw I'd snooped round in before and pulls it open. It's a momentary pause, one that I can handle. The tear of the wrapper quick, barely noticeable.

Jack then spins and lifts me, my back crashing against the door. The tense muscles in his arms an immense turn on to hold onto, bite down on. And with his hands tangled up in my hair, I grip my legs tight, binding them round his waist.

When I nibble his lip with excitement he moans, his voice like gravel.

"I want you," he whispers between stolen, hungry kisses.

When I push my hips down, an inch at a time, the glorious anticipation builds, the pent up frustration from the past couple of days starts to melt away the deeper I sink. His arms stop me from falling but it doesn't matter. I feel weightless. The danger of calling out his name, over and over, amongst gasps of pleasure, slipping away with every crash, every thrust.

I loose track of time and the ability to feel my toes. My head's wobbly, like it's not screwed on properly. Which I know it isn't because I wouldn't be in this situation if it were but it doesn't harm any ability to drag my nails down his spine or along his unshaven jaw.

When I come, he buries his face in my chest, his breath hot. My legs till wrapped tight like a vice. And I can feel his heart crushed against mine, his hair threaded through my fingers. Every part of me is intertwined, locked to his.

As the sensation lingers, I open my eyes. Jack's looking up at me like he's never done before and it scares me.

Because my eyes tell him that this is the last time, that it won't happen again.

And because his say they don't quite believe me.

. . . .