The Carrero Effect Trilogy

Chapter 10B

The sun piercing tiny slices through the drapes is worse than having salt poured into my eyes. Nausea hits as I try to sit up, and my mouth waters crazily. My cell is by bed, and I realize it's been switched off. I never switch it off! I don't even know what time it is; I could have missed a multitude of calls.

I swallow down the bile and reach for the glass beside my bed; lukewarm water will have to do. I know I should remember last night, but I don't remember much after my third drink. I don't do hard liquor, so it's no surprise.

I'm a total lightweight.

I know at one point, Jake came back. I think.

Maybe.

I have strange images of him leaning over me with his tie hanging free; I'm not sure if it was a dream or a memory.

I shower fast to combat the dizziness, then walk into the living room to ram toast and Tylenol down my throat in a bid to recover quickly. The place is silent, and I guess that Jake is still in bed. I remember that Felicity was here; I'd forgotten about her. I always try and ignore his female guests. At least I slept through her screaming for once, which is the only upside to my hangover.

My head winces every time I move, and I have to sip water to keep the gag reflex at bay. I regret drinking brandy immensely.

What the hell was I thinking? Why did I let it get to me that much? Why did I let that idiot get under my skin?

I usually have more resolve than that, but I think it was the shock. It's been twelve years since his last contact, and although I knew he would resurface one day, I hadn't expected it yesterday.

I'm wearing workout clothes as I intend to hit the gym when the nausea subsides to sweat this out of my system. I'm glad we don't have any meetings today. Nothing planned until this evening with a late client dinner. I might be able to get through it if we're working from here.

It's 9.00 a.m., and I wonder why Jake's not up. Even on weekends, he never sleeps past six, even with a hangover, which isn't like him.

I don't have to ponder it for long as he walks in the door wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt soaked in sweat. He's already been down at the gym and draped a towel around his neck. As usual, he is bright and cheery; he's a morning person, something I'm not and never have been. I smile with effort as he walks in, then grimace as I feel awful.

"Morning, shorty," he smiles back.

"Morning," I mumble.

"How's the head?"

"Sore," I sigh and almost wince in reply.

"There are painkillers in the bathroom." He flashes me a happy smile as he walks past the couch.

"I got some already." I shake a packet in the air as proof.

"Have you eaten?" He walks toward the kitchenette, always intent on whatever he is doing, always at home in our suites.

"Yup."

"Good. The quickest way to recover from a hangover. Can you order me some breakfast? I'm going for a shower."

He's at the fridge drinking a bottle of water, then throws me his special 'I'll floor you with my sexy smile' smile and raises his eyebrow in the way of thanks as he stalks off to his room.

I wonder where Miss Crane is as I watch his rather too-pert ass sauntering away and guess she's still asleep. Jake must have exhausted her last night, and it instantly pisses me off, killing any good mood I may have thought of having today.

Ughhh!

***

He eats breakfast in the living room while reading through papers in his trademark jeans and T-shirt; he's barefoot, and his hair is still ruffled and damp from his shower. He looks nothing like the CEO of the company I first met and every bit a random guy on the weekend. It somehow feels a bit too domestic.

Felicity is sound asleep in his room, giving us much-needed peace before her screeching voice grates on my nerves again. I am glad about her absence; for some reason, her presence today annoys me way more than usual.

He doesn't seem interested in any work yet, and I'm glad. I'm trying to stay as still as possible, lying in my space on the couch beside him. It's the only way my nausea and sore head are bearable as I try to concentrate on the laptop on my thighs. The screen won't stay in focus, and I'm finding it hellish. I sigh, sliding it onto the table and lying down properly, resting my head on the cushioned arm. He gives me a knowing smirk, and I glare at him in response. I'm not in the mood for him to tease me right now.

Yes, I'm hungover, Jake. So, what!

Maybe I should remind him how many times I've seen him legless and stumbling into hotel rooms at stupid o'clock. I've seen sunglasses-wearing, grouchy, next-day Jake many times over the past few months.

He finally puts down his mug of coffee and The New York Times and glances at me. He shifts towards me into his 'I'm getting ready to chat' pose, and I groan inwardly. I'm suffering and would like to stay silent for the entire day.

Cool, composed Emma is on vacation right now.

"You want to talk about last night?" He looks me straight in the eye, all Mr. Serious, and my hair stands on end.

"Last night?" A memory of it, for a start, might be helpful.

He oversees me, and I shift in my space uncomfortably, unsure of what's so fascinating.

What did I do last night besides getting smashed? What does he want to talk about?

"Drunk Emma, as fun as she was, isn't someone I've ever met." He eyes me accusingly. I already feel apprehensive about his tone.

"Or will likely to again, seeing as I feel like hell," I grimace, hauling my arm over my eyes so I don't need to look at him; he's studying me a little too intensely.

"You want to continue our conversation?" he pushes on, regardless of my 'go away' posture, laying his hand casually on my bent knee. It rests quite happily there.

"What conversation?" I ask, genuinely confused, but stay concealed under my arm, my gut churning knowing I may not like this.

"You don't remember?" The surprise in his voice makes me a little wary. I shake my head as the color rises in my cheeks; Jake never presses for no reason.

What the hell did I say to him last night?

"I put you to bed."

Well, that explains why my cell was off.

He turns his off every night, whereas I usually don't. Just in case I'm needed.

"Thanks," I mumble. I want to ask him what I said, but I don't because I'm scared. I'm afraid I might actually have told him something I didn't want him to know.

"You talked about your father," he says matter-of-factly. Crap. Like that.

The anger rises in me unexpectedly, and it's too quick to grind back down.

"He's not my father! He's just a donor to my existence and nothing more," I snap, jumping to my feet; his hand falls to the couch, surprising him. The heat rises in my chest; teen Emma's anger has renewed with a fury, and I'm pissed at myself for her appearance again. I angrily storm to the kitchenette; I need water and a second to calm down.

And a boss who damn well stops digging into stuff that has nothing to do with him.

"And Ray?" The question is so precise and unimposing, yet it devastatingly affects me. Stomach lurching to my throat, I falter and drop my water bottle hard on my foot, giving out a shocked yelp and jumping back as pain sears through my toes.

"Are you okay?" He leans around, looking at me. His eyes are steady on me as I scramble back, but my head reels as I bend down to retrieve the Evian bottle. I take a deep breath through the instant dizziness.

Control, Emma. Control.

I stand back up slowly and deliberately, letting it pass.

How does he know about Ray?

"Fine," I answer stiffly.

"Come here; we need to talk about this." He watches me intensely, a no-nonsense expression on his face.

"No," I close him down and take a gulp of my water; it almost chokes me going down. I feel sick. I want to know what I told him about Ray and my father, but I also don't want to know or talk about this. Maybe I should tell him I need to throw up and lock myself in my room for an hour, make him leave me alone. I need to think.

"Don't you trust me, Emma?" He sounds so hurt, it hurts me too and knocks me sideways in surprise.

"Of course, I trust you," I say, turning to him, flashing anger, incensed at the question.

How could he ask me that?

We're together almost constantly; I have to trust him. I have never told him otherwise! I do trust him.

I realize it's the first time I've admitted to myself that I do, and it startles me a little as I let it sink in.

I trust Jake! I trust a man! When did that happen? How did that happen?

What's more impressive is that I trust playboy Casanova Jake Carrero, my heart-throb boss, with his string of women and hands-on personality.

"Then talk to me, Emma," he presses further, refusing to give up, his eyes still steady on me. I shake my head and turn away because I can't look at him while feeling shell-shocked.

Why can't he understand that certain things don't need to be brought up or discussed?

The past is done, and I'm done with the past; talking about it only makes it linger, bringing it to the forefront of my mind where it has no place to be.

"I don't need to talk about this," I huff, urging him to drop it.

He's on his feet and walking toward me, and I feel trapped as he approaches. I know if I walk off, he'll follow me. He has that determined expression on his face, usually reserved for stubborn clients. He grabs my upper arm gently and pulls me to face him; his expression is angry, but his manner is calm. I try to twist free, but he holds me tighter; I think he knows I'll walk off if he lets me go.

"You said he beat you and tried to molest you."

I gasp and withdraw from him, shocked that I even let that much out in my drunken stupor. My heart flips over in my chest.

Crap. I don't want him to know about that. What the fuck, Emma?

I don't want him looking at me like some sad little victim incapable of caring for herself.

Why would I tell him that?

He seems surprised by my reaction and lets me go instantly.

"Please, Jake." Trembling with the unexpected bite of tears in the back of my eyes, I stalk past him. I can't do this; he has no right. I can't get upset and let him see weak Emma; she doesn't exist anymore. I've no desire to let her come back now.

"I want to know, Emma; you're my friend." He follows me, and the anger writhes inside me once more; teen Emma raises her ugly head and loses control like she always did, fiery temper flaring.

"Why? It changes nothing!" I snap a little too aggressively and throw him a hateful glare impulsively.

Shit.

I'm falling apart; I don't shout at Jake. I don't yell at anyone like this. I've more control than this now. I'm no longer that hostile teen Emma.

"It affects you." He's equally riled, but I don't care.

You started this, Jake. Be angry. Leave me alone.

"This doesn't affect my ability to work for you; therefore, it's none of your business," I snarl through gritted teeth.

"You are my business; we work together almost every second of every day. Our relationship goes a little deeper than boss and assistant. It depends on trust and honesty to be able to work this way." His voice is heated. He reaches for me again, and I move out of the way, tense and prickling. If he touches me, I may lash out; I need to go to my room. "I trust you with every detail of my life; it would be nice if you did the same," he says, his voice matching mine, tense and tempered, rage bubbling between us. It feels like intense static is in the air.

"You don't pay me to burden you with my past," I snap at him, evading him still.

"If you don't tell me, I'll find out for myself," he threatens, and I catch a glimpse of darkness moving into his eyes.

"What do you mean?" There's an edgy tone I don't relish, and it stops me in my tracks, causing me to glare at him with uncertainty. I falter at his threat, losing my fire for a second.

"I'll have security do a deep background check on you and pull up old dirt," he snarls, caught in his anger.

"You wouldn't?" I scream at him, panic flaring at what he might discover, and my heart almost implodes inside my chest.

How dare he! That crosses the line in so many goddamn ways, and I'm not even sure it's legal. What the hell is he doing? What's he even thinking about? Am I supposed to trust him after he's just said that to me?

Rage and hatred shoot through me at a hundred miles an hour, and I can't contain them. I clench my fists and march away from him, stamping. I'm reeling, but I'm terrified that he may do as he says. Before I break something over his head, I need space before teen Emma, and her erratic emotions burst forth and ruin my life.

What if he does? What will he find out?

I pale and fall instantly weak at the thought. I don't want Jake to find out about my past. About how damaged I am. About my time in a children's home. And why. He would never look at me the same again.

"No, I wouldn't. I would rather you wanted to tell me," he shouts. Despite his admission, I can't even begin to calm down, but it makes me feel slightly reassured, hysteria holding its breath despite my seething anger in full roar. A warm tear rolls down my cheek, and I wipe it away furiously. I don't cry. I never cry. I hate crying. It's so weak and vulnerable and makes me feel inadequate and worthless; I bristle inside and again turn on him.

"This conversation is fucking over!" The rage in my voice seems to startle him, and instead of yelling more, he looks taken aback, remorseful. Silenced by my hint of psycho.

Too little, too late, Jake. Go away and leave me alone.

I turn and stalk away, stomping hard and pushing things out of my way. Felicity appears from the bedroom, and I cast a haughty glare back at him with intent. I think he gets the message. The 'go fuck off and play with your fuck buddy' notice, and I slam my bedroom door, closing out his view of me.

ASSHOLE!!!!

I want to scream it at him through the closed door; I've never had this wave of reaction toward Jake before, and I can't control it. I'm beyond livid. I'm reeling and angry, and hysteria isn't far away. I hate losing control this way, every emotion bubbling to the surface like an angry volcano threatening to explode. I know I need to bring myself down, or else my life is over.

He's my BOSS!

I mastered this once; I can do it again. I can push it down, force it back into its black box, put it back neatly, and close the lid. Bring calm back to the surface and put the mask back on.

Salvage something before it's too late.

But I can't!

Because he knows!

Because he saw a sliver of my shameful wretched past, and I'm devastated. He will see I'm a fraud, that PA Emma, his number two, is nothing more than a facade for a broken piece of worthlessness men liked to knock around and touch.

It makes me feel sick inside, and I hurtle myself onto the bed amid a flurry of tears.

I don't cry! I hate crying. I won't give them my tears or let them have that from me. They took everything else.

I roll on my back and take gasping gulps of air, swallowing them painfully, knowing I need to control myself.

That's right, Emma, breathe.

I hear myself telling teen Emma as she lays on the floor of her Chicago room, that little voice talking her through.

In … Out … In … Out … In …. Out. Slowly and surely.

I force myself to focus on the ceiling light above me and keep going, knowing it helps.

In … Out … In … Out … In … That's right, nice and steady.

I'm not in Chicago anymore; it's okay now. I'm in control of this. I regulate my breathing to match my count, bringing myself down from near hysterics and drying my eyes.

In … Out … In … Out … Slower, bring it down a notch.

I've overcome this a million times, and I can do it again. I can fix this. I'm better than this.

In … Out … In … Out. Take deep breaths in … It's getting easier.

In … Out … In … Out. Calmer, smoother breathing.

The tidal wave subsides slowly, and the blackness fades out. My lungs move more efficiently, the heaviness lifting, and I inhale deeply.

In … Out … In … Out.

Like a chant.

I'm in control. I'm not a child anymore. Ray is not here to hurt me.

In … Out … In.

The room around me is safe and still. No one can hurt me anymore. I'm stronger now. I'm more capable. That's not my life anymore.

In … Out …

The tears disperse fully, and I sniff back the remnants.

In.

Out.

The anger subsides, and I'm left feeling raw and vulnerable. I stop chanting as I breathe fluidly. I'm back in control and lying so very still. It's easier than it used to be. I'm better at it, and it takes less time now than it used to. New Emma is lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, and she's remorseful, knowing what she has done. Logical, clear thinking is back in full swing.

I can't leave it this way with Jake.

I screamed at my boss … my friend. I don't know if I can face him again.

But if I don't, it will only get more awkward. I may get fired. I don't think Jake would fire me, but still.

He can't work the espresso machine, and coffee is his lifeline. A small smile tugs the corner of my mouth as I picture him trying, and the inner calm of my regained self pushes me to sit up. I'm ashamed and embarrassed.

My iPad lights up on my side table, indicating I have an email, and I catch Jake's name from the corner of my eye. I lean across impulsively, sliding it over and pulling it onto my lap. Opening the screen with a tentative slide, I click on the email notification, my chest throbbing heavily.

"Jake Carrero has sent you an iTunes gift."

I open the email, thinking back to the last time he gifted me a song, and my heart retracts a little in pain. Remorse hits me hard, nervous at what this may say.

"Please Forgive Me" by Bryan Adams.

A lump rises in my throat with the threat of new tears, only this time, they're not in anger or sadness. Jake is trying to make things okay with me, and I can't just ignore him. The swelling of my heart at his attempt and his sweetness has me on the verge of breaking down. I need to claw back some dignity and face him, let him see that I'm still the same Emma I was. And maybe ask him to forget this ever happened, that I'm not an insane psycho with a troubled past who screams at him and runs away to hide.

Well, maybe I am.

I stand up and walk reluctantly to my door, shaking slightly, and open it quickly, like ripping off a band-aid, and steadily walk into the sitting room, my emotions churning like mad.

He's sitting on the couch, leaning forward with his cell in his hands. His powerful body is tense and stiff, looking at the floor, lost in thought. When he's trying to choose a course of action, it's his thinking pose, and I'm overcome with remorse.

I made Jake stressed. I did that.

Felicity is standing in the space by the door pulling on her shoes and glaring at him icily.

Maybe it wasn't all me.

I wait until she slams out dramatically, expecting him to react, but he stays focused on the floor, lost in his head. She hadn't even noticed me standing here.

Here goes!

I take a deep breath and walk toward him slowly and unsurely. I glance at him shyly, trembling as I get about four feet away. I have no idea what I will say, as we have never fought this way. We argue and bicker and have disagreements, but we have never walked out on one another in rage.

"Jake?" I breathe softly, apprehensively. My voice startles him, and his head snaps up. He must have been lost in his thoughts, and I catch the uncertainty in his eye.

"Hey," he says warily. He looks so lost it physically hurts.

"I … umm …" This is harder than I thought it would be. I can't look at him, so I turn my face away from him, looking across the room, trying to find a focus while I find the words. There's a noise from the couch, and then I'm hauled into his arms, my head pulled against his chest with a warm hand cupping my skull. He envelopes me in a bear hug, and I'm too stunned to react. I stiffen at its alienness, then slump with relief and accept his touch. Jake's not mad at me anymore; we're done fighting.

"I'm sorry," he breathes into the top of my head, his face buried in my hair. My body completely surrenders to the goodness of his embrace.

My touchy-feely boss!

I'll have to forgive him again for manhandling me, but this time it's not that bad; it feels good and takes away all my anger and doubts. It seems to be restoring me to my former self.

"I'm sorry too." The emotion catches in my throat, my voice breaking with hoarseness, while I revel in the feel of him.

Jake, my boss. Jake, my first real male friend. I don't want to fight with him this way.

I've never been hugged like this by anyone, not even by my mother, and it feels so safe, unfamiliar, yet so right. I close my eyes and allow myself to breathe him in; I wonder if that makes me weird. Freaky Lisa comes to mind.

"I won't push anymore." His voice is still soft and warm above my head, and my arms have slid around his waist of their own accord. I'm holding him as tightly as he's holding me. The realization makes me feel awkward and embarrassed by the intimacy, and I let go. I'm overstepping the mark. He senses my reaction and releases me too. Sheepishly we stand apart, and I'm overcome with shyness.

Crap. This is new.

Like an adolescent, he shoves my shoulder, and I know it's to cover our awkwardness, so I shove him back.

He sure knows how to revert to fifteen for a twenty-eight-year-old at times.

That gains me a Carrero grin, and I shake my head at him, rolling my eyes, amazed at how easily we can get over it. It reminds me of how easily Sarah gets over things, and I suddenly miss her.

He's back in playful mode, and, for once, it doesn't irritate me; it relieves me. This is what I need.

"Knew you couldn't hate me for long, Bambina." He's still smiling, trying to look convincingly assured, yet failing.

Yeah, of course, you were so confident when I walked in.

I remember his stressed posture and lost look only moments before.

"Hmm, the jury is still out on that," I answer impassively. I could never hate Jake. He throws me a mock injured look, and I push him harder this time so that he falls back onto the couch with flailing arms and a shocked expression.

Easy there, teen Emma, he's still your boss.

"Hey, woman! Any more of that, and I'll have to retaliate. I can promise you that my physical exertion will put some color in your cheeks." He gets up as though he's going to grab me, and I squeal, throwing out my arms toward him and shoving him straight back down with more force than necessary. He falls into the couch and laughs at me.

"Hey! Gross misconduct, Miss Anderson." He chucks a scatter cushion up at me, but I dodge it easily and catch it.

"Sue me." I throw it back with a smile as I walk to grab my cell, groaning at the numerous notifications. I'm a little breathless and a hell of a lot happier.

I push down the thoughts about Mr. Sperm Donor, Ray, and Chicago. Jake says he won't press me on this issue, and I know he means it; I can relax again. We can relax again. We need to move on now.

I glance down at my workout clothes and realize I need to change; we have work to do. I glance at him lounging on the couch, still watching me, and I feel better and lighter. He drives me crazy sometimes, but at least Jake isn't someone who harbors moods or anger for very long. Generally, he has a sunny manner. Well, except towards his father.

The thought makes me smile. Sunny. Never thought I'd associate that word with Jake Carrero.

"Are you going to get changed?" I ask as I skim through my cell, trying now to push us forward. I need to get my laptop open and check that email from Rosalie. She's texted me informing me there are file attachments and revisions to the Hunter-Carrero contracts Jake has requested that require his immediate attention. I push the last thoughts of Sperm Donor away and get back into PA mode. It's better this way.

"Nope." He stretches out on the couch, casually tossing the cushion in the air and watching me from his vantage point; I frown at his casual attire and lack of motivation.

"Well, I'm going to get changed so at least I can feel ready for work." I take my cell with me and walk back to my room, engrossed in replying to Rosalie's email.

"Emma?" He halts me in my tracks.

I freeze; a tiny tremor of doubt crosses my mind, holding my breath. Waiting.

"Uh-huh?" I try to sound non-committal.

"I'm glad we're okay. Let's not fight about that shit again, okay?" His huskiness betrays a slight hint of emotion.

"Okay." I turn and give him a genuine smile; a warm tide of affection fills my stomach as he throws me a simple, natural smile in reply. No showy, playful smiles or 'I'm just so gorgeous' grins, but real relief that we're friends again, and I return his smile even more. No one makes me relax as Jake does. Sometimes it's a curse, but I don't mind it right now. Sometimes, it feels okay to relinquish a little bit of control and stop holding everything in, especially when that smile is the reward.