54
“Emma,” he breaths sharply. Jake hauls me toward him, trying to wrap his arms around me, but I don’t like it. I’m in memory mode and the thoughts of men’s unwelcome touch fire through my brain. I don’t want him to see me cry over this, not over those memories and those men. Not over that shit or Ray Vanquis. My mind is a chaos of rage and trauma.
“Stop it … stop it …” I resist him, but he’s stronger and faster, and I’m still drunk with slow reactions. The racking sobs make me weak, and he’s determined to hold me.
“Shhh, shhh, Emma. Shhh.” He captures me, cradling my head against his cheek, even though I’m still fighting, but I’m losing. I don’t like the noises coming from deep within me, like I’m spiraling out of control. I hate this. I’m not weak. I’m not vulnerable. The wails don’t sound like they’re coming from me, and I push his hands off me repeatedly, but he’s relentless, and his grip tightens. He pulls me hard onto him to get better control of me.
I’m in his lap in a blink, and he’s all around me, with solid and tight arms and firm hands, trying to calm me, so I finally give in.
Ray wasn’t the first to try and touch me inappropriately, there had been many hands, and each one had met my fire and sheer fury. Ray hadn’t been the first man to hit me either, yet I never allowed myself to be a victim despite all of it. I’m not a victim now. I’m stronger than all of them.
“You’ll never look at me the same way, will you?” I choke; it’s what I always fear about people knowing. It’s one of the reasons I left Chicago. I hated people knowing what happened and looking at me that way. I hated my friends knowing that my mother never protected me against the myriad of perverted fucks she brought home. She just refused to acknowledge it instead.
Why couldn’t she be stronger and protect me? Sarah never looked at me that way; she knew, even then, that I was made of more potent stuff. I look after Sarah now; it’s my way of proving I’m stronger and showing myself how my mother should have been for me.
“Emma, you don’t know how I look at you, even before this. This won’t change any of it.” His voice is sincere, but I’m confused; I don’t know what he means. I’m too distraught to think straight. The tears are still rolling down my face while his forehead rests against mine, his hand cupping my cheek and thumb trailing across my skin softly. His arms surround me tightly, keeping me against his warm, muscular body.
My eternal protector. He always brings these emotions out of me; they struggle to the surface somehow.
“I’m not broken. I’m not; I’m strong, and this means nothing.” I pull myself out of his embrace, off his lap, and move away; he doesn’t stop me. I have to show him that I don’t need him to feel sorry or sad for me, that my past doesn’t change who I am now. I have a fire inside of me.
“I know you’re not, Emma; is that what you think?” His voice is low and husky, as full of raw emotion as mine is.
“Do I think I’m broken?”
No, did I say that? I don’t think I did. God, why did I get so drunk?
Everything is spinning wildly, and my mind is a mess.
“No, Emma. Do you think I would look at you any differently?”
That’s what he meant. Well, now he mentions it. Yes, I did, actually. Why wouldn’t he?
I must do something to deserve it for it to happen repeatedly. I must let men think I want them to touch me; I somehow attract it. Even coming to New York, men at Carrero House still targeted me.
“Why wouldn’t you?” I reply flatly, staring out of the window absently, back in control of my sobs and tired from the exertion.
“Emma, you did nothing wrong,” he says, breathy and tense; I think he’s having trouble believing I would feel that way. He has no idea; he’s never been in a situation like my past.
“I’m supposed to be strong and cool and capable. I mean, you rely on me for everything. I can’t just whimper and fall apart like some broken China doll because I have a shitty past.” I stare away from him, trying to regain my cool fully. He’s looking at me with an odd expression, and I realize we’ve been driving for ages.
How far from the hotel did we stray? Seems like an eternity.
I need to get out of this stifling car and take deep breaths to cool and calm myself.
“You are all of those things, Emma, partly because of the shit you endured.” He sighs heavily. He honestly doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “You’re also allowed to be human and vulnerable. You’re allowed to let someone in. Let me in!” he’s almost pleading at me.
“Not with my job, Mr. Carrero,” I smile emptily, my voice lighter while trying to sound normal, wishing to end the tension between us. Even though he doesn’t reciprocate, his eyes soften, and I wipe away my tears, turning to him again. I’m calm and in control once more.
“Even with your job,” he answers gently, reaching out and taking my fingers in his tenderly, entwining them together, leaving our hands on the leather seat between us. I don’t look down, but the warmth of his touch sends a small reassurance through me, thoroughly calming me.
“I think the boss would soon have something to say if I reverted to some feeble, emotional victim who wept over old scars, don’t you?” I smile, hoping to turn this conversation back to our usual banter and release this heavy fog-like tension around us.
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