Bad Romeo

by Leisa Rayven

  He keeps rocking, and although neither of us can talk anymore, the noises in the room speak volumes. Groaning breaths. Raspy sighs. All manner of murmurs as we kiss and grip each other.

  He pushes onto his hands, and I can't tell whether he's trying to hold on or let go. His face is beautiful. Every nuance of what he's feeling is playing out in intricate detail. He's showing me all the parts of him I knew were buried inside. Sure, the fear is still there, but so is the strength, the courage, the raw vulnerability and profound emotion. I want to tell him how breathtaking he is, but I don't have the words. I'm too mesmerized to even attempt to find them. Too hesitant to look away in case he disappears.

  Soon, I can't keep my eyes open, so I close them and just feel. Fingers grip. Hips connect. Muscles tremble and skin heats. Tension coils inside me, and I open my eyes to find him looking down at me, open-mouthed and heavy-lidded.

  “Cassie …”

  He whispers my name in the moments when his mouth isn't on me. It sounds likes he's begging. For what, I don't know. Whatever he wants, it's his for the taking. Having him like this has ruined me. How could I ever want anyone else after experiencing him?

  He's so deep in me, he's tattooed himself on every nerve ending. Pleasure and pain and gasping perfection.

  “Cassie, I can't. I'm going to … Oh, God. Oh, God.”

  His face crumbles. His thrusts become erratic, and all of his exhales sound more like moans. He wraps around me and holds me so close it feels like we share the same thundering heartbeat. The pleasure burn inside me has blossomed into a full-blown fire. It's all I can do to keep my eyes open and watch him.

  A guttural sound vibrates in his chest, before the thrusting stops. He falls forward and mumbles incoherent whispers into my chest.

  I sigh under the weight of him, feeling heavy and sated. I can't move and don't want to. We breathe against each other, and I can still feel him inside. For some reason, tears spill onto my cheeks.

  I think part of me believed we'd never get to this point. That he'd never agree to be a part of this most intimate act. And yet, here we are, naked and breathless, having given each other a part of ourselves no one else has.

  I try to swallow down my emotions, but I can't, so I just let the tears fall.

  Is this what being in love feels like? Overwhelming gratitude that the other person is with you as you share something astonishing? Knowing that the most astonishing thing they can share is themselves?

  “Thank you,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

  He squeezes me, and I'm surprised to feel moisture on my shoulder. I try to see his face, but he keeps it buried in my neck.

  “Ethan?”

  He stays silent and holds me. His breathing is shallow. I can feel his heart pounding through his ribcage, and I stroke his back to give him a moment.

  Eventually, he exhales. It's deep and shaky. He lifts his hips to withdraw slowly, and when he's completely out, a strange emptiness expands inside me. Without meaning to, I tighten my arms around him. He kisses me before he pushes back onto his heels and removes the condom.

  “Come on,” he says. He gets out of bed and holds his hand out to me. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

  In the bathroom, he fills the tub and makes me soak for a while. I close my eyes as he washes my back. I ache but not more so than when I exercise muscles that aren't used to being worked.

  Ethan's quiet, but he keeps one hand on me at all times. Makes sure I'm okay.

  When we climb back into bed, I snuggle into his chest. His heartbeat sounds weird. Kind of like there's an extra echo in his ribs. But he strokes my arm and soon, it's just a rumble beneath my ear.

  When I drift off, I dream about him.

  Dream Ethan stands in front of me and gets dressed. He pulls on layer after layer, and covers all the parts that just made love to me. The brave parts. The loving parts.

  I try to stop him, but he's determined. Eventually, everything is hidden again. Covered and protected.

  No. We're beyond this now.

  He mouths something. I study his lips as they meet then pull apart.

  What is he saying?

  For a moment, I think he's telling me he loves me. Saying it so softly I can barely hear. But then I hear …

  “I'm sorry.”

  He says it time and again. Quiet and regretful.

  When I wake up, a crawling sickness overcomes me as I realize it wasn't a dream.

  TWENTY-ONE

  EPIPHANY

  Present Day

  New York City

  The Diary of Cassandra Taylor

  Dear Diary,

  Good news! Ethan wants us to get back together, so I'm now magically healed and we're off to live happily ever after!

  In case you missed it, I typed that sarcastically.

  The truth is, as much as I believe Ethan's changed, it's not enough.

  If only I could go back in time and beg myself not to fall for him so hard. Not that young me would have listened. I knew he was damaged, but I figured what we had was strong enough to smooth over all the cracks and fissures.

  For a while, it was, but it was just an illusion, like when snow covers over giant holes, making it look like the ground is perfect and solid.

  Holt and I have never been solid. Just varying degrees of screwed up. Always teetering on the edge of our vast insecurities.

  And now, he's asking me to walk that slippery slope again, and he's taking such care with me, I'm tempted to believe it's safe.

  The problem is, no matter how careful he is, I'll always remember the other falls, and no matter how much he tells me he's different, I'll always know it was at my expense.

  It took breaking my heart twice to grant him an epiphany strong enough to make him change. Fucking good for him.

  What's going to grant me mine?

  I stand at the bar and sip my vodka cocktail. It's my third, and I'm finally starting to feel less. Or maybe I'm feeling more. It's hard to tell.

  I can hear my castmates in the far corner of the restaurant, laughing and talking. They're celebrating our move into the theater next week. Tech rehearsals. Previews. Getting the play as perfect as it can be before the world judges us on opening night.

  I should be with them, but I'm not in the mood.

  Marco raises his glass to me and smiles. So happy with what he's created. Onstage, Ethan and I are flawless. It's made him confident in my abilities.

  I give him a smile before looking into my drink.

  He doesn't realize he's trusting someone whose emotions are slowly choking them.

  Deep laughter rumbles across the room, and I turn to see Ethan chuckling as Marco gestures wildly. He looks so happy.

  I finish my drink and order another. Maybe four is my lucky number.

  A man sits on the barstool next to me. He gives me a smile as he orders a Scotch. He looks a bit like Ethan. Dark hair and blue eyes. Attractive. Expensive suit. Tie loose, shirt unbuttoned.

  I must be staring because he glances at me as the bartender delivers his drink. “I'd offer to buy you one, but it looks like that one's still fresh.”

  I blink and look away. “Uh … yeah. I'm good.”

  “Are you here alone?”

  That's not what he's asking, but I answer anyway.

  “I'm here with friends,” I say and gesture to the loud table in the corner. Holt's doing an impersonation of someone. Possibly Jack Nicholson.

  The stranger nods. “Ah. Taking a break from the fun?”

  “Something like that.”

  Heat prickles up my spine, and I turn to see Ethan, his gaze sharp and blazing from across the room. He's stopped mid-impersonation. I've felt subtle glances from him all night, but this is different. I'm no longer alone.

  I get a flashback of him before his personality makeover. Always so jealous.

  I turn back to the bar and try to ignore him.

  The stranger leans over, and the Scotch on his breath makes him smell like Ethan.
<
br />   “You're far too beautiful to be alone,” he says. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  I've heard variations of that line countless times over the years, and on many occasions I let those men help me. And when I fucked them, I did so desperately. Using them and hating them afterward for not being Ethan. Hating myself more for still wanting him so much.

  Hating him most of all.

  The stranger is still waiting for an answer, hopeful my delicate emotional state will result in him getting laid. In the past, it probably would have.

  “I'm just going to drink for a while,” I tell him and smile, aware that Holt is watching my every move. “But thanks for the offer.”

  I touch his arm. Start at the tricep and run down to the elbow. My words say “no” but that touch says “maybe.” I don't mean “maybe,” but Ethan doesn't know that, and perhaps I want him to squirm. Perhaps I'm petty enough to test his newfound serenity and see if he's really changed as much as he says.

  I chat with the stranger. Give him a coy smile.

  Ethan's glare burns me every second I continue. I take sick comfort in it.

  I wonder how far I'd have to push him before he breaks.

  Another cocktail. More conversation. I can feel Ethan's frustration like a ripple in the air, vibrating against me, telling me that what I'm doing is wrong.

  It's hurtful.

  Vengeful.

  After five cocktails, I've lost the ability to care. The stranger has his arm around me as he whispers in my ear. Tells me how beautiful I am. How much he wants me.

  I laugh, because I don't feel beautiful. I feel like trash.

  The man plants a soft kiss on my neck. I don't tell him to stop. When he does it again, Holt appears beside me, muscles bunched and expression brooding.

  “Okay, Cassie. Time to go.”

  “Wait a minute, pal,” the stranger says and tightens his arm around my waist. “The lady and I were having a conversation.”

  Ethan practically growls at him. “Your conversation is over, pal. Take your fucking hands off her.”

  Ah, the caveman cometh.

  It's kind of a relief that he's not so perfect after all. Makes my imperfections seem less vast.

  The stranger frowns and puts down his drink. “Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?”

  Ethan leans over into his face. “I'm the guy who's going to put your fucking head through the bar if you touch her for one more second. Anything else you want to know?”

  With a flash of fear, the stranger lets me go, and Holt helps me up. I feel guilty for leading the stranger on, but not as guilty as I do for screwing with Ethan. I can't even look at him as he walks me outside.

  When we're on the pavement, he stands me on my feet. I stumble over the gutter and brace myself against a parked car as I try to hail a cab. Everything is tilted and wrong, and I know that only he can make it right again, and that makes me fucking angry.

  “Cassie, what the hell is going on with you tonight?”

  Another cab passes as I wave sloppily, and I almost fall before strong arms wrap around me and pull me up.

  “Jesus Christ, would you stop? You're going to get yourself run over.”

  I grip his shirt as my legs sag, and all I feel is warmth, and arms, and lips on my forehead as I breathe in the so-right smell of him.

  “Come back inside.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Then I'm coming with you.”

  “No. I can't do this.”

  “What?”

  “This!” His face is too close. Mouth too enticing. “This!” I push on his chest, hand over his heart. “You!”

  I'm agitated. Bitter about things I can't change and too frightened to think about the things I can.

  He glares at me with barely repressed anger. “Would it make it easier if I was some douche in a suit who just wants to fuck you? Could you deal with me then?”

  My legs give out again. He pulls me tight against him. Now I'm off my feet, and we're chest to chest, face to face. He's killing me with closeness.

  “That's it. I'm taking you home.”

  I shake my head, wishing he could understand that if I stay with him any longer, he'll unstitch me, and I really can't fall apart now. Bitterness is the only thing holding me together. Without it, I'm shapeless.

  Lost.

  My breath hitches, and he loosens his embrace. Puts his hand on my cheek.

  “Fuck.” He hugs me to him. Whispers in my ear. “Don't cry. Please. I'm sorry. Whatever's going on tonight, you're going to be okay.”

  I don't believe him.

  He holds me with one arm as he hails a passing cab. It stops, and he puts me in the backseat and passes the driver money with instructions to help me to my door if necessary. Then his face is in front of mine, concerned and unhappy.

  “Call me when you get home, okay?”

  I study the back of the seat.

  “Cassie, I'm serious. Look at me.”

  My head is so heavy. It's all too hard.

  He cups my chin to help me lift it.

  Somber eyes look into mine. “Promise you'll call me when you get home, otherwise I'm coming with you.”

  He stares until I nod.

  A knot tightens in my throat as he kisses my forehead.

  Why does he insist on making everything seem easy, when it's clearly impossible?

  He disappears, and the door slams. When we drive off and I know he's not watching anymore, I crumble.

  When I stumble into my apartment, Tristan's there. He's seen me like this before and knows what to do. He helps me into the bathroom and orders me to shower. Makes the water cold. Then he helps me into bed, brushes my hair away from my face, and whispers that everything's going to be all right.

  I must doze off at some point, because when I open my eyes again, he's gone, but sitting on the nightstand are two Tylenol and some water. I take them and gulp the water down.

  I feel dry inside.

  Emotionally desolate.

  I grab my laptop and open Holt's e-mails, needing some part him. Feeling too full and inconsolably empty all at once.

  I pour over every word. They're filled with vague ramblings of regret, but there's one thing he never said. One thing I needed to hear so much back then to reassure me that what I'd felt for him wasn't completely one-sided.

  I'm nearly asleep when my phone rings, and without looking at the screen, I know it's him.

  “Hey.” My throat is dry.

  “You said you'd call.” His voice is hard. Worried.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Dammit, Cassie, for all I knew that cab driver could have raped you, murdered you, dumped you in Central Park. What the fuck is going on?”

  “I don't know. I'm sorry.” And I am, for so many things.

  He sighs. “You just— You can't do that to me. You have no idea how much I— I mean, I want to …”

  He's quiet for a second. “I'm sorry for snapping.” He sounds as tired as I feel. “I'm just worried about you. I've tried to give you space for the past few weeks. Distance so you can get a better perspective, or whatever. But you let that guy paw you tonight and I … Dammit, you had to know how I'd react.”

  “I know.”

  “I haven't felt like that in a long time. I wanted to annihilate him.”

  “But you didn't.”

  “I wanted to break his fucking fingers. Was that reaction you were after? To drive me insane? To hurt me?”

  “I guess.”

  “Yeah, well, mission accomplished.”

  The admission doesn't give me comfort. In fact, it makes me feel like crap.

  I'm so tired of feeling this way, but I don't know how else to be.

  A long time ago, I thought that two people who cared for each other could work out any issue as long as they talked about it, but now I see it's not that easy. Talking actually requires a person to have the courage to express what they're feeling, and I'm all out of courage.

 
“Would you have gone home with him if I hadn't been there tonight?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because …” I struggle to find the words. “If I'd taken him home I'd …” I sigh, prickly and defensive. “I would have just pretended he was you, anyway, so what's the freaking point?”

  There's a long pause. My heart is pounding erratically as I wait for him to respond.

  “Have you done that before?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often?”

  “All the time. Every time.”

  He inhales. “What does that mean?”

  He's pushing, but despite my discomfort, some part of me wants to be pushed. I'm not going to be able to do this without him.

  “Cassie?”

  “After you left …” I swallow. “I missed you so much, I wanted them to be you, so I closed my eyes and tried to make them you. All of them. Even Connor. Especially Connor. It didn't work. None of them even came close.”

  My breathing seems obscenely loud in my quiet bedroom, and the tick from my clock fills the long seconds.

  “Jesus … Cassie …”

  So now he knows. For better or worse, he knows.

  “I thought …” He stops, regroups. “When I found out about the men you'd been with after I left, I figured you did it to forget about me. Or punish me.”

  “That was part of it. But not the main part.”

  “And tonight?”

  “I wanted to push you. See if you'd revert back to your old self. And, like you said, hurt you.”

  Saying it makes me realize what a low blow it was. How far I've fallen. How poisonous I've become.

  “I get that. I know you think I deserve some pain, considering what I did, but you don't understand.” He takes a breath. “I know you suffered when I left, but I suffered, too. That European tour was the most miserable time of my life.”

  My resentment flares. “Oh, yeah, I'm sure parading around all those exotic places with beautiful girls adoring you was really hard. Deciding which one to take home each night. It must have been like a freaking smorgasbord.”

  “Is that honestly what you think happened? That I could do that? Jesus, Cassie, when we were together, I never so much as even looked at another girl. Do you think I could forget about you so easily?”