Post-coital bliss.
“I figured it’s the way you’d drink it,” Jett said.
“Why?”
“Because it’s the way I drink it.”
I peered up at the nonchalant expression on his face. Was he suggesting that we had lots of things in common? I wanted to ask, but decided against it. Did it really matter what he thought? In a few weeks, we’d be done fucking this insane attraction and lust out of each other, and then we’d move on as planned. No feelings whatsoever. Maybe we’d stay friends, and maybe not. It didn’t matter either way. I intended to enjoy it as long as it lasted.
“Slept well?” Jett asked, changing the subject. I nodded. ‘Good’ was an understatement. Cradled in his arms, I hadn’t slept this well in years. “You said something in your sleep.” His tone changed slightly and I instantly froze.
“What?” I asked warily.
His eyes bore into me with such intensity I feared they could penetrate years of steel and rake through my soul. “You said, ‘please don’t hurt me’.”
A cold shudder of dread rushed down my spine and turned my insides as cold as ice. The sudden urge to free myself from his embrace and get the hell away from him overwhelmed me. And yet, years of calculated planning kicked in, and I didn’t move an inch. Jett wasn’t the first man to come close to the truth, and he wouldn’t be the last. No need to panic. I had enough experience to deal with this.
I drew a long, silent breath to steady my nerves and clutched at the coffee mug just a little bit tighter while hiding my hands from his view, so he wouldn’t notice the white knuckles. “It was just a nightmare. I don’t really remember it.”
But I did. Vivid and cold in all its glory.
“Do you have those often?” His scrutinizing gaze brushed over my face, and his expression changed to brazen interest.
“Not really.”
I did, almost every night for the past twelve years. Twelve years of blaming and self-hate, of wishing I could turn back the clock and do things differently.
Jett hesitated. He didn’t believe a word I said.
Shit.
He was growing suspicious. I could see it in his intense gaze and worried frown.
“Did someone hurt you?”
“What?” I laughed, and almost choked on the sudden tears blurring my vision. “No, of course not. I told you it was just a dream. Just leave it at that.”
His shoulders remained tense and he didn’t look away. He didn’t even blink.
Double shit.
I knew my words came out all defensive and incriminating the moment he nodded slowly, as though I had just confirmed his suspicions. The vein in his right temple began to throb visibly beneath his skin. His jaw set and his eyes blazed with anger. I knew that look. It was the same look the police officer gave me the moment he told me they wished they could help, but it was probably too late.
I hated that look and everything it implied. You couldn’t change the past, no matter how hard you tried to shake at the gates of your life. People kept saying time heals all wounds, but in my case the memories buried deep within my soul never stopped torturing me with their vivid pictures and hurtful words.
So all that remained was me pretending it never happened. I had been trying that for years and almost succeeded, until a card popped up in the mail a few weeks ago, and turned my carefully planned lie of a life upside down.
“Who was it?” Jett asked softly, his voice barely able to contain his anger.
I shook my head. “No one.”
“Who was it?” he repeated more demanding. His index finger moved beneath my chin and forced my eyes to meet his. I searched his gaze, expecting anger and pity. The anger was there, but there was no hint of pity. Whatever he thought had happened to me, he also thought I was strong enough to deal with it.
Under his scrutinizing gaze the memories began to rush through my head, and a bolt of pain headed straight for my heart. I had pushed them deep inside the pits of my soul for so long, entombing them beneath layers of concrete and steel. But now the dam was about to erupt.
Shit and shit again.
“Please, don’t do this.” My whisper was so low I doubted Jett had heard it. Breaking free from his embrace, I dashed out into the backyard, eager to put as much physical and emotional distance between Jett and me as possible. I slumped down on the bench and pulled my legs to my chest. The warm breeze dried my moisture-stained cheeks, and I only now realized I was crying. I wiped at the tears hastily, angry with myself that I talked in my sleep, angry with Jett that he had to bring it up, angry with the world that shit happened and no one ever tried to stop it.
As I forced air into my lungs I began to rock back and forth, silently begging Jett to let it be, but I knew he wasn’t the type to turn his back on a woman.