The Carrero Effect Trilogy

Chapter 21B

He lays me down flat on my back in the car and pulls off my shoes, cradling my feet in his lap with warm sensual hands, kneading them softly, avoiding conversation or eye contact. I nestle my head against the door to stop the world from spinning.

His hands feel exquisite on my ankles and feet, and it feels better than good; no one's ever taken my shoes off like this. No one has ever just run soft fingers over my feet the way he's doing now. He's gentle and attentive, something most people would not expect of Jake Carrero. He is Handsy, but not in a sleazy way, despite all his jokes and sexual innuendos. He just always makes me feel safe.

"Why are you stealing my shoes?" I mumble playfully, trying not to squirm in case he stops; "I like those shoes." I'm angling for humorous Jake, flirty Jake. I like arguing with him; he's always funny. I'm not too fond of this silent, pondering version, even though I'm sure he drank as much as me, but he looks so severe.

"I'm taking you home, Emma. You're going to bed, and you don't need your shoes for that. Instead, I'm satisfying my foot fetish," he smirks, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He sounds tired; maybe he hasn't got boundless, infinite energy after all.

"You don't have a foot fetish, silly! And I need to walk up the stairs," I argue, stifling the urge to giggle.

"I don't think you could, Emma, even without your shoes. I'll carry you. And how do you know I don't have a serious thing for feet?"

The memory of the shoulder lift to the car pops into my head, and it's not altogether unpleasant. I almost start looking forward to being carried up the stairs. The Neanderthal-carrying from Jake has its upside; I get to feel those abs for a start.

"Okay. And you don't. You check out women's boobs, occasionally an ass, not their feet." My eyes are closed, and my arm is laid across my head as I try to get comfy. The car is spinning, and my hair is tickling my face; my limbs are too heavy to move it away, so instead, I try to blow it out of my face childishly while making a lot of noise. I'm blowing, but it's still in my mouth, irritatingly so.

"You're a hopeless drunk, you know that?" he utters warmly. I think he's laughing at me, but I'm too comfy to reply. I tingle all over as his touch connects when he moves the hair off my face, lifting my arm to untangle the strand caught in my bracelet. It's a nice relief to have the irritation removed as he pulls my arm straight toward him and lays it on the cool leather seat. As the driver negotiates the streets back to the hotel, I close my eyes, and the moving car's sway lulls me into a soothed, relaxed mode. I could fall asleep so easily.

"I'm just hopeless in general," I chuckle again. He says nothing, and I experience a tug of outrage that he may agree, but I let it slide over me the same way these waves and warm tides are doing. My arm is still warm; I think he still has his hand on it. I open one eye and look down to check. He's tracing my bracelet with his fingertips looking lost in thought, a hint of a frown crossing his beautiful face.

"What are you thinking about?" Like a child with no filter, I ask, the alcohol taking away my normal inhibitions.

"You … me …" He seems distant. There's something cold in his voice, and I don't like it. He's looking away from me out the window, gazing at Vegas's passing night scenery and bright lights, his all-too-godly profile outlined in the dark window, looking very much like a magazine cover. His mood and expression sadden me, and it swells inside of me.

"Are you mad at me for being this drunk and making you bring me home?" I ask, trying to understand his somber look. My voice is almost vulnerable. Wounded.

"No, I like this side of you. I wasn't feeling it anymore, figured it was a good time to leave." He throws me a small quick smile and looks away again. His eyes were so dark with emotion; I hate seeing him like this and want to know what's wrong.

"Then why so glum, Mr. Cartier-ro?" My name joke again from my last drunken episode.

How funny.

I giggle impulsively, and he laughs softly. He remembers my joke too.

I love his laugh.

"There's so much about you that you keep from me, your mother, your nightmares …" He releases my arm and leans away, shoving his shoulder against the door and resting his head against the frame dejectedly. After a great night, I wonder why this is going through his head now.

Why now?

"My mom's Pandora's box, Jake; I wouldn't know where to begin. And yes, I have nightmares about what Ray did to me, but I didn't think it was something I had to share. Are you upset with me?" I sit up a little, trying to read his expression. His hand comes up to the side of his face cushioning it from the door frame, and he's glaring outside. He doesn't reply. I know he's mulling over Vanquis, both in the past in my teens and, more recently, in Chicago.

"Physical pain goes away, Jake. Don't focus on injuries that healed in weeks." I flop down and close my eyes, the irritation rising to strangle my mellow drunkenness, dismissing it. I don't need this right now. My insides start to clench with anxiety. "What do you mean?" he queries. I sense his shift in position and know he's looking at me.

Does he really have no clue?

The physical side means nothing in the grand scheme of things; it's the emotional mess left inside of me that I don't want Jake to see.

"He broke my arm and ribs, he almost broke my nose, and he gave me a concussion that had me in hospital for days. I don't even remember how it felt. But it all healed in time."

Why am I telling him this? Alcohol is like a lubricant for my goddamn mouth.

He needs to understand that none of it means anything anymore. I'm drunk, and it doesn't feel as bad saying it out loud when I am this detached from typical Emma. It's like I'm talking about someone else, sad little Emma back home in Chicago, so far away. I'm not her.

Jake makes an odd noise; I think it's a grunt, a snort, maybe a moan. I don't know, but it's not a good noise; it's a reaction to what I have said, and I talk fast to cover it.

"I mean, I don't remember the physical pain; you should forget it too," I say matter-of-factly, yet softly, trying to fix my point. In reality, it makes me sick, and tears sting my eyes despite my shrugging it off.

"How can I forget it?" He looks at me as though I have two heads, pushing me into feeling overly sensitive and defensively emotional. Anytime we broach this subject, we fight. I don't want that right now. I can't handle this tonight.

"Same way I do," I respond, "Push it out of your head. Ignore it. Lock it away deep down, and don't talk about what he did to me." I try for a shrug, but it's more of a squirm at this angle because it upsets me on some level.

"He raped you?" His voice is quiet and unsteady; he sounds different, afraid. I guess he has been trying to figure this out for a while: How far had Ray gone?

Oh, Jake, don't sound that way. A lump forms in my throat and threatens to choke me.

"No, he didn't. He tried; I fought back. My mom came home." I stare at the car ceiling, listening to another version of Emma talking aloud, detached from the secrets she's telling and trying to quell the low pain building up inside. Killing me inside.

"Jesus, Emma." His voice is breathy, talking as he exhales; he sounds relieved but also sad for me, and I don't like it. I can't take sympathy or be made to feel weak. I pull myself up and glare at him angrily, the spitfire in me igniting with his pity.

"Don't do that!" I snap angrily, swirling emotions from deep down, suddenly jumping out. He spins his head to look me in the eye, shocked and confused at my reaction.

"Don't do what?" he frowns defensively.

"Don't you dare feel sorry for me," I spit, pulling myself up awkwardly while trying to force away the spinning sensation. "Don't look at me that way, like I'm some damaged, broken glass too fragile for life." My feet have been in his lap this whole time, and I pull them away fast. Struggling up, I sway and realize I've got a seatbelt clipped over my waist.

Safety Jake!

I unclip it and pull myself up to sit correctly and face him.

"Emma, how can I not feel something when you tell me that asshole beat the shit out of you and tried to rape you?" He's angry, and it's unexpected. I wasn't prepared for pissed Jake, but maybe that's better than unhappy, sorry Jake. I don't want sadness and tragedy. I hate people looking that way at me.

"Well, just don't. I don't need sympathy. I fought back hard. He broke my bones for it, but you know what? He didn't manage to rape me; he didn't do what he wanted. I won!" I yell out loudly, not at Jake but at the world in general. Anger spews out in every direction as I snap.

"And what if your mom hadn't shown up, Emma? What if I hadn't shown up in Chicago and he had come back?" he retorts. I don't even know why he's angry; I'm the one who has the right to be enraged. Not him!

"I would have kept fighting. I wouldn't have let him do that to me. He wasn't the first of her creepy boyfriends to try." My face is wet; I ignore it, barely noticing the tears running down my cheeks, oblivious until this second. I'm furious and yelling, but I don't even know why I'm yelling at Jake. He's not the one who did it. Sleazy Ray is the one who did it, and my mom's creepy-ass boyfriends and their wandering hands. I'm shaking with heartache; my body has betrayed me, and I'm heaving with tears. My drunken stupor seems to have let all this mess out.

"Emma," he breathes sharply. Jake hauls me toward him, trying to wrap his arms around me, but I'm not too fond of 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 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 and 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 them. 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 with 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.

"The boss would be an idiot if he did." He looks over at me, a hint of a sad flicker. Not fun and flirty, Jake. He's still in serious mode.

"My boss is sometimes an idiot," I flutter at him impishly. "He gets me irrationally drunk and lets me fall apart when he should know better."

"Maybe getting you drunk is the only time you're truly yourself around him. That, and it's easier to seduce you when you can't see straight," he retorts. I finally catch that mischievous glint in his eye. He visibly relaxes into a casual pose.

"So, you planned on getting me drunk, Mr. Smooth? To take advantage of me!" I shake my head, my mood restored to a tipsy mellow, and everything else fades away. I'm glad we've steered away from emotional topics, with this weird habit of going from fire to soft lapping waves in a flash.

"No. Maybe. Yes. Damn, you caught me!" He's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes, and I know he's still digesting what he's learned about me. I didn't want him to know any of that stuff. I want to take it all back.

What does he see now? Damaged goods? Some pathetic little girl that men tried to molest? A slutty girl who encouraged it, maybe? Her own father couldn't even look at her, too disgusted to want her.

That inner shame and self-loathing rise from the fiery depths once more, and I swallow it down.

"I don't want to do this, Jake," I mutter quietly, looking at our hands held together, so weirdly fitted and snug.

"What? Snuggle in the cab? Let me take advantage of you?"

He glances at me a little unsurely, humor evident but not quite hitting the mark.

"This whole bonding over shitty childhood experiences. I want to take it all back so you don't know any of it," I breathe out honestly, holding his hand and taking comfort from his touch. He's my harbor in the storm right now.

"Why?"

"Because it's … shameful. I'm ashamed of it." It's the first time I've ever admitted it out loud. I sigh, trying to steady my inner turmoil, but this is harder than I thought it would be. He shakes his head and pulls me close to him across the seat, releasing my hand to bring an arm around me tightly. His forehead rests against mine as he pulls my face back, his hand sliding along my jawline, carefully bringing me to him.

"Emma, you never did anything wrong; you didn't ask for any of it." His green eyes lock on mine forcefully, dark with emotion.

"I must have. Why did they keep trying?" I hate that alcohol causes this verbal diarrhea. It comes out from somewhere inside me, causing a sharp pain in my chest. Anytime I think I have a handle on it, teen Emma blurts out her dark secrets and insecurities to Jake. He has a way of making it happen.

"Because you're beautiful, and they wanted you. It makes them the sick fucks. I would destroy all of them to prove that this isn't your fault." The conviction and fire in his voice and eyes make me want to curl up in his lap again. I know that he means it, that he's capable of it. I can't let things slide this far into being so personal in this way; it would affect our relationship in so many ways. I glance up at him with what I hope is a grateful expression and a soft smile.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore." And this time, I mean it. I've never opened up about this, never cried to anyone except him, and I feel nauseous at the thought that Jake just saw all of that. I want to recoil and hide in shame and take it all back. I move his hand from my face and pull away, still sitting close but gazing away from him out the window.

"Emma …?" I can tell by his tone that he will push this further. I stiffen with slight hostility, bristling up.

"No!" I answer boldly with determination.

"You can't open the door to let me in, then shut it in my face," he pleads, his hand tracing my jawline tenderly. His touch dissolves some of my resolve for a second. His caress always makes my body sag hopelessly.

"Yes, I can," I say, calm and aloof, wanting to remove his fingers from my skin but needing his touch more, taking solace in it while fighting him.

"I won't let you, Emma. This isn't the last time we talk about this, and next time you won't be drunk." He seems determined, building the tension between us.

"There will never be a next time, Jake; just let it go." I'm back in PA mode, emotions pushed down and my voice steady. I know he's frowning at me. I can tell by the tone of his voice, but I don't care. The alcohol is numbing things again, but I'm feeling overwhelmingly sick.

We pull into the hotel garage, and the car stops, finally, as the endless journey comes to a halt. I slide out and move away from his side, but he tugs me back to him and guides me through the dimly lit basement. He stoops to scoop me up in princess-carrying fashion with my shoes in one hand, my arm sliding easily behind his neck.

"I can walk," I protest weakly, too tired to mean it.

"There's broken glass and all sorts of crap down here. Be quiet and hold on; enjoy being the damsel for once, woman!" He's in boss mode, and I know the argument is pointless. In a way, I'm glad because I'm still swaying, and everything keeps sliding around me. I hold around his neck, rest my temple against his jaw, and inhale him. He feels good and smells amazing, safe, strong, and warm. I glance up, trying to gauge how drunk he is, hoping he'll forget our entire conversation, but he seems normal, focusing on where he's heading. His green eyes are clear and gorgeous, as always.

Was I the only one to get plastered?

He catches my eye and gives me a genuine smile, a soft, warm look. The urge to trace his chiseled lips with my fingers shocks me, and I rest my face back down into his neck, taking away the temptation and inhaling him while I can. He carries me into the elevator and back up to our rooms.