No Interest in Love (18 page)

“There's a compliment in there somewhere, right?”

I give her a half smile, then tap on
Balance Inquiry
. She tosses her head back against the wall.

“I'm not going to hear the end of it from my parents. They'll bring up that meme and the fact that it's hindering every single career choice I make, even though my meme fame totally got us a ride from California to New Mexico—”

“Shay?”

“…and I just know they're going to tell me to move back home. I can't live at home. I'm twenty-seven years old, for Pete's sake—”

“Shay.”
I gently pull her next to me and point at the ATM screen. “Never give up,” I say as Shay takes in the positive account balance in my checking. She punches her fist straight into the air.

“Never surrender!”

Her arms fall onto my shoulders, and I hoist her legs around my hips. I squeeze her back, knowing that if her head wasn't over my shoulder, I probably would've kissed her in a moment of delirious joy. She feels good here. My legs are beat and I'm majorly light-headed, but I'm conscious enough to know that I don't want to drop her. I want to hold on to this used-to-be pain in my ass.

But this isn't a movie where the camera pans out and the audience is left with the never-ending embrace of two characters. So all too soon I have to loosen my grip and let her slide to the floor, which action in itself is pretty damn amazing.

“I think I know what you want,” she says, a smile spread on her sweaty face. Yeah, I want to know what the hell she's doing to me.

But of course, that's not what I say.

“Meatball sub?”

Her smile widens. “Meatball sub.”

8:00
P.M.

Giant meatballs,

on a soft, warm bun,

with marinara sauce.

Where have you been all my life?

9:15
P.M.

“That was the best damn meal I've ever eaten.”

“You think you would've gotten more of it in your mouth.” Shay points at the marinara droplets on my T-shirt.

“Ah, seconds,” I say, pretending to lick them off. Her nose crinkles up and she shoves me for being gross.

We only have to cross the street to get to a motel. The door leading to the lobby sticks, so I grab it with both hands and yank it open for Shay. She slides in and the handle hits me in the ass when it shuts.

It's shabby. It's probably only about forty bucks a night. There's an ominous-looking souvenir shop off to the right and an equally ominous-looking night clerk at the desk listening to her iPod. Dust hangs from the postcard stand, and the light flickers above our heads.

It's a murder motel.

Shay shifts her eyes up to mine. “I think we may get killed.”

I'd say something, but I'm taken aback by how attracted I am to her right now. And I thought that meatball sub was looking damn fine.

“You here to get a room or what?” the lady says, pulling a bud from her ear. Shay straightens her shoulders and marches into the souvenir shop. She pulls a T-shirt and a pair of shorts from the rack, then puts them on the check-in desk and waves me over.

“Do you have any?” she asks, and I lean against the counter, keeping myself positioned between the two of them. Just in case.

“We got plenty. You want a king-size or two queens?”

Shay looks at me, and I raise an eyebrow because is she considering a shared bed? I can't seem to think straight, so I end up just mumbling, “Uh…” at her.

“I kind of need some…privacy,” she says.

“Okay. Two queens.”

“No.” She puts her hand on my arm and lets out a small laugh. I like her hand there. There's a hard-core kick to my gut that I'm not expecting, and I end up staring at her like a complete buffoon.

“Um, like…
privacy
,” she reiterates. “Like two rooms.”

Oh.

I mean,
of course
. I could use privacy myself.

In fact, I'm relieved.

(I'm not.)

“Two rooms,” I tell the clerk. “Right next to each other if you can.”

Shay looks at me, but I don't explain. There are too many chances for separation. At least…that's what I'm telling myself.

I pay for the rooms while Shay babbles about paying me back when we get home. It's my friend's money, though, and my loan, so I don't really mind if she keeps her cash.

Our rooms are on the second floor, with adjoining walls as requested. We get to the top of the steps and Shay walks past my room's window to get to her door. For some reason I'm anxious, like it's pulling at my clothes and the ends of my hair, and I catch her eye before she walks in.

“I think we should have a code or something,” I blurt.

“What do you mean?” Her hand has stilled on the door handle, and she bites at her pinkie nail briefly before catching herself and stuffing it into the clothes she bought.

“Like, tap on the wall three times to check in.” My hand finds the back of my neck and I rub and rub at this anxiety. “I just…I don't wanna lose track of you.”

An adorable smile pushes at her lips, and she fights it, fights those lips, straining to keep them straight and not like I said something that made her look happy. And my head won't stop running with these thoughts. Like I don't want to be separated, even if it is just by a wall, and I don't get it because I'm a grown-ass man. I can be alone.

“Okay,” she says, finally getting that smile under control. “Tap three times and I'll tap back.”

“Same goes for you.”

She lets the smile slip as she pushes her door open. “Got it. Night, Jace.”

“Good night.”

I wait till her door is shut before stepping into my room. As soon as I'm locked in, I strip off these clothes I'll never wear again, hoping to wash off the anxiety that's still scratching under the surface of my skin. I'm already tempted to knock three times on the damn wall.

Shaking my head at my crazy self, I start the water, getting it to pretty damn hot, and jump in.

“There is a God!” I exclaim as the shower stream hits my face. The heat loosens my sore muscles, and I lean against the wall and let it rain dirt and sweat down the drain. I see Monday in the water, the mud from Shay's clothing coating my exposed skin. I laugh as I picture that tidal wave of puddle water completely soaking her. The way her lips pursed and her arms spread wide like she had no clue what had just happened. I picture it, and I see it wash down the drain…along with Tuesday. The dog hair that stuck to her ass that she kept trying and trying to wipe off but to no avail. Then yesterday—was it really only
yesterday
? Feels like a lifetime ago when the blue toilet water stuck to her hair, dripped onto her shirt, making her nose wrinkle up in the most hilarious way. I'm laughing at that, watching it wash down the drain, wondering if all of today will follow. The sweat on her neck, the marinara sauce on her lips…

I can't see the drain anymore. I can't see it because something has decided to stretch out right into my line of vision.

He's been relentless this week. True, I'm on a mission to get laid. But this rising to the occasion whenever the brain in my head runs on the Shay station is getting out of hand. It'd be different if she wanted a Barney. It'd be different if she wasn't my agent. It'd be different if she wasn't my friend.

But Downtown Jace doesn't think it's different at all, the horny son of a bitch.

That's
probably my anxiety problem. The Smurfs need action, and though I don't have the parts they're craving, I'll just take care of it. I'm nearly to Alabama, and with the money now in my account I can catch that flight and land the part. I'd hate for Carletta to think I have the stamina of a sixteen-year-old.

Ah, good. Carletta channel. I can work with that. I try to picture her rack and her ass and think about the fact that I'll be seeing them in person if I'm lucky. It's going good. I mean, I'm getting there. Honestly, I thought I'd tap myself once or twice and be gone, but I'm holding up even though my arm's getting tired.

A ten-ton weight plunks into my gut and knocks the wind out of me. Suddenly I don't want the Carletta channel. I don't want it because I'm thinking about Shay's hand on my arm. I'm thinking about her in my Marvel pants. I'm thinking about her red bra in my hands and her leg draped over my hip, and I try to shake the thoughts from my head, but I can't. And I let go of myself, refusing to do this while I'm thinking about her because it's confusing the hell out of me.

I run a hand over my hair, splashing water onto the wall. Why does it matter who I'm thinking about? The fact that Shay pokes my brain, forcing me to think about her in a way I hadn't before—at least before this week—scares me. And not because I like it but because I want
more of it
. I don't want the thoughts and fantasies of her to stop.

“Dude, you have lost your mind,” I say to myself, slamming the water to cold. I wait for complete flaccidity before climbing out (it takes a while because I keep thinking about Shay, who might be showering right now). I wrap a towel tight around my waist and run a hand through my soaked hair. Through the buzz of my thoughts I catch a light
tap tap tap
going through the wall every ten seconds.

A grin pulls at my lips and I pad my way over and
tap tap tap
back. I can almost hear her say,
Finally
, to which I reply,
I was in the shower, impatient woman
. And after ten seconds of grinning stupidly at the wall, at the conversation I'm clearly just having by myself, I shake my head and stuff myself into the covers.

Sleep will cure this virus I've caught. I'm about 93 percent sure of it.

2:00
A.M.

I can't do it.

She's right next door, head probably by mine, like in those camera shots when they show the two characters only separated by a wall, but they both are staring at the same thing. In my case, it's the ceiling, which has an unnerving stain. How does a ceiling get stained?

(Murder hotel.)

I twist in my sheets, trying to get comfortable, but my whole body itches. That same under-the-skin itch. Nothing I can dig my fingers into and relieve.

I can't do it.

Nearly a week of funked-up sleeping habits, and when I finally get to a bed, I can't doze off.

I stare at the clock now, watching it tick from 2:00 to 2:01 and imagining Shay doing the same thing in the room next door. Stupid thing to imagine, since she's probably passed out cold. Mouth open and hair covering half her face. Her arms in weird positions and blanket tangled around her fidgety legs. Adorable.

Damn it.

I fling the sheets off of me and start pacing the room to get rid of the itch. It's gotta be nerves. Pressure to get the part. Worry over mixing up words in the script. Something. I reach for my bag and tug on the zipper. Before I even get to the pages of the script my head goes back to Shay saying these lines with me—her monotone and horrible acting. She went through it with me with all the patience in the world. Shay isn't a patient woman, but with me—
for
me—while I'm trying to read the damn words, she is.

Gah, I can't even think straight. I need to walk or something. Get some air. Avoid knocking on her wall, and then on her door, because that's what I really
want
to do.

I grab the ice bucket and shove into my shoes. Once I'm outside the itch starts to dissipate. Maybe my room is infested.

The ice machine is down the stairs and off to the right in a closed-off space that doesn't look like it needs a key. It's not too cold outside, so I don't worry about my balls freezing off on the way.

My feet pick up speed, and I cross the parking lot at a sprint. The door to the ice machine and vending machine isn't locked, so I push my way in and settle my hands on the top of the freezer. I'm losing my damn mind, and I know it's because it's late, been a weird week, and on top of that I've got not only my career on the line with this screen test but also Shay's. Man, if she gets fired, I'll still make her work for me. Unless she
does
lose her contacts…What's the protocol for that?

Ah, shit. My head. My brain. This itch. I feel so trapped in my thoughts and skin I just want to break out of it and go somewhere else for a while to sleep it off. I open the lid to the ice and dip the bucket in, letting the cold knock some sense back into me.

The Stinson Approach…I need to get laid. I need a crazy night to get rid of the itch. I need Miss Sure Thing, but she's not here. And so what do I do? Find some random woman to help out, or is it just me and my hand tonight? That didn't work in the shower, and I'm almost afraid to try again because what happens if I start seeing Shay?

I look around as if some miracle one-night stand will show up at a cheap motel in Missouri. All I see is a couple of scratch marks by the door.

The weight bearing down in my stomach triples. And it's not the pressure of getting the part. It's not the pressure of performing or making it on time and has nothing to do with the screen test or the movie at all.

It's that I'm there for the ass…because I am one.

Something shuffles outside the door, jolting me back from the freezer.

“Hello?” I call out, and I go from being in a drama movie to a horror film.

Nothing. I prick my ears and crack the door open, ice bucket still in my hand in case I need to knock someone out with it.

The parking lot still looks dead. Lights are all off or shades closed in the occupied rooms. I slowly walk out, take another look around, and then shrug. Guess I'm at the point of insanity when I start to hear thi—

Arrooo! Ar ar arrooo!

What in the blazing hell? My feet tangle up a tiny bit in my haste to get back to the confines of the ice room. I can put up a fight against a person, but no way in hell can I take on whatever wild animal is out here.

I shut the door and back up. Whatever's howling keeps it up every two or three seconds, so I lean against the wall and wield my ice bucket in case it's needed. It's probably a bear. Do they have bears in this part of Missouri? Or maybe it's a wolf. A werewolf. Or Sasquatch. That dude is real.

After two minutes or so, I seriously regret not just racing back to my room. My movie imagination sometimes gets the best of me. I almost call myself a puss.

I stare down at the bucket and relax, and I'm taking a step toward the door when someone runs smack into the glass and my stomach leaps out my throat.

“Shit!” I scream in full-on banshee. My feet don't work again, tripping and pulling me down to my ass, full ice bucket following. The cold hits my hyperaware nerves, and I swear to God I almost piss myself.

The light turns on overhead, and I frantically shove the ice off my torso and scramble backward. Shay's bright red glasses come into focus, and I hear my sledgehammer heart
thud
into the pit of my stomach in relief.

“Motherf…” I mutter off on a breathless sigh. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“
I
scared
you
?” She shuffles in close, and my heart picks up again—just slightly. “I saw you leave your room and then—”

Arrooooo!

“Yeah. That.”

I scoot back, shuffling to get to my feet. She offers her hand, and though I feel like I'll pull her to the floor with me, I take it. Our palms make a soft
klop
, and I lose my head again. She's stronger than I give her credit for. Her hands are small but firm. The glasses she wears, those ridiculous glasses, slide down her nose the smallest bit as she looks down at our clasped hands.

And for the first time since I've known this woman, I notice her nails.

A stupid thing, really. To notice fingernails. But it seems that spending every hour for a week with a person leaves you open to noticing that type of stuff. All her nails are trimmed, smooth, shiny…except for one. And that one nail on her pinkie is gnawed down, paint chipped, and I get that knocked-out feeling again when I realize that I like it. I like it a lot. I think it's adorable as hell that she aims for perfection, but there's that tiny space left for chaos.

I want to be her chaos.

We're standing now, and I'm not sure how we got that way. But she lets go of my hand and my skin feels way too hot for someone who just got covered in ice.

“Do you know what it is?”

I blink. Shake my head. Kick the ice on the floor toward the drain.

“Sasquatch,” I answer.

“Joking is your go-to, isn't it?”

“Sasquatch is no joke.”

Her barely there smile makes an appearance. “Well, when it stops, get back to your room.”

She peeks out the glass at the door, eyes searching the parking lot. Wait…

“Did you come out here to get me?” I smirk, crossing my arms. “I'm no damsel in distress.”

“Oh yes, because you looked so ready to win a fight.” She nods to the floor where my bucket is.

“Hey, I do my own stunts.”

She covers her small laugh with a cough. “I was protecting my investment.” Her head swivels toward a shadow that crosses the lot. She wraps a tight hand on the doorknob and pulls it toward her. I know I underestimated her strength before, but if Sasquatch comes knocking, he's probably going to whip that door open like it was made of feathers, regardless of how hard she's trying to keep it closed.

I walk up behind her, yelling at myself to keep my distance so my head stays on straight. Every time I touch the woman my brain seems to jump out of my skull. So I stay a breath away, close enough to look out the window with her, but we're not even grazing each other.

Man, I'm overanalyzing everything. Maybe my brain's already gone.

“I think it's over there,” she says, her breath fogging up the glass slightly as she points to the right of the parking lot. “The shadow looked like a wolf or something.”

“Werewolf,” I whisper, and when I look down her lips are pressed together in amusement. “What?”

“You a believer in the supernatural?”

“Hell, yeah.” I point at the scratch marks near the ice machine. “That would be your classic James ‘Logan' Howlett.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You believe in superheroes too?”

My damn heart skips a beat. “You know who that is?”

“Every Wolverine fan knows who that is.”

She winks. I smile because I can't help myself. Something zaps between our bodies, and she steps away from the door, ducking under my arm, which I hadn't realized was resting over her head. She leans her butt against the freezer, crossing her arms and tapping a stray piece of ice with her toe. She's not wearing shoes.

She's also not wearing my clothes anymore. From her shoulders to mid thigh is the T-shirt she bought in the lobby that says
MISSOURI LOVES COMPANY
, and from waist to just above the knee is a pair of boxers. Her normally pushed-back-with-a-pen hair is down, damp, like she got out of the shower maybe an hour ago.

I'm conceding.

She.

Is.

Adorable
.

Beyond that word. It's so far beyond adorable and sexy and cute and hot and any other word used to describe an attractive woman. I have never in my life wanted something so bad and
not
wanted it at the same time. I feel like my chest is being ripped apart in a thousand directions and sewn back together in a way I've never felt before. Like my heart is finding its way back from my high school to my chest, and I want to shake my head, tear at my hair, get my mind back to where it belongs with the Stinson Approach, but for the life of me I can't remember why I'd ever want to bang and bail with
any
woman, but especially one who makes me feel like this.

It makes me wonder if I ever gave any of the women I did sleep with a
chance
to make me feel like this.

“Stop staring at me,” she says with a tiny laugh, then she fixes her wet hair. “I'm already freaked out enough.”

“I have a tattoo,” I blurt, not knowing where the hell it comes from.

“I know.” She's tilting her head toward me, eyes flicking to the door, when we hear another screeching howl. “You put it on your résumé.”

“That's right.” That's one of the requirements for some jobs in acting. They want to know every bump, bruise, scar, abnormality…“You know about the piercings, too, then.”

“The ones that closed up?” she says with an arrogant tilt of her eyebrow. I laugh because she's right; the bars I had through my nipples weren't the most comfortable things while shooting action scenes in a bulletproof vest. The holes closed last year.

“You've never seen it.” I shove off from the door and rest against the ice machine with her. Her eyes follow me and I swear to the Almighty her breath catches.

“Um…the piercings?”

“The tattoo.”

“I don't normally ask men to take their shirts off for me.”

“I don't have to take it off.” I lift the side of my gray tee so she can see the Wolverine tat along my rib. She breaks her closed-off stance, uncrossing her arms and turning a little to face me. Her thumbnail grazes my skin as she grabs the material bunched by my pit and holds it up to get a better look.

“That's…Wow,” she says, and I laugh a little bit, realizing I've been sucking in and flexing this whole time. “Original costume too.”

“Has to be the original,” I say with a smirk. I go to pull my shirt back down, but her finger drops onto my skin, tracing the ink, causing Wolverine to pucker up with sudden goose bumps.

“You have a great tattoo artist.”

“I'm pretty sure that was a compliment,” I tease. She rolls her eyes up to meet mine.

“Yes…for your tattoo artist.” She shoves my shirt down and bites at her bottom lip. She's trying not to smile again. “The first tattoo I got was so horrible I had to get a cover-up.”

“You have a tattoo?”

She nods, tucking her hair behind her ear. Whatever animal that's out there is still howling, and it sounds like it has friends now. We could probably leave, but neither one of us moves toward the door.

“It's actually in the same place.” She kinks her neck to her side. “Well, almost. My left side, your right.”

“Ribs kill, right?”

“Did you cry in the chair?” she asks through a gorgeous smile.

“It was a very manly cry.” It wasn't. “You?” I picture her losing it last night, and great, my slowly awakening heart feels sad for her…which makes me wish I had the guts to take her hand or something. But she shakes her head, and now I wish I'd remember that I am twenty-five years old and I shouldn't be overthinking every single simple answer and movement I'm making with this woman who I've known for seven years.

“Of course not. I took it like a man.” She sits up proudly, and it's the damned cutest thing I've ever seen.

“So you cursed a lot.”

Her body shakes in silent amusement. “A lot.” Her eyes break our connection. I breathe out, not realizing I was holding it in. “Especially the second time around.”

She grabs the bottom of her souvenir shirt from the back, and the fabric gets stuck and twisted—just like the air I'm breathing—on its way up.

“You're taking off your shirt,” I mumble like an idiot.

“Well, you've already seen my ass.”

Her ass isn't her boobs. I'm about to say that, but she keeps pulling the material and I tell my tongue to shut the hell up. Her pale skin is revealed centimeters at a time, and I want to reach out to help her, but I'm afraid one movement from me will frighten her away, so I stay stone still, watching and sweating and trying to get whatever has lodged itself in my esophagus out of there.