My gut clenched .
"Honey, are you seeing somebody?" she asked, reaching over to touch my cheek .
"No." I met her eyes and shook my head, completely honest this time. "I was. But things...didn't work out ."
"Why not ?"
"That's...personal," I said stiffly. "There was an issue. He didn't believe me over something important. He ended it ."
"Maybe you should go after him and make him believe you." Her hands took mine, and she squeezed. "It sounds like he helped you find out who you are...and you found out you're a very strong woman, Michelle. It takes one hell of a man to help a woman discover that about herself. So, fight for him ."
* * *
F ight for him.
A part of me wanted to, but there was no way that was going to happen .
Not when he believed what he believed .
It was one thing to have a misunderstanding, but I wasn't going to fight upstream to make him see that I hadn't done anything wrong .
Tears burned my eyes, and I didn't try to fight them back. Instead, I let them come and wipe them away on occasion. Staring out the window into the overcast New York City afternoon, I wondered what might have happened between us if he'd maybe, just maybe asked instead of accused, if he'd given me a chance instead of just deciding I was some bloodthirsty paparazzi .
New York had its share of them .
I didn't think much of the sort of reporter who'd chase a woman and her children down in search of some story. I didn't think much of photographers who lurked around trying to catch pictures of celebrities at their worst .
Maybe it was a job, but it was a pretty shitty one, and it was one that made other people feel lousy .
That wasn't me .
I'd never taken a single assignment I couldn't feel proud about, and I'd refused more than a few because I hadn't felt right about trying to tackle them .
Maybe if he'd known me ...
"But he didn't." Tipping my head back, I stared up at the sky and blew out a breath. Jake hadn't known me. He'd just decided he knew enough .
Fight for him ?
Fight for...what? Us ?
There wasn't an us .
Twenty-Nine
Jake
M y coffee table was littered with newspapers, gossip rags, anything and everything that had a few lines about Whitley. I'd skimmed so many of them my eyes were about ready to cross, and I could quote the details by heart .
What I couldn't do was find one single article that had Michelle's name on it – her byline .
Most of the information stemmed from a female reporter with the Associated Press, but tracking her down had proved near impossible and in the ninety seconds I'd managed to pin her down on the phone, all I'd gotten out of her were the words, "I don't reveal my sources ."
Apparently, nobody revealed their sources .
But one thing was clear. There wasn't a single article that had Michelle's name in it – or on it .
Wouldn't she want to have her name on it? In it? Hell, if she was the one behind it, wouldn't she want the name exposure or whatever in the hell they called it ?
She sure as hell hadn't had issues putting her name on every other article she'd written .
Of course, none of those had anything to do with exposing people. More than a few were about women's rights and equality in the work place .
The more of her stuff I read, and the harder I looked to find a connection between her and the mess surrounding Whitley, the worse I felt .
What if I'd been wrong ?
What if I'd gone after her like that and she'd been innocent ?
Jake, I don't know what ...
I blocked the memory of her wavering voice from my mind, just as much from a need to focus and get through the last stack of her articles as much as to keep from having to deal with the guilt that was slowly building inside me, day by day .
Hour by hour .
I'd talked to Whitley twice .
She was fine .
She actually sounded...confident and happy. Like she'd needed this .
No, she didn't know anything more about what was going on, but she didn't need to. She was glad it had happened. I wished I could have been glad, wished I could have known this was how she'd react, because then I could have reacted differently myself .
Brooding, I got up from the couch and made my way into the kitchen to make some coffee. It was days like this when I wished I would have taken up drinking. But the taste of alcohol left a bad taste – and memories of my mother – thick in my mind, and nobody wanted that when they were trying to kick back and relax .
Not that I wanted to kick back and relax .
I wanted to talk to Michelle .
I wanted to see her .
I wanted to touch her, hold her ...
The memory of the tears in her eyes was living with me, like a weight settled square in my chest, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw those damn tear tracks .
What had I done ?
What if I'd been wrong ?
* * *
I t was a thought that nagged me, burning inside my skull like a hot coal .
If I'd fucked up, then what ?
I couldn't think of a single time I'd ever felt anything remotely like what I'd felt with Michelle. Everything with her felt real , even when I knew it couldn't be. She'd been looking like she had a sexual...something. Awakening, freedom .
Most likely, I hadn't done jack shit that any guy who knew about pleasing a woman couldn't do. She'd just needed somebody who...cared .
Cared .
Fuck.
That was the entire problem .
I cared .
About her .
And how in the hell was that supposed to work considering...I cut the thought off, as I'd been doing for the past few weeks, but this time, instead of shoving it all to the back of my head, I made myself think and focus .
Not just about her and why I couldn't let myself get involved with her, but because...everything .
If I really did care, maybe she did too .
No, neither of us had started this with any thought of a relationship, but it wasn't like it was off the table, was it ?
But that was the tricky thing .
I had no idea how things would turn out for me. They could go straight to hell if I kept going down this road. I didn't need to be dragging anybody else with me. And if I cared about Michelle ...
"If," I muttered. My voice sounded oddly loud in my small, sparse apartment. Dropping down onto my bed, I flung my forearm over my eyes. "Stop lying to yourself, King ."
There was no if . I cared about her .
I had for longer than I wanted to admit, and that was practically since day one. If I wanted to be really honest, I could just admit to myself that I had gone and fallen for her after those first few shy blushes .
But since that was the case, I needed to make up my mind. I couldn't pretend I didn't want to go over to her place, knock on her door, and ask if I'd been wrong .
If I did that, it would be for a reason and I could only do it if I made a decision .
But could I do that ?
Could I give up everything I'd been working toward ?
Everything I'd been fighting for ?
I didn't know .
But I wasn't certain I could keep living with this giant hole inside me either .
Thirty
Michelle
I eyed the phone.
There was a cacophony of warring voices in my head, one that argued Jake hadn't trusted me and I couldn't build a relationship with somebody like that .
Another voice scoffed. What relationship ?
But the loudest, most determined voice kept echoing Aunt Blair's voice .
"Maybe you should go after him – and make him believe you ."
Make him believe me .
How ?
r />
I wasn't about to beg him. I'd just started to reclaim some of my pride. Begging would put me right back at the bottom again. And I shouldn't have to beg him to give me a chance to speak .
"I'm not calling him," I said to the phone .
Then I picked it up .
"Argh!" Dropping it into my purse, I turned and started to pace .
Another five minutes of waffling passed in which I convinced myself that maybe I could call him – and tell him off. Let him know he'd hurt my feelings and that I cared about him, but he just walked all over me .
Then I could hang up and see what happened .
That was about as honest as I could get .
"Okay, I'll call him." I strode back over to my purse and grabbed the phone .
I hadn't so much as swiped the home screen when my doorbell chimed, announcing a visitor. How much of a shock was it that some small sliver of relief went through me ?
I didn't know what to say to him, how to do what Aunt Blair had suggested – make him believe me .
Dropping the phone back into my purse, I went over to the speaker and pushed the button. Hopefully, it was my aunt or one of my few friends. Somebody who could distract me long enough that my subconscious would figure this Jake thing out on its own .
"Who is it ?"
"Jake."
The bottom dropped out of my stomach, and I gulped. "Um." That was all I had. Um .
A few seconds passed, then he broke the awful silence. "Can I come up? I...there are some things I need to say to you ."
I remembered the last time he had things he needed to say to me .
"I don't know if that's a good idea," I said, the words coming out in a weak voice. And here I'd been trying to work up the courage to call him, trying to pump myself up and figure out the right words to keep him on the phone long enough to get him to believe me .
And he was here now, and I was too afraid .
"Michelle...please ."
Staring at the speaker box, my hand tightening into a fist, I blinked back the tears .
Coward , I thought, but in my mind, I was shrieking it. Shrieking it and hating myself a little for not having the guts to say something big and bold like, Bet your ass you can come up...I got things to say to you too !
Abruptly, a kernel of rage exploded in me, all of it directed at myself. Why the hell couldn't I say just that? Why couldn't I let myself get angry, hurt, and upset? He had hurt me .
"Michelle?"
"Come on up ."
Shoving away from the speaker, I stormed into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of wine .
Maybe some liquid courage would help .
It seemed like it took him forever to get up to my floor, but in reality, I knew it could have only taken a few minutes. Somehow, though, I managed to both open the bottle of wine and drain the majority of my first glass before the knock came .
Leaving the bottle open and out on the counter, I carried my glass into the living room and checked the Judas hole to make certain. Then, not letting myself think about it, I opened the door .
Jake stood there, one forearm braced on the edge of the door frame. His hair was mussed, he hadn't shaved, and he looked tired .
Turning on my heel, I strode back toward the kitchen, leaving the door open for him to follow .
He did .
I couldn't hear him, but I heard the door shut quietly behind me, and when I circled around the counter, he was standing just a few feet away .
"I'm not offering you a glass," I said, surprising myself with my rudeness .
I was also surprised at how good it felt .
Tears were thick in my throat, and I tossed back the rest of the wine to flush them away. I wasn't crying. And if he was here to yell at me ...
"I understand ."
He stood there in a pair of jeans and t-shirt, looking more...normal. Usually, he was one in his slick suits, all dressed to thrill and delight the feminine senses .
Today, he looked like he'd dragged on whatever came to hand. The jeans had a rip in the right knee. The shirt was wrinkled. He wore a leather bomber jacket that looked like it had seen better decades .
"Are you here to say something?" I had to tear my eyes away from him. He was always particularly yummy, but the sight of him in a pair of ripped jeans and a t-shirt made him look...approachable. Almost like somebody who could believe me .
The idea hurt .
I shouldn't have to force the truth on anybody. I'd had to deal with that before .
"Whatever you need to say, just...say it." I poured more wine into my glass and shifted my attention to it. The pale blush liquid swirled as I gave the glass a twirl. "I'm tired ."
"I'm sorry ."
I'd been raising the glass to my lips when he said it. The words, far from what I'd been expecting, came out in a quiet, rough voice, and he watched with turbulent eyes as I slowly lowered the glass back to the counter .
"What did you just say?" I asked softly .
"I said I was sorry. I..." He blew out a breath .
One of the knots inside me might have started to untangle. It immediately jerked back into a knot, though, when he continued .
"I should have given you a chance to explain. I should have listened to you and I didn't. I'm sorry for that ."
"Oh, I just bet you are," I said, the words popping out with more heat and venom than I realized I could ever carry inside me. Tossing back more wine, I turned my back to him and leaned against the counter. "Okay, you apologized. You can leave now, Jake. Thanks for stopping by ."
Oh, shit! Is that me ? A huge part of me cringed at the sheer rudeness in my tone, but that part of me that had been demanding I not call him, that I not try to make him believe me when he never should have accused me to begin with was dancing. This...it was freeing . Almost like what I told Aunt Blair. I was used to trapping everything inside, but it all wanted to come out .
"Michelle, please ..."
I spun around and slammed the glass down. It shattered on impact, but I didn't care. "Please what ?" I shouted. "You came here and accused me of something so awful , it makes me sick, and now you're here because you...what? You think that an apology will make it okay to ask me if I was some selfish bitch instead of just outright telling me that I'm one? No !"
He blinked, looking a little dazed, but whether it was by my outburst or by something I said, I didn't know .
He shifted and instinctively, I backed away. Glass crunched under my foot, and I gasped as a sliver of pain shot through my heel. "Shit !"
He was around the kitchen island in a heartbeat, and before I could ward him off, he had me in his arms. "Put me down!" I snapped .
"In the middle of a bunch of broken glass?" he asked, sounding almost insanely reasonable .
I didn't want him to be chivalrous right now. I wanted him to be an asshole like he'd been the other day. "They're my feet ."
"I don't care. I'm not letting you cut them up," he responded, putting me down on the counter. He then leaned far to the left and grabbed the roll of paper towels and ripped a few off, forming a fat pad. "Here. You deal with that while I clean up the mess ."
As he turned away, I gave his back a dirty look .
"You deal with that..." I mouthed, mocking him, but because I could feel the blood – and the pain – I lifted my foot up. "Oh, shit. Shit. Shit ."
Jake was immediately back in front of me, one hand grabbing my ankle as I sagged back, feeling a little sick. "What's...ouch ."
A piece of glass, almost the size of a quarter, was sticking out of my heel, and the sight of it, all bloody and red, had my head spinning. It wasn't the blood so much that made me feel sick, but the glass sticking
out...yeah, that did it .
He shot me a look. "Blood makes you sick?" he asked gently .
"No. Seeing something sticking out of my body does," I said sourly. I gave my foot a tug. "Let me go ."
He didn't though. "It'll be hard for you to deal with this if you can't look at it without getting sick," he replied. He shifted, half-turning his back and using his body as a barrier. "You're right, you know ."
"About... ouch !"
He turned back to me, the bloody piece of glass in his hand. He grabbed a few more paper towels with the free one and dumped the bloodied glass onto it. "I want to make sure there's nothing more inside it ."
"Inside..."
His eyes dropped to my foot .
"Oh." My belly rolled but I nodded .
A few seconds later, another dart of pain lit through me. Jake, voice soft and easy, spoke throughout. "I shouldn't have accused you. You were right. I'm sorry about that. I came over here...hell, Michelle...are you crying? Did I hurt you that bad ?"
"I cut my foot open!" I sniffed and jerked against his hold once more. This time, he let go, and I pulled my injured appendage in, pressing the paper towel pad against it. It was still sore, but not as bad as it had been when he pressed on it .
"There was another piece in there – probably broke off from that bigger chunk." He sounded hesitant, something I had never associated with him. "I didn't mean to hurt you ."
"Stop being nice!" I went to push off the counter, only to freeze, but the light glittered off the remnants of the glass I broke. I slid my gaze along the floor, wondering if I could scoot along the surface and make my way down to where there wasn't any glass .