Trading Heartbeats

Sunday I did not see Niall around, as he'd suggested I might. Monday I was off. Afton was finished with her appointments by ten thirty and was home shortly after that. We were loading up my truck with our gear, with Dad's gear, with extra gear for Nash, who was inside talking to my parents.

I was a little bummed that we couldn't convince Mama to come along. Archery wasn't really her thing, even though she was probably the best of all of us. She preferred the gun range, which I also enjoyed and would hopefully be able to get out there with her soon.

My parents started me in lessons of self defense at a young age, which is were this all comes into play. In addition to being able to accurately shoot an arrow and various types of firearms, I have a black belt in Karate and have trained in both wrestling and boxing.

Childhood wasn't all business. I also tried several different types of dance as a child, some I liked and some I didn't, but never really caught on to any of them that well. Except line dancing. I played hockey as a child and did gymnastics in middle school as well. Up until the archery incident last semester I could still stick the landing of a back flip. I haven't tried since recovering. In high school I played softball all except my senior year when I ran Cross Country instead. I guess I've just always liked to be active.

"You girls almost done loading? You only started about ten years ago," my dad called from the porch.

I heaved a bag onto the bed of my truck. "Maybe if you wanted it done in a timely manner, you shouldn't have left the job to the gimp," I called back.

Dad walked down from the porch, followed by Nash, and glanced into the bed of my truck. "You get shot in the leg with one little arrow and you think that qualifies you as a gimp?" he asked. A huge smile was stretched across his face. "Look at you; you're standing just fine! And you were walking on your own earlier, too!"

I rolled my eyes, but let the smile inch across my face. "I can probably kick your ass with no problem, too," I told him.

"That's the girl your mother raised," he said with a chuckle, moving to sling an arm around my shoulder. I immediately stopped what I was doing and wrapped both my arms around my father's middle. I never, ever pass up the opportunity to hug him. Never.

When I let go, my dad picked up the last bag and tossed it into the bed of the truck. I handed my keys over to him and he pulled open the back door on the driver's side for me to get in. Nash did the same on the passenger side for Afton, and then they climbed into the front seat.

The hour it takes to get to the range passed quickly with conversation and storytelling. The one where I told Nash exactly what happened with my leg had everyone laughing. It was a serious injury and it sucked but I have a good sense of humor about it now. I had to learn to laugh about it early on otherwise I never would have recovered from it as quickly as I did.

I gathered everyone for a picture once we got to the park that houses the range. We tried getting the four of us in a selfie but between my dad and Nash, the two with the longest arms, neither could get it right. Luckily, another group came up and one of them was kind enough to take the picture for us.

We had decided in the car to only do the first fourteen targets. I took it upon myself to explain to Nash how shooting at the range works as we walked through the park. I stood to the left of the shooting stake when we reached the first and dropped my bow from shoulder, catching it in my hand and lifted it, demonstrating proper stance as I drew an arrow back.

"So, how are we doing this, girls against boys?" I suggested once I'd finished explaining and lowered my bow.

"Don't stick me with the novice," my dad argued immediately.

Nash feigned offense. "I thought we were friends, Ray," he said.

"Son," my dad said, setting his hand on Nash's shoulder. "Friendship's got nothing to do with it. There's no friends out here, no family," he explained exaggeratedly. "And I'm shooting with Afton," he finished.

My fingers that were still grasping the arrow loaded in my lowered bow twitched. "Adorable, really," I said as I turned back toward Nash. "Ignore him. I'll shoot first. And anyway, it's not like you've never done this before." I raised my bow again and pulled the arrow back again, narrowing my focus on the target in front of me and released my shot.

I moved aside and Nash stepped into the spot I had previously been. I moved behind him to give him space as he loaded an arrow and lifted his arms.

"Careful with that," my dad said. "Jess doesn't need another arrow in her leg."

If looks could kill, the one I threw in his direction would have dropped him in less than half a second. He and Afton weren't paying attention, but instead were high-fiving and laughing. "Ignore him," I repeated, taking a step toward Nash to help square his shoulders. "Perfect." I took a step back, maybe enjoying the view. Maybe. Probably. Definitely.

As we moved through the range I could tell Nash's arms, strong as they were from the years of shot put and discus, along with whatever he's been doing in the Games in more recent years, were not accustomed to this kind of use. It was obvious, but he kept up alright. And at the end of it my dad and I had the same score, while Nash's and my scores combined were just under Afton and my dad's combined scores. Most importantly, even given the competitive nature of each of the four of us, it was a fun time for all.

We walked back to my truck for the cooler in the back seat and then headed back into the park to find a place to eat. We settled at a picnic table. It seemed to me that more people should be out considering it was the beginning of summer, but only two other tables in the vicinity were occupied. Perhaps in leaving the coast and heading inland we'd done the opposite of most everyone else.

My dad told stories while we ate. He has so many, but the thing about him is that he's so good at telling that I could listen to the same one a hundred times and not get sick of it. That's where I gained my own story telling abilities, but I'm still not on his level and I don't know if I ever will be. I like having something to work toward, though.

That's why it's weird that I checked out almost completely. I can see his mouth moving but my ears don't hear what he says and my mind has wandered back to that hotel room. With Niall. How we didn't even know each other but were somehow so in sync. In my experience, usually the first time with someone, anyone, is a little awkward because you have to learn each other. But other than when he tried to talk, I didn't feel that with Niall. It just worked. And it was good.

Hell, it was great.

Great, but a one time thing. There was no way it could happen again. Besides being highly unlikely that I would actually ever see Niall Horan again, I wouldn't let it. I don't even like him.

Right?

Well, if that's the case, why is he where my mind is instead of absorbing my dad's story, or making dumb faces at Afton, or silently admiring Nash's gorgeous face?

I had to physically shake my head to bring myself back to where I could focus on the story my dad was telling, but by that time he was so far into it that I couldn't catch up. It seemed like one I'd heard before, about a prank he'd pulled back when he played hockey. I loved these stories and sometimes I wasn't sure they were all completely true, but maybe that goes for anything that gets recounted.

My dad noticed because once we were home and Nash had left and Afton finally went home and I was sitting on the couch curled up with my nose in a book, he sat next to me, reading over my shoulder for a little while. Then, he nudged me gently in the ribs and waited until I finished the page I was reading.

"You alright?" he asked. I nodded and he gave me a look. One that said he wasn't buying what I was selling. "You checked out back there," he said. "While we were out on the range you were sharp as always even though you were shamelessly admiring Nash's ass." I rolled my eyes. Of course he noticed that too. And commented on it. But whatever. I was so far past being embarrassed by getting called out on the things I do. He went on when he got no reaction. "But then at lunch," he let his thought trail off.

I didn't know what to say because he wasn't wrong, but I didn't really feel the need to tell him exactly why, so I just shrugged. He didn't really accept that, but he also chose not to press the matter. "Going out tonight?" he inquired.

I closed my book. "Nah, I'm staying in tonight," I said, shaking my head slowly. He knows that I have a active sex life. Mama does too. Not because I share details with them, but because they gave me "the talk" together when I was thirteen and didn't close the lines of communications afterward. They encouraged questions and conversation instead of secrecy. They stressed the importance of safety and consent. They made sure I knew that it was always a choice, that just because I did it once or twice or a hundred times didn't meant I had to do it again.

"You're sure you're okay?" he asked. I nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. "Alright," he said, pressing a kiss to the side of my head. "I'm going to see if Jae wants to work on her car. Maybe you can spend some time with your mother. She's barely seen you lately," he commented as he rose from the couch.

He was right. I hadn't seen much of Mama between her work schedule and mine, so I dropped the book on the table next to the sofa and went to find her. She was in the kitchen washing dishes. I grabbed a towel and started drying the dishes in the rack, putting them away as I went. Neither of us said anything, but she smiled at me several times.

When we were finished, she poured both of us a glass of sweet tea and we went to sit in the back yard. It was another beautiful night with just a hint of chill in the air. I love this weather. So does Mama. She sipped her tea and then looked at me for a long time.

"Like looking in a mirror, isn't it?" I asked her after a few minutes. Mama's name is Jessica Lynn, and I was named for her (and my middle name for my dad). But I sometimes wonder if they'd known I would resemble her so closely, would they have named me differently?

She breathed out a laugh, nearly choking on her tea. "Something like that, Hon," she drawled once she'd caught her breath. Mama grew up in Savannah, Georgia. I love listening to her talk because even though she moved to California when she was fifteen she never lost her accent. I have a hint of it occasionally. Usually when I get tired, or if I drink excessively. But mostly I sound like every other Californian.

"I miss you, Mama," I said, leaning my head on her shoulder.

Her arm snaked around me. "Aww, Honey," she cooed. "Your daddy's been hogging you. He should know a girl needs to spend time with her mama." I nodded. "And he's got Jaelynn out there working on that car," she went on.

When I turned sixteen, my dad took me to buy a car. Not a functional one, though. No, I got a 1968 Chevrolet Chevelle SS, and we completely restored it. He had multiple reasons for this. One, it was lesson about working for things you want. Two, it was father-daughter bonding. And three, it taught me about cars, and in turn meant I wouldn't need to depend on others for help if something went wrong with any car I owned in the future. Of course, technology is ever-changing, but it gave me a good starting point.

And of course, he did the same with Jaelynn and Jameson. Jae got a 1968 Chevrolet Camaro SS, and James went with a 1954 Chevrolet 3100 truck. As much as I love my Chevelle, I have to admit I was jealous when when I saw the truck.

The thing about those cars, though, is that they're years-long projects, and they're not everyday cars. I only just got to start driving mine last year, and most of the time she's kept on lock down. I imagine, since there's two of them and only one of my dad, Jae's and James' might take a little bit longer.

"She sometimes pretends like she'd rather be doing something else, but she loves it," I said. Mama nodded. "It's hard not to," I said, sitting up to look at her.

She nodded again. "Your daddy's got that way about him. I got lucky with him, you know." she said.

We all did, really. The thing about my parents--my police officer mother and my business savvy, car building, former hockey player father--is that they weren't always so respectable. Well, maybe that's not quite fair. They met as teenagers in high school. The both earned high grades, both incredibly smart. They both went to college. Mama has a Bachelor's in Political Science, and Dad has a Bachelor's in Communications and, more recently, a Master's in Business Administration. But they were also street racers.

So, it may have been stupid and dangerous (and honestly kind of really cool), but guess who taught me and Jae and James how to drive? Yeah, exactly. I like to think of them as well-layered.

I stayed outside with Mama until we heard Dad and Jae finish with the car for the night. Then she went inside and I went into my room from the yard. I wanted my book, but I didn't want to go across the house to living room to get it, so I turned on the TV instead and changed into pajamas. I flopped into the oversized chair in the corner of my room, flipping channels before settling on the History channel.

My phone was blinking when I pulled it from my pocket, indicating I had a notification. I pressed the home button the screen lit up, showing the Twitter icon up in the corner.

@NiallOfficial followed you.

My heart jumped. How had he found me based on what little he knew about me? I guess it wouldn't have been that difficult to find out my last name. He could just ask anyone who works at the club.

Shit.

Niall Horan @NiallOfficial
@neatojessi ten pounds of sugar in a five pound sack ? In what world ?

He was referring to my bio on Twitter. A line from a Dustin Lynch song and probably about a thousand other things. I rolled my eyes, but to be fair, I had not been even a little bit nice to him. Except maybe the part where I sucked his dick. And had sex with him. But, you know, besides that.

Jessilynn Rae @neatojessi
@NiallOfficial go fuck yourself

I dropped my phone onto the seat next to me and dangled legs over the arm, pulling the throw blanket down off the back of the chair. I'd fallen asleep here, just like this, more than once. Being compact has it's perks, like being able to comfortably sleep in chair while watching History channel. My phone dinged.

@NiallOfficial sent you a message.

I almost ignored it. I was momentarily distracted by my bedroom door. Watson, my pudgy little French Bulldog, white with brown spots, was pushing it open with his little black nose. He trudged across the room and put his paws up on the chair, waiting for me to pick him up. I obliged and he settled onto the seat, stretching out along my side. The blinking light on my phone caught my eye and my curiosity got the best of me.

I opened the message.

DM with @NiallOfficial
Rather fuck you instead

I stared at the message. He said he'd see me around, but if I'm honest, I didn't expect this. It was meant to be a one time thing. A hate-fuck. Because I hate him and I don't even know why exactly but I do. I do. I hate him. And I want to fuck him again.

Because that sex was better than great. It was mind blowing.

I went to his profile and gave it a quick look. His bio said something about Mullingar and One Direction. His picture was him on stage with a guitar. Him and his stupid face. His stupid face and his practically nonexistent top lip. His practically nonexistent top lip that lined his mouth. His mouth that did things I couldn't stop thinking about. I hated him.

My thumb hovered over the screen and I thought about it for a good minute. Probably not long enough to make a good, informed decision. The screen went black. I turned it back on and pressed Follow.

God help me.