Chapter 61

Jake continues to refuse to acknowledge me; even when we board the flight, he has his earphones in and his music blaring. He submerges himself in work on his laptop across the aisle from me, laying a bag on the seat beside him, making it clear he wants space. I grit my teeth and jut out my chin in anger. I get up and shake my head at him in a fury.

Screw you, Jake. Act like an asshole, and I’ll happily treat you like one.

I move down the plane, pick a seat facing away from him, and haul out my book. Not that I can focus—I’m seething because he’s behaving this way.

Why is it always about what he wants, and I must go along or be frozen out?

Sometimes he’s impossible.

***

“You’re not coming?” I gawp at him as I slide into the car while Jefferson holds the door open, my heart falling to my feet like a heavy sandbag, pain constricting in my throat.

“No, I’ve got to take care of a few things.” Jake avoids looking at me, his expression hard as he gazes across the airfield toward an approaching familiar car. He lets Jefferson take our cases and load them in the trunk as I stare with open astonishment through the wide-open car door.

“Jake, we need to talk about things,” I plead. Anxiety and panic rise inside of me. My angry resolve, which has lasted through our entire flight, dissipates and is replaced with hurt.

How ironic that now I’m the one who wants to talk. When did that flip?

“I’ve nothing else to say,” he grinds out coldly as he turns and heads off toward his car, now parked on the tarmac about twenty feet away. I see Daniel sliding dutifully out of the driver’s door with a confused look. He obviously had orders to drive Jake’s pride and joy here, and he wonders what the hell is eating his ass. Daniel looks him over, noting the tense scowl, the rigid posture, and the way he completely blanks my existence without a backward glance. Daniel looks at me hesitantly, and I glimpse, for a moment, an almost worried expression. My stomach lurches.

“You’re being an asshole,” I spit at Jake’s retreating back, but he only lifts a hand in a gesture that dismisses me, a wave at an irritation he doesn’t want to deal with. The pain rises in my chest and threatens to suffocate me.

He stalks to the driver’s side and thumbs Daniel out of the way arrogantly; he reluctantly moves around the car to get in the passenger side. Taking one last look at me and a quick flick to Jake’s profile, his face says it all. Daniel thinks we’re over. He frowns and retreats.

Oh, my God.

My breath catches in my throat with the overwhelming despair inside me as I try to figure out if we really are.

Jake slides into the McLaren P1 and pulls down the door aggressively, firing it up and revving the engine so it roars across at me. The sound is both intimidating and terrifying. I’m pretty sure that if he had something to smash right now, he would be focusing all his energy on beating the crap out of it. He’s practically aching for a fight.

The car reverses at death-defying speed with a squeal. A huge drift of black smoke billows from the tires as he spins the car around in a show of idiocy, handbrake-spinning it so it’s facing the other way in a blink. He slams his foot down, the wheel spinning viciously for a few seconds, and takes off like a bat out of hell, the air ringing with the powerful engine and squealing of brakes. The stench of burned rubber and God knows what else taints the atmosphere around me. All I hear is the roaring hum as the car clings to the tarmac and speeds out of sight, and I want to scream in frustration.

What the actual fuck, Jake?

We’ve had arguments before, but none since we got together where he’s ever just walked off and left things in the air like this; he’s obviously in arrogant asshole mode. Not since the yacht, so very long ago, has he behaved this way. Surely, he won’t end things over this. Even he isn’t that dumb.

I get that I’ve hurt him, maybe more than I realize, but he does not need to behave this way toward me. Things are different between us now.

I slam my door, not waiting for Jefferson, and throw myself into the seat in a tearful rage. If he’s trying to punish me, it’s working, but I’m not going to let him know. He can be a jackass; if he wants to act like this, he should never have chosen me as a girlfriend. Of all the women in the world, I will not chase after him like some pathetic girl with a broken heart and try to make this right. This is on him; it’s his stupid asshole behavior, and he needs to get a grip.

“Take me to Queens,” I command as Jefferson slides in. “I’ll be staying there tonight.” I sound more in control than I feel, my insides twisting and aching in pain.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he responds with a cool gentle tone, a flicker of a frown visible in his mirror, and I know that he’s pissed at Jake too. It soothes me a little.

Before long, we’re heading away from the airfield in search of Sarah and solitude. Jake needs to realize that, despite his authoritarian ways, I am still my own person. Maybe I’ve let him take the lead a little too often, and he’s gotten used to dictating my life. He can take his mood and sulk as long as he needs, and when he finally sees just how much of a jackass he is being, he can come to find me.

I’m not playing this game again! One thing his leaving the yacht taught me was that Jake is an impulsive ass when his feelings are bruised. He acts like an adolescent. He carries on like a child and lashes out impulsively at those he loves.

Hasn’t he done that to me once before?

I will leave him to simmer. God knows how long this will take him to get over; that one time on the yacht saw him in a mood for almost two weeks, but he came back and made things right. I have to trust that he will do that now.

***

Sarah isn’t home when I let myself into the apartment carrying my case. I let Jefferson go, assuring him I could manage, and despite his fatherly protests, he is finally gone. I still have a key to the apartment and want nothing more than the coziness of the couch and throws and space to mull over Jake’s asshole attitude.

I text Sarah informing her of my arrival so she won’t be surprised when she gets home, but my heart sinks at her response. Marcus has taken her to Florida for a few days to meet his family; she only left this morning. She tells me to help myself to the freezer contents and to call her later. My heart aches, but I don’t tell her why I’m here.

Meeting the family equals seriousness. It signals forever!

Maybe Sarah and Marcus are really making a go of it this time; the thought bothers me but not as much as it did before. I feel lost now that my stability isn’t here to lift my chin and help me get through my first meaningful relationship fight with Jake. Not that there is much of a fight, just him acting out like the spoiled brat he can sometimes be and trying to domineer his way as usual. Sometimes I like Jake’s wealth and the confidence it gives him, but at times like this, when his tantrumming, asshole-moody attitude, which money has ingrained in him, rears its ugly head, I hate it.

I submerge myself in catching up with Margo and working via email. Step one of showing Jake this is not how a relationship works.

I’m going to reacquaint myself with the current tasks he’d been overseeing, touch base with Rosalie, and make it known I want to be involved again. I’ve become too used to being kept by Jake in endless vacation mode, and stubborn PA Emma is stamping her foot in defiance at his behavior today. He seems more than happy to slide me into his personal life more and more, taking me worlds away from PA mode, and partly it’s what’s wrong with me lately, the weird moods and emotions, the tiredness, and listless feelings deep inside. I have lost my value as his partner in work and have been left only as his girlfriend with no real security, which I need.

I want to be more than just his bed partner and cuddle buddy; I need that challenge back of being his partner in work, decision-making, and overseeing things. I am so out of touch with all of that and disappointed in myself.

The thought of making a home in the Hamptons with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs makes me terrified. I don’t know how to be nothing—a doting girlfriend and kept woman. I don’t know how to slot into domestic life and leisurely existence, and I don’t want it. I want to be worth something, to be something worthwhile for me, something to aspire to.

Margo soon dumps the email exchange catch-up for a real phone call and has me up to speed, then lost in idle chit-chat and asking how life as Jake’s love is treating me. It feels so good to talk to her, to talk through everything, and even to confess to the fight at his parents’. This opening up to people has slowly been getting more natural with me, shockingly so, and I’m finding it helps me right now.

She assures me that Jake will come around and realize that pushing me has never worked in the past and has always sent me running away from him, and to have a little faith in his ability to retrace his bad decisions and make things right. I smile when we hang up, more assured and less heartbroken. She’s right. Jake may be an impulsive ass sometimes, but eventually, his logical brain brings him back around, and he sees the error in his judgment. I’m just not sure how long this is going to take him.

Good move. You made him feel like he wasn’t what you wanted in life, Emma. That ego alone has taken a massive dent today, never mind his heart.

I sigh in exasperation and try to focus on anything that’s not him.

By late evening, I’ve returned to despair at his lack of contact, checking my phone endlessly. A pit of anxiety and tension courses through me from the absolute agony of not knowing what he’s thinking anymore. Finally, I can’t stand it and call him, beyond hurt that my absence has been ignored.

So much for caring about my feelings!

“Jake?” After endless ringing, he finally picks up, and all I get is noise and music all around him; it’s obvious he’s at a nightclub, and my heart thuds hard through my chest, winding me painfully. Jake has never just up and gone out without me like this, not since he told me he loved me. He’s out getting drunk and ignoring my existence.

What the fuck?

“Hello?” His slurred, husky voice comes through the noise; he’s extremely drunk, but he’s talking to other people in the background. I hear some female voices too, giggling and chattering and a lot of hilarity. My tears well up, and anger flies higher.

“Hello?” He can’t seem to hear me over the music. My jealousy rages, my heart and temper sparring with one another, and it engulfs me.

“Jake, where are you?” The pitiful tears slip out unexpectedly and warmly roll down my cheek despite my rage. My heart’s breaking. I hate the way he can twist a knife in me this way. All he’s done is go out, but somehow it feels like a momentous thing considering how we left things.

What’s he doing, and who with?

I suddenly feel so alone and so insecure it’s almost strangling me, cursing my inner stupid self and her eternal inability to believe Jake would never hurt me this way.

“Look, honey, I can’t hear you. I’m staying out. Maybe see you tomorrow or something. We’ll see.” He sounds distant and cold, just like the Jake who left me on that yacht to have sex with other people. He doesn’t wait but hangs up and leaves me staring numbly at a blank screen, my heart ripping free in screaming agony.

He obviously hasn’t been home, never realized I didn’t get there, or, if he has, then it doesn’t matter to him, and now his attitude—calling me ‘honey’—the pet name he used for his casual sex buddies. The anger soars through me, and I yank the phone back up, calling again. This time when he answers, the noise isn’t so loud, as though he’s moved to another room or maybe the bathroom.

“Where the fuck are you?” I stand up, rage coursing through me, pacing hysterically. My body trembles with so much emotion ripping through me at one time.

Who the hell is he to treat me this way, like I don’t matter? He has spent months making me believe that I matter more than anything in the world, then, on the back of one stupid disagreement, he’s treating me like one of his passing whores. Some of whom he’s probably with. I mean, who in New York hasn’t he had sex with?

Our relationship is more than this.

I’m so angry the pulse beating in my head is almost audible.

“Calm the fuck down and go to bed. I’m out. I told you. I need space to figure things out,” is his reply, and it only makes me seethe more. I hear a girl say his name and giggle; the phone muffles as he replies to her, and I can’t determine what she is saying. I see red, jealousy spiking to psychotic levels, and my lungs explode to battle my pain.

Screw him. Screw Carrero and his stubborn, arrogant, dick-faced attitude! Screw him and his whores and playboy fucking lifestyle.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to bed, but it’s not yours, asshole.” I almost crack my screen with the force of hanging up. I storm through the kitchen to get water for my suddenly sand-dry throat. My hands are shaking, and I’m vibrating with anger. This is so stupid, so goddamn over-the-top dramatic, even for him. My phone rings again, Jake’s name flashing like a red flag on my screen, and the urge to hang up bites at me. I pick it up and hesitate but then answer, rage consuming me.

“Whose bed exactly are you climbing into?” His venomous, slurring, jealousy-fueled, erratic response winds me.

What the fuck? Does Jake really believe me capable of climbing into someone else’s bed? I’m not him!

I glare at the screen. My inner logical self has jumped out a window; instead, this need to wound him raises her ugly head. My lowest, pettiest reaction bites out, wounded.

How could he accuse me of something like that?

“I’m fucking waiting on an answer!” he shouts down the phone at me with so much hatred I recoil.

Stalking back to my room, I haul the huge teddy bear out of the closet and pull him upright; he wears a tag around his neck with his name. I flip it over and read it before slamming my mouth back to the phone.

“Joey’s…an old friend from Queens.” I remember how stupid his reaction to the bear was the first time he “met” him; whether it was in jest or not, it highlighted that Jake has a severe jealous side and would probably not recall the bear’s name. I hope it makes him suffer in the way he’s making me suffer right now. I hang up just as he explodes, silencing the onslaught of Carrero abuse and craziness. I stand, trying to calm the panic surging through me, my body shaking violently and my nerves trembling. Weak and hysterical, my heart pounds through my chest. I know everything is falling apart around me. My world is crumbling.

I jump as my phone rings, and his number flashes across my screen, but I red-button him in defiance. He wanted to be an asshole, and now he suddenly wants to talk. I red-button him a second time when it rings again.

~ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE!!!!~ The text beeps on almost as soon as I lay it face down on the bed; fear sweeps over me, so my body turns cold, and my limbs weaken.

Jake’s angry, very angry. Maybe I’ve pushed things too far?

My anger almost drops out of me with insane speed to be replaced with immediate remorse. I should know better than to play the jealousy card and rile Jake. It makes him irrational and aggressive, even with me. He sees red and can’t seem to control it. He had admitted to me he’s never had any feelings like that in his past, and it’s all so new to him and overpowering, and I’ve just handed him a lit grenade when he’s drunk and already pissed.

I know him. I know his need to lash out and hurt things, hurt people when consumed like this. As a teen, he beat his way through a drunken-fueled haze many times and made the headlines. The last thing he needs now is another front-page mess because his girlfriend tipped him over the edge.

What have I done to him? I’m so stupid! So fucking stupid! I’m supposed to make him a better man, want to be a better man.

I pick up the phone, swaying with indecisiveness, and try to call him, my hands shaking violently, sick with nerves. I get his voicemail, and my stomach drops. I try again and again, five times in twenty minutes, but I get his voicemail every time, and it suddenly dawns on me he’s switched his cell off.

He’s beyond raging with me; he’s gone off-the-charts angry. I text him quickly, hoping to God he switches it on and sees it before he does something beyond stupid or calls me back.

~Jake, I’m sorry, I was angry. Please don’t go mad. Joey is the bear you won for me, remember? I’m in my old apartment, xxx. I love you. I’m sorry.~

I send it with an overwhelming feeling of fear, tightening my stomach, choking on tears and regret.

Maybe I should go back to his apartment tonight and be there for him coming home; fix this. Fix my stupidity. I should know better than to ever play that jealousy card with him. It’s guaranteed to make him lash out and do something stupid, like get in a bar brawl or come home and smash another wall.

That much testosterone fueled by alcohol and jealousy is a lethal combination, and I just lit the fuse. If he’d done the same to me, I would have flipped the psycho switch, and no telling what I would have done. I feel so stupid.

I sit shaking for what seems like an eternity before I finally get enough courage to gather my things and call for a cab; it’s going to be one expensive ride home and the most agonizing journey, but I need to be there when Jake finally comes home. I need to show him that the only bed I was climbing into was his. I pick up my phone and send one last text.

~Please come home, Jake. I’m getting a cab back to Manhattan. I’m sorry xxx. I need to see you. I miss you.~

I take a deep, steadying breath and swallow the urge to cry, body shaking violently and all resolve gone. Pulling myself together, I get ready while awaiting the cab’s arrival.