Jameson // Metallica

DRAWN

James never knocked like other people. He pounded his fist on the door—three thumps, break, and one more, followed by "Open up, Newkid!"

The middle of the afternoon. I dragged myself out of bed as soon as the door rattled. I paused in the narrow hallway to scrub the sleep out of my eyes. A deep breath later, I pulled the door open.

With a hand on each side of the door, James blew his hair out of his face, then shifted forward. Before I had a chance to invite him in, he pushed past me and shouldered the door shut.

His eyebrows rose. "What's up?"

"Uh . . . nothing?"

I took a step back, then another, until my heels bumped into the wall, all the time scrutinizing his face. Was it one of the "good" days, or one of the "let's fuck with Newkid" days? True, there'd been mostly good days in the recent months, and it'd been a long time since he'd pulled some big-time shit on me, but still. Every time I opened the door for him, the edge of wariness drove into my stomach.

"Nothing?" He leaned in, way into my personal space, a smirk under his overgrown moustache.

I flattened myself against the wall. I'd thought about him, wished he would stop by, and now he was here. I licked my lips. My gaze darted to the bed, with its messed up blanket and pillows, then back to him.

"Just catching up on some sleep," I finished as he planted a hand on the wall above my shoulder. Was it obvious that before I fell asleep, I'd given in to a fantasy starring James, a very naked James, which had resulted in sticky sheets?

James—not naked, unfortunately—moved closer; his thigh pushed against mine. He crowded the small space with his body, with his whole presence, with his smell even. Beer on his breath, but also the smell of too many days spent on the road, the smell of fucking too many groupies, the smell that was all James. The smell that always made my breath hitch in my throat whenever he was so close. Of course, James would say that my breathing problems were due to my excessive weed consumption, but what did he know.

"I was in my room, doing shit, and suddenly, boom!" He snapped his fingers, then curled them around my neck. "I had an idea."

"What idea?" Mentally, I crossed my fingers for one of the "good" days.

"You'll see."

His hand slipped down, pressed into my chest, fingers-splayed. If he wanted, he could touch my nipples with the tips of his thumb and pinky. Warmth seeped through the cotton of my t-shirt. His hand sneaked under the fabric. Rough with cuts and scrapes from the latest bike accident, it rested on my belly. I willed it to move, to explore, to do anything it damn pleased, but it sat there, teasing with the possibilities of what it could do to me.

We held each other's gaze. In my head, the familiar buzz of anticipation drowned out the memory of all the past experiences involving James being a bastard to me.

He wrapped a strand of my hair around his finger. "Take your shirt off." It came out as a soft request, rather than a demand, but it was a demand nonetheless.

I pulled the t-shirt over my head, dropped it to the floor. My heart thudded in rhythm with the red neon sign blinking in my head: "Good day. Good day."

"That's it." He ran his hands up my arms, grabbed my shoulders and turned us both around so we faced the main room. "Now get on the bed," he encouraged me.

Like I needed encouragement.

Stretched on the bed, I watched him help himself to a beer from the minibar. He flicked the cap toward the trash can and snorted when it landed on the floor instead. Leaning against the dresser he took a long pull, draining almost half of the bottle. With the back of his hand he wiped his mouth.