by Alexis James
Roman smirks and responds casually, “She stepped out. Bathroom I think. You okay there, pretty lady?”
“Shut up, Romeo.” Purse now in hand, I turn to see Marco standing in the doorway, blocking my exit. “I … uh … n-need … I gotta go.”
Marco, also a complete and total ass, grins at me and drifts his eyes over my body once again. “Why are you running off? We still need to talk.”
Pissed that he’s caught me off guard and come out of nowhere with all this sweet talk, I move toward him with a purpose, shoving at his chest with all my might until he starts to move aside. Just as I think I’ve made a clean getaway, his fingers wrap around my arm once again.
He leans down to speak into my ear, “We’re not done with this, Amita. That I promise you.”
Pulling myself up to my full height, which isn’t saying a lot because he still tops me by at least a foot, I reply, “Please have Mia keep me posted on your dad.”
“Will do.”
“See ya, Amita,” Roman calls, waving at me with two fingers. “Thanks for coming.”
I glare at him and his mocking behavior, share a silent dare with Marco, then yank my arm from his grasp once again and head down the hall with purpose, rounding the corner, until I see the bright red exit sign looming up ahead. Invisible hands wrap around my neck, cutting off my airway, leaving me gasping for breath. I momentarily consider how crazy I must look, all wide eyed and hurried, panting and sweaty. But then the thought is gone and suddenly I’m through the doors and out into the warm Miami air.
Breathing deeply, my footsteps slow as I move toward my old, red car. It’s the one thing I have left that ties me to my mom, something I won’t get rid of even after it completely stops running. She loved that stupid car, drove it everywhere and even conned an old boyfriend into painting it her favorite color. She loved the feel of the leather seats on her legs on a warm summer day as we’d cruise around the streets of New York with the windows down. Her long, wavy dark hair, so much like mine, would be tied back in a ponytail, small pieces flitting around her face, and if I try real hard I can still see her smiling, humming an off-key tune.
Sliding into the seat, my fingers grip the large steering wheel tightly as I attempt to get my emotions in order, pulling strength from the old memories of the woman who raised me. My stupid endeavor to bring support to these people I care for has backfired completely. All I’ve done is make things worse, created problems and issues where there should be none. All I’ve done is push Marco into making a promise he’s most likely already starting to regret.
No amount of corporate donations or schmoozing will convince the doctors and nurses that we need to remain on post at the hospital around the clock. Cruz tries pulling all his usual strings and throwing around his millionaire-status weight, but Dr. Walker is unconvinced. The bottom line is that he allowed it before, last year when Papa was at death’s doorstep, but since this particular ailment doesn’t require an ICU stay, he pulls rank and boots us out around midnight.
I drive aimlessly around for an hour or so, quietly debating whether or not to show up at Amita’s door and make my presence known. I believe I’ve pushed my luck with her for one day, but that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to give it another try.
I park at the curb, kill the engine, and give myself a moment or two to think through this decision. Every choice I’ve made today has been emotionally driven by my fear about my father’s health and by the deep need I have to convince Amita that I know I fucked up and want to make things right again.
Having her surprise me like that, showing up to provide support even though I treated her like crap and hurt her in ways I’ll probably never understand, was a blessing in disguise. Sure, it was awkward at first, but the moment she reached out and took my hand in hers, I knew without a doubt that this was my one opportunity to find a way back into her life.
The kiss … well that was one of those emotionally driven things I was talking about. There was no thought, no time for doubt or worry. I knew only that if I didn’t kiss her, two things might happen: I’d regret not doing so or I’d do everything in my power to make sure we kiss every single day for years to come.
I’ve got work to do. I know it. There will be a whole lot of apologies, a bunch of groveling, some major sucking up, and patience … lots and lots of patience. Amita has proven yet again that she won’t be pushed into anything. Feisty, gorgeous beast that she is, she still has not told me—or anyone else for that matter—whether she and Vic the Dick are back together. She skirted the questions, avoided them with questions of her own, and still I’m not convinced she’s walked down that road again. Her physical reaction to me would be the first reason. The mix of fear and need in her eyes would be the other. If she was so damn invested in that old tool, there’s no way she’d be looking at me with such desperation, such anger. Such … love?
Stepping out of the car, I walk slowly to the entryway of her building. The access code still works, thank God, and with a joyful “yes!” I jog up the stairs and down the hall to her door. Because our relationship was close but not too close, we never exchanged keys to each other’s homes. I’m left with the annoying ring of the doorbell, or knocking loudly to wake her and all the other tenants. Not that I’d actually use a key if I still had one. I do respect some boundaries.
I press the bell once, wait a moment or so, then press it again. Ear against the door, I wait eagerly for a sound, any sound, that she’s awake and heading to the door. When another moment goes by, I press it again and drag a hand through my hair in frustration.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice comes through the door, but she makes no attempt to open it.
I look directly into the peephole, where I can feel her looking at me. “I need to talk to you.”
“It’s late, Marco. Go home.”
Dammit, she’s frustrating. “Don’t you want to know how Papa is?”
“I know how he is. I’ve been checking in with Mia every hour on the hour since I left the hospital.”
So much for Mia and me being good friends. “Can I come in? Five minutes, that’s all I ask.”
There’s a long moment of silence, followed by a distinctive thump that sounds like her forehead banging against the door. “So you’re saying you can make up for all you’ve done in five minutes? Wow, Moran, good to know I’m worth so much of your time.”
“Jesus, Amita, you know that’s not true.”
“No, actually I don’t.”
My heart clenches painfully at the realization that she may never actually give me the time to apologize, grovel, or suck up to her. As much as I’d hurt and disappointed her, I’ve never made her any promises either. So she forgives me. Then what? The fact is I need to be ready to answer that question without hesitation before I take any next step.
My heart does a ferocious pitter-patter in anticipation of the ‘then what’ part. Then we start to come clean with one another, holding nothing back, everything we say raw and uncensored. Then we begin to build a life together. It may be slow going and require a lot of patience and time, but the end result will more than benefit the long road getting there.
My head, always the more logical of the two, reminds me that I’ve avoided commitments of any kind my entire life. So why her, and why now? The answer slides over me with unyielding comprehension. Because she is everything, and without her I’m nothing.
“I’m going to make this better, Amita. I’m going to fix things between us. I fucked up. I know that. But we’re good together, babe. You know that as much as I do.”
There are the sounds of the deadbolt being undone and the knob turning, but when the door is pulled open, the safety chain is still firmly in place. She peeks around the edge of the door, hair wildly disheveled around her face, eyes dark and filled with fear.
“We were good together. You still walked away.”
I try to reach for her, but she takes a step back and moves to close the door. “Wait, wait.” Once she�
�s looking at me, I try again. “I did walk away. I did it because I was scared.” She nods, patiently waiting for me to continue. “I handled everything wrong. I should have told you how I was feeling. I should have done something or said something. But I didn’t and I’ll regret that for as long as I live.” Bracing my hand on the wall above my head, I look down at my feet. “I’ve never done the relationship thing, you know that.” Our eyes meet again. “I’ve never, ever done the love thing either. And when things between us got serious, I got scared it was headed in that direction and I ran.”
She nods, eyes filling with unshed tears. “I trusted you.”
“Baby, I know that.” I start to reach out then quickly pull my hand back and shove it in my pocket to keep from touching her. “Please don’t cry.”
“You broke my heart,” she whispers, looking away and wiping tears away with her fingers.
And right now you’re breaking mine. “I know I did. No amount of apologies will fix that. We need time. Time to spend together. Time to talk.”
Her eyes are back on mine, hard and empty. “… time for you to hurt me all over again.”
Her words hit me like a knife to the throat. The fact that she’s right about everything doesn’t slip by me. Neither does the feeling that I’m making zero headway tonight. We’re both exhausted and emotionally worn out, and we really need some time to digest everything that’s happened.
“I’m going to find a way to get you to trust me again. If you can’t do that, I’ll completely understand.” I’ll hate it, and myself, but I’ll understand.
“It’s going to take time, you get that right?” Tears spill freely down her face and this time when I reach my hand in the small space she’s allowed, her finger grasps mine tightly.
I nod. “I do. I need the time just as much as you do.” The urge to pull her into her arms is gnawing at my insides. “I just need to know, before we take that first step, are you back with Vic?”
She shakes her head. “No. We had lunch together. I walked out before it was over.”
Grinning, I reply, “Good for you.” I’d like to ask more about it, but I need to wait for her to offer up that information. “Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is your birthday,” she states, glancing at her watch. “Well, technically it is today.”
“Yes it is.” She remembered. “Would you like to go to the hospital with me tomorrow?”
Her answer is immediate, cutting me to the core. “No thanks. I’ll stop by and see your dad another time.”
Defeated, I force a smile. “Alright. Well, I’m sorry to have woken you.”
She shrugs. “You didn’t.” She starts to shut the door, then rushes forward, “Thank you. For coming by. For apologizing.” As I start to turn away, she whispers, “Happy birthday, hot stuff.”
“Thanks, sweet cheeks.”
The drive to my condo is quick and easy and by the time I step through the front door, exhaustion weighs me down. My head is muddled by all that’s happened: Papa, what happened at the hospital, the things Amita and I said to one another. Weary from the avalanche of emotions, I move into the bedroom, strip off my clothes, and slide between the cool, crisp sheets.
I’ve avoided my bed all these long, lonely weeks, but tonight I just want to feel as close to her as possible. The lingering scent of coconut and honey is still there, as are all the memories of things we did to one another in this very space. Having had her in my arms only a few hours before, I recall all too well how drawn to her I’ve always been, even back when we were just friends and used to enjoy flirting with one another. We’ve always had off the charts chemistry and a very close friendship, but it’s all the other stuff I know we’ll have to work at. The friendship stuff, the sex stuff, that all came so easily for us both. Sifting through the emotional things and not panicking will be my greatest challenge.
Closing my eyes, I reach down between my legs, stroking hard and fast and imaging it’s her hand, her mouth, her body on mine. Reaching climax doesn’t take me long at all, and while it should have been just the Band-Aid I needed to relax and fall asleep, it does just the opposite. I’m wired for sound, horny as hell and wanting the real deal—not my hot memories or my own hand.
Tossing off the now defiled sheet, I stalk into the bathroom and turn the spray on, stepping beneath the frigid water and growling out a curse. It’s a sad day when a cold shower and jacking off won’t get my head straight about a woman. It’s a really sad day when I’m counting in double digits the amount of times I’ve gotten off alone since I walked out on her. Pretty ironic, since I used to get so much action I rarely ever needed to turn to myself for release.
The idea of any action other than Amita makes my skin crawl, which I suppose says a lot about where my head is in all this. As frustrated as I am sexually, pushing her in any way will get me nowhere. It could take us a long, long time to get back to that easy-going place where we used to reside together. Losing her again is simply not an option, so I have to put my own shit aside and take care of her first.
Stepping out and drying off, I think about the tattoo on her shoulder, the indelible words she chose to brand her body with years ago: Hate is easy. Love takes courage. I realize no truer words have ever been spoken. Hate, or as I like to call it dislike (since Mama always told me to hate is to sin), comes easily for me. I dislike a lot of things … Vic, her history with Vic, and the fact that even though they’ve been split for almost a year now, she still manages to reconnect with him once in a while.
The love part, while so easy for some people feels daunting and terrifying to me. That place you find yourself lost in when there’s simply no other way to feel. It’s the same place you find yourself running from with nothing but empty space up ahead at your destination. I love a lot of people—my family, Mia—but what I feel for Amita is just that: daunting, terrifying, and yet so very, very right.
Sliding on boxers, I stroll out into the kitchen and pull a glass down from the cupboard. Is that what all this has been about? The running and hiding, avoiding commitment, letting her go so easily? Do I love her and simply cannot acknowledge it? Do I love her so much it sends me running? Do I love her in that all-consuming way that Mia loves Cruz or that my parents love one another? Do I love her so much there’s simply no other way to feel?
The glass in my hand slips out, falling to the floor and shattering into tiny pieces. A smile lights my face and I start to laugh, idiot that I am standing in the dark with shards of glass surrounding my feet. My fear and worry shatters just as easily, floating away with the realization of what I’ve probably known all along but have refused to admit to myself until this very minute: I love her.
Work is one of those necessary evils. You have to be there, but you don’t want to be. We all do it, or have done it, and I’m always suspicious of those people who spout how much they adore their job so much that they look forward to returning to work after the weekend. Who wouldn’t give anything to have unlimited funds and the ability to not punch a clock?
Pick me!
I have discovered, though, and will only admit under duress, that work can sometimes be my salvation. At work I don’t have to feel, I merely have to do. At work I’m confident in myself; I know without a doubt what needs to be done and will work hard to see that happen. I’m not questioning my decisions or feeling insecure and hesitant. Those I save for all the times I’m not working, when thoughts of Marco drift in and nothing I do will derail me from thinking about him.
Marco showing up at my door that night was startling to say the least. I’m oddly proud of myself for keeping distance—or rather a chained door—between us. So unlike the hot mess I was at the hospital: holding his hand, hugging him, and allowing him to kiss me. Good lord, sometimes I want to just smack myself upside the head for being so dumb, so naïve, so desperately in love with the man that I forget for a moment how he used my heart for batting practice.
I have to give him credit. He’s played it very cool sin
ce that night. His texts have been brief, coming only once a day, lighting up my phone with his handsome face and causing little ripples of happiness to burst inside my chest each and every time. He usually gives me an update on his dad, asks how I am, and signs off. Only yesterday did he push a little more, asking if he could take me out for a celebratory birthday lunch. While the idea of sitting alone with him is appealing, it makes me very, very nervous. I don’t trust myself with him, and if the fiasco at the hospital is any indication, he feels exactly the same about me.
So I do what all good, slightly skittish, but very hot women do … I beg Mia to come along as our chaperone.
Marco took my suggestion that wasn’t a suggestion but rather a deal breaker in stride as I assumed he would. I haven’t heard from him since we settled on a time and place. Now I’m sitting at work, watching the evil clock tick by at a snail’s pace. I’m sort of wishing now that I hadn’t made these plans at all. Sure, it’s my birthday and sure I’d love to get together with my two favorite people to celebrate. Doing so with a heavy heart and stomach that’s ready to burst with nerves seems less like a celebration and more like a form of torture.
My phone rings two minutes before my scheduled pick-up time. Mia lets me know they’re here, and after one last look in the mirror, I grab my purse and head out. I’m wearing a casual black business dress that’s simple and hugs every curve. My hair is pulled back into a low, sleek ponytail and my makeup is soft and simple. Only the four inch stilettos hint at the darker side of my personality; spiked heels with straps wrap over each foot and up the ankle, fastening with chunky silver buckles.
Okay, so maybe I’m teasing him just a bit. The good part about having been with someone before is that you know exactly which buttons to push. The snug dress that hugs my curves is the first one, but the shoes are most definitely the cherry on the sundae. With a forced hands-off policy, courtesy of my bestie coming along, maybe it will give him something to think about. Like, how he can’t live without me. And how he wants to drop to his knees and declare his undying love for me.
