Bad

Romance

Chapter One: Refusal

With the lights turned out, the only light source now appeared from the moon, casting its shadow over Jacob as he lay on his side, sleeping soundly. The window was cracked open, allowing a cool summer breeze to seep inside and cause the lace-like curtain to dance in a silent grace.

Slowly her fingers swept over his warm, russet skin, over his defined, toned abs and teased the small, dark line of course hair below his navel. With her other hand she cupped his bulge tightly in her palm and gave a little squeeze.

"No, I'm not!" Jacob snapped with a snarl, suddenly awake. He threw her hands from around his waist. The coldness of her fingers seemed to have imprinted into the nerves of his skin.

Quickly he threw himself out of bed and grabbed up his clothes, forcing his shirt over his head and jeans on, he pulled on his boots and grabbed his bag. Heading over to his draw, he filled the bag with what little he had to call, his possessions.

"What are you doing?" she asked faintly, watching his figure move in the casting light of the moon, while sitting up in the middle of her bed. This wasn't the first time she had seen him act this way.

"I've had enough!" he muttered, slowly letting out a breath he had been holding. Suddenly he stopped, dropped his bag to the grey carpeted floor and leaned his shoulders back against the wall. He started up at the cream ceiling, his chest rising and falling at a fast pace as his breath silently panting with rage, while forcing back the tears he would never allow her to see.

"So have a break," she whispered faint a murmur while looking harmless and fragile as a kitten—this was her trick … that usually worked. She was the one, who made him appear and feel to be the one who hurt her.

His head turned to see her watching him, through glassy eyes while nipping down on her milky skinned finger. A sheet was pulled up to cover her breasts, her wavy chocolate hair hung over her shoulders. Not a hair was out of place. She looked perfect—but she wasn't that concerned.

He shook his head with newly found anger. She was just using him, for all these years she had, for her own selfish pleasure. He had known it too, only he wished to look the other way, to act as though he was blind, oblivious, to the realistic fact. Until he could no longer look the other way … now, he regretted a quarter of his life.

"You don't get it, do you?!" he breathed, his voice snapping at the end. His eyes glared into hers.

She thought he was the same little boy he had been so long ago—venerable, weak … and broken. But that child had now grown. He was stronger now, stronger than he knew. But he was still venerable and … unhealed.

"I see through it all Miranda! You don't love me … like I love you," his voice cracked as he dragged his teeth over his lower lip. "You just use me as your sex toy, wash me over with your act, and throw me away until you want me again! I've had it! I am done and I am out of here!" he exclaimed, slamming his hand down against the brick wall he was leaning against. A flash of heat shot up his hand, but he ignored it, not even bothering to wince at the sensation.

Within that second, before he could even think to move, she hopped out of bed and nailed him to the wall with the force of her naked body pressed against his. His breath shuddered with weakness, as his mind and body responded. Without his permission his lips moulded to hers in small pants and fast paced kisses. She kissed him deep, cupping his cheeks as her tongue entered his mouth with a yearning permission.

She forced a moan out of him when she pressed against his body little more. Her legs spread just an inch to rub against the hardness that was pressing against her, through the material of denim his jeans. He groaned and arched his back in an instinctual response. The zipper of his jeans was straining to hold him in.

She always had this way with him, she was his weakness—his drug— he seemed to never be able to throw away. Her lips and mouth went down his chin, and over his smooth skinned neck, her hands resting on his broad, powerful shoulders as he stared up at the ceiling. His breath was erratic with want and need. His jeans suddenly felt even tighter as her lips formed around his Adam Apple.

"Miranda," he breathed, panting quick and light. His chest was rising and falling like waves of the ocean. Glancing down to her, she lifted his shirt from his jeans, before her lips wrapped around sucked on his perfectly formed peck.

He shuddered and moaned, realising exactly what she was doing, but a part of his brain did not want her to stop until she was once again done with him. She always did this when he threatened to leave, and sadly, it had always worked.

Throbbingly hard against his zipper, he groaned and clawed the smoothly painted mauve wall with the tips of his fingers and palms of his hands. She always drove him crazy when he least wanted it. That was her thing; it was what she did, why he had stayed for long as he had. She was like the sugar pill to any man she had been with, only she had an extra coat of sugar—she knew how to hook them for life. She was on a constant beck and call, something Jacob knew and somehow, accepted.

Feeling her teeth bite down on his peck, with her hands resting on his abs, a loud whimpering groan escaped his throat as he arched against her. He wished so much he could beg to her out loud to take her with a driving force, but at the same time, there was a war going on inside Jake's head.

He was trying so hard to find the strength to say no, to say he was going and to tell her, she would never see him again. But he was losing, his willpower was going; second by second he lost a little more as his body rocked into her own, in desperate need.

As she reached for his jeans, a groan of relief came out, but with the loss of her touch, he gained back some will but some part of his brain fought back. Just one touch, he thought, grimacing hard with a loud groan as the zipper was released against him and his jeans dropped to the floor.

And I'll be fine for the rest of my life… he silently affirmed, hoping to hell he was right. He had to be. She was messing with his head … always … even when she didn't want him.

"Ah!" he cried out when she took him into her hand and brushed him against her warm wetness, almost coming there and then. His eyes opened. They were blurred by what he could only think was tears of pain, or sweat that now coated his body. His white shirt was glued to his richly coloured skin.

He wiped his eyes quick, to watch her slowly guide herself over him. Her hands were on his, stopping their use as she brushed and coated his length.

Jacob was shaking, his stomach tightening more and more, as he throbbed harder against her, more than he had ever remembered doing so. He was too used to her rules to not cum without a command. He had too much control over himself—the rules were too automatically set in his brain—he knew how to hold himself off, to the point he no longer remembered how to just let go.

"Please," he finally begged out loud.

Miranda's eyes met his, hearing his voice break for the first time. She had never been this hard on him, just like she hadn't ever seen such determination in his eyes to leave. Her beautiful blue liquid eyes shone brightly in the light of the moon. Jacob's face was almost hidden in shadow. If it wasn't for the sweat that gleamed off his skin, he would have been almost hidden.

"Will you leave?" she murmured through her perfect plump lips, waiting for an instant answer.

Jake grimaced hard, though did not answer. A part of his brain came awake after hearing the question, the very part that he had been overrun.

Breathing deep, his eyes shut tight as he forced himself to push her onto her petit arse on the bed, where he threw her clothes over her. The sight of her naked, suddenly gave him the feeling of disgust. She had thought it was a game he was playing until she heard his words.

"Yes," he finally whispered, regretting the words as he spoke them—but there was no going back now. "Yeah, I will leave," he defined. Grabbing his jeans while still aching, somehow he pulled them on and grabbed his duffle bag from the floor and threw it over his shoulder. He kicked her clothes lying all over the floor, out of his way.

"Where are you going?" she shouted.

"Anywhere, away from you!" he replied, yelling up the stairs, as he got to the front door. The whole downstairs was painted a modern white.

This was it. He was finally doing it. He bit down on his lower lip, reaching for the golden nob.

"You'll regret this Jacob!" she growled, her voice abruptly turning muffled. He heard her fall over upstairs, probably from tripping over all her show girl clothes.

"No I won't!" he shouted. "You can go back to your pimps, 'cause ain't one of them!" he confirmed, yanking open the door and jamming it shut behind him as he headed outside in the clear, starry night and over to the little red rabbit he called his own, where he opened the door and threw in his bag. He groaned as he sat in the driver's seat and whimpered.

Trying his best not to focus on the pain, he spun the car around the passive driveway and took off before Miranda could get a chance to come out and see him off. It may have been just enough to make him stop. Getting to the car had been the furthest he had ever reached, before she wound him back like a puppy on a string—that was just how he felt, too.

Driving down the road as quickly as he could, placing as much distance between he and Miranda before his brain changed his mind and forced him to turn around and head back the other way.

He took in deep breaths, calming himself, just trying to get her out of his head along with the rage he felt, not only for her but himself, too. He had been putting up with her ways for years.

Entering the lights of Seattle, he spotted a club and pulled in, parking in the shadow of the streetlight by the road, hoping they had some kind of accommodation. Jacob hadn't ever owned his own place. He had always relied on Miranda.

Sitting in the car, with his elbow resting against the window, and his hand set against his jaw, he stared up at the moon, shining down upon him, lighting his face within the darkness of the car. There wasn't a cloud in sight, but his mind was blank, his chest heavy. Whenever you feel alone, look at the moon Jacob, and then you'll know, we're not that far apart, because we're both looking at it, he recalled something that had been said, a long time ago.

"If only it were true, now," he mouthed silently, shaking his head.

He had never been out on his own before. Jake had only ever worked in another club, waiting and serving people, cooking and dancing with Miranda—as she owned it—to earn what little money he had, but he wasn't going to be going back there again. No, he wasn't going to take any steps back now, he had taken ten forward.

He felt a strange pull in his heart. He felt empty without Miranda to love, even if what she in return, called love, wasn't so. A human touch was better than nothing.

Even from the far end of the parking lot, he could hear the music blurring from inside. The car quickly began to turn stuffy in the unusually, warm summer night. Rolling down the window, he could hear someone crying.

Across the car-park, from the shade inside the car, in the light of the streetlamps on the footpath leading into the club, Jacob could see a tall guy quickly stride off with a tensed body, leaving a girl crying hysterically as she leaned against a white-painted brick wall.

She was dressed in a black and silver dress, which ended below her knees. Her eyes had been done up with black eye-shadow and mascara, but with tears now streaming, the makeup began to run valleys down her face.

She slowly slid down the wall to a sitting position, where she wrapped her arms around her knees. People walking into the club just ignored her. They didn't even take a second to ask if she was okay.

She was crying hysterically, with her head in her hands, resting her head against her knees. Jacob wondered what had happened—was she hurt? High? Drunk? All options were a possibility at a club.

Getting out of the car, Jake searched the parking lot to make sure the guy was nowhere to be seen, before he crossed the car park and went over to her with his hands in the pockets of his washing out old jeans. At least his shirt had dried some.

As he approached, he noticed she was beginning to calm down, but there was something else wrong. Her long, golden brown hair was drenched, wet.

"Hey, are you okay?" he whispered softly, not exactly used to talking to woman other than Miranda—it was just another one of her rules.

Hearing his voice, she thought she recognised it from somewhere. There was something comfortingly, familiar about him. She felt safe within his present, as stupid as it sounded. She wiped her mascara coated cheeks of the tears she had shed.

"I'm okay," she croaked, nodding.

Jake blinked, wondering if what he had just seen was a show, a cry for attention. When he seen her glassy-army-green eyes, he felt like he too, had met her before. Though, he didn't speak a word of his thoughts. He forced himself to sit beside her, spite the pain.

"What's your name?" he murmured huskily, glancing to her from starting up at the sky. A cool, refreshing breeze now blew. Jacob's cropped black hair suddenly felt wet.

"Bella," she answered through a murmur. Once again, she allowed her head rest back against the wall behind her. Strands of hair covered some of her face, plastered to her skin by the mess the makeup had caused, along with what he guessed was sweat.

"Jacob," he whispered after a moment, when she didn't ask his name, though he highly doubted she could careless who he was. In her eyes, he knew, he probably just looked like some creep trying to hook up with her.

Jake found the little he had calmed himself down, was stirring back up deep within him. He took in deep, silent breaths, trying to stop it. He thought he had groaned silently, but when he gazed to Bella again, she was closely watching him. His expression was obviously showing too much.

Maybe it was the three drinks she had had talking or maybe she was just looking for comfort, but suddenly Bella did something she normally would not and it suddenly made Jake very wary. She leaned into his side and kissed his neck, not the way Miranda would with force and roughness but sweet and softly, with a touch that felt familiar, but the familiarity of it was deep, deep down. He hadn't been touched like this before, not that he could remember.

When she pulled away, he was unsure. Was she, too, like Miranda? Was she using him, too? Or just a little drunk? Whatever it was had aroused within her too, for he saw nothing but lust, now shining through her sparkling green eye eyes. She had not helped, with what he was trying to withhold.

He groaned and stood as she stood with him. He had to get out of there, before he did do something stupid.

"I-I have to go," he stuttered, fighting the urge to cup the front of his jeans. "Sorry," he whispered, heading inside in hope of getting his room, soon as possible.

Inside the music blared through his ears and body. He could feel the beat strumming through his bones and muscles like the speakers were placed against his body. He could feel the beat under his the soles of his feet. Coloured lights of green, pink, yellow and blue flickered around the room as crowds of people danced to the wild music.

Jacob pushed through and past the grooving bodies leading up to the bar, where he hoped the bar -tender could give him a room first off. Getting up to the bar, he spotted a line of stairs heading upstairs, where one teenage girl ran up them with her hand gripping who was clearly her boyfriend's hand.

Jake shook his head in disapproval. She had to be nothing over fifteen and wore a tight pink top that showed her stomach, along with a black leather mini skirt, which left nothing to the imagination.

He handed over a hundred as the woman bar-tender was serving what looked like a cop off duty. His uniform was untucked from his trousers, showing some of his beer-belly and back. Jake was thankful the trousers were no lower than they already were.

"What can I get ya?" she asked, scooting over in front of him. Evidently, she was a smoker. He could smell the rotten scent on her breath as she spoke. Thick indented lines marked around her lips and the corners of her eyes. Her skin was an odd colour of faded grey. Her hair was to the length of her shoulders and had turned grey-silver, long ago.

"A room, thanks," Jacob urged, glancing over to the door, spying Bell in the heading in, searching for someone. He hoped not for her. She must have been to the bathroom, as now there wasn't a hint of makeup over her face.

The woman pushed the keys to him from across the bar-table and took his money. "It's a hundred a night, head upstairs" she added, cocking her head to the side as he snapped up the keys into his fingers.

"No problem."

Mounting the steps, he quickly strode up them, just as Bella spotted his white shirt standing out from the crowd of bodies. She called out his name but he ignored her, knowing that if he stopped to see her, he would do something, very stupid and it'd make him, just like her.

Once upstairs, he looked down to the key to see the number of his room. Along a line shaped hall, coated with red carpet and red brick-walls, he found his room, one-three-nine and went to unlock the door, when he heard her voice.

"Jacob?"

His body froze stiff and his breath held. Jake bit down hard on his lower lip, the force of his teeth broke into his skin, cutting into his lower lip. He tasted blood, as it trickled into his mouth. He licked his lip, but did not move nor speak.