by Alexis James
All week long I’ve avoided going anywhere near Cruz or Mia unless I absolutely had to. Hiding in my office has been one royal pain in the ass, but it’s a small price to pay to avoid the wrath they are each bound to unleash my way. I can’t blame them. They’re caught in the middle between their family loyalty to me and their friendship with Amita. Distance is probably the best thing for all of us.
By the time Friday rolls I’m itching to get out of the office and clear my head but like the coward I am, I head for the stairs instead of the elevator, my stupid attempt to avoid running into my family members. From the parking garage I walk out onto the main drag, keeping a watchful eye out for a certain brunette beauty. I have to laugh at myself. For all the screwing around I’ve done over the years, I’ve never once worried about running into a woman on the street. I have on occasion done just that, because it’s impossible to sleep around as much as I have and not run into someone along the way. It was slightly awkward, but that was more on the woman than me. I sure as fuck had nothing to be embarrassed or worried about.
Now I’m like a hunted fugitive, constantly scanning the street and looking over my shoulder, all to avoid facing the truth of what I’ve done—a truth that’s been sitting right on the edge of my conscience … tap, tap, tapping on my head on a continuous basis, urging me to see the truth.
I ran because I was scared.
Coming to this somewhat easy conclusion is an eye-opener. That’s not to say I haven’t been scared of things before, because I sure as hell have. I was terrified that day at the mall when I was about six and wandered off to look into the toy store window then turned around and Mama was nowhere to be found. I was scared to death when I took a tumble at age eleven and ended up breaking my arm and the doctor mentioned the word surgery. And there was no worse fear than getting that call about Papa and having to spend hours wondering whether or not he was going to survive. Fear in my personal life is not something I’m at all familiar with, which is probably part of the reason I’ve avoided getting close to anyone.
My transgressions are weighing so heavily on me I don’t fully comprehend the voice calling out my name from behind. It’s not until a hand is placed on my arm and a familiar voice says, “Hey there, Marco,” that I finally stop and turn.
Lacey is standing there grinning at me, hand cocked on one slim hip, long blond hair pulled up on top of her head in a bun. That killer body of hers is barely covered in a short dress that dips obscenely low in the front, not that I’m complaining or anything. I may be one miserable fucker right about now, but I sure as hell can appreciate a bountiful rack.
Leaning forward, I kiss her cheek. “Hey, Lace. How’s it goin’?”
She grins at me and slides her hand up and down my arm. “It’s going good. I haven’t seen you around for a while.” She leaves the statement floating in the air, and it irks me that she feels she has right to know what’s going on in my life.
“Been busy,” I respond offhandedly, looking over the top of her head to scan the street.
Her eyes roll over my body. “I’ve missed you.”
Sure, you have. You’ve missed my cock, not me. Shrugging, I shoot her a grin and shove my hands in my pockets. “I’m sure you have, babe.”
My relationship with Lacey never consisted of more than a few brief, casual conversations and a whole lot of naughty sex. Lacey is the type of woman men risk losing their wives over. She’s bold and brassy and not the least bit shy about expressing her needs or wants. She’s also not the least bit clingy or demanding. There was a time someone like her turned me on. Now I’m sad to say that I’m slightly repulsed that I allowed myself to go there more than once.
Christ, what the hell is happening to me?
She snickers, not the least bit offended by my remark. “I was just going to get some lunch. Join me?”
In all the time I’ve known her, we’ve never actually sat down and had a substantive conversation. I have no idea what she does for a living, although whatever it is she must make a lot of money because her car and condo are flashy and expensive. I suppose she could be someone’s ex or girlfriend, but I’ve never seen any indication at her place of another person living there. Chances are Lacey takes good care of herself just fine.
I have to wonder, can I sit down with her over a sandwich and actually shoot the shit? Doubtful, but I’m anxious to get off this street. The longer I hang around, the greater the chances are of running into Amita.
“Sure, I can do that.”
We’re silent as we move further down the block, and she gestures to a small café that I’ve never been to. We take a seat toward the back at a small round table and while I peruse the menu, she sits back with her legs crossed and watches me intently.
“You’re different,” she comments a short while later. “Changed.”
I smirk at her. “Now why would say that, Lace? Is it because we’re sitting in a restaurant and not fucking in some alleyway somewhere?” I’ve always been bold with her and probably what some would call hateful. I choose to believe I’m as respectful toward her as she is to me, which by the look of things isn’t much.
She shrugs, taking it all in stride. “Maybe.”
The waitress arrives to take our orders and when we’re alone again, I sit back casually and prop one ankle up on the opposite knee. “What’s new with you?”
“Not much. Working.” She grins broadly. “And playing, of course.”
Shocker. “Of course. What is it you do for work?” Not that I care particularly, but I do have to get through this meal and it’s far easier to do so when we’re making idle conversation.
“I’m an event planner.”
I have no idea what the fuck that is so I mutter, “That’s cool.”
Chuckling, she taps her red nails on the glass table. “How about you? What do you do all day to entertain yourself?”
Part of my usual MO is to avoid anything personal with the chicks I’m fucking. That’s why I very rarely would ever bring them to my place. It was easier never having to worry about some crazy chick showing up at my door when I didn’t go back for seconds. It also guaranteed my work life and my personal life remained separate. I have to say it worked really well for a long time.
Until Amita walked into my life and turned it upside down.
Shrugging off thoughts of my beautiful ex, I go with the broad answer. “I’m in accounting.”
Lacey gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me. “Sounds boring.”
“It is.”
The waitress dumps off a glass of wine for her and a beer for me, and I search my brain for some dumb subject to talk about that will keep things neutral between us. What I don’t want is for her to get any wrong ideas. Our days of sleeping together are over.
Lacey thankfully saves me from stumbling over myself and starts to chat about some of our mutual acquaintances and recent goings on at our usual party haunt. The food arrives and I quickly dive in, getting more uncomfortable with this entire situation by the minute. What the hell am I doing sitting here with her, this woman who I know but don’t know? How fucked up is it that I can give a play by play of what her naked body looks like, I know exactly what sex positions she prefers and how many times she says my name when she comes, but I don’t even know her last name?
The truth that’s always sat just off my shoulders now weighs heavily on me—a painful, pressing realization suddenly brought fully into the light simply because I’m seeing for the first time the stark contrasts between the person I used to be and the person I am now. The only time I was really, truly myself was when I was with Amita. All the other women before her were nothing more than a vessel for me to stick my dick into. Case in point: Lacey. There was a time when all she needed to do was snap her fingers and I’d drop my pants. There was nothing of substance, no feelings involved, no risk for a broken heart—not with Lacey and not with any other woman I’ve been with. For years that was enough. I had my work, my home, and women to keep my di
ck warm. I was happy. I was content.
Or was I?
“You’ve got a girlfriend.”
Lacey’s statement pulls me out of my head and my eyes shoot directly to hers. “Huh?”
She grins, threading her fingers together and leaning her slim forearms on the table. “You heard me. I think you have a girlfriend.”
Shaking my head, I push my half-eaten lunch aside. “No girlfriend, babe.”
She looks doubtful. “Well, something has changed. The old Marco would have been all over me by now. We’d be on our way back to my place, not sitting here eating a crummy lunch together and making small talk that we both believe is a waste of time.”
She speaks the truth and we both know it. I was never one to carry on conversations with her, or with any of the women I slept with. We had a few drinks, shared a few laughs, then we got right to it. There was very little foreplay involved, ever. Clothes were removed and we found the nearest available surface, which could be either a bed, a counter, a wall. No exchanged words, except for the dirty ones, and there sure as hell were no long-lingering looks or snuggling. Everything about it was cold, raw, and just how I like it.
Just how I liked it, that handy voice in my head responds.
“I’ve got to get back to work.” Standing, I toss down some cash. “Good seeing you, Lace.” I drop a kiss on her cheek then move quickly through the restaurant and out onto the street.
Finally able to breathe, I move with a purpose back down the block toward the office. I’m no longer slinking along, searching the shadows for the one person who I shouldn’t want to run into but secretly I do. What would I say if I did see her? Would it be weird and awkward, kinda like my recent exchange with Lacey? Or would she avoid me completely, determined to no longer allow me to have the ability to hurt her?
Fuck. What the hell did I do?
My feet come to an abrupt halt right there in downtown Miami. The people behind me are muttering expletives and shoving by me, but all I can do is stand there like I’ve had all the blood drained from my body, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing but the truth.
I had everything, every goddamn thing a man could ever want, and like a complete tool I got skittish and bolted. I had a beautiful woman who I was also proud to call my friend. A woman who never made demands on my time. A woman who never tried to push me harder than I allowed her to. She was willing to give me everything: her time, her future, her mind and body. She would have been willing to give me anything I needed or wanted or asked for. And I walked away.
What the hell did I do?
My heart races wildly in my chest as I force my feet into motion. My stomach does a sick tumble, my copious transgressions coming at me one after the other. No wonder Amita had that hollow, empty look on her face. All I did was take and take and take, and even in the end she was still doing her best to give me an easy out, telling me, “I’ll be fine.” Sadly, she’s anything but fine. But then again, I’m not either.
I take the elevator to the thirtieth floor and make my way down the hall toward Mia’s desk. She’s staring at her computer, pen in hand, piles of papers spread out in front of her. I say nothing as I slump into the chair next to her desk and attempt to still my erratic heart. She glances at me and whatever she sees on my face spurs her into action. Tossing down her pen, she grabs my hand and pulls me upright, dragging me along after her until we’re shut tight in the conference room next door to Cruz’s office.
“What’s the matter?”
I finally lift my eyes to hers, but am unable to reply. It feels like I’ve been slapped silly, hit upside the head, and finally have some sense about me. Sadly, it changes nothing. I may have suddenly pulled my head out of my ass and started to see the light, but Amita is still gone, still heartbroken, and I’m still the cause. I did that. I took everything she was willing to give me and threw it right back in her face.
With a groan, I slump into the nearest chair and cover my face with my hands. I hear Mia settle in front of me, feel her soft hands grasping my forearms. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”
How do I tell her that I hate myself for what I’ve done? How do I find the words to make everything right again? I was given one chance at happiness and I threw it away because I thought I wanted …
More?
Something different?
Someone without the ability to break me too?
With a shattered groan, I say, “Ah, Christ. What have I done?”
Mia drops her forehead to mine, whispering, “You are human, Marco. You made a mistake.”
Did I really, or did I knowingly toss aside the best thing that ever happened to me, simply because I was too afraid to take a chance on forever? This was no blooper or blunder, like a forgotten appointment or that item you neglected to pick up at the store. This was a conscious choice I made. A choice based on fear, yes, but also on my skewed belief that I was satisfied living my life as I had before: all fun, no commitments, completely content.
Is this what contentment looks like? Skulking down the street, having lunch with a woman I only know on a first-name basis, hiding out in a conference room and falling apart in front of my friend?
I lift my head, my eyes meeting Mia’s. “I fucked up.”
She nods. “Yes, you did.” Her hands cradle my face, warm brown eyes relaying confidence. “You can fix this. I know you can.”
“No, I can’t.” The resoluteness in my voice stuns me as much as it does her. What she doesn’t know is that I’d never risk that again. I’d never risk potentially hurting Amita simply because I can’t figure out how to live without her. I’d rather be alone forever than ever see that raw pain in her eyes again.
Everything that I’ve been running from for weeks now washes over me: the fear, the doubts, the truth, pulling the breath from my lungs. I’m grateful for my friend’s silence, for the strength she gives me when I pull her into my arms. Silence and strength won’t erase what I’ve done. It sure as hell won’t give me a second chance with Amita—a second chance I don’t deserve. The kindest thing I can do for her now is stay gone, give her space, let her heal, and allow her to move on.
The week of Thanksgiving is predictably hectic at work, and I welcome all the craziness and constant phone calls as the perfect distraction to keep my muddled brain busy. Unlike other people’s perspective, the holidays are a time of year I dread. I find no joy in the idea of sitting around a table eating turkey, buying presents, or decorating a tree. The holidays for me are a painful reminder of what I don’t have. And this year, the list of things I don’t have has grown considerably.
I’m off work for the next four days, and although I should be grateful for the break from all the craziness, I dread all the alone time. The gym will be closed tomorrow, so all the normal people can gorge themselves on their Thanksgiving meal. I’ll probably be sitting my ass on the couch, binge-watching Netflix and eating popcorn.
I stopped feeling sorry for myself years ago and now there’s this odd acceptance that blankets me whenever I think about being alone during the holiday season while everyone else is celebrating with family and friends. Of course, I totally enjoyed myself last year when I was with Mia and the Moran family but those days of big family gatherings are long past, for me at least.
Lori saunters through the room, hands full of papers. “Go to lunch, Amita.” This is a daily occurrence lately: she tries to shove me out of the office for an hour or so. Since that whole thing at Cruz and Mia’s, I’ve completely avoided going out for lunch. Running into him is something I avoid at every turn.
“But I’m …”
She gives me a narrowed look. “You’ve been here since before seven. And I know for a fact you stayed till eight last night. Go out. Get some food. Breathe some air.”
I roll my eyes at her. “I’m not hungry.”
“Then go pick something up for me.” She starts to move again, headed toward the hall. “Don’t come back for at least a few hours. Got it?”
&n
bsp; “Yes, ma’am.”
I stall for as long as possible, straightening the papers on my desk, checking my email. When I hear footsteps moving toward the office again, I grab my purse and sling it over my shoulder, stepping around the edge of the desk just as Victor emerges in the doorway.
He shoots me a slow smile, quickly drifting his eyes over my body. “Hey, Mita.”
He looks good. Really good. Too damn good for a lonely, brokenhearted gal like me. “Hey. This is a nice surprise.”
“I’m glad you think so.” He moves closer to me. “I thought I’d take a chance and see if I could buy you lunch.”
“Why?” The word is out of my mouth before I can bite it back, and I wish I felt bad for being so suspicious. I don’t.
“I know how tough holidays can be for you. I just thought that maybe we could catch up.”
I can’t forget that Vic and I have a history and whether I like it or not, he does know me very well. He’s witnessed me withdrawing from life for the weeks between Thanksgiving to Christmas. He’s seen firsthand the way I avoid anything having to do with the holidays: my refusal to put up a Christmas tree, the lack of presents I purchase. That’s not to say he hasn’t given me a gift or two or that I haven’t picked up a little something for him and for Mia over the years because I have.
“What do ya think, Mita?”
Abbreviation aside, I hate to admit that I’m grateful for the invite. I’ve been spending so much time by myself lately I’ve begun to go a little nuts. “Sure. Lunch would be nice.”
We share some small talk while we walk out of the hotel and down the street to the deli where I usually go with Mia. Vic cautiously keeps a small distance between us as we walk and talk, though occasionally our hands smack together as we shift to move past other people.
