Page 105 of Fighting Jacob

Now his hand-holding makes sense. He thinks if he has at least one of them contained, he'll suffer fewer injuries.

Un-fucking-likely.

It’s near midday, so why am I only finding out now?

When I ask Jacob that, he says, “I wanted to tell you in person, then some shit went down with Noah, and I couldn’t get away as quickly as I would have liked.” He thrusts the hand originally wrapped around his steering wheel toward the bumper to bumper traffic in front of us. “Then this.” His remorse-filled eyes stray to mine. “Sorry. I should have just called.”

“No.” I wave off his worry like it’s a fly. “I like that you told me in person. It made it more special. Like I’m privileged or something.”

“You are privileged, Lola. Especially to me.”

I roll my eyes. I know people hate me, and I’m fine with that. I just somehow fooled Jacob into believing I’m a nice person. I’m sure his opinion would change if he ever discovers the thoughts I’ve had about him since he sexually tortured me against my car two weeks ago. Yes, it was torture, because I’ve suffered nothing but hours of distress since that afternoon.

You'd think discovering that Jacob didn't touch the stripper in the photos he was tagged in would arrive with a heap of relief. It did, but it was quickly overtaken by sexual frustration. First, Slater interrupted our hot and heavy make-out session, then Tom.

Getting down and dirty in a busy parking lot is risqué enough. I don’t need it witnessed by a man I’ve grown to admire the past few months. Tom isn’t a drinker, but that hasn’t stopped him from popping into Pete’s for a ginger ale every Thursday afternoon. He updated me on Noah’s condition without once pointing out the fact he knew I wasn’t visiting Noah because disappointment can be articulated without words. Usually, criticism doesn’t bother me, but it’s been harder to handle the past three months. Noah’s coma made me soft... and perhaps the man beside me.

Jacob and I have maintained regular contact the past two weeks, but it’s only been via text messages and phone calls. I’m scheduled at Pete’s every weekend, and Jacob’s weekdays are tied up doing community service. Although I don’t work twenty-four hours a day, I know the promise he made to Noah at the start of his admission, so I’d never make him choose between his best friend and me—I hate losing.

If you had told me two weeks ago our phone conversation would be more heated than some face-to-face interactions we’ve had, I would have laughed. Now I’m calling myself an idiot for not adding electronics into the mix earlier. The amount of teasing...my god. I'm coiled so tightly, just sitting across from Jacob has my orgasm teetering. I remember the dirty words he whispered, and how his breathing hitched when I followed his instructions to a T.

God—being this dirty should almost be saintly.

When Jacob notices me squirming in my seat, he rakes his eyes down my body, slowing at the parts that make the dampness between my legs undeniable. "You alright?"

The lack of crinkles in his crotch reveals he knows what has me squirming, but he’s playing the game how he’s been taught. He was trained by the best—AKA me.

“I’m fine. You?”

Now his pants have crinkles, more from the material bunching around his crotch than anything. That probably has something to do with the seductive purr my question was delivered with. I said he was taught by the best, not that I didn’t have the skills needed to return his tease.

“I’ll be good... soon.” As his teeth rake his lower lip, his eyes drift back to the road.

I want to say a lack of eye contact cools my turbines, but that would be a lie. Ravenshoe Private Hospital peeking out over the horizon, though, that's a quick reminder we're not traveling to Bronte's Peak to become reacquainted.

After finding a parking space at the top of the garage, barging through thousands of fans who recognize him from Rise Up’s early days, then wrangling past a handful of reporters offering a ridiculous amount of money to sneak a camera onto Noah’s floor, Jacob guides me into Noah’s room. The scene we walk into this time is a stark contrast to two weeks ago. Emily's cheeks are rosy; her hair is knotted... and she's moaning instead of sobbing.

“I was about to tell you to get a room, then I realized you're already in one.”

Jacob’s voice is full of jest, but Emily still dies a thousand deaths of embarrassment. It could have been worse. At least they’re clothed this time around. They weren’t when I walked into Emily’s room without knocking last Christmas.

“I thought dry humping ended in high school?”

Jacob’s fingers sizzle against mine, appreciating how my burn complemented his. After bumping Emily with my hip, loving how her cheeks inflame even more, I lock my eyes with Noah. “Way to scare the shit out of us, asshole.”

Call me naïve, but I don’t expect him to reply to my taunt. He just woke up from a coma, so he shouldn’t be talking, should he? So imagine my surprise when he mocks, “Sorry about that, princess.”

Aware of my absolute hatred of nicknames, he calls me one at every given chance. Princess, baby, darling, honey—you name it, he’s called me it at one stage the past two years. They make me want to vomit in my mouth. There are only two names I'll tolerate: Noah's pet name for Emily—who wouldn't want to be called Beautiful all the time?—and the name nickname Jacob gave me. He shortened it to CT, but I know what it stands for, and I friggin’ love it!

I’m drawn from my thoughts when Noah asks Emily, “Does Lola know?”

“Does Lola know what?”

When neither Emily or Noah give me any indication as to what they’re talking about, I shift on my feet to face Jacob. He freezes, utterly terrified. “Jacob...?”

Before I can read a single confession streaming from his eyes, Emily blubbers out, “I’m pregnant.”

I jackknife back so quickly, I almost lose my footing. I thought her belly looked more rounded when Noah had a heart attack two weeks ago, but I brushed it off as a consequence of living off vending-machine food. I never considered that a baby caused the extra pounds on her svelte frame.

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