CHAPTER50
I’m falling apart; I don’t shout at Jake. I don’t shout at anyone like this. I’ve more control than this now. I’m no longer that hostile teen Emma.
“It affects you.” He’s equally riled, but I don’t care.
Be angry. You started this, Jake. Leave me alone.
“This doesn’t affect my ability to work for you, therefore it’s none of your business,” I snarl through gritted teeth.
“You are my business; we work together almost every second of almost every day. Our relationship goes a little deeper than boss and assistant. It depends on trust and honesty to be able to work this way.” His voice is heated. He reaches for me again and I move out of the way, tense and prickling. If he touches me, I may lash out; I need to go to my room. “I trust you with every detail of my life; would be nice if you did the same,” he says, his voice matching mine, tense and tempered, rage bubbling between us. It feels like intense static is in the air.
“You don’t pay me to burden you with my past,” I snap at him, evading him still.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll find out for myself,” he threatens, and I catch the glimpse of darkness moving into his eyes.
“What do you mean?” I falter at his threat, losing my fire for a second. There’s an edgy tone I don’t relish, and it stops me in my tracks, causing me to glare at him with uncertainty.
“I’ll have security do a deep background check on you and pull up old dirt,” he snarls, caught in his own anger.
“You wouldn’t?” I scream at him, panic flaring at what he might find out, and my heart almost implodes inside my chest.
How dare he! That crosses the line in so many goddamn ways, and I’m not even sure it’s legal. What the hell is he doing? What’s he even thinking about? I’m supposed to trust him after he’s just said that to me?
Rage and hatred shoot through me at a hundred miles an hour, and I can’t contain them. I clench my fists and march away from him, stamping. I need space before I break something over his head, before teen Emma and her erratic emotions burst forth and ruin my life. I’m reeling, but I’m terrified that he may do as he says.
What if he does? What will he find out?
I pale and fall instantly weak at the thought. I don’t want Jake finding out about my past. About how damaged I am. About my time in a children’s home. And why. He would never look at me the same again.
“No, I wouldn’t. I would rather you wanted to tell me,” he shouts. I can’t even begin to start to calm down, despite his admission, but it makes me feel slightly reassured, hysteria holding its breath despite my seething anger in full roar. A warm tear rolls down my cheek, and I wipe it away furiously. I don’t cry. I never cry. I hate crying. It’s so weak and vulnerable and makes me feel inadequate and worthless; I bristle inside and turn on him once again.
“This conversation is fucking over!” The rage in my voice seems to startle him, and instead of yelling more, he looks taken aback, remorseful. Silenced by my hint of psycho.
Too little, too late, Jake. Go away and leave me alone.
I turn and stalk away, stomping hard and pushing things out of my way. Felicity appears from the bedroom, and I cast a haughty glare back at him with intent. I think he gets the message. The ‘go fuck off and play with your fuck buddy’ message, and I slam my bedroom door, closing out his view of me.
ASSHOLE!!!!
I want to scream it at him through the closed door; I’ve never had this wave of reaction toward Jake before, and I can’t control it. I’m beyond livid. I’m reeling, angry, and hysteria isn’t far away. I hate losing control this way, every emotion bubbling to the surface like an angry volcano threatening to explode. I know I need to bring myself down or else my life is over. He’s my BOSS!
I mastered this once; I can do it again. I can push it all down and force it back into its black box, put it all back neatly and close the lid. Bring calm back to the surface and put the mask back on. Salvage something before it’s too late.
But I can’t!
Because he knows!
Because he saw a sliver of my shameful wretched past, and I’m devastated. He will see I’m a fraud, that PA Emma, his number two, is nothing more than a facade for a broken piece of worthlessness that men liked to knock around and touch.
It makes me feel sick inside, and I hurtle myself onto the bed amid a flurry of tears.
I hate crying. I don’t cry! I won’t give them my tears; I won’t let them have that from me. They took everything else.
I roll on my back and take gasping gulps of air, swallowing them down painfully, knowing I need to control myself.
That’s right, Emma, breathe.
I hear myself telling teen Emma as she lays on the floor of her Chicago room, that little voice talking her through."
