Jessa James - Bad Reputation

So I’m willing to suffer in silence. But I still want Emma in my life… even if it’s just as a friend.

We can do that, I think. We can be friends.

Right?

4

Why didn’t I just tell Jameson no?

I keep turning that question over and over in my mind as I make the drive from my house to the little coffee shop on the beach where I like to study.

Why am I such a sucker?

I know the answer, though. As soon as Jameson started toward me, in the aisle of the grocery store, I was pinned in place. Frozen, because I thought for the briefest second that he was about to ask me to take him back.

I swallow at the painful memory of feeling so weak around him, so easily destructible… if Jameson had only breathed a word about wanting me back, I don’t know how I would have said no. He burned me, and treated me badly, and yet I would’ve jumped at the chance to do it all again.

How pathetic am I?

Luckily, Jameson only wanted me for my brain. That’s my freaking life story, right there. He begged me to help him study for his GED, and like an idiot, I agreed.

I am so, so stupid. Stupid and pathetic.

I pull my coupe into a spot outside the coffee shop. Checking the time, I realize that I’m a little early for our meeting. I grab my purse and head inside the little shop, smiling at how comfy it is in here. From the mismatched secondhand couches to the eclectic art on the walls, the place just screams ‘hang out forever’ to me.

Heading to the counter, I make note of their aged espresso machine and young, hip staff. The girl who comes to help me is a young Latina woman, wearing high waisted denim shorts and what looks like a black ballet leotard.

“Hey,” she says, nodding to me. She adjusts some of the plates of scones and muffins under the counter, not rushing me.

“Hey. Can I get a small latte? And…” I bend over to inspect the pastries. “What’s good?”

“Mmm… I like the gluten free pop tarts,” she says, pointing them out. “They’re really good, for being gluten free.”

“Alright, I’ll try one.” I smile at her as she rings me up, pay with a card, and then look around for a table.

I end up selecting one of the bar tables in the far corner, feeling like choosing a couch to sit on would really send the wrong message. I grab my latte and my pop tart, then sit on one of the high backed chairs.

As I eat my crumbly pastry and wait for Jameson to appear, I look around. The walls are painted dark purple, and there is art everywhere. I look out the huge bay window to my left, and see Jameson heading inside. He’s silhouetted against the backdrop of the beach.

Dark hair, a few days growth over his chin and cheeks, tall and broad. I swallow when I realize he is wearing his leather motorcycle jacket and black jeans. Seeing him in that jacket makes me yearn .

He’s still so gorgeous that just being near him makes me shake a little bit. He comes in, spots me, and heads over.

“Hey,” he says, putting his backpack down. “Oh, you already got something. I was going to buy whatever you got, since you’re helping me out.”

I shrug. “It’s fine.”

He looks nonplussed. “Okay, let me get something. Then we can get started.”

I drum my fingers as he heads up to the counter. As he waits in line, I blush a little to think of how I have to beg Evie to talk about her job, in hopes that a little news about Jameson will come up. When it does, I quiz her as casually as I can, but she sees right through me.

Another tiny bit of shame in my day. I can brush it off now, but later when I’m lying in my bed alone, I will remember this.

Jameson comes back with a cold brew coffee, sipping it as he takes the seat next to me. I realize as I am sitting here, staring at his throat when he swallows some of the coffee, at his long fingers as he places his glass on the table…

I may hate Jameson right now. I may be angry about the way he ended things with me. I might even have spent some time imagining him getting hit by a bus.

But none of that changes the fact that I am still drawn to Jameson, as much now as ever. And I hate myself for it.

He pulls a stack of books out of his bag and clears his throat. “You doing okay?”

I must be giving him a weird look or something. I quickly straighten my spine and blink away my thoughts.

“Fine,” I say, trying not to snap at him. I nod toward the books. “What are we studying today?”

His brow hunches.

“Same as before. I thought we could start with math, and then do science.”

“Right. Uh… I guess let me come over to your side of the table,” he says. Sliding his books over, he takes his time to settle into the chair on my left. He moves his coffee over, and then opens his math textbook.

It’s cold enough in this coffee shop that I can actually feel the heat radiating off of his big body. I bite my lower lip, rebuking myself for being so weak when it comes to him.

“So, I left off here, with differential equations…” he says, pointing to the section in the book. “But I wasn’t sure about how they worked. Like, I can look at the examples all day long, but when a problem is in front of me, my mind goes blank.”

“Ahhh.” I nod, toying with my mug. “I think you need to see it in action. Do you have some paper?”

“Sure, yeah.” He grabs a few sheets of blank paper out of his backpack, along with a pen. He slides them in front of me. “Here.”

He cracks his knuckles. I swallow, trying not to listen to the voice inside my head that remembers all too well what those hands can do. How much pleasure they can wring out of my body, for hours on end.

“Okay… let’s see… first you need to find the integer…” I say. I guide him through the process, doing several different problems.

Jameson hunches over the table, watching me work. He’s making me nervous, but I refuse to let it show. I just don’t look him in the eye, focusing instead on the paper and pen.

He asks a couple of questions, stopping me with a hand on my forearm. His warm fingers touch the bare skin of my wrist the second time, and my pulse jumps like a scared rabbit.

He glances at me, but I just move my arm away, clear my throat, and continue.

“I think I get it. Or at least, I understand enough to take the GED,” he says.

I glance up at him, meeting his warm chocolate gaze. For the barest second, I am lost in his eyes, falling deep into them. He doesn’t break the connection, either.

He just stares at me for a few seconds. I can tell there is something that he wants to say, but he doesn’t say anything. And I’m too much of a chicken to ask him what he’s thinking.

I avert my gaze. “Umm, do you think we should study science now?”

Clearing his throat, he nods. “Yeah. Uh… yeah. I’m studying physical science now, figuring out velocity and speed. It’s… challenging.”

“Great,” I say, with forced cheer. Inside, I’m thinking that I wish I hadn’t agreed to even come here. But I don’t want him to know that. “Velocity it is!”

Jameson slides me a suspicious look as he gets out his science textbook. He opens it, but splays his hand over the page.

“Are you okay?”

His black-brown eyes search my face.

“Always,” I counter, tapping the textbook to draw his attention back there. “Come on, let’s study the basics of physics.”

I brush his hand out of the way and begin reading. He eventually switches his focus to what we’re reading. I stop several times, expelling the dynamics of what we are talking about more in depth. He listens and nods, asking a question here and there.

We go through the important bits of velocity and speed, and then I walk him through some of the mathematical equations that the book offers. I have him do a few sample problems.