“What are you going to do about Blake?”
I bit down on my lip. “I don’t want to see him again.”
“What about your job?”
I heaved a breath. That was the big question. How could I continue to work with the bastard? Face him every day? Deal with the pain? Get through the rage? Yet, I loved my job. And wanted so badly to see the block of women’s programming I was developing come to fruition. Fuck, what was I going to do? I was too hurt and confused to think straight. I swiped at my tears and shrugged my shoulders.
“I don’t know, Lib. What would you do?” I croaked, my voice hoarse. “No one from Nick or Disney is going to hire me with SIN-TV on my resumé.”
My friend, the analyst, knitted her unruly brows in deep thought. “Don’t quit. It’s a great job and you’re doing great things. The company is going to recognize you. And when they do, you’ll be able to move up wherever you want. So, I know it’s going to be hard, but hang in there.”
I digested Libby’s words. She was right as usual. Except it wasn’t going to be hard to hang in there. It was going to be next to impossible. I sipped more wine.
A loud knock-knock-knock at the front door caught us both by surprise. Puzzled, Libby jumped up from her chair and headed toward it. “Did you order a pizza?” I asked as she peered through the peephole.
Not answering me, she unbolted the door and bent down to retrieve something. Slamming the door closed, she stood up and turned to face me. Two familiar objects were dangling from her hands: My purse and my suitcase. And tucked under an arm was Blake’s white tiger.
My mouth fell open and my heart thudded. “Is he out there?”
Libby shook her head. “I saw him drive off.”
I sighed with relief, yet a dagger of disappointment dug into my gut. My stomach twisted painfully.
Grabbing my crutches, I lifted myself off the couch. My foot throbbed. The pain medicine the doctor had given me must be wearing off. Maybe later, Libby would go out and pick up the prescription the doctor called in for me at our local CVS. Yes. That’s what I needed. Pain pills. They might alleviate the pain in my foot, but the pain in my heart was mine to bear.
I hopped in the direction of my bedroom. “Lib, could you do me a big favor and bring my things to my room?”
“Sure,” my bestie said brightly. Wheeling the suitcase, she followed me down the narrow hallway that led to it.
“Where do you want everything?” she asked.
“On my bed would be fine.”
She complied. “Cute tiger,” she said as she propped it against my pillow. “A Christmas present from your parents?”
“Yes,” I stuttered. For some reason, I didn’t want to share the fact it was from Blake. Fighting back tears, I eyed the plush toy wistfully. And then I glanced down at my chest. A little gasp escaped my throat. I was missing the pendant necklace with the tourmaline heart that Blake had given me along with the tiger. I must have lost it in the ocean or maybe the sand. Another wave of sadness swept over me. It stood for everything that was Blake. Everything that was us. Something rare and beautiful. And now, it was forever gone.
I was on the verge of crying when Libby’s voice sounded. “Want me to help you unpack?”
“Thanks, but I think I can manage.” My room was small, so it wouldn’t be that big a deal to hang up the stuff I’d brought to Boise or tuck it away in my armoire. Even on crutches. I probably could just hop around on one foot and use a single crutch for support if I had to. Plus, I needed some alone time.
“Is there anything else you need me to do?” There was genuine compassion in Libby’s voice.
With a tearful voice, I asked if she could bring me some saran wrap or a plastic garbage bag so I could wrap my foot up and take a much needed shower; I was still covered all over with sand and salt. I also asked if she didn’t mind going to the pharmacy to pick up my pain pills. I was quickly discovering that being on crutches was ridiculously humbling. Lucky for me, my best friend couldn’t be more obliging. God, I loved Libby!
When Libby returned with a roll of saran wrap, I thanked her and asked her a few questions about her holiday, realizing I’d so selfishly only talked about myself. She told me she’d had a relaxing week and a blast at the Chorus Line-themed New Year’s Eve party her twin brother Chaz had thrown. Eager to get to the pharmacy before it closed, she told me she’d tell me more when she got back. After a hug, she took off to pick up my meds as well as some Chinese take-out. It didn’t matter to me what kind of food she brought back. Nauseated and terribly saddened, I had no appetite.
I decided to take a shower before unpacking. After securely wrapping up my bandaged foot with the entire roll of saran wrap, I hobbled down the hall to the bathroom we shared. Luckily, we had a stall shower that was easy to step into, and it even had a handicap rail left behind by the elderly tenant who’d inhabited this house before us.
I debated whether I should take my crutches into the shower, but ultimately left them against the glass shower door. On one foot, I hopped into the shower and turned it on.
Holding on to the handicap rail, my bad foot raised, I let the hot water pound on my head. I soaped up the large sponge and began to wash the memories of today away. Granules of sand laced the tiled floor. I softly brushed the sponge over my breasts and then moved it to the delicate folds between my legs. I couldn’t wash the throbbing away. Damn it! He was still with me. The memory of taking a shower with Blake this morning filled my head. How sensual it had been—first that mind-blowing finger fuck and then fucking me against the wall in a steamy haze until I fell apart. I could feel him now. His mouth on my wet flesh, his magnificent cock thrusting against my own wet walls, my pussy throbbing. My breathing grew shallow. I was masturbating, rubbing the sponge against my clit to bring myself to a climax of despair. Tears seared my eyes as I came.
Hastily, I washed my hair. The scent of the shampoo aroused yet more memories. The Very Cherry Vanilla shampoo was from Gloria’s Secret. A little got in my eyes. It stung like the memories the shampoo brought back.
Not bothering to condition my hair, I carefully hopped out of the shower. After towel drying myself, I wrapped myself in the fluffy bathrobe I always kept on a nearby hook, and then palmed the shower door for balance as I removed the saran wrap from my injured foot. Success. The bandage had remained dry. But the throbbing in my foot had intensified. I hoped Libby would hurry back soon with my meds.
I grabbed my crutches and hobbled over to the sink. I glanced at myself in the mirror. My reflection shocked me. Even after the shower, I looked drawn and drained. My eyes were swollen-red and my lips puffy—all from crying. Fuck that man! He had turned me into a heartbroken, blubbering mess. With more tears threatening to fall, I quickly brushed my hair and teeth and headed back to my room.
I was beat, physically and emotionally. And my foot hurt like hell. But I was determined to unpack. To put away the memories of today once and for all. I lowered myself to my bed, stacking the crutches against it, and zipped open my suitcase. My eyes widened and my heart stammered. Neatly packed on top of my belongings was all the Gloria’s Secret lingerie I’d worn with Blake. And there was something else—Blake’s collarless shirt. I reached for the shirt and put it to my nose. It smelled of him. It smelled of me. It smelled of us.
Except there was no more us. I flung the shirt to the floor as if it were toxic. Fuck that man! Fuck that beautiful bastard! He was just trying to get to me. Rage consumed me. With all the muscle strength I could muster, I hurled the bag off the bed. The contents sprawled all over the floor. My room looked as if it had been ransacked by a burglar.
The truth was, I had been robbed. Robbed of my heart. Wrapped in my robe, I curled up on my bed and began to sob. I was almost glad I didn’t have my meds because the intense pain in my foot was the only thing that kept the pain in my heart at bay. Clutching the soft white cuddly tiger, I cried myself to sleep.
Chapter 15
Blake
I
didn’t expect Jennifer to show up at the office. In fact, I was surprised I showed up. After dropping her bags off last night, I had gone to some seedy Hollywood bar where no one knew me and drunk myself to oblivion while some skinny, shaggy, out-of-work musician sang Passenger’s “Let Her Go.” After the third whisky, I’d stopped counting. I don’t know how I got home. I couldn’t remember. Amazingly, I wasn’t stopped by some cop and hadn’t gotten into some head-on collision. The minute I got home, I’d puked my guts out. I was lucky I’d made it to the toilet in time. Vaguely, I remembered collapsing onto my bed without undressing. This morning I was paying the price for my fucked-upness. I had a raging headache; waves of nausea still swarmed my chest, and I looked like shit—eyes bloodshot, hair disheveled, face unshaven. And worse, I felt like a dick. A fucking prick. A stupid bastard. A goddamn asshole. I was the Dickwick, not Bradley Wick, DDS.
No girl had ever walked away from me. I was a player. I was the one who did the walking. But Jennifer McCoy was no ordinary girl. She had made me feel things I’d never felt before. She’d showed me my heart wasn’t just an organ for pumping blood to my cock. It was something more—a home. A home for love. But now, my heart was vacant. The lights were out.
I’d fallen hard in love with Jennifer and I’d stupidly, selfishly fucked it up. In all my almost thirty years, I’d never before had a moment of self-loathing. I’d gotten everything I’d wanted. Done everything I’d wanted to do. But now, self-loathing ran deep through my veins, darkening my already black heart. I fucking hated myself for what I had done.
Nursing my headache, I was drinking black coffee at my desk and about to boot up my computer when Jennifer hobbled into my office, still on her crutches and wearing the backpack her parents had given her. She looked somber in all black—a full calf-length skirt, a simple black tee, and a pair, or rather, a single ballet flat on her good foot. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed behind her glasses, her skin paler than usual. A new wave of nausea swelled inside my chest. Her frail state made me feel even sicker to my stomach.
“Take a seat,” I managed, setting down my coffee.
“No need. I won’t be staying long.”
My heart stuttered. “You’ve come here to resign?”
She adjusted her crutches and met my gaze. “I’ve come here to do my job. I’ll be working all day on my Gloria’s Secret PowerPoint presentation.”
I floundered for words. “How’s your foot?”
Her eyes sliced into me like razor blades. “It hurts.” With that, she hobbled out of my office, leaving me the stupid prick I was.
I spent the rest of the morning answering emails and watching dailies of a new porn flick we were shooting that was scheduled to air in the Fall. Usually, I got a boner watching some dude massage his ten-inch dick between the planet-sized tits of some blond bimbo, but today, I didn’t. I could barely focus. And my cock was comatose. My mind was totally consumed by Jennifer. I had the burning urge to burst into her office, sweep her off her feet, and shower her with make-up kisses. The fact that she couldn’t walk away made it even more tempting.
Just as the clip of the porn flick ended, my cell phone rang. I glanced down at the caller ID screen. It was Jaime Zander. Fuck. I hadn’t even called or emailed him to thank him for letting me use his beach house. I had to admit it. I was a prick of epic proportions.
“Yo, Blakeman, how did it go?”
“I fucked up.”
“What do you mean?”
I told him about the video. Then, I told him what had happened.
“Jesus. You really did fuck up.”
“Jay-Z, why don’t you meet me for lunch at Factor’s? I could use some cheering up.”
“Man, I can’t. I’m still in Hawaii. I won’t be back till the end of week. I’m flying to Asia tomorrow for business.”
Fuck. In the background, I could hear one of the babies crying.
“What should I do?”
“Don’t give up on her.”
I digested his words. Jaime had deceived Gloria for her own good, too, and had almost lost her. And then he came to her rescue. But this was different.
The crying in the background grew louder. I could hear Gloria telling my best bud to get off the phone.
“Listen, I’ve gotta go. Call me if you need to talk, pal. Good luck.”
We ended the call. I was going to need all the luck in the world to win back my wounded tiger.
Chapter 16
Jennifer
The Kiss. That was the first thing I saw when I’d hobbled into my office—the magnificent painting Blake had given me for Christmas. Before leaving for Boise, I’d had someone from maintenance hang it on the wall.
Debilitated as I was, I wasn’t prepared for my reaction. My aching heart almost went into cardiac arrest and my good leg went weak. All at once, every memory associated with that painting bombarded my brain. Each one more beautiful and gut-wrenching than the one before. Unwanted tears—hadn’t I cried enough?—spilled from my eyes. God fucking damn it. Blake was back in my bloodstream and knocking at my heart. Places he no longer belonged. I steadied myself on my crutches and tried impossibly hard to will him away. He was toxic. I was stricken by his poison. When I finally managed to settle at my desk, I composed an email to maintenance, asking someone to come by and take the painting down. What was I was going to do with it? Tears flew onto my keyboard as I cluelessly typed. About to hit “send,” I deleted it instead. Sobs shook my body. Thank goodness, the door to my office was closed. I was a confused, tormented, blubbering mess.
I seriously don’t know how I made it through the next couple of days. I woke up, went to work, came home, did more work, and then cried myself to sleep. My parents, of course, called me right away, eager to hear how things were going with Blake. Just the mention of his name had my eyes welling with tears. Fighting back the waterworks, I lied and told them that New Year’s was fun and everything was going “just great.” I knew if I told them what had happened, they’d freak and be on the first plane to LA. As much as I craved a hug from my mom and another from my dad, I needed time to sort through my emotions and gain some form of composure.
“Honey, you don’t sound like yourself,” commented my perceptive, overprotective mother.
“I’m just tired, Mom,” I replied. “I’m working very hard on a presentation. If you don’t hear from me this week, that’s why.” With an exchange of “I love you,” we ended the call. The tears that were threatening trickled down my face. Blake had promised my father he wouldn’t hurt me, but he had.
I couldn’t snap out of my depression. I had restless nights and barely ate a thing. By Wednesday, I noticed my skirts were getting loose on me. I was losing weight, something I didn’t need to do. Libby was concerned about my well-being and offered to take me out for dinner with Chaz night after night. I declined, telling her that I had too much work. That was partly the truth, but there was more. I just couldn’t. I wasn’t in the mood and I would be terrible company. What a shit way to start the New Year. I was irreconcilably miserable.
Being on crutches didn’t help either. Everything was a challenge—even the smallest things. The only good thing about them was everyone was so nice to me. At the office, co-workers opened doors for me as well as offered to bring me lunch and even take me back and forth from work. Fortunately, Libby was able to do the latter. She was a total saint.
I immersed myself in my work, avoiding Blake as much as possible. I spent as much time as possible in my office, behind a closed door, developing my erotic daytime block and working on my PowerPoint presentation for my upcoming meeting with Gloria Zander. I really wanted to woo her and get Gloria’s Secret on board. I couldn’t blow it.
Whenever I could, I emailed Blake so I didn’t have to see him. When I was summoned to his office, I sat on the couch far away from him. Both of us refrained from eye contact as well as from calling each other by our first names. I was Ms. McCoy; he, Mr. Burns. I said as little as possible, responding to
his questions about my projects with a few monotone words. Whenever I stepped into his office or passed by him in the hall, the temperature in the air dropped and my stomach twisted into a painful knot. He avoided me as much as I avoided him.
On Wednesday afternoon, I managed to get out of the office at lunchtime. Libby gave me a lift to Century City where I was going to Bloomingdale’s while she met with a research supplier. No matter what had happened at her house, I still wanted to get Gloria Zander a gift to thank her for her generosity before our meeting.
Suddenly ravenous from not having eaten much all week, I headed first to the food court for a quick bite. I longed for something comforting like chicken soup, but ended up with a bowl of hot and sour soup from Panda Express. One of the workers was kind enough to bring my tray to a table. It never ceased to amaze me how much goodwill I’d discovered disabled on crutches.
The piping hot soup was tasty though zingy. Both my stomach and heart were grateful for a little nourishment. As I lifted another spoonful to my mouth, a familiar voice sounded in my ear.
“Bubala!”
I looked up. It was Blake’s silver-haired grandma. She sprightly headed my way. She was wearing a soft blue jogging outfit and was in amazing shape for a woman her age. She plunked herself down on the empty chair across from me. Her eyes stayed riveted on my crutches, which were leaning against the table.
“Oy! Vhat happened?”
“Just little accident,” I said hesitantly.
A sly smile, that reminded me so much of Blake’s, splayed across her crinkly face.
“Skiing with my Blakela?” She winked. “Or a little rough shtupping?”
Speechless, I cringed. She knew about Blake and me.
“Blakela is meshuganah about you.”
I plastered a fake smile on my face. I wasn’t quite sure what meshuganah meant. “I feel the same way,” I said tentatively.
THAT MAN: Holiday Box Set Books 1-5 Page 33