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Lying in bed in my room at Jake’s apartment, I doze in and out of sleep listening to distant sirens and noises from afar, Manhattan's calming hustle and bustle. It’s late; I’m tired, yet I’m not. I’m somewhere between dosing and overthinking and restless.
The housekeeper has retired to bed, and the apartment security wanders the outer halls again. I’m aware of their crackling radios' faint sound; although they never really venture inside the central part of the apartment, I like knowing they’re out there. Jake isn’t one for much security, but his father insists. He doesn’t see the need for them when he’s home, and he rarely uses them when we’re on business either. I guess he knows he can beat the crap out of most assailants, seeing that boxing and martial arts are some of his pastimes.
I’m uneasy and antsy; I know he’s coming home, and I’m anxious about how we left things.
Will I view him differently now? Knowing that he’s been …? I don’t want to think about what he’s been doing.
There are voices in the apartment suddenly. Distant, but they’re coming in. I’m not sure why they would be … Oh, wait! It’s Jake’s voice. He’s home!
I don’t know what time it is, but he’s really home. I sit up in bed and wait, unsure if I should go see him or stay in here; I’m suddenly shy and nervous and apprehensive. I can’t control the wave of euphoria or buzz of energy this gives me.
Don’t be stupid.
I scold myself. I ignore the little voice trying to remind me how things were the last time I saw him, squashing it. I quietly let myself out of my room and pad along the hall toward the noise; it’s Jake and one of the security men, and … I freeze.
A leggy redhead is standing a couple of feet away from Jake, looking bored, but I recognize her instantly. She’s one of his leggy bimbos, and it hits me like a sucker punch.
I hadn’t expected this; it causes a heavy pain in my chest that I immediately push down, gulping the sudden nausea it brings.
What the hell? Is that who he’s been …?
I don’t want to know. I don’t want to see it. I lean against the wall in the shadows gasping for a steadying breath, and my heart shredded to pieces. He’s Jake Carrero. This is how he is; this is how he always is. I need to forget all that crap on the boat, get a grip, and put the mask back on …
Please put it back on … I can’t!
It’s like it has fallen on the floor and broken into a million pieces today, and I can’t find any crazy glue to piece it back together. I’m left vulnerable, and I hate it. This isn’t me. I stare at my hands in the dark, watching them tremble, then my body follows suit.
“Is she asleep?” His deep voice rumbles through the pain in my heart and pulls my gaze back towards the voice.
Jake, why do you have to sound that way? Why do you have a voice that can ravage me with only a few words?
I’ve missed his voice. He sounds so clear and close and touchable.
“Yes, sir. She went to bed almost as soon as she arrived,” one of the men replied quickly, almost apologetically.
“How did she seem?” Jake sounds tired. My arms ache to be wrapped around that voice, but I’m so hurt by him.
“Upset, sir.”
“How did she look?” Jake sounds apprehensive anyway.
“Unlike her normal self, Mr. Carrero.” I realize he’s talking to Mathews, his head of security. I like him; he always smiles and greets me with a warm look. He looks a little George Clooneyish, yet completely capable of snapping necks.
“Was she still crying?” Jake sounds like he cares; maybe he does, except he brought home a playmate, so he doesn’t care that much, I ponder sadly.
“No, sir. She just looked exhausted.” Mathews is certainly observant, and I wonder if I still look that bad.
“Did she eat?”
“No, sir. Nora said she skipped dinner and went straight to bed.” It feels weird listening to people talking about me in that way. As if I’m a broken child and not here.
“That’s all, thank you.” Jake dismisses him, and I slide back along the hall to my room to stand by the door. My room is at the opposite end of the apartment to his; he won’t come here, so I’m sure I’m safe. I lean my head back against the cool surface and close my eyes. I want to wrap myself around him and forget everything but his feel, close out everything else, including the redhead. I remember how that feels. I need it more than I ever imagined I would. I miss his touch, and I still feel alone even while he’s close now.
“Emma?” Jake’s voice is alarmingly near. I snap up and catch sight of him standing a few feet away.
Shit.
He never ventures down here.
“U-huh,” I answer nervously, my heart pounding from the fright at being caught like this, overcome with awkwardness.
“I came to see if you were still asleep. Why are you standing there?” There’s only regular Jake in his voice. Jake, my friend. As though the past week hasn’t happened.
“I wasn’t sure if I wanted to come through or not,” I answer.
So, I’m Miss Honesty now, am I?
I’m too drained to pretend.
“How are you feeling?” he coaxes gently, coming to stand only two feet from me. His closeness makes me antsy, and we both seem uneasy. My nerves rise now that he is here and appraising me.
“Detached,” I utter shyly; he frowns, evident even in the shadowy hall, and I glance away and sigh. This is harder than I thought it could ever be.
“You look tired. Go back to bed.”
“I’ve slept enough; I can’t sleep anymore.” I sound drained and empty. I pull my hair across my cheek and twirl it absentmindedly, the soft touch on my skin comforting me, partly trying to conceal my nervousness; now he’s here.
“I was worried about you, Cara Mia.” He moves closer, narrows his eyes, and gently tugs my hand from my hair. Keeping his fingers wrapped around my closed fist, he pulls it down between us to hold. His skin on mine is like coming home. It breaks my heart. He has no idea that he can do this to me.
“You would have been impressed; I think I left a permanent handprint on his face,” I smirk quietly, covering the way his touch makes me weaken, sobering my melancholy.
“How’s your hand?” He turns it over in his grasp, using his other to flatten my fingers open while he examines it, seeing nothing there. His thumb crosses the skin of my palm lightly, achingly gentle. His touch is like a balm.
“Sore.”
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