The Carrero Effect Trilogy

Chapter 34

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 at home and rarely uses them when we're on business. 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 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 stands 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 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 toward 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 down 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 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.

"Uh-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 how his touch weakens me, sobering my melancholy.

"How's your hand?" He turns it over in his grasp, using his other to flatten my fingers while examining it, seeing nothing there. His thumb crosses the skin of my palm lightly, achingly gentle. His touch is like a balm.

"Sore."

He glances up at me. It does throb still. A burning reminder, yet there are no marks.

"Do you want painkillers?"

"Not that sore." I attempt a smile and chew on my lip.

"Do you want to talk about it?" His brows narrow, a small, encouraging smile tugging his mouth.

"Not really. I just want to forget it." I let out a slow sigh and shrug it off, hinting that he shouldn't push.

"Do you want a hug?"

I dart up, startled at his question, and flush shyly; I shrug awkwardly, amazed that he would even offer after everything, after days of giving me the silent treatment, and yet here he is, as though nothing has happened. His eyes never leave mine.

He pulls me by my wrist and solidly wraps me in his arms, molding me to him. He rests his lips against my temple as I sag into him.

This feels too good; this is what I need; this is what I've missed. I snake my arms around his waist, entirely enveloped in one of the best hugs I've ever felt. I could stay this way forever, inhaling his warmth around me like a security blanket. It makes all the anger, pain, and chaos drift away like a dream. Forgotten.

We both exhale heavily, releasing the tension fully.

"I hate fighting with you, Emma," he croons into my hair, and I feel the tug of tears come back.

Oh, no, you don't! No more. I'm done with all that. I've poured enough emotion out this week, and I don't think I can handle it anymore tonight.

I mentally shake myself to pull it together.

"I hate it too." I nuzzle into him as he tightens around me reassuringly. I inhale him slowly.

"How was your vacation? Even though you bailed a week early?" His voice is low and husky; it does things to my insides, and I bury my head against his chest. My hair falls over my face to conceal my expression.

"Lonely," I admit, and he sighs again.

"You weren't alone, though." There's a tinge of regret, and I can't stay mad at him anymore. He's always been able to make me forgive him, no matter what. The curse of Carrero and his damn spell over me.

"I guess. I like Leila," I admit with a shrug, staring down at his flat stomach.

"Me too; we've been friends since forever. She's probably one of my few female friends," he admits.

"You have lots of female friends," I tease, finally lifting my chin to look at him properly. Our eyes meet as all the awkwardness slowly disperses, and there's just us … back to normal.

"No, I have dates. I have very few female friends. And no, I haven't slept with Leila; she's my friend, nothing else." He moves his forehead to mine, resting easily against me; it feels natural. Natural, yet agony, to be this intimate again.

"You don't sleep with your friends?" I'm surprised, considering we almost …

"No, I don't; Leila is like a kid sister to me. When I was young, she was around a lot; it wouldn't feel right." He shrugs it off.

Did that mean that sleeping with me might have felt right?

I push the thought out of my head, along with the warmth rising up my cheeks.

"She said you had a proper girlfriend when you were young … fifteen?" I don't know why I'm even bringing this up, but somehow, I want to hear it from him. I want to know if he had ever loved, despite the warning pain in my stomach.

"Good old loose-mouthed Leila! he mumbles. "I did." He watches me warily, and I glimpse evasive Jake. I was right; the times I thought I imagined this, he hid this little piece of history from me.

Why?

"You want to elaborate?" I coax gently, but my heart rate has elevated.

"There's nothing to elaborate on. I had a first love; she wasn't my first sexual encounter. We dated for a year, and then it was over." He shrugs, still holding me but loosely now.

"So, it was love, though?" My ribs constrict painfully.

"I guess … maybe," he deflects again, his hand coming up to my hair and playing with a wavy strand, distracting his focus, which means he's uncomfortable talking about this.

"So why didn't it last?" I hate that I'm asking, that his evasiveness is making me question him, but something in me needs to know. Obsessively so.

"I was sixteen. She was fifteen … kids playing at relationships." He slides his fingers down the length of the hair he's playing with, rubbing its softness between his fingertips. I wonder if he's doing it to distract himself or me. "Do you still talk to her?" Why do I even care?

Knowing there has been someone he loved bothers me more than it should.

"Can we not do this, Emma?" he inhales deeply, the definite hint of tension in him again. "Go to bed; we have a busy day if you're up to it?"

"I'm sorry," I mutter, but he pulls me close again, hugging me tightly one more time. His arms are around my shoulders, so my head is mostly squished with his squeeze. Then he relaxes, kissing me lightly on the top of the head the way a parent would or a sibling. He turns me slowly, then playfully shoves me back into my room, catching me off guard, so I stumble. The reluctance that had been across his face is suddenly replaced with a cheeky Carrero grin.

"Hey!" I yelp and swat at his hands, instantly outraged.

"Feisty!" he grins, "Slap one shithead, and suddenly you're a karate kid?" He laughs at me, and it's the best noise in the world. I mock-glare at him, but he tweaks my face in a juvenile fashion and pushes me further into my room with an easy motion. He pulls the door shut just enough to stick his head through and keep me trapped here.

"I'm glad you're okay. I didn't know what I was returning to; you sounded … not like you." There's apprehension as he speaks, but he smiles reassuringly. If only he knew that I have been that way in his absence, on the yacht, that whole time.

"I'm made of tougher stuff, Carrero." I bow lightly.

"I never doubted that, Miss Anderson. Now go back to bed.

We have work tomorrow if you're sure you're okay?"

I nod with a convincing smile. But then I remember the leggy redhead waiting out there, and it's sobering; he wants to be rid of me so he can play in his bedroom and 'let off steam.' We're back to old Jake once more and our previous relationship, just like he wanted! All the happy bubbles inside of me pop and dissipate as I realize this is how it will always be.