A. Jackson: When We Met

Mine manifested as tears streaming hot and fast down my face.

Oh God, did I want to.

“Can’t,” I whispered, shaking my head.

Couldn’t go through this again.

Regret flashed in his eyes, like he could see straight through me, like he knew exactly what I was thinking and why I was pushing him away.

If only he really knew.

He wouldn’t want me then.

“I have to go.” I turned to flee. He grabbed me around my wrist and spun me around. His hands found my face. For a flash, agony took over his expression as he hesitantly pulled me closer. This time his kiss was slow, fueled by passion. It cut me so much deeper than the frenzied kiss we’d given ourselves over to minutes before, because this one spoke of what could be, of what I’d always dreamed of as a little girl before Hunter showed me just how cruel this world could be.

I surrendered to it and kissed him with everything I wished I could be, before I ripped myself away. Standing there panting, I stared at him and said, “I’m so sorry.”

Swallowing hard, I took two steps back, watching something that looked like anger flare in the depths of Darryn’s eyes. Harshly, he blinked. “Yeah, so am I.”

Darryn

Fuck.

It was official.

I was a creeper.

Not the I’m going to drag you into an alley and slit your throat kind of creeper.

More like the I’m going to drag you into an alley and kiss you senseless and leave you begging my name kind of creeper.

Different, right?

I sure as hell hoped so.

Because this was the low I’d stooped to.

Trailing her from a distance, I kept my eye on the mass of black curls that bobbed through the surging crowd on the sidewalk while doing my best to remain hidden.

Misha Crosse had done this to me. Made me a little bit crazy and left me partaking in tactics I’d never consider for another girl. Clearly she knew I was pursuing her, the way she kept peering over her shoulder, keen eyes searching through the horde of people as she sought out my presence.

Like she could feel me.

That same insane way I could feel her.

She didn’t appear so much scared as she did wary. The thought of her being afraid of me made me sick, although I knew she was fearful in an entirely different way. I’d never damage a hair on her head. I think she knew that. But it was that weakened heart the girl was protecting.

But that kiss . That searing, shattering kiss? I thought I couldn’t get her out of my mind before. After that kiss this weekend, she was all I could think about. The way she felt. The way she tasted. She’d singed through all those exterior layers of indifference that covered me up in callousness, straight down to splay open wide the deepest part of me.

God, I wanted her. Wanted to fix her and hold her and promise her I’d never let anyone hurt her.

But she wouldn’t give me the chance.

Misha had been avoiding me at all costs. Sneaking from her house when she thought I wouldn’t see her, leaving me standing outside their front door like a lovesick fool when I knocked, had me pacing when she didn’t return the text messages I’d sent after I begged her number off one of her roommates.

That girl was pretending she wasn’t affected.

But I knew better.

I’d felt everything when she kissed me, when she kissed me like she could taste freedom, like she’d finally found what she’d been searching for.

I had, that was for damned sure.

I could kiss a thousand girls and not one of them could stir up a modicum of the feeling Misha had brought to a full boil in me in one singular touch.

To be honest, it scared me a little, just how intense it was.

I mean, shit, here I was, basically stalking this girl, looking for a moment to talk to her. Chasing her. And I would have let it go . . . let her go . . . if I hadn’t witnessed what I’d seen so clearly on her face last weekend at the club, like she was begging me to somehow make it better and she was just too scared to ask, too many doubts holding her back.

There was no place inside me that could ignore that silent plea.

I’d gotten lucky and seen her slipping out the door this evening. She’d walked in the opposite direction of campus, heading to whatever secret place she stole to those evenings when she came back with a smile flooding her precious face.

Maybe I’d get to see it now, where she went, and from afar I could experience what brought her joy.

Every part of me screamed that I wanted to bring it to her, too.

Joy.

My heart squeezed.

How had this girl gotten so far under my skin? Like she’d come out of nowhere, a rogue wave that had barreled over me unseen, dragging me under. And there was no coming back up.

Misha suddenly cut through the crowd. On the left, she swung open a large plate-glass door nestled along the row of businesses lining the bustling walkway. She disappeared inside. Swallowing, I wove a little faster through the crush of people on the sidewalk, anxious not to lose her, more anxious to make out the sign hanging over the door.

I squinted.

CHILDREN’S LANGUAGE AND SPEECH PATHOLOGY.

Frowning, I cupped my hands around my eyes and pressed them to the hazy glass, peering inside to the large, open space.

So it wasn’t the most inconspicuous move. But what the hell? It wasn’t like she hadn’t already known I was there.

Chairs lined the walls of the front room, and a reception area sat to the far back in the center. White double doors rested on each side of it, passageways to what I could only assume would be some sort of clinic-style rooms behind them.

But none of those things were what interested me.

It was Misha.

She stood facing away, lost in an army of all these little kids that were probably four or five years old circling her legs, their faces all lit up with excitement as they smiled up at her.

Like she was their light.

Guess she had that way about her.

People who I could only assume were their parents sat in chairs that were placed along the walls, watching with soft smiles on their faces while Misha and another girl I’d never seen before, although she had to be close to Misha’s age, gathered all the kids and started playing these games with them. Enraptured, the kids all went along with the instructions, grinning through their small faces, tossing their heads back as they roared with laughter, Misha tickling and loving and smiling so wide it twisted me up tight and my breath got caught right in the center of my throat.

She was always stunning. Beautiful. But seeing her there, so happy amid all those kids?

I rubbed at my chest.

I didn’t know what to make of her or what I felt. Why I was so intrigued.

Why I was hooked .

Images made an unwelcome pass through my mind. Every fantasy I’d ever had of her slammed me with guilt. Because I never should have witnessed her that way. Not like that. Not with him .

Anger built inside me, interlocking with that shame Misha wore like a broken crown on her head.

My fists clenched.

All of it just pissed me off.

This girl was innocent. I could feel it radiating from her, saturating her being.

Thoughts of the interactions Misha and I had shared eddied through my vision, this flustered girl who stumbled all over herself, stuttered over her own damned name.

I looked back to the glass. With pure affection, Misha dragged her fingers through the red curls of a little boy who had some sort of device stuck to his head with wires coming from it that ran to his ear. Giggling, he grinned up at her.

She spoke and laughed, leading them through a bunch of different activities.

Working with them, but not like it was work , but because it was her passion.