Rising

Chapter Twenty-Three

Ruby

I wake confused by where I am and what the time is, my head pounding. There’s light shining across the bed from the open curtains and my phone reads four p.m.

Jem’s house.

The stress of the last day caught up and after our embrace, Jem hovered around uncomfortably until I told him I wouldn’t get pissed off with him if he walked away again. Following my outpouring over Quinn and Dan, I wanted time alone to compose myself too. Our shared understanding that this isn’t rejection; but dealing with our own headspace is another indication of how similar we are.

My body aches and I examine my face in a small pocket mirror. My lip isn’t as swollen but the bruising around my eye and cheek has darkened. Add to that the grazes to my face and I’m a delight. I pull out the thick foundation and set about painting away Dan.

I haven’t eaten since last night and the dizzying hunger forces me into the kitchen. My instant noodles I left behind last time I lived here are tucked in the back of the cupboard, so I pull them out and break them into a bowl.

Jem appears as I’m pouring boiling water onto the noodles. We eye each other warily; but I’m relieved to see a calmer Jem, one whose face has lost some of the strain from earlier. The loose white shirt he’s wearing is unbuttoned far enough to see his ink underneath. One hug and my body and imagination firing to life at the sight of him isn’t good.

“Please don’t tell me you’re eating that crap again,” he says.

“I’m hungry and there’s nothing else.”

“What do you mean? There’s a shitload of stuff in the fridge.”

“Your food.”

“So?”

“Don’t you remember your housemate agreement? I’m not allowed to touch your stuff.”

Jem flicks his tongue against his teeth and then realises what I mean. “Oh. That. You’re a guest.”

I turn back and rip open the packet of powder loosely described as flavouring. One embrace and suddenly the space between us feels smaller than it once did. Also, not good.

“Leave that. I’ll order us some proper food. I’m hungry too.” He crosses and rests against the counter next to me. “You put make-up on.”

“Yeah. I’m sure nobody else likes looking at the mess; I know I don’t.”

He looks at me with concern. “Doesn’t it hurt putting that crap over a cut?”

I shrug.

“I prefer you without make-up. I can see your eyes properly.” Jem touches the skin under my uninjured eye, wiping at the kohl with his thumb. At his touch, I shiver and the softness in the way he studies my face grips me. People don’t look at me like this. “You shouldn’t hide.”

I turn my face away. “Like I said, covering up.”

Jem remains next to me and the physical desire I’ve fought against since he walked into the kitchen – since I met him - has intensified. He laces his fingers through mine and I look up in surprise.

“Are you staying? I know I upset you before.”

I’m unaware of much, apart from how natural my hand in his feels. “Yes. If you want me to.”

“Good.” Jem takes his hand away and indicates the drawer I’m standing in front of. “Grab the menus from there. What do you want? Chinese? Thai?”

When he does his ‘Jem thing’ of breaking away the moment he’s too close, my stomach knots. I shouldn’t crave his attention let alone expect him to hold and kiss me.

Half an hour later and we sit in the lounge, boxes of noodles and rice spread across his low glass coffee table. I’m impressed by Jem’s ability with chopsticks, instant noodles never called for such sophistication.

“I can show you, if you like?” suggests Jem, passing me a pair.

“It’s okay. I’ll use a fork. I’m too hungry to mess around with those.”

We’re on the floor and I rest against the sofa, holding a box in my hands as I eat. Jem sits in his favourite armchair opposite.

“What do you want to listen to?” he asks. “I can’t sit in silence.” He heads to his laptop that’s hooked up to the sound system and the large plasma TV. “Pick a decade.”

“Nineties?”

“Okay, who?”

“How about Smashing Pumpkins?”

Jem rubs his cheek. “Nah. Chili Peppers?”

I shrug. “Your house.”

He scrolls through a list on his laptop. “Must be some classics we both like.”

After more debate, we settle on a random mix of ‘90s indie rock. Back to Ruby and Jem whose strong wills won’t bend, choosing a band we agree on isn’t happening anytime soon. “Sounds awesome on your system,” I say.

“One thing I’ll always have the best of.”

I twirl noodles around my fork, and side-glance him. “What colour is this song?”

Jem closes his eyes. “Red.”

“Really? No, blue.”

“No way, there’s black in here too.” He opens an eye.

“What colour is “Rising”?” I ask him.

“Orange.”

“I always saw red. I guess you get to dictate the colour if it’s your song.”

“No, it’s just what colour it looks. There’s a lot of G in and that’s red.”

“No, G is green.”

Jem pouts but his eyes show his amusement before he looks away and silently eats his meal, abruptly stopping the conversation. “I’ve never met anyone like you,” he says eventually.

“A lot of people say that to me.”

“Same. For the first time I feel comfortable around someone.”

“You’re comfortable around the band, surely?”

“Yeah, early days and as a kid we were all similar but never the same. Dylan’s closest to me, understands the power of music like I do, but we lost each other.”

“You lost yourself.”

He frowns. “I guess. Dylan stopped the drugs, I didn’t.”

“If you were an addict, you wouldn’t meet anyone you felt yourself around because you weren’t yourself.”

Jem sets his box on the table. “Have you known any addicts? Sometimes I get the impression you have.”

“Some friends at school got into that shit. My brother steered me clear. I smoked weed a few times, but it wiped me out and interfered with the music too much. That’s why I can’t understand why you went that way.”

“There’s a lot we don’t understand about each other.” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

A lot we don’t want to share.

Again, conversation killed. Although Jem’s different around me than a few days ago, loosened and a sense of humour poking through; he’s still never far from the world of his memories. Jem finishes his meal and heads out of the room, leaving me and my disappointment behind. His habit of walking away without saying anything irritates me; does Jem realise what he’s doing?

“Will you play for me again?” Jem’s returned, holding the guitar I played in his hotel room.

“Why?”

“I like it.” He looks at me as if I’m asking a stupid question.

If my playing means he stays in the room with me, forges us further, I will. “Sure, but you can play for me too.”

Jem grins. “Cool by me.”

Cross-legged on the floor, I take the pick he offers and strum a few notes, fine-tuning the strings. Playing the opening bars of “Stairway to Heaven,” I grin at him as he rolls his eyes at the cliché.

“Don’t worry, I won’t play that.”

I play the Ruby Riot track, “Beneath the Stars,” lost in the world of colour. The rainbows of music illuminate the shadows of my mind, dragging me away from darkness and stars, until I forget where I am. I always do. Playing alone or performing, I’m on a different plane, body as tuned into the music as my mind. When I finish, I jerk back to reality and focus on the world again.

The expression on Jem’s face tears the breath from my body. I’ve glimpsed the intense look before, on the days it sneaked through before he’d look away again. This time his eyes remain on mine. This is how people look at you when you mean something to them; he told me the truth in the garden earlier.

“Why did I ever think you were like her?”

I don’t want Jem to elaborate, but I know who he means. I set the guitar down; I don’t want to go back to old conversations. I make to stand and Jem sits forward.

“Don’t go,” he says. “Spend time with me before we go and hide in our dens.”

I rub my forehead. “You’re a confusing man, Jem Jones.”

“Nah, I’m quite simple really.’

“That, I don’t believe.”

Jem shifts and takes the guitar. “Sit with me. Play again.” I frown, unsure exactly what he wants. “Here. Lean against me.” He indicates the space in front of him.

This man who doesn’t like to be touched is asking me to sit close? I hesitate; aware the intimacy of placing myself there is another step across our borders. I’m torn. I’ve craved nothing more than being held by Jem for weeks, but I’m vulnerable and hurting.

“I want to be close to you, Ruby Tuesday. I’m over the URST bullshit, I want you in my life, and that involves touching you.” The abrupt words wipe out any doubt. He wants the same as I do; the same thing we’ve avoided for months. Not just a physical intimacy, but allowing in an emotional intimacy, too.

“Okay,” I say quietly.

I move so Jem can put his legs on either side of me, my back against his chest as he rests against the armchair. He passes me the guitar. How will I play when all I’m aware of is being encompassed by Jem? He exudes calm and warmth, the thump of his heart against my back and his face close to my neck. His breath sets goose bumps along my skin, intensifying the situation. Is this how we can be close? If Jem can hold me, but I can’t him. If I can’t see his eyes.

Jem strokes my hair, the sensation tingling my scalp. “How is your hair so soft when you kill it with hair dye?”

I chuckle and he rests his chin on my shoulder. “What’s funny?”

“Should we discuss hair care products? Which do you find gives you the best body and shine?”

“I don’t use…” He pauses. “Ha-ha. Play.”

I set the guitar down. “No.” I want to twist around to look into his face, communicate without words.

He misreads my tension and closes his hand over mine. “Fine, I’ll put the music back on but my choice since you’re refusing my simple request.”

I place a hand on the floor, preparing to shift away from him but Jem curls his arms around my waist.

“Sit with me. Relax. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to.”

I let go of the tension and allow myself to sink back against his chest and rest my head against his neck.

Jem Jones. Blue Phoenix bad boy, man-whore, and ex-addict is sitting on the floor with me and holding my hand. If there’s one thing I would never have thought possible, this is it. But he’s right; there’s a little bit of us in each other. The music, our personalities, the past, and the understanding. Could this be more? We’ve formed a shaky friendship built on those foundations. But can either of us give more at the moment?

Jem nudges the hollow of my neck with his nose, shooting an unexpected warmth through me. Of course, I’m attracted to him; I have been since I was a teen Blue Phoenix fan, but the hormonal reaction annoyed me because I didn’t like what I read about the man himself. Jem’s lips touch my skin and I inhale at the gentleness. The times I imagined getting physical with Jem, gentle wasn’t on the agenda.

When I allow him to trail small kisses along my collarbone, he slides a hand to my side, rubbing the edge of my waist with his fingers through the material of my shirt. I will him to touch my naked skin with the same softness, but when he slides his fingers beneath my shirt, placing his palm on my side, I can’t help tensing.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?”

Not yet.

“No, but be careful. My ribs…” After all this time waiting for his touch, and I can’t let Jem hold me without it causing the pain I want him to take away.

“I wish I could kiss you,” he says in a low voice, pushing images of his mouth on mine back in where I’ve blocked them out.

“The same.”

“I’ll stick to kissing you other places.” The first hints of a move from tender to sexual catches me by surprise. He misreads my breathy reaction. “But only if that’s okay with you.”

“Like my neck?”

“I was thinking other places, but neck is good.” The sensation of his mouth and body surrounding me triggers a rush of heat, spreading arousal through. His heart beating against my back speeds up as I shift against his hips.

“Can I ask you a question?”

I tense. “I might not answer it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Fine.” Jem entwines his fingers with mine. “Who named you Ruby? You?”

Now I know why we’re sitting like this. Without eye contact, we can tell secrets. “My brother, when I was ten and some kids at school teased me about my stupid name. Quinn began calling me Ruby Tuesday, told me it was a cool name. When I was outside the house, that’s who I was. I made everyone call me Ruby - friends, teachers, everyone. I refused to respond if they called me Tuesday. Quinn played me the song and I’d listen to it on repeat when he was away. My song. Since he died, I can’t listen to it anymore.”

“Sorry for playing it to you.” His lips move against my skin as he speaks, not helping with the desire for his hands to move to other parts of my body.

“You didn’t know.”

“But it is you. So much you.”

“I have a line from the song tattooed on my ribs, about how yesterday doesn’t matter because it’s gone. I wish I’d never done that.”

“You tried to show me once,” he whispers into my hair.

“What? When?”

Jem laughs. “You were drunk. I didn’t see much, don’t worry.”

My cheeks heat and blushing isn’t something I do. I grasp at a memory triggered by his words. The kitchen. Offering myself. Jem saying no. I’m surprised when tears spring to my eyes. Why? Because he said no? No, because he treated me with the respect I didn’t have for myself.

I shift from his embrace and twist to look at him. “I’ve never met a man like you.”

“A lot of people say that,” he says with a smile.

Jem’s face has lost the pallor he had when we first met, the lines softened. He looks at my mouth and then turns his darkened eyes to mine. Is he going to kiss me again? I want my mouth on his; but it would hurt, and my lip twinges in annoyance. I touch Jem’s face, tracing the contours of his defined cheekbones, rubbing my fingertips along his scruff. Is he holding his breath?

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“You’re looking at me in a way nobody has for a while.”

“And how’s that?”

“Like I matter.”

“Jem…” I press my lips against his, briefly, gently, and then withdraw before he kisses me properly. Jem’s lips move across my uninjured cheek before he buries his face in my hair.

“Every time I touch you, I hate that fucker more because I want to kiss you so much.” He looks up. “When your mouth is better, I’m going to kiss you until you can’t breathe.”

He obviously misses my current struggle with breathing around him. “Suffocation doesn’t sounds pleasant, Jem.”

He laughs. “No, I mean the effect it’ll have on you. I’m a f-ucking awesome kisser.”

“I remember.” He smirks. “Actually, no. It was crap.”

Jem rests his head back on the chair. “Oh, really? I don’t believe you.”

“I’m sure your expertise in all things umm… physical is admirable, Jem, but there’s a difference. You can kiss me like you mean it, or not at all.”

Jem cups my chin in his long fingers. “I’ll mean it, Ruby Tuesday.”

His brown eyes tell me he already does and I ache with the frustration of wanting him to show me now. Instead, I shift around, curl into Jem and rest my head on his shoulder. He runs his fingers along my arm and strokes as we listen to the music in the peace we’ve created. I wait for him to be Jem Jones, to continue the path he started to something sexual but he doesn’t. This is Jem, intuitive about the Hell I found myself in last night, and understanding how tender is the road to where he wants to go.