Page 7 of Jump

It’s not like she doesn’t have a point, so I glance around and search for a solution to her worries.

I get it. A strange man, significantly larger than her, from out of town, wants to take her on an adventure not ten minutes after meeting. If she wholeheartedly threw herself in my arms and shouted yes! to what I’m offering, I’d honestly worry for her sanity.

But she doesn’t. She has common sense, and for that, I remain thankful.

“Uh… what if you told me who your best friend is? We could go to her, hand her my wallet as insurance. Then you and I can leave, knowing at least if you do die, there will be justice.”

She shakes her head and sniggers. “First of all, to tell my best friend any of this would be to tell her entirely too much about my private life. Secondly, it would ruin this anonymity thing we have going, considering Jump probably isn’t your real name.”

She’s cute. Daring, but cautious. She wants so badly to be the anarchist she named herself for. But dig just an iota beneath the surface, and she’s nothing but a ball of stress.

It’s enchanting, really, for a guy who doesn’t much give a shit about anything anymore.

“Let’s just go.” She steps out of my hold, but reaches back and takes my hand so I’m forced to follow.

She moves through the crowded ballroom, past couples who smile as we pass, though they don’t really see us. They’re in their own world of socialization and friendly chatter.

For the first time since I left my post at the bar and approached the beautiful vixen, I get a glimpse of her back as she moves. The crisscrossing straps of her golden gown, and the ripple of muscle just beneath her flesh.

The kind of muscle a woman gets from performing a physical job.

I want to say she has muscle like Ainsley had. No desk duty for either woman. But I shut the thought down before it fully forms.

I will not compare.

I fucking refuse.

So instead, I follow the sinewy lines along Ana’s spine, then the long, honey-blonde locks tied to one side, so they hang over her shoulder.

The fabric of her gown is especially tight around her chest, and less so around her hips and ass. Though, still figure-hugging enough to show me exactly who she is beneath.

My hands itch to touch. One is already wrapped in her palm, but I force my other one into my pocket before I reach out and scare the shy woman who musters every ounce of bravery she possesses to not run from me.

She tugs me from the ballroom and into the hall outside, where the lighting is brighter, harsher, and the music, distant and less captivating. But she cuts a clear path toward the lobby of the hotel we’re in, then out onto tall concrete steps that hug the front of the building and emerge into a quaint garden that leads to an ugly parking lot.

When she stops at the bottom of the stairs and looks left, then right, before finally bringing her uncertain gaze to me, I take pity on her fear and lead us off the stairs and through the garden that smells of roses and sweet nectar.

Bees likely make this space their home for all of spring, so though summer is over and the leaves will all soon fall, the bright display remains long enough to charm anyone who wanders by.

“Are you married, Jump?”

My pulse stutters at her abrupt question, but I twine our fingers together and continue walking. We have all night to wander, and nowhere to be but right here. For as long as the moon sits high in the sky, I get to pretend to be someone other than Matteo Ruiz.

“No,” I tell her honestly. “I’m not married. I’ve never been married. You?”

She snickers. “God no. Never. Are you involved with someone?”

Yes. Her name was Ainsley Cootes, and she was too young to die. “No. I’m not in a relationship with anyone anymore. It’s just me, the hand you’re currently holding, and a little Barry White playing through my stereo.”

Stunned, she tugs her palm from mine and studies it like she’s afraid I’ve transferred my semen to her. Though her cheeks lift with a smile. “You paint such a pleasant picture. What happened to the woman who came before?”

She died. But I school my face into neutral lines and discuss none of that. “Hmm?”

“You said you’re not in a relationship with anyone anymore. Which means at one point, you were. Where is she now?”

Row seventeen, line one hundred and forty-three. Plot ninety-one. Resting beneath a colorful bouquet I placed there just this morning; my first offering since the day we buried her.

What can I say? I ran away and, until a few days ago, haven’t come back to face reality.

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