Page 71 of 2nd Strike
“Don’t talk,” I tell JJ. “They’re on the way.”
The damn man never listens to me, even when he’s bleeding from a gunshot wound. “I…love you…Charlize.”
It’s the last thing he says before falling unconscious.
31
Meg
JJ is stable and in recovery after a complicated surgery that removed a bullet from his torso. During my work as a forensic sculptor, I’ve heard about wounds to the midsection. Many times, it proves fatal.
Thank God is all I can think as darkness and the bright overhead street lights of the expressway surround me.
It’s late, I’m exhausted and have no business—zero—heading to Jerome’s.
Not the way I’m feeling—needy and desperate for comfort. But seeing my sister on her knees beside a wounded JJ triggered something in me. Something intense.
Primal.
Charlie and JJ haven’t had one of those white-picket romances. If you ask me, it’s a fucked-up one. What with his wife and all.
Twisted as it is, there’s a connection between them. An unbreakable bond that I’ve only experienced with one man. As I watched blood pour from JJ, all I could think about was Jerome and life without him.
So, here I am, darkness be damned, with my foot heavy on the gas pedal.
I park in front of his apartment where the lights are off. That could mean several things: he’s asleep; he has a woman in there; he’s not home.
The dashboard clock reads eleven-forty-seven. I’m going with option one—and praying like hell I don’t run face first into some ho when I’m about to pour my heart out to this man.
I push the door open only half guilt-ridden about possibly waking him up. What I have to say can’t wait. Hopefully, he won’t be mad at me for delaying my answer.
Before I even reach the door, a light comes on, jerking me out of my thoughts.
Jerome swings it open and the bare bulb that constitutes an overhead hallway light shines down on his rumpled hair. He’s wearing basketball shorts and nothing else and oh…his lean, ropey muscles are exceptionally yummy to my fatigued eyes.
His gaze locks on mine as he steps back, granting me access. “Are you okay?”
He flips a switch, illuminating the small living room, but before he can do much else, I spin around, go on tiptoes and slap my hand over the back of his neck.
His eyes widen as I move in and kiss him with everything I’ve got. After the last few days, he feels warm and comfortable and…home.
I have no desire to end this supremely magnificent moment and since he’s not exactly running away, our contact lingers. He pulls me closer, crushing me against him. If I let it, I know what’ll happen. We’ll wind up in his bedroom, which wouldn’t be a bad thing, but it’s not what I’m here for so I jump back and, chest thumping, hold my hands up.
“No.”
“No?”
“Well, yes, but no.”
He sighs. “Meg, help me out here. It’s late, you left me hanging and I’m tired. On a normal day, you confuse me. Right now? We’re in Twilight Zone territory.”
Fully acknowledging I’ve been crappy to him, I nod. “I’m sorry. I should have said…something. You deserve that and more. But…I’m not here for sex.”
His eyebrows hitch up a fraction. “O-kay.”
“But I don’t want to be stuck anymore either.”
Before he can respond, I charge ahead, letting the words, everything I’m feeling tumble out. “Something happened tonight and I never—ever—want to take you for granted again.”
