Enjoy Your StayBy: Carmen Jenner
The man with all the big ideas!
ONE OF these days, I’m going to kill Jackson Rowe. I sit and watch the cereal roll around in his mouth, and it dawns on me that he reminds me of a camel: big, stupid, but sort of fun to ride.
Jackson catches me staring, and winks before slurping the remaining milk from the bowl. Maybe I’ll off him in the shower? But then he’d be naked, and I’d likely slip and fall on that gigantic penis of his, and well, while the pregnancy hormones would be completely okay with that, I’d still be well and truly fucked.
“Whatcha doing today, Mamma?” he asks, dumping his bowl in the sink. God, I wish he’d stop calling me that. It’s weird. Weird, plus it kinda turns me on. Okay, so everything turns me on these days, but I’m blaming the demon-seed for that. It’s like as soon as Jackson Rowe—serial man-whore, and all-round bane of my existence—found out I was pregnant, he had to remind himself that I’m sullied goods by calling me Mamma in order to keep his hands off me. Well, screw you Mr I Can Still Get Laid Because I’m Not Growing A Life Form Inside Me. Screw you all the way to hell. Two can play at that game.
“Hmm, nothing much. I thought I might just hang around home, wax my bikini line, and then try out my new vibrator.” Jackson’s eyes go wide, his shoulders stiffen, and the coffee cup slips through his fingers, clattering to the floor with a loud thwack. Rich, black coffee splatters over the wood. It smells so good that I have half a mind to get down on all fours and lap it up like a cat with spilled milk. For a moment he does nothing but stare and lick his lips, and then he fires into action, collecting the dishrag from the sink and mopping up the mess before carefully picking up the pieces of his favourite cup. I hide my snigger behind my peppermint tea. “What about you, Jackarse?”
His eyes narrow at the use of my pet name. He hates it about as much as I do mine. “I’m gonna go get a haircut.” He pauses, because he knows that I know he slept with his slutty hairdresser, and for some reason he thinks I’m bitter about it. Holly Harris doesn’t do bitter. She does fifty different shades of pissed off, but she doesn’t do bitter.
Jackson’s clearly not getting the response he wants from that little dig, though. News flash, Jackarse: it’s no damn secret you’re a giant slut. Dave, the publican, even named a damn drink after him: The Jackson Rowe Special, opening more legs than a spreader bar since 1987.
A slow smile creeps across his face, and he breaks out into a grin bigger than the bloody Cheshire cat. “And then I thought maybe I’d mow the lawn.”
Crap. Mowing the lawn means Jackson sweaty, and sans shirt. My insides tighten with longing. My cheeks turn pink.
The screech of my chair sliding against the floorboards sets my teeth on edge as I stand up, and take my cup to the sink. Of course, Jackson, being the douche-knuckle he is, doesn’t move over any, and so my shoulder brushes his arm as I stand rinsing the breakfast dishes. “Well, don’t strain anything.”
“You either.” He winks at me, and then strides his overconfident, yet incredibly sexy arse from the room. I collapse against the cupboards beside the sink, squeezing my thighs together to relieve some of the tension.
God, if he wasn’t such a pain in the arse I’d crash-tackle him to the ground, and ride that sexy bum through the floor.
Several hours later, I’m sitting on the loveseat and staring at that perfect arse as he pushes the mower around the yard. I sip ice-cold lemonade from a freezer mug, wincing as the condensation rolls down over my white knuckled grip and drips onto my bare thighs. He moves closer, heading towards the veranda and smiling with that stupid goofy grin. God, I probably look like hell; I certainly feel it. What the fuck is he so damned happy about?
He shuts off the mower and bounces up the steps towards me. “Aww, you brought me a drink?”
“Ha! Not on your life, mister. This is the only thing I’ve held down since breakfast, and you’re not getting a single drop of it.”
“Come on, Hols, you don’t want me to taste it?”
“You sound like Elijah. Don’t you want me to taste your pie? Yuck! One more night of enduring those two, and I’m gonna fling that door open and hurl up my guts on the both of them.”
“It might save us from having to replaster. I swear to God if I have to hear him nailing her against the wall for another night, I’m going to choke someone. Probably you, because you’ll be the only person close enough for me to waddle my way over to.”
“Holly, you come and see me in the middle of the night to choke anything but my cock with your fist, and Ana won’t be the only one screaming.”
“Shut up, you pig.” I say and hold the frozen mug tight to my chest. The cold makes my nipples come poking out through my singlet to say hello. Jackson’s gaze immediately lowers, and he wets his lips before making out like he’s not some giant A-hole staring at my boobs. “I thought you were going to get that unruly mop cut?”
“I am, just wanted to do it once the lovebirds got back, that’s all.”
“So you weren’t hanging around hoping to catch a Holly Harris peep show, then?”
“Ha! More like making sure your skinny arse doesn’t fall over and break something trying to get back up again.”
“I don’t need a freaking babysitter, Jack. I’m pregnant, not an invalid.”
“Don’t get all pissy with me, young whippy-snippy. I’m not the one who can’t keep herself upright for a good portion of the day. Now, hand over that drink.” He holds his hand out, as though I’m actually going to give it to him. As if. “It’s bloody sweltering out here.”
“No! Get your own.”
“Give me the drink, Holly.”
“Alright. I didn’t wanna have to do this, but you’re leaving me no choice.” Jackson stands up and walks towards me. His mouth is set in one of those smarmy grins that makes me feel stabby. He sidles right up beside me, leans in close and whispers, “Last chance.”
And yeah, I should totally just hand over the lemonade, but a part of me really, really wants to see what he does next. I glare defiantly, and shake my head. Jack smiles, and then reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I’m completely thrown by the tenderness of the gesture, so I don’t react the way I should when he grasps my head with both hands and leans in closer.