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It was like something out of a TV show. My prince arrived in my moment of need and saved me from the bad guys. He also scared the shit out of me. Is that wrong? I mean, he’s got to be at least six-feet-tall, is clearly a bad boy from Southie with short hair and tattoos and arms that look like he could tear me apart. I probably would have passed out if he wasn’t so insanely gorgeous.
Those eyes—crystal clear and blue, piercing into me as he asked me if I was okay. His hands, rough and strong on mine as he led me to my car and stayed with me while he made sure I was okay to drive. Those boyish good looks, hardened by life, and the way he looked at me like I was the only woman in the world.
Jackson…
My heart rate’s picking up just thinking about it. He was such a stark contrast between the other boys I grew up with at school—rich kids who’d never seen a hard day’s work in their life, guys who talk about the hottest sneakers or the trendiest clothing companies. Yeah, I can’t see Jackson doing that. What I can see him doing is grabbing my waist as he pulls me in and—
I shake my head and put both hands over my face. Just thinking about him touching me again has me all hot and bothered. I wasn’t what you’d call a “cool girl” in high school. I kept to myself and played video games and read fantasy books. Even if a good-looking guy took interest in me, my personality turned him off immediately.
I don’t cheer, I don’t play field hockey and I don’t post booty pics on my Instagram. I don’t have a fake ID, I don’t drink, I don’t go to parties…basically I’m not the kind of girl that guys go for, and as a result, have been dragging around this V-card since I was old enough to get wet for a guy. And last night after what happened? When I came home, I was soaked.
I dreamt about Jackson. It was like lucid dreaming or Inception; instead of just giving me his number and telling me to call him for self-defense lessons last night, he took me home to his place, slowly undressed me, caressed me with his strong hands and made love to me all night. I woke up this morning sweating with my hand between my legs.
My reaction to Jackson is unlike anything I’ve felt before. Maybe that’s because he’s not like any man I’ve ever met before. It’s like he has this power within him. He wanted me; he made that obvious, but he didn’t want to make me feel small or threatened, even though I knew he could take me if he wanted. He looked at me like he wanted to devour me, take me as his, but he just gave me his number and told me he would train me in self-defense if I wanted. He was a gentleman, but part of me wishes he wasn’t.
I pull out my phone and scroll to his newly-created contact.
Jackson (Your Savior)
I have to laugh. I didn’t see that last night when he put it in. Clearly it’s just a joke, but it’s also right; he’s definitely my savior.
My thumb hovers over the dial button, and my heart rate increases again. I want to call him, but I’m terrified. Why would a guy like him be interested in me? What’s he going to do when he finds out I’m just a lame introvert who’d rather read about elves and goblins or try the latest Switch game when he wants to go out to a club or a bar or whatever?
“No. I can’t call him. Don’t be stupid, Merrell.”
Feeling self-conscious as hell, I get up and go over to my desk mirror. My mom’s right; I do look like shit. Reaching for my make-up brush, I set my phone down, and just as I do, it buzzes, causing me to jump. I glance down and see Jackson’s name on the caller ID.
What are the chances!? He calls me right after I chickened out calling him? I don’t answer. I can’t. I’ll just let him leave a message and see what he has to say, then I’ll call him back…
…maybe.
I let it finish ringing, then pick it up and unlock it to check if he left a message, but as I do, it rings again. Persistent. It makes me feel good. Despite my heart rate, I have to answer this time.
“Hello?”
His voice from the other side makes me instantly blush.
“Merrell, it’s Jackson,” he tells me.
“Yeah, I saw your contact come up on my screen,” I reply. “Pretty funny, mister.”
“I’m even funnier in person,” he tells me. “Listen, I scheduled you a self-defense lesson for tonight at seven.”
“You—you did?”
“Yup,” he says. “We’ve got to make sure that the next time something like that happens to you, you’re prepared. I’ll text you the address. See you then.”
“Jackson, wait—!”
He hangs up. I should call him back and tell him that he can’t just do s
omething like that and assume I’ll go along with it. But honestly, I want to go. Setting my phone down, I look over to my closet. I don’t own a single item of athletic clothing.
What am I going to wear?
3
Jackson
