They're barely through the door when the cheering starts again, and he winces at the sheer volume of it. It had only been a dull roar moments earlier as he'd sat in the cabin of her swanky SUV, the sound of his own rapid heartbeat in his ears diluting the noise as he waited for her to take him up on his offer to stay.
"The stripper's here!"
He reaches behind Ness to catch the door before it slams shut, and then braves a hand on the small of her back to guide her toward the kitchen. He tells himself that it's only due to the fact that she mustn't be able to see over the raised lid of the large box balanced in her hand, and not because he was some creep that came onto girls five minutes after meeting them. He had learned from a very young age that there was a very clear distinction between gentleman and sleaze, and he'd gone years without grouping himself with the latter.
"And she brought cake!"
She stiffens beneath his touch a millisecond before he manages to piece the two statements together, and a growl tears from his throat as recognition dawns on him.
They thought she was a stripper?
How the fuck did they think she was a stripper?
"Keep walking," he murmurs, urging her toward the kitchen with a wave of his free hand. Only when she begins to move again does he throw a glare over his shoulder, unwittingly seeking out Embry.
Shut them up.
He doesn't stick around to see if his friend gets the message, choosing to follow his non-stripper lady friend into the safety of the small kitchenette. He breathes a single sigh of relief as the door swings shut behind them, and then springs into action, shoving a half-opened packet of Doritos from the cluttered bench to clear space for the masterpiece.
"Thanks," she says, although her tone is flat and her expression unreadable, even as she places the oversized box on the counter and finally reveals the lower half of her face. It only adds to his frustration; he was sure he had been picking up on something she had been sending out before. A vibe, a spark- a pull, and now it was gone. For the second time in the same evening, he wishes he'd never agreed to use the workshop as a venue.
"Please don't take offence," he says in attempt to diffuse the growing tension in the air. "They've been drinking since four and you're the first woman that's walked through those doors since. They're so drunk, they would have thought that I was their entertainment if I still had long hair."
It's meant to be reassuring, but it comes out wrong.
"Not that you're anything like me. You're..."
He regards his next words carefully as he scrambles to explain- to reiterate that the reason for the misunderstanding was because she was hot, as in stripper hot, especially in those yoga pants, and not just because the guys were so drunk that any old chick would do, yet he fails to find a way to say exactly that in a way that won't make him seem like a douche.
You're sexy as fuck? Nope.
You're attractive, and everyone in the next room just happened to notice? Nada.
You're every guy's wet dream? Definitely not.
Thankfully, she comes to the rescue, and saves him from mincing his words again. He's grateful to find that the air feels clearer when he surfaces from his thoughts, and when he looks at her she almost seems brighter.
"You used to have long hair?"
...:...
She's thankful that she asked.
Jacob shows her the pictures; two of them, his arm slung around the waist of a woman that Renesmee hopes is a relative in the first, the ends of his inky black hair just brushing against his shoulders. It's slightly longer in the second image, yet it's suddenly unimportant- a chubby infant is propped up on his lap, wearing a gummy smile that's wide enough to rival Jacob's own, and the sight is enough to kick her ovaries into overdrive.
God, she hopes he's not married.
He returns the photos to their dedicated place on his bedside table when she hands them back, because they're just that- real, framed pictures that aren't displayed on a smartphone. She deduces that he's either useless at tech, or had merely jumped at the opportunity to retreat to a much more quiet and intimate place. She hopes it had been the latter, because she had been all too willing to follow him.
"You suit it all," she says in reference to his hair, and she's surprised to find that she means it. Long hair on men had never been something she considered attractive, but he was attractive. He is attractive. He could shave his head right now, and she would probably still want to jump his bones.
Please, please don't have a girlfriend.
"Family?"
She shoots a pointed look at the frames, the question weighing much heavier on her mind than the lightness in which she asks it. He doesn't seem to notice, a fond grin stretching across his face as he regards the scaled-down faces in the images.
"My nephew, and Leah."
Goddamn Leah.
Renesmee bites her tongue, forcing back the questions that want nothing but to escape.
Who is Leah?
Are you fair game, or are you not?
Have I misread the static between us?
After all, he had lead her up to his swanky loft with the mood lighting, and he had been the one to close the door behind them. He had offered her a seat on the edge of his bed to look at his personal photos, and he was the one now looking at her as if she were the last punnet of Strawberries and Cream Häagen-Dazs in the frozen aisle.
She sucks in a breath. Swallows another burning question.
Is this what love at first sight feels like?
She thinks so.
So, if Leah were his girlfriend...
Would it really matter?
...:...
They're interrupted. Again.
A slam. A cheer. A crash. A chorus of laughter.
The cake?
The cake.
"Fuck!"
He doesn't realise that he's yelled it until she leans away, startled, and her eyes are so wide that he has to look away. The noise continues below them, and he has to bite back the urge to run downstairs and not-so-kindly ask them to get the fuck out.
It had to be the cake; he had left it on a wooden board on the counter, having waved away Nessie's hand as she attempted to touch up the areas he'd butchered when transferring it out of the box. The boys hadn't deserved a touch up, especially after the stripper comment, and really, he had just wanted to get her upstairs- away from the idiots that he'd been tasked with babysitting.
He had left the cake exposed for a few damn minutes, and now it was probably destroyed and his moment gone.
Those fuckers.
"I'm sorry," he says, and he hopes he's coming off as gentle. "I think they broke something, so I need to run down and check on them. Are you okay with waiting here?"
"Sure," she replies, her surprised expression morphing in to one of concern. "Let me know if you need a hand."
He wants to kiss her.
He had been so, so close.
He settles for an awkward nod and then dips out of the room. He has to fight the urge to run back upstairs as soon as he hits the landing; how she manages to have such a pull on him in such a short amount of time, he isn't sure. What he does know is that if he turns back, he'll need to write the rest of the night off. If he goes back to her, he won't be coming back down.
The mess he finds on the floor of the kitchen is to be expected. The crumbs and frosting covering the hands and faces of the giggling children he finds in place of his friends is a completely different story. He's momentarily unsure of what to clean first, but he quickly decides that it's not his job to worry about either- he'd leave the remainder of the cake on the damn floor until Monday morning if it meant that one of these assholes would clean it up.
He pinches his nose. Exhales loudly. Does his best to keep from yelling so as not to startle the woman upstairs... again.
"I don't care what you do tonight," he growls after a beat of silence. "Just know that what you break, you pay for. All damages will be deducted from your wages if you work from me, and if you're lucky enough not to..." he pauses for dramatic effect, his eyes landing square on Seth Clearwater, "then your wife, girlfriend, or mother will be receiving a detailed invoice outlining your fuckup. Am I clear?"
He sticks around long enough to see a few dazed heads nod, but the second he turns his back to retreat to the safety of his apartment, some smartass pipes up.
"What about those of us that don't have wives, girlfriends, or mothers?"
Jacob tenses. He knows that voice.
Paul fucking Lahote.
"Oh, my bad. That's only you, Black."
There's a sudden shift in the energy of the room, and one loan chuckle sings out from somewhere behind him. The rest of the group know better, and the kitchen sinks into silence.
Jacob doesn't have time for this.
His patience is draining by the second. It has been a clusterfuck of an evening. All he wants to do is to drag his ass back upstairs to be with the one person that made hosting the whole fucking party worth it.
But damn, did Paul know how to push his buttons.
"Then it's a good thing that I own all of the gear in this place," Jacob spits, unable to help himself. "And speaking as the landowner, and host of this outstanding event, I'd suggest you get the fuck out of here and off of my property."
He doesn't turn. Doesn't want to give Paul the satisfaction of seeing the look on his face. His fist are clenched at his sides, yet he wants nothing more than to avoid a fist fight.
Don't be aggressive.
Don't blow it with Ness.
A snigger. And then:
"Are you going to make me?"
Goddamn it.
He whirls around, narrowed eyes seeking out the source of the voice. The rest of the men have enough common sense to move out of his way as he steps forward- all except for Embry.
"Cool it," he hisses, moving to block Jacob's path. "He's just drunk. He'll pass out before you know it."
Jake knows he's right. He tears his gaze from a bleary-eyed Paul. Does his damn best to calm down. Doesn't manage much until Embry drags him to another room.
There, he's handed a drink.
"Dude, you need to loosen up." He watches as his friend pops the cap off his own bottle of beer, and takes a large swig. "Go on. It won't kill you."
So he drinks, and spends the next few minutes solely focused on the girl he'd left on his bed, and just what he'd do to her when he made it back to her side. The thoughts alone calm him drastically, and soon, one beer down and dainty flutters in his chest, he skips back up the stairs to pick up where they'd left off.
Yet when he stumbles through the door of his apartment, his brow smoothed and his gaze no longer deadly, she's nowhere to be found. There's no note, no number, and not even a crease in the bed.
Jacob feels his heart sink to his knees.
She's gone.
A lot of italics, a lot of swears, and no editing (as always). Unlike Baby Black, I don't have a plan for this story, so drop me a line if you have any ideas. Thanks for reading, leave a review.