25
“Right, that’s it.” He bends down and slips his hands under
me, hoisting me up effortlessly as though I weigh nothing. I’m too drunk to fight or squeal, and I’m being carried like a baby towards my room. Freaky Lisa comes to mind, and I wonder if this is part of her fetish fantasies; it makes me giggle some more.
God, I feel amazing; why can’t I always feel like this?
“No! Don’t want to go to bed.” I sound petulant like a child and start struggling. If I go to bed, I’ll stop feeling this way. I may lose this warm feeling and blank-mind euphoria; I may begin fixating on shitty fathers who abandon their kids in infancy, pricks who only see dollar signs instead of the damage they have caused.
“Emma, hold still,” he fusses, struggling to hold me.
“No. Nope, nope.” I shake my head, and before he drops me, he finally stops and stands my writhing body on my own bare feet outside my door. But upright isn’t good; it disorients me as everything sways.
I giggle, then have the overwhelming urge to shush him, which I do by dramatically placing my finger on my lips.
He talks too much.
He stifles a laugh, and it sounds good; looks even better. I like Jake’s laughter; it’s so free and boyish, uncomplicated and deep. Like him. I could listen to his laugh for eternity; it always makes me feel like smiling too.
He frowns at me, but I know it’s not a real frown; it’s an ‘I think you’re a funny drunk’ frown, making him cuter.
Is my boss cute? I guess he can be when he looks like that. God, that makes me feel sad. Why does he have to be so cute?
“Emma? What is it?” He frowns at me more, moving close; I guess my sad face is on show. I poke his dimple gently with my fingertip as if to eradicate the object of my sadness, and the frown on my face turns to a gentle accusation.
“Why do you have to be soooo …?” My fingers wave, and I notice a shiny, sparkly thing on the table behind him. As a child, I always liked sparkly things; I want to play with them. It looks like my cell, and it’s all lit up and mesmerizing; I’m like a magpie to a pretty sparkle and detour around him.
“I’m so, what?” he asks, trying to pull me back to him as I attempt a grab at the object of my interest. His arms are loosely around me, his upper body tilted back so he can look down at me. It’s hard to walk in a straight line and harder to control my limbs when a strong pair of arms are hauling me back. “What are you talking about? I’m soooo, what?” he presses.
I turn back to him, confused, my head slightly spinning, and I’ve no idea what he said. I glance back at the sparkly thing and see it’s just my cell that I’m trying to catch and lose interest immediately. It’s no longer lit up.
“Emma, I’ve never seen you plastered. You just decided to have yourself a one women party on the floor without me?” He’s still smiling and regarding me affectionately.
I love Jake’s smile. It makes me sigh and go all warm and gooey.
I shush him again, except this time it’s his mouth I cover with a splayed palm. His lips are soft and tickly under my hand. If I cut off the sexy voice and adorable smile with the cute look, I can forget how screwable my boss is.
I look around, seeing the cell again, and I remember who had called.
“My father called me, you know?” I point out childishly.
Yes, he did; that sad excuse of a human being dialed my number and connected to my cell. Asshole, scumbag!
“I’m aware of that, Emma. Do you want to talk about it? Is that why you got drunk?” Jake holds me against him, leaning back to see my face again; I tilt my head up, liking what I see once more.
You’re my dreamy boss. I like you.
“No … Yes … No … Who?” I forget the question while trying to answer it, and he shakes his head at me. I’m perplexed, but I don’t know why, and I’m sure he’s suddenly holding onto me too closely. It’s awfully warm now.
I wonder where Felicity has gone. I hope she’s not the jealous type, not that she should be. I don’t do sex or feelings. Jake sees me as he would a sister or a platonic friend, I guess.
That thought annoys me a little.
He is sex-able tonight.
“Emma, I really think you need some sleep, or coffee.” He loses the frown, but a little seriousness clouds his tone.
“I don’t like coffee.” The stuff stinks and tastes worse. I don’t know why Jake drinks so much of it; I prefer brandy. I giggle as he pulls me toward the couch and maneuvers me onto the cool, soft seat, lifting my feet and lying flat on my back.
Smooth move, Carrero.
The motion makes me laugh again, and I like how it sounds. I never giggle like this. It feels very unlike me in every way. I’ve turned into a giggler with zero control over it.
“You stay like that while I make you a drink. Tea? Water?” he asks.
“Brandy!” I never liked the stuff at all. It burns going down, but it did start to taste good after the third one, and the side effects are positively awesome.
“No, Emma. No more alcohol.” He sounds stern, bossy, and paternal like a father should. It brings sperm donor back to the forefront of my swirling thoughts.
“Why didn’t he want me, Jake?” I query sadly. I talk to the ceiling; it feels like I’m lying on a shrink’s couch, like in the movies when sad people talk to psychiatrists in stark offices on green couches and stare at boring ceilings. I note the roof no longer looks smooth and creamy; it looks shitty.
Maybe Jake could be my shrink.
“Because he’s an idiot. Not all men are cut out to be fathers.” I catch the sound of the clink of glasses or mugs.
That’s true. See, he’s a good shrink … he seems to understand.
“What’s wrong with me?”
That’s an excellent question to ask a shrink, as I want to know.
His face appears above me, and I jump a little in fright; I wasn’t expecting him so suddenly. Maybe it wasn’t sudden. I have been taking long pauses to daydream between replies. This is a weird angle, but even down here, he looks gorgeous.
Why can’t you look ugly from at least one angle, Carrero? Even the odds up a little. Maybe have a double chin or something.
“Nothing. You deserve so much more than someone like him.” He seems earnest and just hot. Too hot.
“I’m part of him. I have his blood … but he didn’t want to know me,” I sigh dejectedly as he moves from above me and onto the couch beside me; he slides a glass which clinks with ice onto the low table to my left for me. He sits near my head to look down at my face, and he’s no longer smiling. He seems blank.
“Does he want to know you now? Is that why he called?” He frowns once more, watching me pensively.
“He wants money,” I point out as a matter of fact.
Yes, as much as he can lay his grubby little hands on. Filthy, scum bag, gold digger.
“Money?” he says with a tone of surprise, pausing and watching me.
“He thinks I’m loaded because I’m always in the papers … with you. Probably thinks we’re in love.” I laugh at this little fact, but Jake doesn’t laugh; he just goes on watching me and sipping from his mug before looking lost in thought. I can smell coffee and guess he’s not drunk at all.
“Why are you chewing your lip like that?” I ask him, reaching up and prodding him gently in the dimple again. Jake has a touchable face. I’ve never noticed before how much his face cries out to be touched; there’s a beauty about his features, even with his designer stubble, that makes my fingers itch to trace the lines and curves. He has a dimple on each side that should be investigated.
“I’m thinking, Emma. Stop poking me in the face, woman,”
he chides with a frown; I push at it a little harder with my finger, irritated at him calling me ‘woman.’
Asshole!
“You’re very touchy-feely when you’re drunk, aren’t you?” He catches my finger and pushes it down. He has some gall calling anyone touchy-feely.
Mr. Hands-On Carrero!
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