Page 17 of Heartbreaker

Chapter 7

Jackson

I throw my fist in the air like I’ve just scored the winning penalty. Like a kid I want to run around with my shirt over my head. Jake came through for me and Tinkerbell has agreed to a date. I start typing into Google, about this festival on Friday, just as I hit enter my phone beeps.

Tinkerbell: Remember that guy I told you about? Well I agreed to go on a date with him on Friday, but I don’t know if it’s the right things to do while talking to you too.

God, could she be any sweeter? We’ve never met, yet she feels bad for cheating on me with me. It makes me feel even more of a douchebag. I need to stop lying to her and just tell her. I just need this date first, for her to get to know me, Jackson, better. Then I can murder my alter ego.

It’s funny because I kind of feel a little jealous of myself and want to punch my other self for charming Tinkerbell. God, what a fucking mess. This woman is tying me up in knots and I don’t even care. She is like a drug in my blood after just one kiss.

I need to answer the text, but what to say? I think and my fingers hover over the buttons on my phone.

Jackson: Tinkerbell, if he can make your toes curl with a kiss like I know he can then you should go. May the best man win.

I’m not sure if that was the best thing to say but too late, it’s gone now. I spend the rest of the night googling this concert. I haven’t been to a concert since I was sixteen years old. They are loud, messy, and everyone is usually drunk or high. I’m sure I can get through it though.

For the second night in a row I fall asleep with the memory of how Tinkerbell tasted on my lips. I wonder absently just before sleep finally claims me if you can actually cause permanent damage from blue balls?

By six in the evening on Friday, I’m ready to climb the walls. Work has been ridiculously busy with three new clients this week. I’ve started to put some feelers out for an apprentice. A little Padawan I can train in my image. Not some cocky little prick who wants a power kick. A nice guy who wants it for the right reasons.

I’m nervous, feeling a little off my game and I realise that it’s because for some weird reason this matters more than usual. I normally just date, screw, and bail. I’m not a dick as they always know the score first. I’m just not interested in relationships or I wasn’t until the rainbow pixie stepped on my foot.

Just thinking of her brings a smile to my face and a surge of blood to my body. I've dressed in dark jeans and a navy polo shirt. It feels safe and honestly, I have no hippy concert clothes anyway. Leaving the house, I drive to Sweet Heaven and park outside. I go to get out of the car and there she is. My mouth goes dry at the sight before me, she has short denim cut-off shorts, a red off-the-shoulder peasant top with some strange tassel things on it and a bag as big as her. She is bloody stunning. I would love to say that it is the outfit that is doing it for me, but I’d be lying.

The thing that is making me almost drool is the mandala lace tattoo garter around her thigh. It’s pretty and naughty with the top covered by her shorts, all I can think about is how I want to strip them off slowly so that I can see it and taste it.

I’m momentarily speechless and when I do open my mouth I wish I had stayed that way.

“I want to lick your flower!” The very second it’s out of my mouth I want to stab myself in the eye with a blunt spoon. ‘I want to lick your flower!’ Why the actual fuck did I say that for? I scramble as I watch her mouth drop open in shock at my crass words.

“Excuse me?” she says. I see a frown pop up on her perfect brow.

I point and try to get the words out without making an even bigger dick of myself. “I mean on your leg. Shit, I mean your tattoo.” She still looks a little weirded out. Why can’t I seem to get through a conversation with this woman without it all going tits up?

I take a breath and calm my rampaging hormones. “Your tattoo is very pretty,” I say, finally saying something that doesn’t make me seem like the biggest creep in the world. I feel my muscles relax as she smiles at me. God, that smile. It gives me a funny feeling in my chest that I can’t identify. I rub my chest to ease whatever this is.

“So,” she says and swings her massive bag over her shoulder, “I thought maybe we could walk as it’s a nice evening?”

“That sounds good to me,” I say, and we walk side by side towards the Indie Dance Festival at the Court Gardens. As we move she takes my arm and a comfortable silence falls between us.

“So, come on, Jackson, tell me about yourself,” Ashley says, as I look at her and grin.

“Not much to tell. I live alone, and I’m single,” I say and catch her eye and grin again. “I work twelve-hour days, go to the gym every night. I’m an adoring slave to my niece Maisy. I hate liquorice and swede. I love Popcorn Bark and Wham Bars and I have never kissed a boy and definitely wouldn’t like it,” I say and watch her reaction.

She laughs like I hoped she would and lightly taps my arm. “So, tell me about Ashley the Chocolate Shop Owner?” I ask. We continue walking as she tells me about her shop and her best friend Taylor who sounds slightly terrifying. The more she talks the more enraptured I become.

She gives off a slightly hippie vibe with her rainbow blonde hair and plethora of tattoos, but she has a very sharp business mind and has a better five-year plan than I do.

We reach the entrance to the festival and show the attendant our tickets. It’s open air and has three stages in all. Lots of indie businesses with food and drink are set up, along with other stalls, like one that will turn your hair into dreadlocks.

We grab a drink from a nearby stall. It sells local beer and it’s good, better than good, it could become my new favourite drink. We walk until we find a spot near the second stage. The band is good and are playing some Foo Fighters covers. Ashley gestures to the grass and for a second, I blanch.

These are two-hundred-pound jeans and she wants me to sit on grass! She sees my face and falls flat on her back with her hands on her tummy in a fit of giggles. I crouch and lean into her.

“What’s so funny?” I ask with mock outrage.

“You should see your face, you look like someone just shoved a plumb up your ass.”