CHAPTER81
In the car, he lays me down flat on my back and pulls off my shoes, cradling my feet in his lap with warm sensual hands, kneading them softly, avoiding conversation or eye contact. I nestle my head against the door to stop the world spinning.
His hands feel exquisite on my ankles and feet, and it feels better than good; no one’s ever taken my shoes off like this. No one has ever just run soft fingers over my feet at all, the way he’s doing now. He’s gentle and attentive, something most people would not expect of Jake Carrero. Handsy, but not in a sleazy way, not really, despite all his jokes and sexual innuendos. He just always makes me feel safe.
“Why are you stealing my shoes?” I mumble playfully, trying not to squirm in case he stops; “I like those shoes.” I’m angling for humorous Jake, flirty Jake. I like arguing with him; he’s always funny. I don’t like this silent, pondering version, even though I’m sure he drank as much as me, but he looks so serious.
“I’m taking you home, Emma. You’re going to bed and you don’t need your shoes for that. I’m satisfying my foot fetish instead,” he smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He sounds tired; maybe he really hasn’t got boundless, eternal energy after all.
“You don’t have a foot fetish, silly! And I need to walk up the stairs,” I argue, stifling the urge to giggle.
“I don’t think you could, even without your shoes, Emma. I’ll carry you. And how do you know I don’t have a serious thing for feet?”
The memory of the shoulder-lift to the car pops into my head and it’s not altogether unpleasant. In fact, I almost start looking forward to being carried up the stairs. The Neanderthal-carrying from Jake has its upside; I get to feel those abs for a start.
“Okay. And you don’t. You check out women’s boobs, occasionally an ass, not their feet.” My eyes are closed and my arm is laid across my head as I try to get comfy. The car is spinning and my hair is tickling my face; my limbs are too heavy to move it away, so instead, I try and blow it out of my face childishly, while making a lot of noise. I’m blowing but it’s still in my mouth, irritatingly so.
“You’re a hopeless drunk, you know that?” he utters warmly. I think he’s laughing at me, but I’m a little too comfy to reply. I tingle all over as his touch connects when he moves the hair off my face, lifting my arm to untangle the strand caught in my bracelet. It’s a nice relief to have the irritation removed as he pulls my arm straight toward him and lays it on the cool leather seat. As the driver negotiates the streets back to the hotel, I close my eyes and the sway of the moving car lulls me into a soothed, relaxed mode. I could fall asleep so easily.
“I’m just hopeless in general,” I chuckle again. He says nothing, and I experience a tug of outrage that he may agree, but I let it slide over me the same way these waves and warm tides are doing. My arm is still warm; I think he still has his hand on it. I open one eye and look down to check. He’s tracing my bracelet with his fingertips looking lost in thought, a hint of a frown crossing his beautiful face.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask, like a child with no filter, the alcohol taking away my normal inhibitions.
“You … me …” He seems distant. There’s something cold in his voice and I don’t like it. He’s looking away from me out the window, gazing at the passing night scenery and bright lights of Vegas, his all-too-godly profile outlined in the dark window, looking very much like a magazine cover. I’m saddened by his mood and expression, and it swells inside of me.
“Are you mad at me for being this drunk and making you bring me home?” I ask, trying to understand his somber look. My voice is almost vulnerable. Wounded.
“No, I like this side of you. I just wasn’t feeling it anymore; figured it was a good time to leave.” He throws me a small quick smile and looks away again. His eyes were so dark with emotion; I hate seeing him like this and want to know what’s wrong.
“Then why so glum, Mr. Cartier-ro?” My name-joke again from my last drunken episode.
How funny.
I giggle impulsively and he laughs softly. He remembers my joke too.
I love his laugh.
“There’s so much about you that you keep from me, your mother, your nightmares …” He releases my arm and leans away, shoving his shoulder against the door and resting his head against the frame dejectedly. I wonder why this is going through his head now, after a great night.
Why now?
“My mom’s a Pandora’s box, Jake; I wouldn’t know where to begin. And yes, I have nightmares about what Ray did to me, but I didn’t think it was something I had to share. Are you upset with me?” I sit up a little trying to read his expression. His hand comes up to the side of his face cushioning it from the door frame and he’s glaring outside. He doesn’t reply. I know he’s mulling over Vanquis, both the past in my teens and more recently in Chicago.
“Physical pain goes away, Jake. Don’t focus on injuries that healed in weeks.” I flop back down closing my eyes, the irritation rising to strangle out my mellow drunkenness, dismissing it. I don’t need this right now. My insides start to clench with anxiety.
“What do you mean?” he queries. I sense his shift in position and know he’s looking at me.
Does he really have no clue?
The physical side means nothing in the grand scheme of things; it’s the emotional mess left inside of me that I don’t want Jake to see.
“He broke my arm and ribs, he almost broke my nose, and he gave me a concussion that had me in hospital for days. But it all healed in time.” I don’t even remember how it felt.
Why am I telling him this? Alcohol is like a lubricant for my goddamn mouth.
I’m drunk, and somehow it doesn’t feel as bad saying it out loud when I am this detached from normal Emma. It’s like I’m talking about someone else, sad little Emma back home in Chicago, so far away. He needs to understand that none of it means anything anymore. I’m not her."
