by LJ Evans
Three hours later, I walked into The Green Room. Locke knew about my eating habits which was why he picked that restaurant—completely organic, locally sourced. At least eating right is a healthy addiction instead of a life-ending one. But I’m learning that addiction is still addiction no matter if it’s healthy or not.
I had a tiny gift bag in my hand, so small it could fit a ring box in it. What would you say now if I brought you a bag that small? At the time, I didn’t think about it being jewelry-sized. Now I think about it all the time. I want to give you another bag like that, and I’m still hoping that one day you’ll let me.
I sought you out at the tables tucked into a room full of palm trees and beach umbrellas. When I found you, there was no Cam in you anymore. Not an ounce. You were this brilliant, shimmery vision that I couldn’t get out of my head.
You had your hair pulled up into that loose bun you always wear. Your thick lashes were almost visible from the door as you looked down at the menu in front of you. You were wearing a royal blue top that sat just off your tan, toned shoulders and accented just how lean you were. It did things to me, Bella, things that made me think I needed a trip to the bathroom before sitting down next to you. But you looked up just then with eyes that had turned the color of your top, and I was drawn to you instead.
I put my hand up as the hostess tried to stop me from seating myself, and I saw your mouth tighten at my movement. The young girl huffed at me, but I just continued to the table where you sat.
Easing into the booth, I put the bag on the seat, and my feet tangled up with yours underneath the table. It wasn’t intentional. You probably don’t believe that now when I can’t stop touching you. But the interaction made me tingle and tense in ways I hadn’t felt in a long time. Sensing it too, you pulled your legs away. I was disappointed, but not put off.
“Are you always surly and rude?” you asked with a glance at the hostess I’d offended.
I shrugged. As you can attest, I am pretty much always a rude bastard.
“I’m not sure why I’m here then. Seems what I wrote is correct.” You were trying to be tough, but even then, when I didn’t know you, I could tell you were more nervous than anything else. It was in the way your hands twisted the cloth napkin in your lap. I stretched out a little more, elbows behind me on the back of the booth, and eyed you slowly again. I wanted to see your reaction.
You looked away with a flush on your cheeks that I found adorable. But I wasn’t sure if it was in embarrassment at my assessment or in embarrassment at your own thoughts. Either way, it was a turn on. Most girls nowadays don’t get embarrassed over shit.
“Locke said I was to apologize,” I told you as I picked up the menu, looked it over, and tossed it aside. I was trying to be nonchalant, when really what I wanted to do was slide over to your side of the booth and determine if you still tasted the same as you had last night.
“So, you don’t truly want to apologize, but you’re being told you should. For your career?” Your eyes flashed angrily.
I grinned. “Nah. I just don’t believe in apologizing for a helluva good kiss.”
You looked down and turned an even deeper shade of pink which made me long to run my fingers over your cheeks. You were almost a red, white, and blue flag with your red face, blue top, and tight white skirt that ended mid-thigh, showing off a pair of gorgeous legs.
“You make an assumption that it was good,” you snapped.
“Your tongue was in my mouth of its own accord,” I teased.
My humor turned to panic when you drew in a sharp breath, threw your twisted napkin on the table, and stood. You had your hand on your hip again as you stared down at me. Well, it was really across because you're so tiny. Fucking adorable. Fucking feisty Tinker Bell chiming at me.
“This was a waste of time. I’m done doing Locke favors.”
You turned to walk away, but I needed you to stay more than I’d ever needed anything in my life. I wasn’t sure if I should tick you off more or grovel to make this happen. One thing was sure, I wasn’t thrilled at the idea of you doing any kind of favors for Locke.
“So this was a favor. For Locke.”
I leaned forward, bolting my hands on the table so that I wouldn’t physically drag you back. Thank God my innuendo stilled you before I did something I would have regretted.
“Don’t make it sound like that.” You crossed your arms over your chest as if to protect yourself from my stare. But Bella, you’ll never be able to escape my stare. Shit. See. Right there. I can recognize it when I do it, but I can’t promise I’ll ever really be able to stop.
“They were your words,” I prodded at you because pissing you off had at least gotten you to stay.
“God. It’s not like that.…” You were blushing again at my innuendo. Your pink cheeks killed me all over again.
“Damn you’re beautiful when you blush.” It just escaped. I hadn’t meant to say anything. You turned to go again. I thought maybe you were uncomfortable with my compliment but now that I know you better, I know you were running. From me.
“I apologize,” I said and my words halted you once more. “I apologize for calling you beautiful. I apologize for seeing a beautiful woman and kissing her. I apologize for thinking you were someone else and getting my heart trampled all over again.”
The confession surprised me as much as you. But it succeeded in making you turn back to me instead of walking away. You stared and I held my breath. Unsure if you’d fly away or come back to roost.
“So…you were kissing me because I reminded you of someone else?”
At least I’d piqued your interest, and I knew instantly it would be a good thing. But I’m also not stupid. I understand women don’t want to be compared to other women. You can say all you want about what happened later, but even my dumbass brain got it.
“Yes and no.”
“You’re frustratingly vague, Mr. Carmen.” It was the first time you told me that, but it wouldn’t be the last.
“It’s Seth. Mr. Carmen is my shit-for-brains father. And I’m not trying to be vague, I’m trying to apologize. It isn’t something I’m very good at.”
“Because you’re a cocky bastard.”
“Well, yes. Most of the time.”
“And you try to get women to sleep with you with a cheesy Southern accent.”
“Now, to be fair darlin’, the accent is partially earned.” I let the Southern drawl out in all its glory.
“You’re from the Bronx!” Your eyes flashed and somehow I wasn’t surprised that you knew this about me. You seemed like the kind of person who did their homework before an assignment. And I’d been just that: an assignment.
“Some of the time,” I said, shrugging.
But I had succeeded in getting you to sit down, so my body relaxed slightly.
The waitress came over, smiling in a way which said she’d be happy to give me a lap dance if I winked at her, but believe it or not, I didn’t register it then. I didn’t register it until you told me you’d noticed. She took our order and left.
“So.” You waved at the waitress. “Is that why you think you can be such a jerk?”
“Sorry?”
“Because women usually throw themselves at you?” You seemed offended on behalf of the entire female race, and I grinned again. I liked that I’d made you jealous. You were. Don’t deny it. Just remember what you did later, when the check came.
“Don’t grin at me that way,” you said, brushing an invisible speck from your skirt. “I’m not most women.”
I chuckled and leaned toward you. “But I did get tongue.”
You chose to ignore me, but I saw the truth of how you felt in your smooth cheeks that I ached to touch. But I also knew you wouldn’t react well if I did. Most likely, you’d bolt like the fillies on Abuelo’s ranch used to when I got near them.
To prevent you from running, I took up the little bag I’d brought with me and put it o
n your placemat. “It’s not a bribe. I don’t want a retraction. To be honest, I didn’t even read what you wrote, but it’s increased traffic on my site, so think of this as a thank you gift instead.”
You looked as exasperated as Locke had sounded when he called back later and told me that hits on our site were up. He’d still insisted that I apologize with a tone that I didn’t quite understand. At that time, I didn’t care. I’d just wanted to see you again. If doing what Locke asked was the way to do that, it suited me just fine.
You stared at me and the bag.
“Go ahead. Open it,” I prompted as my stomach clenched, hoping you’d like it.
You seemed torn between wanting to throw the bag at me and wanting to see what was in it. Lucky for me, your natural curiosity won out. You pulled out the metal and glass dewdrop ornament that I’d made. Inside was a tiny jewel encrusted fairy. I couldn’t keep my lips from twitching in satisfaction when I heard your intake of breath.
“You are talented,” you whispered, rubbing the dewy shape gently.
“Yes I am.”
You squinted your eyes at me like you wanted to call me on my bullshit, but the food showed up and prevented you from saying something you couldn’t take back.
I dug into my omelet with gusto, and I was relieved to see you had ordered real food and not half-assed chick scraps that a lot of women order.
We ate in a silence that somehow wasn’t awkward when it should have been when we hardly knew each other. Instead, it felt… expectant. Did you feel it too?
When the bill came, it had the waitress’s number written on it with a heart. I didn’t pay attention to it, but I definitely didn’t bother to hide it as I reached into my wallet. I certainly wasn’t going to call her. Once upon a time, maybe I would have. I usually liked women who went after what they wanted. But at that moment, I only had one kind of woman in my head, and she was sitting across from me.
Do you remember what you did? You grabbed the receipt and pulled out your purple pen with that big flower stuck on it. Yet another perplexing paradox because when was the last time you saw a grown woman with a flower pen? You grabbed the receipt, not to argue over paying, but to furiously scribble on it.
I put down the cash and picked up the bill. You had written, If you hadn’t flirted with my boyfriend, your tip would have been better.
I couldn’t help but laugh. It was a huge, spontaneous laugh that I hadn’t let out in so long, that it startled me as much as it startled you. It caused you to scramble out of the booth, but this time I scrambled out with you. When I looked down at your tiny frame, all I thought was, Strength. Not to be underestimated, followed by, Shit, I hope I don’t break her.
“So, girlfriend, where to next?” I smirked at you, pleased to see that crazy, beautiful color stain your cheeks again. It was all I could do to not pull your full lips right up to me and kiss you once more.
“I’m going to work,” you said, turning to float out the door. I followed, eyes drawn to your perfect little butt in your tight skirt.
Outside, you turned to me, sliding on your sunglasses in the shattering Southern California sunshine. My panic was reasserting itself. I know you didn’t see it because I’d been trained early in my life not to show emotion. Emotion was a weakness exploited by my dad. And I guess by my mom too, just in a different way.
“It was a pleasure not being apologized to, Mr. Carmen.” You stuck your hand out.
There was no way in hell I was letting you slip away. Not then. Just like I’m trying to not let you slip away now. “It’s Seth. Would you like to see my studio?”
I breathed it out before I thought it through. I never had anyone to my place. Only Locke and Becca had ever set foot in it. And you know Becca is just there to clean and mother me. I’d never had another woman there. At the school studios, I’d had to deal with people invading my thoughts and space. At my home, I didn’t want any of those fucking complications. But I’d made the offer to you and meant it with every fiber in my being. When you hesitated, I knew I had a chance.
“I’m not changing my story,” you said, as if to prove you had the upper hand.
“Okay.”
“I’m not writing anything else about you.”
“Okay.”
“I can’t do it now.”
“Okay.”
You squinted your eyes at me like you were just dying to berate me once more.
“You’re very frustrating,” you said for not the first time.
“I’ve heard that before,” I teased you.
“I am interested in your studio. How you do what you do. That’s it.”
It was more than that, we both knew it, but I let it slide. “Give me your phone, I’ll put in my details and you can show up when you want,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. Trying not to pick you up and carry you over to my motorcycle and take you home.
You handed me your phone. I typed in my address and my personal cell number which, again, I never did. I know you thought different. You believed I had a long line of women, but that wasn’t me. It hadn’t been me since Tennessee.
“What if I show up while you’re…busy?” You couldn’t meet my eyes. This made me realize you were thinking about all the ways I might be busy and that made me hopeful. I gave you my best unused grin.
“Contrary to popular belief, I rarely entertain at home.” My words that were meant to reassure, backfired and made you more uncomfortable.
“Your studio is at your house?” you gulped.
I nodded. But it made me think that maybe, just maybe, I was having as much of an impact on you as you were on me.
Our hands brushed accidentally as I gave you back your phone. Your skin was smooth and soft against mine that was calloused from working with metal and glass and wood for so many years. That smooth feeling, along with your sweet scent and your strength and your tininess, hit me all at once. The urge to capture all of it in textures of silk and steel overtook me. My mind twirled with more imagery. I’d been on imagery overload since I’d seen you last night.
You stared down at where my hand touched yours as if the touch had jarred you too. You started to walk away. I was still panicking.
“I have to warn you,” I called out and gave you another smile when you looked back over your shoulder. “If you don’t call, I will be hunting you down.”
You raised an eyebrow at me but just walked away. I don’t think you realized how serious I was. I wasn’t letting you walk away for long.
Maybe you liked that about me at first. My all-consuming focus. But I don’t know when to back off, and so it forced a wedge between us that I couldn’t remove even with love. Even now, I can’t remove the wedge, but I can’t let go either.
All I can say is that I’m learning. A big cat changing its stripes. After all, you’re getting a letter instead of me on your doorstep. I know now, just as I could tell then, that you weren’t one to be claimed. You were too goddamn independent. But you also need to understand, Bella, that possession, it’s a mutual thing. Because you own me as well. Every fucking piece of me, and I won’t ever be the same until you're back home.
PJ After Letter Two
LEARN TO LOVE
“I’ve lost love, lived with shame.
I was humbled by my fall from grace.”
-Bon Jovi, Sambora, & Martin
Pj puts the newest letter down and tries to breathe normally. He was right that she fought being claimed, but she’d never considered that she owned him too. That it was a mutual possession. Even though they had always been drawn to each other like positive and negative ions.
What amazes her is how he saw her as independent, because she hadn’t felt that way about herself when they met. She’d felt like she was dependent on everyone. On her best friend, Claire. On her family. She’d been having trouble standing on her own two feet when that was what she wanted most.
It wasn’t that she ever let anyone walk on her
. Not after high school. And she could pack a punch when it was required like it had been that summer. But she also hadn’t been in a place where she could say she was an adult with an adult life and adult responsibilities and adult ways of paying for it all.
When she’d met him, she’d been stuck in college mode. With part-time jobs and no career and a blog that was semi-successful but not anything she could live off.
She knows that those feelings, that desire to be grown-up and independent, is why she’d drawn such a hard line with Seth. She’d been adamant about not sailing through life on his coattails. On his money. She hadn’t wanted to take anything that she couldn’t somehow reciprocate.
But she also knows part of it had nothing to do with Seth and everything to do with her unresolved issues from her past. The regret. The shame. But she hadn’t been ready to acknowledge any of that when they’d first met.
♫ ♫ ♫
When he walked into her life with his pretend drawl, icy eyes, and kiss that made her knees buckle, she’d been a month and a half away from graduating with a bachelor’s degree in art history, and she’d been wait-listed for Pratt’s art and cultural management program. That rejection, coupled with the lack of any other plan, made her feel a little lost. She hadn’t been at her worst—that had been in high school—but she definitely wasn’t at her best either.
She’d been planning on moving to New York with Claire, and their roommates, Haley and Mina. But with Pratt’s rejection, it was all messed up, and she was being left behind. They begged her to come anyway, but she didn’t really see the point of spending all that money if she couldn’t attend the master’s program she really wanted.
After that intense and frustrating second meeting with Seth at The Green Room, she went back to the apartment she shared with the girls with him hanging on her brain. She sat down at the kitchen table with his publicity pamphlet from Locke sitting next to her computer.
Claire came out of the bathroom. Her tawny brown skin and long legs were showcased in a pair of tiny jean shorts. Claire was beautiful—model beautiful. She’d actually been offered cover spots for some magazines striving to be more diverse, but she’d rejected them. Claire didn’t want to be known for just her looks. She wanted to be known for changing the way the world saw ethnic issues.
