Drive (One Night Series Book 1) Page 2

  Yeah. They love me. Because I’m under thirty and actually give a shit about keeping myself in fighting shape. Regardless, I don’t work out and stay sharp because I enjoy getting groped by drunk bridesmaids.

  Instead of arguing I repeat myself. “Get Mullens or Graham to do it.” I’m freelance, not a regular employee. That means I can pick and choose my assignments. I don’t have to take his shit jobs, and he knows it.

  “Can’t.” Joe blows out a sigh. “Got both of ‘em working.”

  I don’t say anything. He wants me on this, he’s gonna have to work for it.

  “Come on, man.” He says it like he’s coaxing a shy virgin out of her panties. “I gotta have you on this one—you know you’re my guy.”

  “Don’t stroke me, man,” I laugh. “It doesn’t feel half as good as you think it does.”

  “Look—I’ll pay you rate and a quarter.” I hear his chair squeak again. He’s sitting up straight. Ready to get down to business. “How’s that sound?”

  Desperate, that’s how it sounds. “Double.” Unlike the other clowns he has driving for him, I have my own ride—a 2017 black Chrysler stretch. I don’t need him. If I had the time to build a clientele, I’d tell this fucker to jump in the Chicago River. And he knows it.

  “Fuck—you’re pretty but not that pretty, Bennett.” He laughs. “I can drive it myself.”

  Joe looks like Danny DeVito, only half as tall and twice as ugly. “Have fun, princess. Remember, the gas pedal is on the right.” I hang up and toss the phone on top of the dryer so I can start a load of towels. It starts rattling and buzzing before I even have a chance to add the soap.

  “Bennett.”

  “Rate and a half.”

  I hang up. Measure out some laundry soap and pour it into the machine. The phone starts its rattle and buzz routine again.

  “Bennet.”

  “Double,” he huffs into the phone. “Guy requested you special. I can’t put anyone else on it.”

  His admission piques my interest almost as much as it pisses me off. I get a bonus if I’m requested by name. A bonus he had no intention of giving me. I put that away for later. “What guy? I thought you said it was a bachelorette.”

  “I dunno—some rich fucker out in the burbs. It’s his daughter getting married. Reservation came through online—some doctor type’s credit card paid the bill in full. That’s all I know.” He’s getting antsy. “You takin’ the double or what?”

  “No—but I’ll take triple.” I don’t like being fucked with, and I hate being lied to. “And my bonus.”

  Silence. Probably running the math in his head. When he comes to the same conclusion I did—that not only is he going to make a goddamned dime off me, but that my bonus is going to come out of his ass—he sighs. “Fine, asshole,” he breathes into the phone. “Triple.”

  “And?” I slam the lid and spin the dial.

  He curses under his breath. “And your bonus.”

  “Pleasure doing business with you, Joe.” I cut the call and toss the phone before he can start bitching.

  Three

  Claire

  He looks like Lurch.” Bri looks at me over her shoulder from her post at the window. “You know, like from the Addam’s Family?”

  “That’s not very nice,” I say, scowling up at her as I bend over to wedge on my heels. Standing up straight, I tug at the hem of my skirt, feeling a little self-conscious about its length. Bri, my sister, insisted on matching dresses, which means I feel like a hooker.

  “I know.” She gives me a shrug, totally nonplussed. “Doesn’t make me wrong though.”

  Curious, I move to stand next to her at the window, and she scoots over so I can check out the driver my father hired for the evening. It’s Bri’s bachelorette party, and we’re heading into the city. Dinner. Dancing. Public. Crowds.

  Just the thought freaks me out.

  It’s been ages since I’ve been... anywhere, really. I’ve been pretty much stuck here at home with my dad since I graduated high school. Seriously, the biggest thing I did when I turned eighteen was get my pharmacy tech license. I’m twenty-three and I’ve never been to a nightclub. Never bought a drink at a bar. The most I’ve done is buy a bottle of wine at the grocery store.

  So, yeah. Life so far has been pretty amazing.

  Looking out the window, I aim my gaze at the man standing in our driveway, next to the sleek black limousine our father hired for the night. He’s tall, I’ll give Bri that much. Impossibly tall—at least 6’5—but that’s where the similarities end. This guy is massive. Even beneath the somber suit, I can tell he’s built. His muscles have muscles. His dark hair is clipped short. He stands with his feet shoulder-width apart, his hands clasped behind his back, face aimed forward.

  “You need your head examined,” I tell my sister, looking down at the circular driveway. “He’s a little stiff, but he doesn’t look anything like—”

  He looks up. Not like he’s searching for something. Like knows I’m here. Exactly where I am. Knows I’m checking him out and wants me to know I’m caught. He’s wearing sunglasses to block out the late afternoon sun, but that doesn’t matter. I feel our eyes connect and my stomach does a slow roll before taking the express route to my feet. Even from behind his dark lenses, I feel the intensity of those deep brown eyes skewer me. Pin me in place. No one else has ever given me that tilt-a-whirl feeling.

  Not ever.

  Holy shit.

  I step back, away from the window, stumbling a bit in my heels.

  “Jesus, Claire.” Bri looks at me. “Are you okay?” She takes my place at the window and peers through it. “You look like—”

  “I’m fine,” I tell her, shaking my head. “I...” Pressing my hand to my stomach, I take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. “I forgot a sweater.” I turn, heading for the door. We’re in Bri’s old bedroom. She lives in the city with her fiancé but has been staying here, intent on no sex until the wedding night. It’s been a very long, very crabby two-weeks.

  “A sweater?” Now she’s looking at me like I’m nuts. “It’s August.”

  I nod, agreeing with her, even as I’m stepping out into the hall to duck into the nearest room with an open door. The guest bathroom. I shut the door behind me and lean against it. Eyes squeezed shut, I try to get my breathing under control.

  Calm down, Claire.

  Flipping on the light, I push myself away from the door. Making my way over to the sink, I aim my gaze at the mirror above it. My cheeks are flushed. Eyes a little glassy. My skin is hot. I look and feel like I have a fever.

  It’s not a fever.

  It’s him.

  Jaxon Bennett is here.

  Here.

  At my house.

  “Claire.” Bri bangs on the bathroom door. “We need to leave now if we’re going to pick everyone up and make our dinner reservation.”

  For a brief moment, I consider telling her I’m sick. To go without me. Have a good time. See you in the morning. Pictures or it didn’t happen.

  But I can’t do that. I’m her maid of honor. I’m also her babysitter. Bri has every intention of getting sloppy tonight, and it’s my job to make sure she makes it through the night with as much of her dignity intact as humanly possible.

  “Okay,” I call through the door before taking another deep breath. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  I hear her sigh. “Hurry up,” she says before I hear the sound of her heels clicking down the hall.

  Staring at myself in the mirror, I give my reflection a stern lecture. Jaxon’s not here to take you on a date, for Christ’s sake. He’s a limo driver. A very expensive designated driver.

  He’s just a guy.

  But he isn’t just a guy.

  He’s the guy.

  The guy who’s firmly planted himself between me and every other guy I’ve ever dated.

  The guy I’ve been half in love with since I was fifteen years old.

  The guy I gave my virginity to when I was eig
hteen.

  The guy who disappeared the morning after, without a trace.

  Four

  Jaxon

  2012

  I can tell you the exact moment I started looking at Claire St. James as more than just Simon’s babysitter.

  She was sixteen, almost seventeen. Still in high school. I was eighteen and just graduated. Working construction, same as now, and taking night classes at community college. My mom works second shift at a nursing home so when Claire agreed to watch Simon so I could make my classes, it was a godsend.

  Anyway, she’d been watching Simon for a while, long enough for us to get ourselves into a comfortable routine. Usually, when I come home, she’s at the kitchen table doing homework, and Simon’s in bed, upstairs. We’d make small talk while she gathered her stuff, and then I stand at the back door and watch to make sure she got in her car safely. Gailena, Illinois: population 3,317 isn’t exactly a hotbed of crime and corruption but knowing she’s safe makes me feel better.

  This particular night, when I came home, her homework was spread out all over the kitchen table like always, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  I don’t know what I thought—just that she was supposed to be there but wasn’t. I called her name. Nothing.

  I charged up the stairs, and headed for the bedroom I share with Simon, and there they were. Simon in his little toddler-sized bed and Claire in mine.

  Seeing her in my bed did something to me. Made me see things differently. Her differently. Woke a part of me I’d shut down a long time ago. In an instant, everything changed.

  Standing there in the doorway, looking at her, I had the urge to go to her. Pull her clothes off and put my mouth and hands all over every part of her that was soft and pink that I could reach.

  And then she woke up. Apologized for sleeping in my bed. Told me that Simon had a nightmare and wanted her to stay with him. I told her it was fine. I broke routine. Told her I was going to jump in the shower instead of walking her out because I suddenly didn’t trust myself around her. I’m not sure how long I stayed in the bathroom. It felt like hours. When I finally emerged, she was gone.

  I’ve always thought she was pretty, even before things got weird on my end. Light brown hair. Wide eyes, their color caught somewhere between blue and green. Full breasts. Soft curves. The kind of mouth guys dream about. The weird part of it all is that when I think about her, it’s not always about fucking her. Most of the time, I just think about her. I like her. I like that she turns her nose up at jarred spaghetti sauce. That she plays hide-and-seek and builds blanket forts with Simon. That she’s sarcastic and sweet and way smarter than I’ll ever be.

  I like her.

  I might even love her a little bit.

  Shit. I don’t know—the point is, it’s been brewing for a while. At least it has been for me. Two years later and I still can’t breathe around her, get within two feet of her, without having to fight the urge to get her under me. I can’t even lay in my own bed without thinking about what I’d do to her if she were laying in it with me.

  I’ve always managed it though because I never once felt like the feelings were mutual. She’s always kept her distance. Been polite. Accommodating. Simon adores her, and clearly, the feeling is mutual. Bottom line: without her, my mom and I would be screwed. I never felt like I could afford to mess this up. My family needed her too much.

  But that was before.

  Before I heard what her sister said. Saw the panicked flush erupt across the back of her neck. The way she responded when I touched that back of her hand. Her wrist. The way her breath caught in her throat. Eyes glazed over. Lips parted.

  Before any of that happened, I was prepared to live with the random fantasies and raging hard-ons. The cold showers and mandatory masturbation sessions that having her around induced.

  Now?

  No. Not so much.

  Now, I’m wondering how many times I can make her come between putting Simon to bed and my mom pulling into the driveway while I pull bath duty, and she cleans up the dinner mess downstairs.

  “Jax?” Simon calls out to me from the bathroom.

  Shit. “What’s up, buddy?”

  He’s five now and thinks he’s entirely too old for supervised baths. The compromise is that if I have to supervise, I do it from the hallway, outside the open bathroom door.

  “I like Claire.”

  Double shit.

  “Yeah...” I sigh because I know where this is coming from. What he’s thinking about. “I like her too.”

  “I’m glad she stayed for dinner.”

  “Me too.”

  I hear him pull the plug on the tub. Water getting sucked down the drain in a fast swirl. A few seconds later, he’s standing in the doorway, wrapped in his favorite Scooby Doo towel. “Do we have to leave?”

  The question stings. Before Simon was born, we moved around a lot. Floated around from town to town. State to state. By the time I was his age, we’d covered most of the mid-west. I’d have to look at my own birth certificate to be able to tell you where I was even born. I don’t know what it’s like to put down roots. Or at least I didn’t. Not until Simon was born. We’ve lived here for nearly five years now and I thought leaving was going to be easy. It was always the plan. Not one my mom was crazy about, but she understood that college wasn’t in the cards for me. That I don’t have time to waste in a four-year university, trying to find my way in life like the people I went to high school with.

  It’s why I pretty much keep to myself. A few acquaintances but no real friends. No real relationships. No girls. I secluded myself in preparation for what’s coming. I never thought in a million years that my plans would be in danger of being derailed by someone as sweet and simple as Claire St. James.

  I was wrong.

  “Yeah, buddy—we do.” I reach down and pick him up, carrying him down the hall to our room. I put him down and give him a good rub down with the towel before handing him his pajamas. He puts them on while I hang up his towel. When I come back, he’s already in bed. “Simon burrito?” I ask even though Claire is waiting for me downstairs because it’s our thing and nothing's more important to me than Simon.

  He scowls and nods. “Can we take her with us?”

  I like the idea. I like it entirely too much. I let myself think about it for a second. Telling her how I feel. What I want. Ask her to be with me.

  Us.

  It would never work. There are things about me I can never tell her. Things that would make her run, fast and far, away from me. I’d rather leave her behind than take the risk of having her look at me like I was some sort of freak.

  “Fraid not,” I say, tucking his blankets around him as tight as I can get them. “Claire’s got a family that needs her.”

  His chin wobbles for a moment before he sets it into a firm frown. “But I need her too.” He glares at me, tears in his eyes, like this is all my fault. Like I’m the reason we have to leave. “I don’t want to leave.”

  Neither do I, buddy. Neither do I.

  Five

  Claire

  I’ve never cleaned a kitchen so slowly in my life.

  I make a plate for Jaxon’s mom and cover it with foil before putting it in the oven—something I’ve done for my own father a million times. He’s a cardiologist and makes the sixty-mile commute to and from Chicago every day. With Bri either out with friends or at cheer practice, there weren’t a lot of family dinners for us growing up. It was mostly me, eating alone in my room, in front of an old movie.

  Moving on, I start the dishes, listening to the sounds of Simon’s bath—the excited squeak of his voice. The low, answering murmur of Jaxon’s. They’re arguing because Simon thinks he’s entirely too old for supervised baths. Jaxon compromises by sitting in the hallway outside the door.

  There are dishes from this morning, plus what Simon and I used throughout the day. I do those too. Since they don’t have a dishwasher, I wash them by hand, moving slowly. Trying to draw this out as
long as I can. Once the kitchen is cleaned, and everything is put away, I won’t have an excuse to stay.

  When I agreed to stay, I texted Bri, telling her she would have to find someone else to make an ice run, that I’d been invited to stay for dinner. Her answering text was an entire screen filled with eggplant emojis.

  “I didn’t ask you to stay for dinner so you could do the dishes,” Jaxon says behind me. I didn’t even hear him come downstairs. Something as big as Jaxon Bennett should not be allowed to move so quietly.

  “Technically, you didn’t ask me to stay for dinner,” I say while running a newly washed plate under the stream of hot water from the tap. “Simon did.”

  He doesn’t answer me. Instead, I feel his hands slide around my waist, turning me toward him. “You would’ve said no if I’d asked,” he tells me. Lifting me like I weigh next to nothing, he sets me down on the counter next to the sink. “To get what I want, I’ll take my help where I can get it.” He takes the dishcloth out of my hand and steps in front of the sink. “Was your sister mad when you told her you were staying?”

  I think about the screen full of eggplant emojis she sent me and nearly tip over into the sink. “No. She knows that parties aren’t my thing—if I weren’t here, I’d be in my room, hiding.”

  He gives me a smile. The smile. The one that says he understands exactly what I'm saying. “What is your thing?” He runs a glass under the tap and sets it in the drainer.

  I shrug. “I don’t really have a thing—unless you count hanging out with Simon.”

  “Hanging out? You say it like it’s fun or something.” He looks at me, still towering over me even though I’m sitting on the counter.

  “It is fun,” I say, tilting my head a little. “I like Simon.”

  He shuts off the water and stares at the sink for a moment before he looks at me. “Is that the only reason you’re here? To hang out with Simon?”

  I feel a flush sweep across the back of my neck. “I like Simon,” I say, repeating myself like a dummy. “I like your mom and—”