CHAPTER110
Oh my god.
He can be so infuriating. I think he’s still exhausted for sure, and he’s being crabby as hell. I don’t want to fight; I want to go back to playful, fun Jake. This is not the little outing I was expecting.
“Jake, it shouldn’t have happened; we crossed a line,” I plead, trying to make him see sense, trying to stop this fiery conversation and get back to something lighter.
“And there she is! Right back to square one.” The sarcasm is thick in his tone, his body stiffening in his seat.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I turn to him angrily.
“Anytime you get close, Emma, even a hint of letting go, you snap right back in and shut the door. No conversation, no acknowledgment of it; just wham. Over!” he barks at me, all hope of not fighting out the window, and my emotions tank.
“What?” I hiss with a sardonic laugh. “Because I won’t sleep with my boss, I’m not letting myself go? That’s being closed off?” I turn away, anger flaming my face, completely furious now.
Fuck you, Carrero. Why is it always about sex with him?
“I don’t think there was any doubt about it, last night. That’s not the issue; it’s the afterwards, Emma.” His voice is laced with venom, anger seething from every pore, his body tense. I stay silent, anger prickling my scalp. I’m as wound up as him now.
“I was drunk, being stupid; anyone can make a mistake,” I huff.
Stop being an asshole and ruining this.
I shift in my seat to turn away from him, trying to fully face the side window. I’m suddenly thrust forward as he slams on the brakes, and we screech to a halt, kicking up dust and stone around the car, throwing everything loose toward the front with a violent clatter.
What the hell?
I snap my head at him shocked. He’s gripping the wheel aggressively and staring straight ahead, taking a calming breath. I notice he’s swerved us into the side of the road, out of the non-existent traffic. He unbuckles, gets out of the car, and stalks off toward the other side of the road overlooking the vast drop-off over the cliff edge. Every muscle in his body is tight and flinching with rage.
What the actual hell? Where did this even come from? What should I do?
I’ve never actually been the focus of this version of angry Jake, not like this, not with this kind of rage. I feel sick, unbearably emotional, and I reel it back in taking deep, heavy breaths, trying to still my hands, trying to not let him get to me while my stomach ties itself in knots.
He comes back to the car and slides in stiffly; he’s making me jumpy and nervy. He’s not looking at me, and he doesn’t put his belt back on. I really don’t know what to say. Angry, aggressive men as big as Jake are my worst nightmare.
Why is he reacting this way?
I’ve no clue what goes on in his head sometimes, and I watch him warily, every nerve ending in my body on high alert.
“It’s not about sex, Emma.” He’s quiet and pensive, and his hands move back to the wheel, but he doesn’t start the car. “It’s about this eternal need in you to stay in full control, never letting anyone in, never letting yourself enjoy anything, and never letting your guard down. Always keeping me at arm’s length.” His voice is gruff and edgy with an undertone of aggression.
“That’s not true.” I do enjoy things in my life; he has no idea. And he’s the closest person to me in the world.
“Really? Emma, I’ve been with you for months now; I’ve seen just about every version of you there is, tired, grumpy, bossy, happy, PMS-ing like fuck.” He’s calmer, but his voice is still strained with that edge to his tone. I sit stiffly, focusing on his hands gripping and un-gripping the steering wheel as he talks. His body language speaks volumes about his inner hostility. “I’ve seen you vulnerable only briefly.” He flicks his eyes at me, and I spin away, hating that he’s even seen it at all. “I get it, Emma; you’re strong. You want everyone to see that. You don’t need anyone. But it’s not who you are. And it’s not true.” It’s almost an accusation.
“Yes, it is! Do you ever think that maybe you overthink it and try to see stuff that isn’t there?” I spit angrily. I hate him analyzing me, trying to make out that I don’t know myself inside and out. He has no clue what goes on inside of my head.
“I think I know you better than most people.”
I think of my mom and Sarah, and push both images away. I don’t think I’ve cried in front of either of them since I went through puberty. He’s right; he does know me better, but it doesn’t mean he knows all of me.
“What if I don’t know how else to be, Jake?” I turn to him in frustration at his know-it-all ideas. “You keep pushing, keep telling me to let go, and what if I can’t? What if this is me? This is all I know. I’m not capable of doing it any other way, or needing other people, because I don’t know how.” I’m yelling at him."
