Never Could Stop Read online

  “This is so flipping cool,” I whisper as I drop my bag on the floor near a small table surrounded by stools. Hopping up onto one, I'm surprised and a little bit shocked when Foster pens me in, putting a hand on either arm of the chair and leaning so close that I can smell this musky, woodsy fragrance clinging to his skin. He gets in so close and so fast that I hardly have a chance to take a breath before he's putting his lips near enough to mine that I can feel his next words.

  “I need you to do something for me,” he whispers, dragging his lips along the length of my jaw. Despite the hardness of his face, the disturbing nature of his tattoos … his mouth is unbelievably soft. “Take your shit and get the fuck out of here; don't come back. I want you to get as far away from me as you can.”

  Foster pauses with the warmth of his breath feathering against my ear—and then he nibbles my lobe, shocking my frozen form into action.

  I hit him with both palms in the chest, my breath coming in sharp, panting gasps as old memories tear through me like a knife. No, no, no, no! This is my new life. Mine. I make the decisions. Right now, my instincts are telling me to do what this crazy man says and get the fuck out of here, run as fast as I can, put distance between us until I feel safe. But that's the old Jade, reacting to the nightmare of her shitty, useless life. This is the new Jade and she's never been through anything more trying than a chipped nail or an uneven spray tan. She's charmed and charming; she has no baggage.

  “What is your problem?” I ask as I lean back on the stool and stare at Foster's terrified face. It's such a confusing expression to see on someone who was just trying to intimidate me, invade my space, scare me. Because that is what he was trying to do, wasn't it? He wasn't trying to hit on me, just freak me out enough that I'd leave. And now? Sweat is pouring down the sides of his face, and his chest is rising and falling with panting breaths.

  He stands there in his tight purple wifebeater, holey jeans, and skeletal tattoos, those sapphire eyes locked on my face with this helpless sort of expression etched into it, like he can't figure me out and he really, really needs to.

  I cross my legs at the knee and lean back against the business card covered wall, trying this new Jade on for size, this badass bitch attitude that I modeled after my sister, Never. It doesn't feel right, like my elbows and knees are all at the wrong angles, like my smirking mouth is falling off my face. Inside, the old Jade quivers and shakes, imagining her father's rough hands as he reaches out and pulls her in for a hug, something she's always craved but never gotten from him. It's only when he starts to do things that a father shouldn't do that she gets scared, when he breathes on her ear, when he nibbles it.

  If my sister's boyfriend hadn't walked in when he did …

  I blink away the memories and give Foster this look of triumph, like I've figured out his game and I'm not about to play into it.

  “Look, I have no idea why you're trying to get rid of me, but I have no intention of going anywhere. And if you touch me again without my permission, I will knee you right in the fucking balls and then call the cops. Got it?” I purse my glossy red lips at him and try to pretend that neither of us notices the quiver in my voice or the one in his hands.

  I'm scared; he's scared.

  But he's also trying to get rid of me.

  It's all just weird; he is just weird.

  “Look,” Foster starts, lifting his hands up, palms out like he's trying to plead with me. “You have no fucking clue what's going on here.”

  “Going on?” I ask as I notice Keenan approaching over his shoulder, a trio of drinks clutched precariously in his hands.

  “Here we go,” he says, managing to make it to the table just before one of the three glasses slides from his grip. He passes a red drink over to me and flashes that easy smile of his. “Three hurricanes, to welcome you to the city.”

  I cup the drink between my sweater covered palms and tug it close, teasing the orange slice and the cherry with a red fingernail.

  “Thank you, sir,” I quip as I drag the straw to my lips and take a quick sip. It's fruity, but strong—really strong. If I hadn't spent so many evenings at the local bar sipping straight whiskey on the stool next to my dad's, I'd probably be gagging from the burn. Fuck. No, no, that's Old Jade. New Jade is just so used to going out and partying that she's learned to hold her liquor.

  “There's a float of rum on the top; you might want to stir it,” Keenan says with a laugh, taking the stool across from me and pulling his own drink toward him. I notice his eyes scanning the room, locking on short skirts and bare mid-riffs with a greasy gleam that I don't particularly like. Whatever. I'll have a drink, maybe two and then I'll take off. “Foster, sit, you're making us both nervous.”

  Foster licks his lips like he really is nervous about something, taking the stool between me and Keenan. I notice he doesn't bother to touch his drink. He also doesn't scope out girls, doesn't even really seem to be aware of the jovial atmosphere all around him.

  Me, I'm so starved for any droplet of fun or excitement that I decide to ignore him—even if I can smell his scent from here, some cologne or body spray that makes my mouth water. It's earthy but bright, like green apples mixed with cedar. I put my face closer to my drink and focus on the sweet smells of orange juice and pineapple instead.

  “So, Jade,” Keenan begins as he plucks his straw out and chucks it aside, leaving little puddles of liquid on the table. Before bothering to finish his sentence, he lifts the curvy glass to his lips and tosses most of it back. “What do you think?” He lifts his hand out to indicate the bar, leaning back with a smug sort of look on his face, like he's somehow personally responsible for the charm of the two hundred year old building.

  “It's seriously fucking awesome,” I say, and then wonder if that's too Old Jade. “It's cool; I like the atmosphere.” Is that better? Whatever. I'll never see these two men again. Might as well practice my new persona while I'm hanging out with them. I wonder if I should change my name, too? Maybe I could use my middle name instead? Myla. Myla Regali.

  I take another sip of my drink, relaxing into my chair, taking in the scene before me with something akin to awe. I'm here; I did it; I escaped. I breathe out, long and low, swirling my straw around my glass and listening to the wild thundering of my heart. Not once in my life have I ever left Mississippi. The craziest thing I've ever done is dance in my bikini on amateur night at the Naughty Bunny—the local strip club from back home.

  “Come on, Foster, what the hell is wrong with you tonight?” Keenan asks, but his friend just glares at him, crossing his arms over his chest and continuing with that whole strong, silent type persona. Looking at him now, it feels almost as impossible to believe as the bubbly, carefree girl that I'm pretending to be.

  Subconsciously, I find my fingers lifting to touch my chin, trailing along the path that Foster's lips took to my ear. Gross. What am I doing? My family does not have a good history with choosing good men. My sisters and I always joked that it was in our genes. Sitting here right now, it feels like it's true. I'm still attracted to the weirdo in the tank top with the skeleton tattoos on his arm. Looking at him now, I can't help but notice the frantic fluttering of his pulse, thrumming against the side of his neck. He might look all stoic and whatever, but something is seriously going on with this guy.

  “Well, shit, I'm not about to let good booze go to waste,” Keenan says with a whistle, rustling up his brunette hair with a meaty hand and returning the smile of a blonde near the bar. He tosses this straw away as haphazardly as he did the last and chugs the drink. “Hey, you know what,” he continues, still not looking at me, his eyes locked onto the blonde's ass hanging out of her short skirt, “why don't you finish up that hurricane and I'll grab round two? It's your first night in Nola. Somebody oughta take care of you and welcome you to the city.”

  Without bothering to glance up at me, Keenan books it toward the girl at the bar and leaves me alone with Foster again. He's not gone more than ten seconds before Foste
r reaches out—presumably to grab a napkin from the silver holder near the wall—and knocks my drink into my lap.

  My mouth drops open as Foster tears a handful of napkins and deposits them on the spilled drink soaking into my leggings.

  “Are you fucking insane?” I snap, mopping at the liquid on my thighs. A woman bussing tables notices and brings over a wet rag to help clean up the table and floor. She gives me another clean, damp cloth to clean up my leggings. This whole time, Foster does nothing but sit there and stare at me, his lips pressed tight, his pulse thrumming like a mad thing. Doesn't do a damn thing to help clean me up. “Wow, what a gentleman,” I snap, shoving the pile of dirty napkins into the center of the table.

  For whatever reason, this is what really sets him off.

  Foster slams his palms onto the tabletop and leans toward me, dragging that bright scent of his with him. It surrounds me in a cloud, a layer of lemon zest and oak moss. If he wasn't such a serious asshole, I'd ask him what the name of the scent was and buy a bottle for myself. Then I could spray it all over and go out and tell everyone I'd been hanging with my boyfriend. I'd say his name was something arresting like Damien or Vlad or Christian.

  “Are you stupid?” Foster growls at me—like a fucking animal. His lip curls back from his teeth and everything. But those eyes … he can't hide the fear in them as he stares at me, scraping his fingertips across the surface of the table. “I'm trying to help you out here.”

  “Help me?” I echo, raising a curved brow in his direction. “Dumping a drink into my lap is helping?”

  “It was drugged,” he whispers, voice gritty and rough but somehow beautiful, like a lullaby played on a broken piano. It's that sound that really gets me, grips my attention in a white-knuckled fist that just won't let go.

  “Drugged?” I ask, pausing to take stock and see if I feel anything—a headache, dizziness, fatigue. But I feel fine. Then again, I only had a few sips and mostly it was from the rum floating at the top of the drink. “Why would it be drugged?”

  “God, do you hear yourself?” Foster whispers, staring so intently at me that it feels like he can see right past New Jade and straight into the weak, cowardly heart of the old one. I've never understood that phrase before—he could see straight through me—but I do now. Intimately so. “How can you be so fucking naïve? You climbed into a car with two guys you don't even know and then proceeded to admit that nobody knows where you are, that nobody's expecting you, and then you take a drink from a stranger's hand and start sucking it down. Where have you been living your whole life? Under a rock?”

  I notice that everything he says, he says in a whisper, checking periodically over his shoulder to spy on Keenan. The blonde he's flirting with seems pretty excited to have his attention—even with the mustard stains on the collar of his shirt. Maybe she just wants a free drink?

  My eyes slide back to Foster's, to his parted lips, to the drop of sweat trailing down his temple.

  He stares at me imploringly, sitting back in his chair and closing his eyes for a moment.

  “Look, why don't you just grab your backpack and go? This doesn't concern you.”

  “It doesn't concern me that some guy's trying to, what, roofie me so he can rape me or something?” As soon as I say it, it doesn't sound so far-fetched, and my stomach twists with nerves. I'm not an idiot; I know what guys do. Fuck, I know better than most people how awful a person with a penis can be. My dad … he's a murderer and a rapist.

  And this guy, Foster … he's right.

  Old Jade quakes in her booties, but New Jade just crosses her legs at the knee and stares the man with the skeleton tattoo down.

  “What's to stop me from calling the cops and reporting you and your crazy fucking friend?” I ask, trying to pretend I'm as gutsy, as brave as the woman I wish I were. Deep down, a hell of a lot further than anyone can go, I know I'm just a coward. A girl who doesn't belong anywhere or with anyone. I'm the black sheep of the family, the one who never makes the right choices, who's always getting chastised for something.

  Here I am, hundreds of miles away from home, sitting at a bar with a stranger, and still, I'm being admonished, verbally kicked in the back of the knees and knocked down a peg.

  “Please don't do that,” Foster says, still whispering, still nervous. He looks like he's getting ready to take off and run. Would not surprise me a bit if he did. “This is not the sort of thing you want to get yourself involved in. Jade,” he starts, the single syllable of my name sliding off his lips like a lemon-lime tart. It zings across my eardrums, piques my attention, makes my taste buds hurt. I want to eat that sound with a spoon. “If you really did come to this city to start a new life, then go out and do it. There's no reason for you to get mixed up in this shit.”

  “You're telling me to walk out of here, knowing that some guy tried to drug me, and just let it go?” I gesture frustratedly in the direction of Keenan and the blonde girl. “Let him try it on her next?”

  “I promise I won't let him try it on anyone else tonight if you promise you'll walk out of this bar and never think about me or Keenan ever again.” He pauses, running his skeletal hand up and down his right arm. He grips it so tight that his fingertips turn the skin on his bicep pink. “You were planning on leaving anyway, right? That's why you brought your bag, isn't it? Why not just cut and run now. If there's even a ten percent chance that I'm telling you the truth, then it's ridiculous to take that risk.” Foster pauses, noticing my complete and utter inaction, and then digs into his pocket. He comes up with a hundred dollar bill and thrusts it out at me. “Here. If you leave now, I'll give you this.”

  I stare at the money in his hand for a moment, his face, the shiny pink color of his lips.

  With a tight pursing of my own lips, I reach out and snatch the cash, sliding off the stool and grabbing the strap of my bag.

  “Nice knowing you,” I say snidely, easing past Foster's stool, close enough that I catch a sigh of relief escaping him like a deflated balloon. I'm not halfway out the door before he's there by my side again, hands curling around my upper arms and freezing me in place. My heart pounds as I glance up at Foster, but I put on a good face. “What?”

  “You should check your messages, too,” he says softly, his voice barely audible above the buzzing of the crowd. “Let your family know you're alright.”

  He releases me at the same moment I decide to make a show of it, ripping my arms from his grip and stumbling to my knees on the pavement. I ignore the warm, embarrassed flush that fills my cheeks and stand up, heading along the sidewalk with literally zero idea of where I'm going. I just suddenly want to be out of there, away from the weird gleam in Keenan's eye and the even weirder attitude of his silent, moody friend.

  I'm only about two blocks away when he catches up to me, grabbing my upper arm again—this time hard enough to bruise.

  When I turn to Foster to tell him to fuck off and leave me alone, I see that the whites of his eyes are stark and shimmering, pupils narrowed, breath panting.

  “Run,” he says and I can hear true panic laced through his voice. He starts to move, still gripping me with tight fingers. I have two choices: run with him or get pulled over and dragged across the rough surface of the sidewalk.

  Taking a brief moment to glance back toward the bar, I see Keenan with several other men milling around outside the doors. As soon as he looks up and spots me, he smiles.

  There's nothing at all easy or outgoing or casual about that look.

  Without understanding what the hell is going on, I let Foster drag me down the sidewalk and do my best to keep up.

  5

  My high-heeled boots make harsh clipping sounds as Foster drags me down the pavement and into one of the crowds milling outside another bar on Bourbon Street. The whole world seems to blur around me as he weaves us past drunken patrons and around a corner. My heart racing, I trail after him, my mind replaying Keenan's awful expression over and over and over again. That greasy gleam I'd seen in hi
s eyes just a few minutes before … it was like it'd been smeared all over his face.

  Before I even fully register what the hell is going on, Foster is yanking me into his arms and sliding a palm across my mouth. He ducks us behind a pair of dumpsters and holds me tight against the thundering beat of his heart, his mouth at my ear. He doesn't tell me to stay quiet, but he doesn't have to. Like I said, I'm not stupid.

  Foster slides his palm away from my face, but he doesn't take the strong band of his arm away from my waist, our bodies pressed together, the sharp scent of garbage hanging heavy in the air.

  For several long moments we just stand there, his front pressed to my back. And there's that smell again, floating to me with the sweet kiss of geraniums and the woody scent of cedar. I try not to notice the heat from his body seeping in through my sweater, or the comfortable way I fit against him. Whatever my attraction is to this weirdo, I now just want to get away from him.

  What the hell have I gotten myself tangled up in?

  “We need to get out of here,” he whispers after a few more moments have passed, stepping away from me and leaving me shivering in the cool winter air.

  Foster peeks around the side of the dumpster and then steps out into the pink glow of a nearby restaurant sign. A few seconds later, I follow after … and then slip around him, taking off in a dead run in the opposite direction of the bar. When I hear Foster following after me, I start to get nervous.

  “Are you following me?” I snap, making sure not to stop until I hit another crowd, turning to face the blue-eyed, blue-haired boy with a good dozen people at my back. I'll admit it: I'm getting scared now. I bet my sister, Never, wouldn't be. No, she'd be grabbing this guy with a fistful of his purple wifebeater and demanding he tell her what the fuck was going on. I seriously hate her in that moment. Why does she have to be everything I want to be? And how is it fair that she manages to pull it off so effortlessly?

  “I'm—” Foster starts, but his words are cut off by a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back and spinning him around. The guy who's got a hold of him throws him hard against the side of a brick building and knocks the air from his lips with a grunt of pain.