“You have a touchy kind of face,” I smile, but the spinning starts to take over, and I decide to lay still to see if it will pass. I watch his green eyes in the dim light and wonder what he’s thinking about, mesmerized by how his eyes change with his moods. Sometimes they’re dark and almost brown, other times pale and almost aqua. Typically, they’re a very bright, almost emerald green. That’s when I love them the most.
“Hmmm.” He oddly looks at me, and I can still see the hint of a frown; I stifle the urge to poke it again.
“Hmmm!” In a mock deep male tone, I mimic, “What’s ‘hmmmmm’ all about?”
Jake can be exasperating! I like Jake. I’m glad he’s my boss! I think we get on better than most boss-employees do.
“It’s just ‘hmmm.’ You’re drunk. You’re making very little sense, and your grabby hands are a little distracting. I think I need to put you to bed.” He’s not in playful mode, which is disappointing.
What does he mean, ‘grabby hands’?
I hold my hands in front of me to look, but they don’t look ‘grabby’ to me. I was merely having a slight feel of a beautiful thing. He sighs, making me realize he’s closer and leaning down to peer at my face as if he’s trying to gauge just how drunk I still am.
I have the urge to say ‘hello’ or ‘peek-a-boo.’
“Where’s your hot Crone?” I laugh at my joke. It’s rather funny.
Miss Crane … Crone. Get it?
He smiles, sighing deeply as though he has no idea what to do with me anymore. When he moves his jaw in any little way, I notice that his ear moves slightly, and I become fascinated by it. I wonder if all men have this unique talent.
Would you call it a talent? Ear wiggling is a special skill of sexiness.
I giggle again.
“Emma, you’ve seriously lost your filter,” he laughs at me, looking at me in a ‘what am I going to do with my plastered PA’ kind of way. I reach up to poke his dimple again, but he catches my hand and pushes it down firmly.
Damn, he’s quick.
“Mr. Cartier-ro, leave my fingers alone,” I sound out in a proper British accent. Amused.
Now that’s funny because Cartier is one of his favorite places to spend vast amounts of money on leggy dates like Crone.
I’m making him laugh; when he smiles naturally, it makes me want to smile. He’s infectious.
God, I could lick that smile. It’s so delicious. I want to taste it.
“As amusing as this is, Emma, you’re going to have to go to bed. As much fun as you are drunk, I think I’ll get more sense out of you over breakfast.” He puts his mug down on the table with a decisive glance my way.
“I don’t want to sleep,” I pout, full child mode returning.
“Tough, you’re going to bed. I have a duty of care,” He scolds softly.
“I won’t go; you can’t make me.” I try and swat his face and hands as he reaches to help me up. I’m sure my sulky childhood face still exists; I’m pretty sure it’s making a comeback.
“Aargh. Emma!” He runs his fingers through his styled hairdo, messing it up. I think he’s frustrated with me, but I don’t care as I don’t want to go to bed to be alone with my mind.
I ogle his mussed hair. I like it better like that, less groomed and perfect, a little rugged. It really does make him look so much hotter. That ‘just fucked’ look.
I didn’t think that was possible.
I reach out and tousle it some more; I’ve never touched his hair, and it feels nice, thick and smooth, a little crunchy with product, yet sensual.
He catches my fingers, pulling my hands between us and holding them tightly. He’s giving me a testy look, and I wonder again where his date has gone. She’s lucky because she gets to run her fingers through his hair anytime she wants, which upsets me.
“If I have to drag you in there and put you to bed, I will. I’m not against hauling you and holding you down.” There’s seriousness in his eyes. He looks like boss Carrero, and that means no messing about.
“Promises, promises,” I tut, wriggling a hand free to poke him again in the dimple; he’s not smiling, but I remember where it is.
Bullseye.
“Fuck’s sake, Emma. What you do to me, woman!” He scoops me up speedily, and I squeal. He’s so fast it makes the room tilt, and I grab on for dear life and try not to choke him with my vice-like grip, my face almost pressed into his. He can walk fast, and, in a few easy strides, we’re already in my room, and he’s pulling back my sheets with one hand.
“Are you mad?” I suddenly turn tearful. I don’t want my gorgeous, swoony boss angry at me.
“No, Emma, I’m not mad.” He lays me in the bed and pushes me onto my pillow softly. He pulls up my sheets and tucks me in like a child, taking great care to do so.
I don’t remember my mother ever doing this for me. No one has ever done this for me.
“You don’t like drunk Emma?” I ask warily, upset at myself now.
He gently smiles down at me and runs a careful hand across my hair, then down my cheek, soothing me. The back of his fingers feathering softly across my face, igniting tingles over my skin. I don’t think he’s mad, and it makes me feel better. His touch has the same effect as a calming wave, that gentle look on his face relaxing me back to submissiveness.
“I do like drunk Emma, maybe a little too much.” He seems distant when he says it, and his eyes darken; he frowns, then quickly smooths it away.
“I don’t like drunk Emma,” I sigh and close my eyes. I’m jealous that Jake likes drunk Emma.
She’s a bitch.
I close my eyes, but when I do, the face of that weasel man at my mother’s table when I was fourteen sways in. I had just walked in from school, and she had figured a cozy dinner to introduce my father was a good idea. How wrong she was.
My brain swivels forward, drunkenness opening doors and letting my mind lose control. My mother with her various men; I recall their faces swimming past me in a rush, like a subway train, until it stops on one evil grin that causes me to shiver internally. That looming face sometimes wakes me in the night with terrifying dreams. The ever-present face of my nightmares and terrors.
“Why don’t you like drunk Emma?” he asks, bringing me back to the present. I focus on Jake as I pull myself out of my head. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, twirling a strand of my loose hair between his fingers. It makes my scalp tingle and draws my full attention to his muscular form so close to me, smelling so very good and uniquely him.
“She thinks about things I don’t want to think about,” I sigh quietly. Sadness overcomes me with a wave of fatigue.
“Like fathers who weren’t around?” He seems softer, warmer. Jake always asks me things about my past; I wish he didn’t, but tonight it doesn’t feel so bad, so scary. I want him to stay and talk to me, not go to his room with that awful ‘Crone.’ I want him here with me.
“And people called Ray.” I let out a long heavy breath at the mention of his name. The looming devil is still watching me inside my head, evading my closing doors, his lip curling back to reveal his snarl. The bile rises in my throat as the fear travels up my legs, and I shiver.
“Ray?” The confused, husky voice distracts me.
“Ray, who beats up girls and tries to molest them,” I whisper, afraid of saying it aloud if the monster hears me.
Why did I start thinking of Ray? Stupid, Emma, very stupid!
I don’t like brandy anymore; it breaks down the walls of my carefully built black box and lets things that I locked up tight to run loose.
A warm touch on my arm pushes the thought back into the distance; the touch is soft and delicate and sends a soothing sensation through the fear, bringing me back to the here and now. It helps Ray’s face moves back into the shadows where he belongs.
“Emma, why did you never tell me any of this?” Jake’s voice is pained. I don’t recognize his tone, concerned and breathy, but I’m experiencing the tug of drunken sleep falling over me despite everything running through my head. His touch is too calming, making me fall into peaceful darkness. My eyes get heavier, and the bed sways like a cradle, pulling me away from his voice. I can’t fight it.
“Don’t tell Emma I told you; she will be really mad,” I whisper, urging my Jake to keep our secret.
Naughty teen Emma. How did you get out?
I try and haul her back down into the shadows with me as darkness overtakes us both, but all too soon, I am lost.