53
He lays me down flat on my back in the car 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 from 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 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, 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’m not too fond of this silent, pondering version, even though I’m sure he drank as much as me, but he looks so severe.
“I’m taking you home, Emma. You’re going to bed, and you don’t need your shoes for that. Instead, I’m satisfying my foot fetish,” he smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He sounds tired; maybe he hasn’t got boundless, infinite 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, Emma, even without your shoes. 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. 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 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 moving car's sway 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?” Like a child with no filter, I ask, 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. His mood and expression sadden me, 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 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. After a great night, I wonder why this is going through his head now.
Why now?
“My mom’s 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 down and close my eyes, the irritation rising to strangle 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. I don’t even remember how it felt. But it all healed in time.”
Why am I telling him this? Alcohol is like a lubricant for my goddamn mouth.
He needs to understand that none of it means anything anymore. I’m drunk, and it doesn’t feel as bad saying it out loud when I am this detached from typical Emma. It’s like I’m talking about someone else, sad little Emma back home in Chicago, so far away. I’m not her.
Jake makes an odd noise; I think it’s a grunt, a snort, maybe a moan. I don’t know, but it’s not a good noise; it’s a reaction to what I have said, and I talk fast to cover it.
“I mean, I don’t remember the physical pain; you should forget it too,” I say so matter-of-factly, yet softly, trying to fix the point I was making. In reality, it makes me sick, and tears sting my eyes despite my shrugging it off.
“How can I forget it?” He looks at me as though I have two heads, pushing me into feeling overly sensitive and defensively emotional. Anytime we broach this subject, we fight. I don’t want that right now. I can’t handle this tonight.
“Same way I do,” I respond, “Push it out of your head. Ignore it. Lock it away deep down, and don’t talk about what he did to me.” I try for a shrug, but it’s more of a squirm at this angle because it is upsetting me on some level.
“He raped you?” His voice is quiet and unsteady; he sounds different, afraid. I guess he has been trying to figure this out for a while: How far had Ray gone?
Oh, Jake, don’t sound that way. A lump forms in my throat and threatens to choke me.
“No, he didn’t. He tried; I fought back. My mom came home.” I stare at the car ceiling, listening to another version of Emma talking aloud, detached from the secrets she’s telling and trying to quell the low pain building up inside. Killing me inside.
“Jesus, Emma.” His voice is breathy, talking as he exhales; he sounds relieved but also sad for me, and I don’t like it. I can’t take sympathy or be made to feel weak. I pull myself up and glare at him angrily, the spitfire in me igniting with his pity.
“Don’t do that!” I snap angrily, swirling emotions from deep down suddenly jumping out. He spins his head to look me in the eye, shocked and confused at my reaction.
“Don’t do what?” he frowns defensively.
“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” I spit, pulling myself up awkwardly while trying to force away the spinning sensation. “Don’t look at me that way, like I’m some sort of damaged, broken glass too fragile for life.” My feet have been in his lap this whole time, and I pull them away fast. Struggling up, I sway and realize I’ve got a seatbelt clipped over my waist.
Safety Jake!
I unclip it and pull myself up to sit correctly and face him.
“Emma, how can I not feel something when you tell me that asshole beat the shit out of you and tried to rape you?” He’s angry, and it’s unexpected. I wasn’t prepared for pissed Jake, but maybe that’s better than unhappy, sorry Jake. I don’t want sad and tragic. I hate people looking that way at me.
“Well, just don’t. I don’t need sympathy. I fought back, hard. He broke my bones for it, but you know what? He didn’t manage to rape me; he didn’t do what he wanted. I won!” I yell out loudly, not at Jake but at the world in general. Anger spews out in every direction as I snap.
“And what if your mom hadn’t shown up, Emma? What if I hadn’t shown up in Chicago and he had come back?” he retorts. I don’t even know why he’s angry; I’m the one who has the right to be enraged. Not him!
“I would have kept fighting. I wouldn’t have let him do that to me. He wasn’t the first of her creep boyfriends to try.” My face is wet; I ignore it, barely noticing the tears running down my cheeks, oblivious until this second. I’m furious, and I’m yelling, but I don’t even know why I’m yelling at Jake. He’s not the one who did it. Sleazy Ray is the one who did it, and my mom’s creepy-ass boyfriends and their wandering hands. I’m shaking with heartache; my body has betrayed me, and I’m heaving with tears. My drunken stupor seems to have let all this mess out.
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