Chapter 18

The Knight of Wands- Energy, passion, inspired action, impulsiveness.

In the morning, the unspoken agreement that we stay away from bars for the remainder of this trip hangs uncomfortably between us. I push my sunglasses further up the bridge of my nose and try to let it go, try to think of something, anything really aside from...

"Aren't you?"

Because honestly, I think that maybe I am. Angry, that is. I'm not sure; can't be certain that the way my heart hangs heavy and low in my chest- held together by thread as thin and cheap as dental floss- is a sign of anger or not...

I just know that it is uncomfortable, always, lately.

My stomach is twisted and churning and full of an acidic something that makes it hard to eat; hard to breathe.

My hands shake. It feels, all at once, as though I am building towards something, some sort of cataclysmic fever-pitch; a volcanic sort of climax that I am not wholly prepared for. And so I don my sunglasses and my sundresses and press my knees together in the front seat of the mustang; ignore the stinging kiss of leather against the backs of my thighs and I pretend.

Is that anger, I wonder?

It's certainly not any kind that I'm used to, but then I am navigating uncharted territory here.

All I know is that it grates and festers and oozes like an open, infected wound as Jasper and I breeze down the highway.

This feeling that I don't have a name for bubbles through my blood and breathes out of my pores in the form of biting words and stinging barbs; a could shoulder, closed lids pretending to sleep.

Jasper, however, openly seethes. I see it in his grit teeth, in his white knuckled grip on the steering wheel as we press on, further south.

We make it across exactly two state borders before he's had enough. Night is falling, we've driven for hours only to end up in northern Colorado. I feel we're moving backwards. My mind has already carefully, artfully painted over the image of that stupid fucking frying pan as though my brain doesn't have control over which important memories it keeps and which ones are destined to be forgotten forever. I try to keep it with me, really, I do, but small details I was desperately holding on to feel as though they're quickly blowing away with the wind that slips in through the open car windows.

"What store was behind that pan?" I wonder aloud. Jasper clucks his tongue, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and clenching one between his teeth. I hear the unmistakable click of a lighter before he answers.

"What does it matter?"

And suddenly I am vibrating with unrestrained energy, glorious and cosmic and terrifying.

"It just does," I implore "how can you not remember?" I wave my hand in front of my face, expression screwed up in disgust.

Or is it mocking contempt? I can't be sure.

"Because it didn't matter," he states again, simply.

And I don't reply because technically he is right but that doesn't mean that I don't still feel off about forgetting that one small, insignificant detail.

It keeps with me, this cloying and oppressive feeling as Jasper inhales and exhales plume after sweet plume of noxious cigarette smoke. I watch through my window, distracted, as we pull into the parking lot of yet another dilapidated motel strip.

I follow him through the door and throw my bag on top of the bedspread . I don't even stop to take in the interior of the room. They're all the same. Heavy green velvet and gold brocade window hangings covered in a film of dust. Yellow (or was it once cream?) colored thermal blanket draped haphazardly across the spring heavy mattress. The carpet even feels the same as it pushes up and between my bare toes.

I walk, shoulders heavy, to the bathroom. Without a word, or a backwards glace at Jasper, I latch the door closed behind me and start the tap.

` The water is blistering hot, steam billowing up from the shower head as a puddle of water pools near the gummy mud colored drain. Still, the heat does nothing to help soothe the lingering, tense ache of cramped muscles or melt away any of my nerves.

I wash my hair and my body and lean heavily against the grimy brown tiled wall as the room fills up with heat and steam but all I feel is this restless and relentless energy singing through my blood.

My mind races, my thoughts blurring into one incohesive, rambling run-on sentence. I tap my fingers against my thighs, biting my lip until I can't take the stillness anymore. I step out, naked and heaving from beneath the spray. My skin hot, damp and flushed sunset pink.

There's no towels in the bathroom (I'm not surprised, since there's usually no towels in these dirty, cheap motels) so the water drips to the floor to pool beneath my feet in a glossy puddle. My fresh clothes are still in my bag and despite the possibility of embarrassment or the potential of an awkward situation, I call out for Jasper. I'm too keyed up to care about the consequences or any semblance of maintaining class or modestly- which, really, is a fucking joke- honestly.

I just want him to pass my my bag through the crack in the door, but when I call his name a second time, silence greets me.

I peek my head out from between the seam of the door, but there's no one there. Jasper must've gone out in search of food.

I step out of the warm, all-encompassing mist of the bathroom and into the cold, ugly of the motel room; feel the air kissing my overheated skin, alleviating some of the trembling in my limbs, shocking the stiffness right out of my shoulders.

I stretch my arms above my head and hear a satisfying pop as my joints snap and click in place, a contended sigh escaping my wet lips.

In the silent stillness of after, I hear it. The distinct rustle of a plastic shopping bag, the tell-tale grinding of the dead bolt as it whirls out of place

A gust of cool air breezes along my heated, over sensitized flesh and then I'm pressing my arms tight against my breasts, trying swiftly, desperately to cover anything and everything at once. I could run back into the bathroom, but I don't.

I'm not sure why.

Or maybe I am.

Jasper notices me as soon as the door slams shut behind him, his expression completely unchanged; his eyes give nothing away. It's as though he doesn't see me.

But I know better; know him better. I'm nervous, flighty, but not nearly as much as I should be. I don't give myself enough time to wonder why that is, exactly. My mouth opens and closes, as though I'm going to explain, justify, apologize... something. No sound comes out.

Jasper drops the plastic bag on the nightstand slow, careful, methodical- his eyes never wavering from mine, for which I'm grateful.

Because that electric hum is coursing through my veins, steadily building and squeezing and pulsing and quaking as Jasper steps close, closer to me.

The air is scented sickly sweet and still he steps closer. My lungs breathe in hot steam and the pungent scent of cigarette smoke, almost poisonous as it suffocates; my lungs shuddering to a painful, grinding halt as he creeps even closer.

And closer. Suddenly, he is right there and my hands are still pressed tightly against my water slick body- damp, dripping and dangerously still.

Suddenly, his eyes drop low, lower and then slip-slide languid and slow back up until our gazes are locked once more.

An arrogant smirks pulls at the corner of his lips, but his eyes are deep and dark with something that causes my stomach to clench and my breath to stutter and stick in my throat.

"No towels again?" he tries at being cocky, flawlessly patronizing and smug but I see his hands fisted at his sides, the sharp line of his jaw as he clenches his teeth.

I think about answering him. Think about pushing him away and running back in to the bathroom with my damaged pride; almost swallowed whole by embarrassment. I think about dropping my arms and throwing his arrogance right back at him; feigning a confidence I know I don't posses.

Instead, I do something totally unexpected.

I kiss him.

All at once, that dense, unsophisticated force swells in my abdomen and I gasp.

Jaspers hands- which first fluttered uselessly at his sides- suddenly spring to life and he's thrusting the heel of his hand against my collarbone, fingers circling my neck; squeezing, pushing, pressing until my back is shoved almost painfully against the dull grey wallpaper.

It's as though he's afraid-no, not afraid. Almost unwilling- to touch me anywhere else.

But I want it, crave it, the force of this feeling- this insatiable need to feel his fingers on me- is building, blinding in its intensity. I feel close to being swallowed whole by it.

He pulls further away.

"What do you think you're doing?" He whispers harshly, eyes closed tight, hands clenching and then relaxing gently around the skin of my throat.

I realize that he looks as though he's in pain, and surmise that he probably is.

And then I realize how completely unfair that was to him, just now. Kissing him, knowing how he feels about me.

And then another thought flashes, unbidden, through my mind.

Alice.

And instead of feeling guilty, I feel that tragic, potent, unnamed emotion swelling in my chest and I frown. I want to kiss him again. Violently.

"I am so sorry," I whisper instead. Jasper's eyes snap open, the green so pastel bright it almost looks like a new, undiscovered color. Something fresh and prismatic and radiant.

It's silent for exactly three seconds as we stare at each other before Jasper nearly doubles over from laughter.

And the sound is... the exact opposite of how I feel. It's light and carefree; happy. I feel my brows furrow.

"Trust me," Jasper says, running his tongue along straight, shining white teeth as he coughs out another laugh. "You don't ever need to apologize for-" he looks down, down, hands coming up to grip my hips -"this."

I can't help the blush that stains my cheeks, the small smile that makes my mouth twitch and my chest warm and red because fuck, I said I wanted his hands on me, but now I'm thinking I've lost my mind somehow because I'm naked and dripping wet and Jasper is holding me between two warm and rough, calloused hands and-

Fuck.

I haven't run away yet.

Why haven't I run away yet?

Jasper seems to notice at the same time that I do because his hands tighten around my waist and any playfulness that he may have shown has leeched from his expression.

"Put some clothes on," he deadpans, eyes flashing. I swallow and nod. "And the next time you kiss me, just remember," I bite my lip, not sure I'm going to like that he has to say; afraid that I still might "I expect you to finish what you start."