Jane Air Read online

  Otherwise, I’m at home, the pale blue bungalow on Primrose Avenue.

  My name is Jane.

  And I think I would like to have sex with you.

  Right now.

  He does not need to hear any of that. Not where I work. Not what I do. Not my sudden and very uncharacteristic interest in fucking a stranger in the woods.

  Nope.

  Nope.

  Nope.

  “Professor?” His eyebrows shoot up as his eyes drift down. My breath catches in my throat and I swear I don’t deliberately press my breasts against his chest as I inhale sharply.

  “I don’t do anything,” I say again, my face only inches from his.

  “Except run naked through the woods,” he stares at me, those eyes bearing into mine.

  “I was swimming, not runni-”

  “You were trespassing.”

  “I didn’t know-”

  “And now, you’re mouthing off.”

  My mouth falls open and I see his eyes dip, following the movement of my lips. My tongue darts out, just the tip, to wet my top lip and I swallow, air coming thick and heavy in my lungs. His eyes watch me, his face closer.

  “I didn’t mean to-”

  His hand slips lower. Fingers slide down and back from my hip until he is holding half my ass in his palm. I have never been manhandled like this in my life and I feel its effects immediately between my thighs. Previous boyfriends were delicate, hesitant.

  Or maybe their hands were just smaller.

  I feel him squeeze my flesh, kneading it and it takes every ounce of will power to not close my eyes. My breath catches while another hand moves up from my waist to just below my breast. His thumb, so light I don’t know if I’m imagining it, traces lightly over the wet cloth of my shirt, coming so close to my nipple I think I may actually cry.

  Or beg.

  Or agree. To anything. To everything.

  Murder. Theft. Larceny.

  Fine.

  Great.

  Just keep touching me.

  “Now,” he leans closer, his lips so close to mine I feel the heat of his skin radiating off of him. “You’re not going to do this again, are you?”

  Are you? I want to ask, feeling heat pool low in my belly as his hand continues to grip and release my backside, bringing my front closer to his, pressing me from thigh to chest against him.

  I shake my head, eyes locked on his.

  “And I’m not going to catch you back here again, am I?”

  That treacherous thumb moves higher and I am aware of a light sound coming from the back of my throat, a soft imitation of a whimper.

  “Because if I do catch you, professor” he pulls me closer, pressing his lips against my ear, whispering so softly even the trees can’t hear us. “There’s no telling what I might do.”

  And I feel it then, the hard, thick heat of him. My insides turn to liquid and for a brief moment I worry my jeans will burst into flames right then and there. My hands, previously trapped between us, pressing my breasts even closer to his face, begin to snake around him as I adjust a leg, ready to wrap myself around and over him, enveloping him in every possible way.

  After tearing off his clothing with my teeth.

  Yes.

  Do it.

  Do everything you are thinking of doing.

  “Now, go,” he says, standing up. Letting me go so quickly I have to take a step back so I don’t stumble. Again.

  The night is sharp against me. I notice his eyes on my breasts as I gasp for air, chest heaving slightly.

  “Get home safe,” he says with a meaningful look before turning around, back into the dark between the trees.

  And I’m standing there. Like a lonely, horny idiot. In the middle of the woods.

  It’s only when I arrive back at my house, unlock the door and stand beneath the shower that I wonder why the police never arrived.

  4

  David

  The phone is piercing when it wakes me. The shrill beep breaking through the meagre hour of sleep I’ve managed after tossing and turning on my floor mattress, thinking of my naked forest nymph.

  Who I sent home.

  Like the sensible man I am.

  Like an idiot.

  Well, I didn’t just send her home. I called the police, walked with her in the woods, made sure she left my property and kept my hands to myself.

  Except I didn’t do that.

  I didn’t do any of that.

  I followed her into the woods, down a path I didn’t know was there, lured by the sway of her hips, the movement of her breasts, full and lush and oh so visible inside that t-shirt.

  I meant to make sure she left, until she turned to me, brown eyes shining in the moonlight, body outlined against the night, and fell against me. Maybe she threw herself, maybe she stumbled.

  Who cares.

  It was an excuse to have my hands on her, to touch what I’d been staring at.

  God. The feel of her. That ass in my hands and those breasts pressed against my chest. The way she looked at me while I whispered in her ear.

  I didn’t whisper what I wanted to, all the filthy thoughts running through my head.

  Come home with me.

  Take off your clothes.

  Promise me you won’t scream.

  Too loudly…

  Nope. I just threw her out.

  Because that is the sensible thing to do.

  And now I have a boner that has followed me from the woods to the house, in the bed and into the morning.

  Fuck.

  “Yeah?” I finally pick up, irritation as apparent in my voice as in my mind.

  “Well, you sound like you’ve been having fun,” Angelo’s no-nonsense growl blasts into my ear and I move my head away from the phone. I owe my entire career to him, but subtly and grace are not his defining characteristics.

  “Yeah,” rubbing a hand over my face I hold the phone to my ear with the other. The house is chilly this morning, and my naked skin prickles outside of my warm bedding.

  “Everything ok over there in bumblefuck nowhere?”

  I’m tempted to remind him that he is one of the reasons I found bumblefuck, one of the reasons I’m in this house, actually.

  “Everything’s fine. Just had a late night.”

  “Ah,” a deep laugh and I can see him leaning back in his chair, behind that massive desk, shouting at assistants. “Well, I’m glad you’re mingling with the locals.”

  I squeeze my fingers over the bridge of my nose. This is precisely the time when I should tell him about the naked nymph in my backyard. As agent and representative, Angelo takes care of all the parts of my life that I forget I need to take care of. Security being a top concern.

  But I don’t. My mouth is shut and I’m not even tempted to rat out my late night visitor.

  She didn’t know she was trespassing after all.

  She seemed harmless.

  And when I squeezed her body against mine, I had a feeling she was two seconds away from coming apart in my arms.

  I cover the smile that sneaks onto my face, worried my business partner can sense my secrecy over the phone. The man has instincts like a bloodhound and I learned long ago that my personal life always ended up including him in some way.

  “I’m glad you’re making friends out there, because I’ve got something for you.”

  I lay back against my pillows, stretching on arm overhead as the blankets pool below my navel. “I’m taking time off. I’m not signing on to anything for at least six months.”

  “I know, but you don’t want to hop off this ferris wheel too soon. There’ll come a time when these offers stop coming in, and that’s when you focus on other things.”

  I shake my head slowly. We’ve had this conversation a lot, the two of us. The direction of my career. He argued that the ten film contract I signed for Agent Carson was the best choice, strike while the iron is hot, make bank while it’s available. He was right.

  But I’m old
er now. I want to move on from Agent Carson. Angelo and I don’t see eye to eye on that. The few indie films I did in-between the big studio shoots were met with eye rolls and small smiles.

  “Business first,” he said at the time. “Art later.”

  Angelo didn’t know when to stop.

  “I’m gonna pass.”

  “You don’t even know what it is yet.”

  “I need time, man. I need time to think.”

  There’s a silence. He’s calculating his next move, I can feel his brain working even across the phone lines.

  “Well, if you want to amuse yourself while you’re taking time,” he says these last two words slowly, as if he has never had them in his mouth before and doesn’t know how to pronounce them, “you could take a class at that college next door.”

  “It’s summer.”

  “Get tutored.”

  “In what?”

  “Anything. Mechanics. Literature. Shit, I don’t know. But I’ve seen this before, David. You’ve been riding a high for a decade. You can’t just decamp to bumblefuckville and take time. It’s going to fuck with you.”

  “Nothing is going to fuck with me. I’m just laying low for a bit.”

  Another pause. Another calculation. It’s sweet, I suppose, the way he worries about me. Angelo is agent and representation for the biggest names in Hollywood. He’s seen more shit go down than anyone else on this planet. But, thinking back to all the years I’ve worked with him, I’ve never known him to take a day off, a vacation, or even a shortcut. Even when we were young, both starting out, no money, no connections. Even then, he never took time off, never took a break.

  “Well, then don’t get into shit.”

  My sigh is audible.

  “Fine.”

  “I’ve got to go to the clinic. I’ve got two more who went off the rails. Don’t you be next.”

  I smile and hang up.

  Take a class.

  For a man who barely went to college, I sure feel like I spend my life studying- characters, plots, memorizing lines, reading scripts. Writing one, hopefully, but that’s a private thing for now.

  I don’t want to enroll in a class, all that homework, the uncomfortable chairs, the professors…

  I pause.

  What did my forest nymph tell me last night?

  I pick up my phone, searching for the local college, scrolling through the webpages to find the faculty site.

  I doubt my naked elf is actually a professor. The last stalker I had told me she was my surrogate mother. At least, I think that’s what I heard, above the sirens when I did call the police that time.

  I roll my eyes. That was a night.

  And my god, if professors looked like my naked visitor, then I sure made the wrong choice to drop out of college and move out to LA at 19, but-

  And there she is.

  Professor J. A.

  In a dowdy photo. With terrible glasses. A stern look on her face that makes me want to bend her over and spank it out of her.

  Professor of Romantic Literature

  I lean back against my pillows, feeling the blood travel south for the dozenth time since I’ve thought about her.

  So, my little trespasser is an actual professor?

  A thought wiggles into my mind, something dark and devious.

  I never did call the police. I meant to. I should have. It would have been the responsible thing to do.

  But then they would have come.

  And interrupted.

  A grin spreads across my face.

  And I know just how to amuse myself in this small town.

  I stretch farther overhead and plan my attack.

  Angelo, I think to myself. Don’t you worry. I’m about to get very, very busy.

  5

  Jane

  “Professor Air, I meant to tell you-” Cynthia, an undergraduate interning with the university administration team cuts herself off as I open my door and stop short.

  David Jacobs is in my office.

  He is not supposed to be here.

  Technically, no one is supposed to be here.

  How did he even get a key?

  And here I am again, standing in front of him, dressed this time, thank god, and not knowing what to say.

  I turn to Cynthia, who is so flustered I wonder if she’ll start to cry or scream or just pass out in front of both of us.

  “You have a visitor,” she blurts out, eyes wide.

  “I see that.”

  “He’s an actor,” she adds, helpfully.

  “Yes.”

  “He…he said it was urgent,” Cynthia bites her lip, eyes darting between my death stare and the amused smirk of the man sitting in my office.

  My office.

  Behind my desk!

  Jerk.

  “I thought I had locked my office the last time I was here, Cynthia.”

  “Oh, you did, for sure,” she nods, thrilled to be able to contribute something of value. “But I used the spare key in the main office to let him in.”

  “When I wasn’t here?”

  “Yeah, you weren’t here,” she nods again, so vigorously this time her massive gold hoops bounce against her chin. “So you couldn’t let him in.”

  “Thank. You. Cynthia.” It’s hard not to grind out the words.

  “Oh, you’re welcome!” Cynthia smiles brightly, her confidence up in the wake of what she thinks is my praise. “I know you come in on Mondays, and he was here so I decided to show some initiative and just let him in.”

  That gorgeous bastard behind my desk smiles and nods approvingly. Cynthia grins wider, thrilled with her accomplishments.

  “Ok then,” I force a smile and move into the doorway, turning my back to the well-intentioned 19-year-old. “Thank you.”

  “No problem!” She practically shouts, still standing in the doorway.

  “Thank you Cynthia,” I say again.

  She nods, her eyes staring straight past me and towards the beautiful bastard who’s now helping himself to a box of Thin Mints on my desk.

  “That’ll be all.”

  She continues to stare and I reach for the door, shutting it just as she realizes what I’m doing, mouth open as if to protest.

  Door handle in hand, I pause, realizing what I have just done.

  We are now locked in my office. My tiny office, with one small path from door to desk. The rest of the room filled with books .

  Books on shelves.

  Books on the floor.

  Books on the one chair I have, in theory, for someone to sit on. Really, it’s just a chair-shaped shelf for more books.

  Turning, knowing there is nowhere for me to sit since he is sitting in my chair, behind my desk, in the only place there is to sit in this room, I square my shoulders and clutch my photocopies to my front, hoping it isn’t too obvious I’m using them as a shield.

  Or a second layer of clothing.

  Which is ridiculous, considering…

  “You’re messy,” he smiles as he says it, bringing another Thin Mint towards his lip, pausing with the dark, round cookie a breath from his lower lip. My indignation must be apparent because he grins and pops the whole thing in his mouth, chewing triumphantly.

  “Stop that,” I move towards him, tiptoeing as quickly as I can across my narrow path. “It’s not cookie season for another eight months.”

  “So how do you have these?” His brows arch as he pops another one into his mouth.

  “Hey!” I’m at my desk now, able to reach across and swipe the box from where it rests near his hands. “I ration those.” I peer inside. He’s taken an entire sleeve.

  Jerk.

  He grins again, licking the crumbs from the edge of his mouth.

  God, he’s got a great mouth.

  And he knows it too, the way he’s watching me watching him. It must be the thing he sees more often than anything else, women ogling him.

  The thought stops me. Like a splash of cold water, I remember who I’m reall
y dealing with.

  Not some hot new neighbor.

  Not some cookie-stealing harmless flirt.

  Not some delicious pervert who molests sex-starved women in the woods.

  He’s David Jacobs.

  Rich.

  Famous.

  Privileged.

  Used to getting anything and anyone he wants.

  The thought almost makes me smile. Like a secret glimpse into an alien life, I briefly wonder what it must be like, to have anything and everything, to want for nothing. To have achieved and obtained more than you could even dream of. Where do you go from there?

  I mentally shake myself.

  Why do I care about his inner workings?

  It doesn’t matter.

  “Did you break into my office to steal cookies?” I put the box behind me, wedging it between two books on a shelf above my head. Ridiculous, I know, to think I am tall enough to put something out of reach of him.

  He shakes his head, and I notice he has a pile of books next to him. A new pile. I recognize all my piles of books and that one, I am certain, was not there when I left here last week.

  “Did you…” I pause, genuinely confused, “need something to read?”

  He looks at me, brows drawn down as if puzzling something.

  “We have a library,” I reach forward slowly, moving the pile of books away from him and closer to me. He watches my movements, no doubt amused at my obsessive hoarding. “That’s where you should go to borrow books.”

  He’s silent and I briefly wonder if he’s lived in L.A. so long he doesn’t know what libraries are.

  “Libraries are places where-”

  “I know what libraries are.”

  “Ok.” He doesn’t say anything else. “What about the internet? You can order books online. They get delivered to your house.” Slowly I bring the pile into my arms, cradling my precious ones.

  He remains silent, watching me gingerly replace the five texts, tucking them into the shelves like children at bedtime.

  “We also have a bookstore downtown. I know the owner. He’ll help you find something.”

  He nods. “Can he recommend a book about what to do when naked women break into my property?”

  The breath leaves my lungs in a huff.

  “I didn’t know it was your-”