by Alexis James
“Well, if it would make you feel better, just come right out and ask him. Say ‘Hey, Cruz, do you think I’m frigid or do you want to fuck me in every single way possible?’” She nods, proud of herself. “Yep, that should do the trick.”
My friend and her crazy antics always bring a smile to my face, and although I know her intentions are good, I have a hunch this level of self-doubt is going to be here for a long, long time to come.
“Thank you for your advice.”
She grins at me and taps her glass to mine. “Here’s to a nice conversation with your hunky boss that ends with you naked on his office floor.”
I laugh and reply, “In your dreams, sissy, in your dreams.”
Tuesday morning I’m on the phone chatting with Marco when Cruz saunters into the office. He’s dressed to kill like always: black suit, white starched shirt, wayward hair curling around his neck and begging to be touched. He offers me a cold ‘good morning,’ and steps into his office, slamming the door behind him so loudly it makes me jump.
“Mia? You still there?”
“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Cruz just walked in.”
There’s a thick beat of silence while I sit there like a dummy and stare at his closed door and wonder what the heck he’s doing here. The brief correspondence we exchanged the day before told me only that he’d try to get into the office ‘at some point this week,’ but it would depend on his father’s continued improvement.
I guess he’s really improved.
“Hey, pretty lady. Don’t take his shit, okay?”
God bless Marco. He’s been my saving grace ever since Cruz tossed me out of the hospital on my jean-covered ass two weeks ago. He calls at least once a day, usually with the excuse that he has something business-related to talk about. But then we always get off the subject and start talking about other stuff, normal stuff, like regular friends do.
That’s what we are now. Friends. Although, I must say it feels odd to be this close to the brother of the man I really want to be close to, but he keeps me laughing when all I want to do is cry and makes me feel good when I’m submersed with self-doubt. Even when I do something stupid like drunk dial him, which I did last night when I’d yet again had too much wine, he somehow makes me feel like I’m not a complete idiot. Not sure why though, when I blabbered on and posed the same question to him that I did to Amita.
I’ve really got to stop making late-night drunken phone calls.
“Mia, you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Remember what I said last night?”
What didn’t he say? I think to myself. After stunning him silent for a good five minutes, he went into a full-on tirade about how he’s talked to his brother and told him not to hurt me. Then he launched into a very descriptive and frankly embarrassing diatribe about my looks, my personality, and what the entire package of me does to the majority of men in the office—mainly his older brother.
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Babe, I guarantee you are not frigid. And if you think you are, I’ll be happy to prove you wrong.”
Frowning, I stare at the receiver. Did Marco just proposition me? “Uh … thanks?”
“I mean it. I’ll take you home, strip you naked, and prove to you that you are many things, but frigid isn’t one of them.”
My mouth drops open and my eyes flit around, convinced that someone must be punking me. Marco and I are friends, and even though I haven’t come right out and told him anything about what Cruz and I did in my apartment that day, he’s alluded to the fact that he knows things. But as much as I am flattered by his offer, and I’m probably a total fool for turning him down, the only one I want to get naked with is his older brother.
“Thanks,” I reply, mostly tongue-tied.
He snickers. “No need to panic, beautiful. I know your heart belongs to someone else.”
“You do?”
Now he’s laughing loudly. “How stupid do you think I am? I was in a hospital waiting room with you two for days on end. The sexual tension could be cut with a chain saw.” He sobers and adds, “And besides, Cruz already warned me to back off. He told me and Roman that you were his.”
Huh?
My eyes shoot to the closed door and my heart floods with happiness. “He did? When?”
“The day after you two disappeared to your apartment all afternoon to nap.” He says the word nap with enough emphasis it’s clear he has doubts about what we were actually doing. “Just don’t take his shit, okay? He seems determined to believe he doesn’t deserve to be happy.”
“Why would he think that?”
“You’ve gotta ask him. Later.”
Once again, I stare at the receiver, slowly setting it into the cradle and attempting to digest all Marco said to me. Oh how I’d love to believe he was right, that Cruz truly does believe I’m his and simply has an odd way of showing it. But the warning signs are all there, and have been since he put a stop to what I’d hoped would be a step toward the future. Ever since then, as each day goes by, he’s gotten more and more distant with me, slowly returning fully to the cold, hard man I first met. Not surprising I’d question whether or not he was really making a statement to his brother about what I am to him or merely saying that to halt any potential interest Marco might have in me.
But if he isn’t interested in me, why does he care if Marco is? Sure, I fully understand the office policy thing, but given the fact that I’m practically a member of their family now, I assume that particular item no longer applies to me.
Not that I want Marco to pursue me exactly, but the idea has merit. He’s kind and sweet and open—all things Cruz is not. And he’s no chump in the looks department either. An almost identical replica of his hostile, beautiful older brother. That’s the thing about those Moran boys, hotness runs in the family. But when I think about Marco, I see us catching a movie together or riding bikes around town. When I think about Cruz, I see nothing except steamy nights under the sheets pleasing one another and waking up in his arms.
The office door opens, startling me back to reality and predictably my face heats with embarrassment. Cruz tosses down a few files on my desk and continues to give me that vacant expression he’s perfected, an expression I feel like tearing off his face with my nails just so I can see the truth that lies beneath. I can practically feel the hard wall of ice between us, so when he turns away without saying a word I can only react.
“Cruz, please say something.”
In the short amount of time it takes him to stop walking and turn to face me again, I realize I’ve made a grave error in judgement. Believing that my week or so in the hospital side by side with him and his family was going to change anything was a huge mistake on my part. Believing that the intimate moment we shared in my bedroom meant anything more to him than a fleeting way to pass the time is reason enough to call myself a fool. Obviously I’ve misjudged him and have completely misjudged the entire situation. Just goes to show how naïve I really am around men, especially men like him.
“Miss Elliott,” he snaps, “You are not to call me anything other than Mr. Moran. Understood?”
I quickly avert my eyes and nod. “Yes, sir. I apologize for speaking out of turn.” Good girl, Mia, you’re so damn obedient.
Ugh … I feel like I want to vomit.
The slam of the door doesn’t startle me this time; it only serves to remind me of my place in his life. I am his assistant, nothing more. I might as well accept that and go on with my life or give him my notice now. As far as I’m concerned, whatever bit of affection he ever felt about me is now gone.
Don’t let me die.
Don’t let me die.
Don’t let me die.
I sit straight up in bed and wipe the sweat from my forehead, glance at the clock, and see that it’s nearly time to get up. Between the repeated nightmares about Dani and dreams of kissing Mia, I’m lucky if I sleep at all anymore. I’m bleary eyed and impossibly horny, but even the idea of calli
ng the escort service makes me shudder with revulsion.
I’ve tried alcohol, working out more than usual, and pleasuring myself when I simply cannot think straight without needing to get off. But nothing does the trick. The images of a pleading Dani are still all too vivid, and the regret from turning my back on Mia and hurting her in the process hangs on me so heavily it’s sometimes hard to fully function.
I hate that when she looks at me now she refuses to really look at me, and she’s right back to looking everywhere else, just as she did when she first came to work for me. She won’t speak to me unless she absolutely has to, but I’ve noticed she treats everyone else—including my damn brothers—with kindness and warmth. The same kindness and warmth I was able to experience for that short, fleeting moment in time. I understand fully that I led her on and then proceeded to throw what happened between us back in her face, but I never believed she had it in her to be so cold. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was trying to emulate me.
After a long shower that does little to ease the tension in my shoulders, I head into the closet to dress and am immediately distracted by the same invisible magnet that always draws me in when I least expect it. Extracting the photograph from the bottom drawer, I have to ask myself what Mia must have thought when she saw this. Did she wonder why I keep it tucked away from curious, peeping eyes? Did she see in the image the man I used to be, the same man that I still sometimes believe I have the right to be? A happy man, a content man, a man deserving of love.
There’s a part of me that needs to tell her about my past, if for no other reason than it may help to explain my future. But speaking about Dani to another woman after all these years feels like a betrayal. I should just let her rest in peace where she belongs and leave the past in the past.
Doing that, however, will take a strength I don’t believe I have, especially on days when I close my eyes and think about the fact that if life had been different, I’d be raising a teenager now. I’ve imagined so many times how different my life would have been if Dani had lived, if the child had lived. I’ve imagined birthday parties and sleepovers with friends and so many other life events that never reached fruition. I’ve dreamt of a dark-haired, dark-eyed child who resembles her, or one with eyes like mine. I’ve imagined my parents as grandparents, happily fighting with Dani’s family over time with their beloved grandchild.
Tears burn in my eyes, and I quickly blink them away and shove the photo deep within the drawer, as if doing so will somehow erase all of the fantasies I’ve allowed myself to consider. The truth of it all is that regardless of what I imagine, dream up, or wonder, Dani and my child are still dead and I’m still the one person who could have saved them and didn’t.
A brief knock sounds at my office door, and I force my eyes to the computer to avoid looking at Mia. But the male snicker, decidedly not Mia’s, has me glaring at the intruder almost immediately.
Marco strolls in, stopping briefly at the bar to pour himself some tequila, then flops down across from me and yanks off his tie. “Hey, Big Brother.”
“I’m busy. What do you want?”
Ass that he is, he continues to sit there chuckling at me while he rolls his shirt sleeves up and undoes the top two buttons on his gray dress shirt. He’s a much better dresser than Roman, that’s for sure, but never hesitates to toss off the tie if the opportunity presents itself.
“Wow, Cruz, you are such a joy to be around day after day.”
His sarcasm is not lost on me, though I do find it difficult to respond, given all that’s changed lately. I’m well aware how much time he and Mia have been spending together. Just the idea of her confiding in him or God forbid complaining about me to him pisses me off.
“What do you want?” I bark.
He tosses back the tequila and slams the glass down on the desk. “Jesus, it’s no wonder she won’t speak to you anymore.”
The familiar tug of pain centers directly in my chest. It’s the same pain that appears whenever I think about Mia and how things between us have deteriorated the past few weeks. Ever since I returned to the office full-time, I’ve become highly aware of how much my beautiful assistant hates me. And the kicker is she continues to submerse herself into my family, hanging out with Marco after hours, shooting the breeze with Roman on the phone, and she frequently either calls Mama or stops by the house to see how she and Papa are getting on. I find most of this out through the grapevine, with the exception of whatever it is that’s going on with her and Marco, which he keeps strictly to himself.
“Was there something you needed, Marco? I have a lot to do.”
He shakes his head and gets to his feet, stalking to the window and shoving his hands in his pockets. His silence is profound, much like Mia’s, and after a few long moments I have no choice but to turn my attention back to my work.
“Are you aware that she thinks she’s frigid?” he says softly after nearly ten silent minutes have gone by.
Stunned, I look up at him wide eyed, convinced I must have heard wrong. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Mia thinks she’s frigid and that’s why you aren’t interested in her.”
Of all the possible reasons I might need to distance myself from Mia … that thought never once entered my mind. In truth, it’s not possible to even imagine she believes something like that about herself, not after the way she responded to me. I don’t know her well, but I do know women, and I could have easily brought her to orgasm without removing one item of clothing. The fact that I now regret not doing so is something that irritates the hell out of me.
My fingers tear through my hair and after I swear a few times, I growl, “Why the hell would she think that?”
“I don’t know, man,” he says, flopping back down into the chair. “Her ex was a real dick and from what she tells me that’s why they broke up.”
My thoughts immediately travel to her mouth on mine, the soft moans, the eyes filled with need as she slid her hands over my bare ass. Frigid? I think not. Explosive? Oh hell yeah.
“I told her I’d be happy to prove to her that she’s not,” he continues, shooting me a smirk when I start to swear again. “Relax, Brother. She doesn’t want that from me. I’m just keeping her company. We have fun together.”
I picture the two of them, laughing over burgers or strolling down the beach, sharing stories with one another. In those images she’s smiling and happy and relaxed, not at all like the timid, quiet woman who resides outside my door every day. And while I thoroughly despise the idea of Marco spending any amount of time with her, I am happy that she’s not lonely anymore.
Marco leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “Answer me this, will ya? Why are you so hell bent on spending your life alone? You’ve got this beautiful, sweet, amazing girl that wants nothing more than to make you happy. And what are you doing? You’re running.” He shakes his head. “Baffled, man. I’m truly baffled. I’d give anything to have a woman look at me the way she looks at you. Anything.”
I’ll never be able to make anyone understand what it is I live with each and every day. Not him. Not Mia. Not the rest of my family. They will never know the guilt I struggle with. Guilt because I should have saved her. Guilt because I should never have been driving. Guilt because I should have given her the keys and not been so insistent that I get behind the wheel. Every day I wake up knowing I killed her, I killed them. And every night when I close my eyes, I can still hear her voice, begging me not to let her die.
“Christ, man, is this the life you want to live? Do you want to go to your grave knowing that you forfeited the one life you were given, all because of something you had no control over?”
I’m so damn exhausted I can’t even argue with him anymore, so I offer a shrug and assume the post he vacated by the window. “Just take care of her, okay?”
There’s a heavy sigh behind me and I hear him get to his feet. “Yeah, I can do that.”
He shuts the door with an air of finality, and
I consider whether or not he came here to feel out the situation, to see for himself whether or not I was still hung up on her. Clearly he’s smitten, and I can’t blame him at all. Mia has a beautiful soul and deserves to live a long, happy life with someone who will give her every bit of himself. If that life ends up being with my younger brother, I will simply have to learn to live with it. He’s a good man, and I know he’ll treat her right. She deserves nothing less.
The house is oddly silent when I step through the door Sunday evening. The usual music doesn’t play softly in the background. No noises or distinctive smells coming from the kitchen that would indicate food preparation, which would be odd on any regular day. But Sunday never has been, nor will it ever be a regular day, not if Mama has anything to say about it. Sunday is about Mass in the morning, cooking in the afternoon, and a family meal in the evening. Always has been. Always will be.
I stroll into the kitchen and see the large stock pot simmering away on the stove, the surrounding counters spotless and free of the usual Sunday meal prep mess. Making my way through the den and down the hall, I can finally hear my parents’ voices. Mama is laughing and I immediately begin to smile. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard her so happy.
Stepping up to the open doorway of their bedroom, I find my parents seated on the small love seat in their sitting area. They are holding hands like teenagers, both grinning at something on the television screen.
“Hello, you two.”
“Niño, what a nice surprise to see you here so early,” Mama says, rushing to her feet and into my arms. We share a hug and I drop a kiss on her cheek, before she releases me and gives me a thorough look up and down. “You look tired.”
“You always say that,” I mumble, stepping past her to embrace my father. Still recovering, he remains sitting, though the hug he gives me is anything but weak. “Hello, Papa.”
