The Carrero Effect Trilogy

Chapter 12

It's late, and he's out with some blonde bimbo who posed in Playboy, all fake boobs and Botox, with an irritating laugh and a weird pair of overly plump lips. We fly home tomorrow, so he's letting off steam Carrero style. Loose women, booze, and a nightclub. So very Jake.

I glance at the clock in distraction, noticing how quiet it is when he's not around to frustrate me. I don't get his fascination with nightclubs, all that loud, thumping music, grinding bodies, and stifling air. But then Jake's fascination with jumping out of planes and off buildings is beyond me. He's the original adrenaline junkie and never seems to sit still for long.

It's a hot, muggy night, and I'm sticky in my sweats and T-shirt. My hair has been up all day, and it feels itchy, with my scalp screaming for release. After dinner, I had a good workout, but I regretted eating first. I'm starving now due to the energy burn-off, but I don't want to eat more. Besides, food after 8.00 p.m. makes me feel bloated and restless. I'm always conscious of my figure being on show, especially when paired with the Adonis known as Jake.

A shower cools me off, but I'm too clammy to wear more clothes. I look through my array of nightwear and pull out a short satin number that Donna bought me in four colors. My saintly shopper! She now takes my requests. I had thrown this in my suitcase in case it was hot and stuffy.

It's strappy and light and looks cooler than my normal nightdresses, although there's less fabric than my typical style. I blow dry my hair but leave it down; soft waves hang around my shoulders, noting how long it's getting. I rarely keep it down, so it's hard to judge how much it has grown over the last few months. I should get it cut to tidy it up and make tying it up less of an ordeal.

I go to bed around ten, taking my laptop with me to check my emails and reply to anything urgent.

***

I wake with a start, stifling and clammy, and my throat is parched. I was dreaming again of the darkness of my room and the creeping sensation of someone in the shadows coming toward me. I remember I hadn't been able to move, frozen with fear; I shake it off, pushing it down with the other five million vague night terrors I've had. Even after twenty-odd years, memories mixed with fear and imagination don't make for pleasant dreams.

I reach for my glass by the bed and notice I emptied it when working on my correspondence. I'll have to get up and get a drink now.

The clock tells me it's 4.00 a.m. and incredibly dark outside. I'm aware that the suite is eerily quiet as I slide out of bed, meaning Jake is still not back. He usually falls through the door anywhere between four and five when he's gone out unless he's with Daniel Hunter. Then you see him when you see him, sometimes not until the next day. Daniel is the bad influence Jake doesn't need, and I worry when I know he's with him. I'm glad we're still in Seattle, and he's not with him now, getting up to God knows what.

I pad into the living room and the kitchen/mini bar area. I'm glad the coolness here feels good on my exposed skin after my clammy awakening. I don't bother with lights as the dim glow from the lamp in the living room is enough, and if I wake myself fully, I'll never get back to sleep.

The water from the fridge has a slight lemony taste, and it makes me think of Jake and the endless bottles of water with lemon slices he goes through each day; he drinks as much water as he does alcohol, and it was he who started me on lemon water.

I'm aware of a noise outside the suite door and know he's just getting home; it comforts me while also increasing my anxiety.

Great! Let the fun begin!

A leggy blonde will undoubtedly be falling around, giggling, and noisily attempting to be quiet. That's not what I need. I freeze by the fridge to go unnoticed, hoping he will head straight to his room, so I don't have to endure another of his low-IQ bedmates. As I concentrate on sipping the water slowly, I lean on the counter, and the coldness of the surface makes me look down and tense as I suddenly realize I'm not wearing my robe.

Crap. I'm dressed like a hooker!

I'm standing in a scrap of lace and satin that leaves very little to the imagination and is pretty see-through in places. I suddenly feel overly exposed and way too vulnerable. I also can't run now, as he's opening the door. I push down my anxiety and stay still and composed; maybe he won't even notice me standing here.

"Emma?"

Shit!

My eyes jerk up from taking in the shortness of my nightdress, and I straighten, suddenly awkward; he's looking at me oddly, and even at this distance, I can tell he's drunk. I can smell the booze from here. I squirm slightly, noting that he's looking me up and down in a slow, very male way he never has before, and I don't like it.

Fuck. This stupid night dress.

I notice there's no accompanying blonde, either.

"Hey… did you have a good night?" I try to sound bright and bring his eyes back to my face, but he's still watching me, making me self-conscious. I gauge that he's on the upper limits of drunkenness. It's a ten plus on the Carrero scale; he's overdone it tonight.

"You should have come, tiny," he slurs badly. I don't know why he always asks, as I always refuse.

It's not my thing.

I smile tightly, willing him to go to bed so I can make a break for it and cover up. I move past him, but he steps in front of me clumsily as he tries to walk to the fridge simultaneously. There's an awkward pause, and then we both laugh nervously.

Okay, this is beyond weird.

I think he feels just as uncomfortable as I am about seeing me underdressed; this doesn't feel like our typical atmosphere. I'm overly sensitive to his body and movements so close to me in a way I've never experienced, and I'm not fond of it at all. The amount of my naked skin on show tingles with the heat he emanates. I can almost feel a sizzle of electricity in the air, it's so tense.

"I'll leave you to it," he smiles and sways slightly toward me; I put out my hand to steady him. I've never seen him reach swaying point before, and this weird whatever-it-is has us acting oddly.

Just how much has he had to drink tonight? Jeeze, he smells like a brewery and then some.

He looks alien to me and not like Jake at all.

"You're really drunk, aren't you?" Normally drunk Carrero amuses me, but there's something off, and I'm aware of every thump of my heartbeat and shallow breathing. The weird tension makes me stiffen, and my body can sense the difference between us.

"I am!" he breathes, but he makes no effort to move away. I don't recognize this Jake, the heaviness of his voice, the facial expression, the body language, and the darkness of his usually clear green eyes. These eyes most definitely take a long slow look at the aforementioned cleavage. I take my hand from his arm and wrap my arms around myself protectively to cover my cleavage and exposed body, unsure now. All I manage to do is create more cleavage, so I loosen my arms again, embarrassed. I experience a considerable pang of loss for sober, regular Jake right now, as though he's gone away somehow.

"You cold?" His hand comes up to touch my shoulder, and I jump.

Crap.

I'm nervous.

Why? It's Jake! I'm being stupid. Is it because I'm dressed this way, and he's looking at me like that? Jake would never hurt me in that way.

I'm exposed and self-conscious and feel naked and overly vulnerable. And being vulnerable is not something I can do; it's making me edgy.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to …." His voice is breathy, and he steps back, slightly swaying again.

"No, it's okay. Sorry, I'm just …."

I'm just what? Jumpy as shit! Freaking out over nothing.

"Just what?" The expression on his face changes to concern, and I realize he does look the same. He's still in there, my sweet, safe Jake, and I feel stupidly relieved. I can't control the nervous laughter that bubbles from my throat in a very non-Emma-like way.

"Nothing. I'm half asleep; I'm going to bed." I step back from him with a sudden need for personal space and move to walk around him.

"Emma?" he slurs.

"Yes?"

"I like this." His fingertips gently stroke down my stomach's side, causing me to inhale sharply in response. I cringe and move back, reeling, unsure. His touch feels so different, so not Jake! It makes my skin tingle and erupt, then crawl back in revulsion and fear. I don't even want to evaluate whether it is good or bad. It's wrong. It's too intimate. He lifts his hands defensively because he knows he's overstepped the mark.

"I'm sorry, Emma. I'm going to bed; I'm drunk as fuck." He looks hurt and uneasy.

"It's okay. It's fine. Go to bed." I know I'm stiff and tense. I can hear the coldness in my voice, my heart pounding erratically like a scared deer caught in headlights.

"Don't say it like that." He gently lifts his fingers to trace my jaw, his eyes locking with mine. "I would never do anything to you, Emma." He sways forward again, bumping noses with me because he's too close and incapable of steadiness. His hand comes to my shoulder to steady himself as he moves back slightly.

I can't relax; this is not my Jake. This is a glimpse of Casanova Carrero, someone I've only seen at a distance, who has never turned his attention to me. I'm motionless, focused on every touch and movement, pinned by fear. Memories of a million dark nights and hot breaths near my face flash through my head at a million frames a second. I feel as though I'm suffocating.

He leans in so quickly that I can't counteract, and his lips meet mine, soft and warm, surrounded by the smell of alcohol. His hand gently cups my face and pulls me in against his. I freeze, every piece of my body frozen in time, and I'm suddenly detached, like it's happening to someone else, and I've lost the ability to do anything. To stop it.

His fingers tug my chin, opening my mouth slightly as he fully connects, his tongue sliding lightly over my bottom lip, gently, slowly …, and I recoil as sense finally hits me.

The panic searing through me is like an electric shock, and I shove him away hard. My head might explode. I'm breathless and panicking. Teen Emma is making herself known, and I feel like the room is spinning around me while the blood rushing through my ears is louder than I can bear.

"Shit. Emma … shit." He seems flustered as he tries to grab my arms, and I start struggling away from him to avoid contact. I'm caught in my terror.

"I'm sorry. Emma, I'm sorry." He tries to grab me to make it right, but I can't. I can't let him touch me. My skin is on fire, and everything is spinning out of control. I need air. I need space. I need solitude. I need to be away from him. I'm so confused that I don't know how I feel right now, and he's stifling me with his closeness.

"I … need … to … go," I finally manage a few struggled words, my legs aching to run far, far away from him, the 'fight or flight instinct' kicking into action. He releases my wrist, which he'd just caught, and quickly moves out of my way. I can't look at him. I can't trust myself to slide past him, so I take a huge arc, keeping him at arm's length.

I move fast and run to my room, slamming the door behind me, latching it, and sliding to the floor in a crumpled, uncomposed heap. Everything is reeling and dipping around me, and I know I will either pass out or throw up.

I lean forward and put my face on the floor, trying to calm the chaos of my mind in the darkness of my room. I'm panting. I need to pull in these spiraling thoughts and rationalize what just happened.

Jake was drunk, really drunk. I've never seen him that bad. I'm amazed he's still upright. I must have given him signals and encouraged him. I must have looked wanton dressed this way; I asked for this! Isn't that what I do? I give off signs that make men want to do things to me.

But Jake's not like that. I must have looked at him somehow or sent some unintentional signal to him to make him kiss me. Jake doesn't need to do that; he's never given me any indication that he ever would. Isn't that why I relax around him? He has every woman he could ever want falling at his feet; this must be me.

I'm racked with guilt and shame, just like so many times when my mother's boyfriends tried to touch me, kiss me, and take my night clothes off. I can't even think about his mouth on mine. I don't want to. I can't even begin to process it; it didn't feel like anything I could compare it to. I have no point of reference for what I was feeling at that moment.

I have been kissed before; it's why I don't like it. Forced, harsh mouths against mine, trying to pry my mouth open cruelly. I resisted them all, bit, squirmed, and clawed. But Jake's kiss hadn't been forced; it was soft, and for a fleeting moment, my mouth responded, opened, and stilled as his tongue slid over my lip.

I push the memory away harshly.

Stop it! This is fucked-up. This is wrong; he's my friend. He's my boss!

I hadn't let my two boyfriends kiss me; I turned my head, even when I finally felt pushed to have sex with them. And hadn't I only done that because I thought I was supposed to? I hadn't wanted them to kiss me. It reminded me too much of things I didn't need to remember anymore.

So why the hell did I let Jake kiss me just then?