Young Enough (The Age Between Us Book 2) Page 2

  “What the fuck’s your issue?” I hiss.

  “You’ll choose her over us?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Our neighborhoods, they don’t mix. Tell me it’s just a fuck and–”

  My fist collides with his jaw before he can form the next word. It’s not a hard punch, but enough to make him stumble two steps sideways. His eyes are cutting as he grabs his jaw, moving it from side to side.

  “I warned you.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I guess you warned me from a while back. I just didn’t want to listen.”

  “What’s your problem with Jane?”

  “My problem? You’re asking what’s my problem? Dude, I hate to break it to you, but the problem’s all yours.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I saw you today, the way you look at her. You’re into her, as in deep.”

  “I don’t see how that’s a problem, least of all why you feel you should stir.”

  He laughs. “If you don’t see the problem, you’re as blind as a mole. She’s twice your age. It can never work. Not as in long-term. Look where she comes from, bro. Women like her don’t do boys from Harryville, not for serious. They do us to scratch an itch. It’s the pool or garden boy, because they’re bored. When they grow tired of the game, they chuck them out like old dishwashing water, because they can. That’s the first of your problems. Then there’s Monkey. Now that’s a problem I don’t wish on my enemy.”

  My finger is in his face, my anger radiating from me like toxic vapor. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll put a cork in it.”

  “Question is do you know what’s good for you?”

  Lacing my fingers over my head, I tilt my face to the ceiling and move away from him. I want to smash his face in, but I can’t do it for the truth. He’s right about one thing. Monkey is a problem that’s not going away. The desperation of the situation only makes me feel fiercer about what I want.

  Jane.

  I’m sick without her, and I don’t mean physically. I mean in my head. In my chest. In my mind. It’s something that’s been chewing on me for a while. I want her wholly and completely. These bits and scraps aren’t enough any longer. My mind and heart don’t care that Monkey stands between us. My feelings don’t give a shit about what he’s capable of, because she takes up everything I have, everything I feel. We can make this work. I told myself I wasn’t going to become that needy guy who demands more, but I can’t help myself. With her, I can’t get enough. I want it all. Everything.

  Clive’s tone softens. “Forget about the chick. Do what Monkey wants. You can do a lot worse than Lindy. Most guys will kiss her old shoes for the business that comes with her. Do you know how much Monkey’s worth?”

  I breathe in calm and breathe out my pent-up frustration. “I’m not most guys, and Jane’s not most women.”

  He laughs softly again, shaking his head. “You’re such an idiot.”

  “Maybe, but Jane is mine. The rest of the world, that includes you, better stay away from her.”

  “Are you thinking about your mother? About Sam?”

  On cue, my sister’s voice speaks from the door. “What’s that about me?”

  “Hey, Sam,” he says, but his eyes are on me.

  “Want to have dinner with us?” Sam asks.

  “I was just leaving.” He backs up to the door. “I’ll see you around, dude.”

  He disappears through the frame. The sound of his steps falls hard on the porch and down the stairs. A moment later, an engine starts up. The sputter tells me he’s borrowed his old man’s car.

  “What was that all about?” Sam asks.

  “Nothing.” I rub the back of my neck. That’s not true. I never lie to my sister if I can help it. “Just grown-up stuff.”

  Spaghetti is my specialty, but I’m learning to broaden my cooking skills. Pulling up the recipe for ratatouille on my phone, I slice the aubergines and salt them to sweat. Then I tackle the sweet peppers and baby marrows. It’s not as easy as you’d think. The onions burn while I’m still halving the cherry tomatoes. The peppers are overcooked, and the aubergine slices tear into unrecognizable pieces that look suspiciously like slimy snail. I didn’t manage to rinse off all the salt before frying them, and with the Kalamata olives the dish is too salty. There’s also that lingering bitter of the burn. I top it with a bit of mozzarella to make it easier to go down.

  Sam pulls up her nose, but she eats what I serve her, probably because she doesn’t want to evoke my irk before the party. After serving my mother a bowl in bed, I clean the kitchen and watch a movie with Sam. When she’s in bed, I call up the app on my phone to test the security system at Jane’s cottage.

  The cameras work fine. They’re motion triggered, meaning when set they’ll take a snapshot if the lasers detect movement in the room. Within a second, I’ll receive not only an alarm signal, but also a photo of whoever breaches her security. Since I have full control, the technology allows me to get feeds when the alarm is not activated. All I have to do is tap a command. I can make sure she’s fine to set myself at ease and still my longing.

  I flick through the rooms until I find her. She’s in her bedroom, getting undressed. The image is high resolution. It’s like watching a television screen. I move to the edge of the sofa bed, my breathing speeding up and my cock hardening. First, she pulls off a T-shirt. Then she wiggles out of her shorts. Her toned body looks good in pink underwear. It makes her tan stand out. My mouth goes dry as she unhooks her bra. My hand goes to my zipper. God, I’m a prick. I can’t help it. When she slips her panties over her hips, my cock is already in my hand.

  Jane

  Nothing is said about the coffee shop or Abby’s birthday party when I pick Abby up on Sunday. From the haughty smile on Debbie’s face, she looks as if she’s scored a point. Several points, actually.

  At our new home, things are not any better between Abby and me. She stops in the middle of her room, looking around. I’ve put daisies, her favorite, in a vase on her dresser and left the window open for the room to cool. A breeze moves the curtains, carrying the scent of jasmine inside.

  “I hope you like it.”

  She walks to the dresser and runs her fingers over the flower petals. “Thanks for the flowers.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I miss my own bathroom.”

  “You’ll still have it when your father and Debbie move into the house.”

  “Only every second weekend. For most of the time, I’ll have to make do with this.” She waves her arm around.

  “We were fortunate in Groenkloof. This is what I can afford,” I remind her.

  She turns to me slowly. “I know. It’s just…”

  “Just what?”

  “Country living is not my thing.”

  “This isn’t exactly country living.”

  She moves to the French doors that open onto the deck and peers toward the dam. “Whatever.”

  “If we both make an effort–”

  “Mom.” She rests her chin on her shoulder, looking in my direction but not quite at me. “I’ll try, okay?”

  “Okay.” When only silence follows, I ask, “Are you hungry? I made melkkos with cinnamon.”

  “I suppose I can eat.” She offers me a watered-down smile.

  At least she’s making the effort I demanded. “You can freshen up if you like. I’ll set the table. After dinner, I can help you with your revision for tomorrow’s exam. We can do a test.”

  “Dad already did, but thanks.”

  She squeezes past me and goes down the hallway to the bathroom. When she comes back, I’m done setting the table. It’s a beautiful evening. I open the French doors to enjoy the view and fresh air.

  “Tell me about your weekend,” I say in a bright tone as we take our places by the table.

  “I’m tired. Can we talk later?”

  “Of course.”

  Our dinner goes down in silence. I wish I
knew what to say to her or how to draw a reaction from her, but I respect that she’s not in the mood for conversation. That’s what I taught her. That it’s all right to be quiet. It’s all right to sometimes be sad. In all the years since Abby was born, I’ve been more sad than not, but I haven’t practiced what I preached. I never showed it. Not to her as she grew. Not to Francois. Only to Dorothy, once a year. Now that sadness I thought would never lift is slowly dissipating, leaving room for happiness and peace. Leaving room for Brian or maybe he’s the reason the suffocating pain is fading into nostalgic memories.

  It’s as if my recollection of the moments I spent with Evan is going through a filter. The hurtful ones are caught in the sieve while only the beautiful ones are distilled in my mind. A bit of hurt always slips through, but it makes the beauty bitter-sweet instead of unbearable. Even greater than the pretty of remembering is the thankfulness. The relief. God knows, I breathe better for it.

  Abby is pushing the food around in her bowl. I frown, more concern settling over me. Like the flowers, this is one of her favorite dishes.

  I’m about to ask what’s the matter when Hilda knocks on the open doors and enters.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t want to interrupt your dinner. I just wanted to say welcome.”

  “No worries.” I glance at Abby’s half-eaten food, now cold. “We’re just about done. Would you like to join us for dessert?”

  “May I please be excused, Mom?”

  “This is my daughter, Abigail,” I say to Hilda. “Abby, this is our landlady, Ms. Hilda Feldsmann.”

  Hilda extends a hand. “Nice to meet you, Abigail. Please, call me Hilda.”

  Abby stands and shakes the other woman’s hand. “Hi, Hilda.” She turns to me. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather turn in. Tomorrow’s a big day with the exam and all.”

  “There’s sago pudding.” Also Abby’s favorite.

  “Keep some for me for tomorrow. Good night, Hilda. Night, Mom.”

  She climbs the three steps and disappears down the hallway.

  Gathering the bowls, I ask, “Sago pudding?”

  “No thanks. We’ve eaten.” Hilda follows me to the kitchen. “I’m sorry we weren’t here when you moved in, but we just got back from Namibia.”

  “I didn’t expect a personal welcome,” I smile, “but thanks.”

  “If you need anything, we’re only a short distance away.”

  “That’s kind. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Will it be just you and Abby staying here?”

  “Abby’s father and I are divorced.”

  “I assumed your boyfriend was moving in, too.”

  “Brian’s not…” For some reason, I can’t say it. I can’t say Brian is nothing to me except for good sex. “What gave you that idea?”

  “I suppose it’s because he visited the cottage first.”

  “It’s just Abby and me. For now.” I cross my arms. “Would a boyfriend be a problem?”

  Her cheeks flush. “The cottage is big enough to handle three people. We don’t want hordes, though. Oh and no pets. I assume you read that in the contract.”

  “Got it. No hordes. No pets.”

  “Neither…indecency.”

  “Indecency?”

  She shrugs. “Loud parties, questionable individuals, a loose lifestyle.”

  “Why would you think any of that would apply to me?”

  I know exactly, but I want her to say it. I want her to hear what her hypocrisy sounds like when she tells me out loud I’m a loose person because I sleep with a younger guy.

  “I don’t. Just giving you the same drill we give all our tenants.”

  Right.

  “Anyway, good night.” She waves and walks to the door. “As I said, you know where to find us if you need anything.”

  I’m fuming when she’s gone. Pretoria is a big city, but in many ways it’s a small town where everyone knows everybody’s business and judgment is disguised as good moral values.

  I spend an hour cleaning the kitchen, but my tension won’t ease. It’s this quiet discord between Abby and me, the move, the Monroe account, and everything Hilda has said. If Brian is not my boyfriend, he’s my lover.

  Plain and simple.

  Only, things between us aren’t that simple.

  It hasn’t been for a while.

  Brian

  Exams are coming up. I can’t afford to fail. If I flunk, I’ll be kicked out of the course and lose my job at Orion. This is my only shot. I’ll never get another chance like this. I’m studying like a lunatic and making sure Sam knows her tables and grammar for her own exams while cooking and cleaning when Mom’s too trashed to do it. Every free minute is spent at Orion. I’m not seeing much of Jane in a naked way, except for a few stolen moments every second weekend. It makes me feel like a caged lion. I’ve adopted the filthy habit of watching her more and more on the security feed, especially at night when I jack off, her name always a whisper on my lips as I climax.

  We don’t have time to fuck, never mind to talk, but when I walk into her office on a bright Monday morning, I know something’s wrong from the tense set of her narrow shoulders and the way she rubs her forehead.

  I close the door and round her desk. “What’s wrong?”

  She shakes her head. Her pained expression scares me. Gripping her shoulders gently, I start a firm massage.

  “Brian, you shouldn’t–” She moans. “Oh, God. That feels good.”

  “Here?” I work my thumb over a knot.

  “Ouch. Damn. Yes, just there.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “It’s been a difficult morning. That’s all.”

  “What’s difficult?”

  “There’s this tension between Abby and me.”

  “And?” I push her forward so I have access to the muscles flanking her spine.

  She groans. “Ah. So good. Don’t stop.”

  “And?” I won’t give up until she tells me what’s gotten her into such a spin.

  “Toby rejected my Monroe proposal. For a second time.”

  My hands still.

  She swivels her chair to face me. “I’m going to lose the account.”

  Shit. Her salary will take a knock–the agency pays on a performance basis–but it’ll also kill her career. If she loses her biggest account, or God forbid she loses the client to a competitor, no one in the industry will hire her. Toby won’t have a choice but to get rid of her.

  I swallow away the dryness in my throat. “What did he say?” She worked damn hard on that proposal.

  “He said a country-wide kindergarten campaign will take too long to roll out, and it’ll take even longer to see the revenue. Two years. Maybe more.”

  I grip the armrests of her chair. “Freddy needs to go digital.”

  “No.” She pushes me away and gets to her feet.

  “Jane,” I plead as she walks to the window.

  We’ve had this discussion. I don’t understand her resistance to keeping up with trends. “Why not?”

  She flings around. “So mothers can shove a tablet or smartphone in their toddlers’ hands? This is exactly what the brand is not about. It’s about interaction, mother-child contact.”

  “Times have changed,” I point out gently. “The brand needs to evolve. Mothers are busy. They work, cook, clean, do grocery shopping.” I close the distance, stopping close to her. “I’m not disagreeing with what you say. Yes, human interaction is important. That’s a good value, but some electronic intervention isn’t all bad.”

  “It’s not what the brand is about, Brian. I’m not tweaking the values, not even to save my own ass.”

  “It’s not about tweaking anyone’s values. It’s about adapting. It’s about redefining outdated values.”

  “I’m not discussing this with you anymore. You know my take on digital. Any other brand, yes, but not Freddy. Consumers buy Freddy for the outdated values it stands for.”

  Her voice has been rising consist
ently, her cheeks growing red with anger. Standing there with her sleek, short hair, expensive jewelry, and designer dress, she’s a sight to behold. All lady. All fire. A combination of adrenalin from the argument and not having my dick inside her nearly enough makes arousal explode through my body. All the blood from my head must’ve gone straight to my cock, because I’m lightheaded with want.

  “What?” she asks, taking a step backward as I advance.

  Her blue eyes grow large when her back hits the window. She knows me. She can probably see the hunger in my eyes, because I can feel it humming in every cell of my body, begging for her taste, her smell, and her skin under my hands. Her wetness around my cock.

  “Brian, this–”

  One hand dips under her dress to move her panties aside and cup her sex. I’m not wasting time. The other fastens around her neck, not with pressure, but with dominance. Ownership. Jane is her own woman, but right now, she’s mine.

  I trace the soft curve of her neck with my thumb. “You were saying?”

  “Not here,” she croaks. Her eyes dart toward the door. “Someone may walk in.”

  Why do those words make me so angry? Why do they make me want to punish her? Pressing her harder against the window, I rub my thumb in circles over her clit. Her knees buckle a bit. The minute moisture leaks from her slit, I coat my middle finger and breach the tight barrier of her asshole. She jerks and gasps, her eyes growing bigger as she clamps both hands around my wrist in a futile attempt to move my fingers away from her hot cunt. The effort only earns her more pressure. On her clit, in her ass, around her neck.

  Her hands shoot up to my other wrist, the one taking away her air. It’s not something we’ve played with yet, and I’m a bastard for not easing her into it gently, but I’m an exploding volcano. My lust and every possessive need that comes with it is boiling over. I can give. I can give her any fucking thing she wants. All the freedom in the world. Whatever she asks from me. As long as I know she’s mine where it matters, in body and mind.