“Yes?”
“I like this.” His fingertips skirt down the side of my stomach gently, causing me to inhale sharply in
response. I flinch and move back, reeling, unsure. His touch feels so different … So not Jake! It makes
my skin tingle and erupt, then crawl back in revulsion and fear. I don’t even want to evaluate whether it
is good or bad. It’s wrong. It’s too intimate. He lifts his hands defensively because he knows he’s
overstepped the mark.
“I’m sorry … Emma. I’m going to bed … I’m drunk as fuck.” He looks pained and uneasy.
“It’s okay. It’s fine. Go to bed.” I know I’m stiff and tense, I can hear the coldness in my own voice, my
heart pounding erratically like a scared deer caught in headlights.
“Don’t say it like that.” He moves forward gently, lifting his fingers to trace my jaw, his eyes locking with
mine.
“I would never do anything to you, Emma.” He sways forward again, bumping noses with me because
he’s too close and incapable of steadiness. His hand comes to my shoulder to steady himself and
moves back slightly.
I can’t relax, this is not my Jake. This is a glimpse of Casanova Carrero; someone I’ve only seen at a
distance, someone who has never turned his attention on me. I’m motionless, focused on every touch
and movement, pinned by fear. Memories of a million dark nights and hot breaths near my face,
flashing through my head at a million frames a second. I feel as though I’m suffocating.
He leans in quickly, so quickly that I can’t counteract, and his lips meet mine both soft and warm yet
surrounded by the smell of alcohol. His hand comes to cup my face gently and pulls me in against his. I
freeze, every piece of my body caught in time and I’m suddenly detached, like it’s happening to
someone else and I’ve lost the ability to do anything. To stop it.
His fingers tug my chin down, opening my mouth slightly as he fully connects, his tongue sliding lightly
over my bottom lip … gently … slowly … And I recoil. Sense finally hitting me.
The panic searing through me is like an electric shock and I shove him away, hard. I’m breathless and
panicking. Teen Emma is making herself known and I feel like the room is spinning around me while
the blood rushing through my ears is louder than I can bear. My head just might explode.
“Shit. Emma … Shit.” He seems flustered as he tries to grab for my arms and I start struggling away
from him, to avoid the contact. Caught in my own terror.
“I’m sorry … Emma. I’m sorry …” he tries to grab me to make it right, but I can’t. I can’t let him touch
me. My skin is on fire and everything is spinning out of control. I need air, I need space, I need solitude.
I need away from him. I’m so confused that I don’t even know how I feel right now and he’s stifling me
with his sheer closeness.
“I … Need … To … Go.” I finally manage a few struggled words, my legs aching to run far, far away
from him, the instilled fight or flight instinct kicking into action. He releases my wrist, having finally
caught it and quickly moves out of my way. I can’t look at him, I can’t trust myself to slide past him, so I
take a huge arc, keeping him at arm’s length.
I move fast and run to my room, slamming the door behind me, latching it, and sliding to the floor in a
crumpled, un-composed heap. Everything reeling and dipping around me and I know I’m either going to
pass out or throw up.
I lean forward, putting my face on the floor, trying to calm the chaos of my mind in the darkness of my
room. I’m panting. I need to pull in these spiraling thoughts, rationalize what just happened.
Jake was drunk, really drunk. I’ve never seen him that bad. I’m amazed he’s still upright. I must have
given him signals, encouraged it? I must have looked wanton dressed this way … I asked for this! Isn’t
that what I do? I give off signals that make men want to do things to me?
But Jake’s not like that. Jake doesn’t need to do that; he’s never given me any inclination that he ever
would. Isn’t that why I relax around him? He has every woman he could ever want, falling at his feet;
this must be me. I had to have looked at him in some way or sent some unintentional signal to him to
make him kiss me.
I’m racked with guilt and shame, just like so many times before when my mother’s boyfriends tried to
touch me, tried to kiss me, tried to take my night clothes off. I can’t even think about his mouth on mine.
I don’t want to. I can’t even begin to process it; it didn’t feel like anything I could compare it to. I had no
point of reference to what I was feeling at that moment.
I have been kissed before; it’s why I don’t like it. Forced harsh mouths against mine, trying to pry my
mouth open cruelly. I resisted them all; bit, squirmed, and clawed. But Jake’s kiss hadn’t been forced, it
was soft, and for a fleeting moment my mouth responded, opened and stilled as his tongue slid over
my lip.
I push the memory away harshly.
Stop it! This is fucked-up … This is wrong; he’s my friend. He’s my boss!
I hadn’t let my two boyfriends kiss me at all, I turned my head, even when I finally felt pushed to have
sex with them. And hadn’t I only even done that because I felt I was supposed to? I hadn’t wanted them
to kiss me. It reminded me too much of things I didn’t need to remember anymore.
So why the hell did I let Jake kiss me just then?
***
I don’t get much sleep. I stare at the ceiling listening to the silence in the dark before dawn finally tugs
me out of bed. I jog alone at 6.00 a.m. the familiar route I normally take with Jake, but he’s still in bed
and avoiding him is my only plan of action this morning.
I pound the picturesque streets of Seattle with my soft-soled running shoes and try to bring back all the
calm and control that rules my life. We need to forget last night ever happened if we’re to move on. I
need to stop over analyzing and obsessing over it and forget it ever happened.
He was drunk! Jake’s impulsive and sometimes irrational when he’s drunk; he can be unpredictable
and foolish, and I shouldn’t put any weight on last night at all. He’s a born womanizer and last night
with beer goggles on I was just another possible conquest who was obviously giving him some sort of
come-on signs.
I shower and eat in my room and pack my suitcase. We’re heading home today, the flights set for noon,
so we have some time to kill. Jake’s private jet, so it’s not like we have a check in to deal with.
The sitting room looks normal and serene, but it just feels claustrophobic to me. I try and settle with my
laptop on the couch; it’s still early so I sit with my bottle of water between my feet perched on the low
coffee table.
“Emma … I’m sorry about last night.” His voice startles me from behind and I jump. I’ve been so
immersed in thought; unaware he had even appeared.
“It’s forgotten,” I respond a tad fast, and inwardly tell myself to calm down. The butterflies creeping up
inside at his arrival and my heart pounds harshly. There’s a rise of the heat on my cheeks, indicating a
blush.
Dammit!
“I had a lot to drink.” He sits down beside me on the couch resting his arms on his knees and leans
toward me, so his eyes can fully lock onto mine. I know he’s being the gentleman; I know it’s my fault. I
thought of nothing else all night. This is why I ran from Chicago and ran from angry teen Emma … to
reinvent myself and to leave behind all the men, and my mother, who ruined my life.
He is effortlessly on point this morning, freshly showered and bright eyed despite the fact he should
have a hangover.
“I hadn’t expected you to walk in, I was just getting a drink.” I ramble, overly bright, and trying to excuse
my behavior. Trying to mask my uneasiness, trying to get back to yesterday. He watches me
thoughtfully for a moment and then changes his gaze to the floor instead.
“When did you start wearing things like that to bed?” his tone drops. His whole demeanor alters slightly,
and I realize he’s never seen me in anything like that before. I always wear my toweling robe when I
leave my room.
“Always.”
Maybe that’s the issue? I dress like someone who wants sex, even though I don’t; maybe that’s
something I should consider changing.
No.
Stop thinking like that!
“I see.” His voice is low and brooding and he’s watching me again, only this time oddly. I want to know
what he’s thinking. I want this to be over and the tension gone.
I’m trying to sit perfectly still and calm, but I’m squirming inside. The way he’s sitting has his T-shirt
straining with tautness over his biceps and pecs in the best way and I try to focus on typing. I don’t
know who I’m even typing to anymore.
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