The Carrero Effect Trilogy

Chapter 10

My shower is hot, steamy, and satisfying. I come out flushed and breathless and think I should have gone easy on the temperature gauge. My head is swimming a little, and I'm still feeling fragile.

I haul on my nightdress and robe, pad out into the empty suite, and instantly know that I'm alone. I had been in the bathroom an hour and knew they must have left for dinner. It felt good to be able to chill out and have some alone time, though. I've mulled enough in the shower over the call, and I'm tired of thinking about it. I'll have to screen my calls from now on or maybe change my number. I'll need to call my mother as I have an inkling that she gave it to him, and it pisses me off immensely.

Always a sucker for a goddamn sob story. She needs to get a grip.

Over the last few weeks, I have extensively been on the social pages on Jake's arm at various functions. I guess he figures I've hit a goldmine and wants to see what he can get out of me. I bitterly push the bile down in my throat as I think that all I am to him is a meal ticket. My heart aches with the reality of it.

He's a prick. Money-grabbing asshole.

He had never wanted to be a part of my life, except when he thought my mother could throw some cash his way, and now here he is again, sleazing his way out of his dark hole once more.

I'm not my mother; I'm not some sap that can be pulled around by a garbled confession, asking to get back in my life.

I pace to the bar in the corner and slam my hands on the counter, that old familiar rage in me creeping out, teen Emma's rage. I hate him for that; I hate him for making that part of me resurface, a piece I try so hard to quell.

I reach out to a crystal decanter and pour myself a large brandy. I'm not one for hard liquor, but I need to quell all these emotions funneling up my throat. I need to get back in control and relax a little.

***

I don't know how many brandies I drink, but the hotel floor gets really comfy and plush. It feels a little warm, and I enjoy the soothing music from the surround sound. Jake's playlist is on repeat; he has eclectic taste in music, but I like it. Every song makes me think of him, and I wish he were here on the floor beside me, enjoying this feeling.

If I don't move, my head doesn't swim too much, but it feels kind of nice, like lying on a raft on the sea and drifting away into oblivion. I like how my hair fans out, and I can stroke its silkiness mingled with fluffy carpet, my woozy senses heightened.

I never realized how soft my hair was before now. I should leave it loose more often.

The ceiling looks fantastic from down here too. Smooth like whipped cream that's been spread out over an expensive cake.

I am distracted by a distant noise behind my head; as I tilt back to look upside down, two pairs of feet come into view. Tall black stilettos on gazelle-like legs are standing next to a pair of expensive black shoes and tailored pants. Even his shoes and legs are screwable!

They have returned!

I giggle naughtily at being caught in such a compromising way. I wonder what they will make of drunk Emma lying sprawled on the floor. I find it highly amusing in my current state and have no cares about it at all.

It's semi-dark with the lights on dim, and I can see they're walking toward me; maybe they can't see me. I chuckle again with mischief and pretend to be invisible.

If I close my eyes, I'm sure they will go right on by; maybe they might even walk over me.

"Emma?" His deep tone catches my attention.

"Jake," I smile, opening my eyes again in a fluttery devilish way.

Oops, busted. He found me.

"Emma, are you drunk?" he says, sounding husky with amusement, and I laugh in answer as he moves towards me and stands over me, looking down.

Oh boy, is it a breathtaking view!

His tie is casually draped around his shoulders, his white shirt open at the collar, and his jacket discarded somewhere.

Why did I never notice just how fuckable my boss is?

I hiccup. It feels funny in my throat and sounds so weird that it makes me giggle again.

I like being drunk; I'm lighter and more fun. It makes me think Jake is sex-worthy, and that's pretty hilarious. I don't find men a turn-on at all, so that's even funnier … well, except Jake! He's the exception to the rule in that everything he does is panty-warming and alluring, even standing staring at me as he is now.

I'm hit with a strange sound. It's me! I'm laughing! I guess I find myself amusing; I sound so detached and not here.

I must be really drunk.

"Emma, I think you better get in bed. Come on." He leans down to catch my hand across my stomach, but I leave it floppy and weighted, so he gets nowhere to pull at it.

I don't want to hold hands today, Carrero. You're looking a bit too Casanova tonight.

He tugs when he picks it up again, but I refuse to cooperate, deliberately going limp and weighing myself down.

Nope, I'm not going to hold hands with my hot boss while he's swooning around looking sexy on me.

I giggle again. Too heavy and too comfy to move. It's nice here. It feels good. I want to sleep on my fluffy floor.

"Wan sssstay right here," I slur. I can hear it now, and it amuses me even more. I've never heard myself slur before, never allowed myself to drink to the point of slurring.

I spot my handheld in front of me and prod dementedly at the air as if I'm trying to make a point, fascinated at the uncoordinated motion of my limb as it waves above me. Everything feels dreamlike and warm like these are someone else's hands.

He frowns at me, and I have the urge to poke him between the eyebrows. They are too even and straight to be authentic.

"You prefer the hotel rug to a bed?" He can't speak without smiling, so I guess he finds me entertaining this way.

He has a beautiful smile. No! A gorgeous smile!

"Hmmm, mmm hmmm." That was almost an answer, I think. God, why did I drink so much brandy?

Everything is swaying and soft. If I close my eyes, maybe I'll hear something soothing like the ocean, like I'm on the ocean.

Oh, yeah, the sperm donor and all those tidal waves of emotions I was trying to drown.

"Right, that's it." He bends down and slips his hands under , hoisting me up effortlessly as though I weigh nothing. I'm too drunk to fight or squeal and carried like a baby toward 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 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 to grab 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 regards 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. I guess Jake sees me as he would a sister or platonic friend.

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 is 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 watches me and sips 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," 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 for calling anyone touchy-feely.

Mr. Hands-On Carrero!

"You have a touchy kind of face," I smile, but the spinning starts to take over, and I decide to lay still to see if it will pass. I watch his green eyes in the dim light and wonder what he's thinking about, mesmerized by how his eyes change with his moods. Sometimes they're dark and almost brown, other times pale and almost aqua. Typically, they're a very bright, almost emerald green. That's when I love them the most.

"Hmmm." He oddly looks at me, and I can still see the hint of a frown; I stifle the urge to poke it again.

"Hmmm!" In a mock deep male tone, I mimic, "What's 'hmmmmm' all about?"

Jake can be exasperating! I like Jake. I'm glad he's my boss! I think we get on better than most boss-employees do.

"It's just 'hmmm.' You're drunk. You're making very little sense, and your grabby hands are a little distracting. I think I need to put you to bed." He's not in playful mode, which is disappointing.

What does he mean, 'grabby hands'?

I hold my hands in front of me to look, but they don't look 'grabby' to me. I was merely having a slight feel of a beautiful thing. He sighs, making me realize he's closer and leaning down to peer at my face as if he's trying to gauge just how drunk I still am.

I have the urge to say 'hello' or 'peek-a-boo.'

"Where's your hot Crone?" I laugh at my joke. It's rather funny.

Miss Crane … Crone. Get it?

He smiles, sighing deeply as though he has no idea what to do with me anymore. When he moves his jaw in any little way, I notice that his ear moves slightly, and I become fascinated by it. I wonder if all men have this unique talent.

Would you call it a talent? Ear wiggling is a special skill of sexiness.

I giggle again.

"Emma, you've seriously lost your filter," he laughs at me, looking at me in a 'what am I going to do with my plastered PA' kind of way. I reach up to poke his dimple again, but he catches my hand and pushes it down firmly.

Damn, he's quick.

"Mr. Cartier-ro, leave my fingers alone," I sound out in a proper British accent. Amused.

Now that's funny because Cartier is one of his favorite places to spend vast amounts of money on leggy dates like Crone.

I'm making him laugh; when he smiles naturally, it makes me want to smile. He's infectious.

God, I could lick that smile. It's so delicious. I want to taste it.

"As amusing as this is, Emma, you're going to have to go to bed. As much fun as you are drunk, I'll get more sense from you over breakfast." He puts his mug down on the table with a decisive glance my way.

"I don't want to sleep," I pout, full child mode returning.

"Tough, you're going to bed. I have a duty of care," He scolds softly.

"I won't go; you can't make me." I try and swat his face and hands as he reaches to help me up. I'm sure my sulky childhood face still exists; I'm pretty sure it's making a comeback.

"Aargh. Emma!" He runs his fingers through his styled hairdo, messing it up. I think he's frustrated with me, but I don't care as I don't want to go to bed to be alone with my mind.

I ogle his mussed hair. I like it better like that, less groomed and perfect, a little rugged. It really does make him look so much hotter. That 'just fucked' look.

I didn't think that was possible.

I reach out and tousle it some more; I've never touched his hair, and it feels nice, thick, and smooth, a little crunchy with product, yet sensual.

He catches my fingers, pulling my hands between us and holding them tightly. He's giving me a testy look, and I wonder where his date has gone again. She's lucky because she gets to run her fingers through his hair anytime she wants, which upsets me.

"If I have to drag you in there and put you to bed, I will. I'm not against hauling you and holding you down." There's seriousness in his eyes. He looks like boss Carrero, and that means no messing about.

"Promises, promises," I tut, wriggling a hand free to poke him again in the dimple; he's not smiling, but I remember where it is.

Bullseye.

"Fuck's sake, Emma. What you do to me, woman!" He scoops me up speedily, and I squeal. He's so fast it makes the room tilt, and I grab on for dear life and try not to choke him with my vice-like grip, my face almost pressed into his. He can walk fast, and in a few easy strides, we're already in my room and pulling back my sheets with one hand.

"Are you mad?" I suddenly turn tearful. I don't want my gorgeous, swoony boss to be angry at me.

"No, Emma, I'm not mad." He lays me in the bed and pushes me onto my pillow softly. He pulls up my sheets and tucks me in like a child, taking great care to do so.

I don't remember my mother ever doing this for me. No one has ever done this for me.

"You don't like drunk Emma?" I ask warily, upset at myself now.

He gently smiles down at me and runs a careful hand across my hair, then down my cheek, soothing me. The back of his fingers feathers softly across my face, igniting tingles over my skin. I don't think he's mad, and it makes me feel better. His touch has the same effect as a calming wave, that gentle look on his face relaxing me back to submissiveness.

"I do like drunk Emma, maybe a little too much." He seems distant when he says it, and his eyes darken; he frowns, then quickly smooths it away.

"I don't like drunk Emma," I sigh and close my eyes. I'm jealous that Jake likes drunk Emma.

She's a bitch.

I close my eyes, but when I do, the face of that weasel man at my mother's table when I was fourteen sways in. I had just walked in from school, and she had figured a cozy dinner to introduce my father was a good idea. How wrong she was.

My brain swivels forward, drunkenness opening doors and letting my mind lose control. My mother with her various men; I recall their faces swimming past me in a rush, like a subway train, until it stops on one evil grin that causes me to shiver internally. That looming face sometimes wakes me in the night with terrifying dreams. The ever-present face of my nightmares and terrors.

"Why don't you like drunk Emma?" he asks, bringing me back to the present. I focus on Jake as I pull myself out of my head. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, twirling a strand of my loose hair between his fingers. It makes my scalp tingle and draws my full attention to his muscular form so close to me, smelling so very good and uniquely him.

"She thinks about things I don't want to think about," I sigh quietly. Sadness overcomes me with a wave of fatigue.

"Like fathers who weren't around?" He seems softer and warmer. Jake always asks me things about my past; I wish he didn't, but tonight it doesn't feel so bad, so scary. I want him to stay and talk to me, not go to his room with that awful 'Crone.' I want him here with me.

"And people called Ray." I let out a long heavy breath at the mention of his name. The looming devil is still watching me inside my head, evading my closing doors, his lip curling back to reveal his snarl. The bile rises in my throat as the fear travels up my legs, and I shiver.

"Ray?" The confused, husky voice distracts me.

"Ray, who beats up girls and tries to molest them," I whisper, afraid of saying it aloud if the monster hears me.

Why did I start thinking of Ray? Stupid, Emma, very stupid!

I don't like brandy anymore; it breaks down the walls of my carefully built black box and lets things that I locked up tight to run loose.

A warm touch on my arm pushes the thought back into the distance; the touch is soft and delicate and sends a soothing sensation through the fear, bringing me back to the here and now. It helps Ray's face moves back into the shadows where he belongs.

"Emma, why did you never tell me any of this?" Jake's voice is pained. I don't recognize his tone, concerned and breathy, but I'm experiencing the tug of drunken sleep falling over me despite everything running through my head. His touch is too calming, making me fall into peaceful darkness. My eyes get heavier, and the bed sways like a cradle, pulling me away from his voice. I can't fight it.

"Don't tell Emma I told you; she will be really mad," I whisper, urging my Jake to keep our secret.

Naughty teen Emma. How did you get out?

I try and haul her back down into the shadows with me as darkness overtakes us both, but all too soon, I am lost.