Page 13 of Dirty, Bruised Martini
I know I’m a fucking creeper. But for the first time since you’ve been home you actually slept for more than four hours without waking up screaming. I couldn’t help but enjoy you resting so damn peacefully. Only for me to ruin your tranquility when you caught me.
At least you smiled back. You seemed to relax when I told you good morning. Almost, I clarified. It was still pretty early. You giggled anyway. You stayed calm when I slid my hand toward yours. Slow yet deliberate until my fingers tangled with yours, and I kissed your tender skin. Relishing the subtle fruity perfume that reminds me of that sangria you loved on vacation. I’m no romantic but I made love to you with my words as best I could rosy girl. Until your heavy eyes drifted shut and you sighed. I watched you sleep again. Hoping you felt safe and protected lying next to me.
I think about him when your strong fingers ball into fists.
Tapping your knuckles against the thick brown fabric of the chair-and-a-half. The comfy seat perfect for the library. More of the hot seat now that the room has turned into a make-shift therapist’s office. Your impatience and irritation were undeniable.
Yet you stayed. For me.
You’re what my grandmother always called a man’s man. Actually, you’re the epitome of the expression. Tough. Relentless. Successful. Loyal. Impressing women as much as men. Unconcerned with the opinions of others. Sexy and refined in your expensive suits and confident demeanor. Yet dangerous and gritty under the surface. Especially when faced with a challenge. Ready to fight to the death for anything you want. Including me.
Which is why I love you. Which is why I know you hate these sessions with Jane.
You don’t want talk. You want action. You want me. I want you too. I’m just hopeful Jane can figure out how I can give myself to you again.
I think about you while Jane counsels us together.
She says we need to talk more, and she needs to talk less. That our sessions with her are for us, not her. Well no shit. But doesn’t she know I fucking hate this stuff? That I’m fucking terrified I’ll say or do the wrong thing and destroy you. You talk, rosy girl, and I’ll listen. I’ll listen all damn day and night to anything you want to say. Anything you want me to hear. Anything you’re too worried to tell me. Because I know you’re holding back. You’re keeping something from me. Something that you think will hurt me. But that’s not fucking possible. Because as long as you’re here I’ll be fine. I am fine.
Except for the first time ever, I’m scared too. Because what I’m hiding might break us as well. But I have no choice. I can’t do anything other than what I do. I can’t be anything other than what I am. I can’t help but fucking pray you love me anyway.
I think about you when I write down when I fell in love with you like Jane asks us to.
First we write, then we share. I like the idea of remembering what we have so we can delve into the present. To remind ourselves of our connection, our foundation. Because I know we’re both scared of what the future holds for us.
When you surprised me that day at my house, I was expecting lunch. Maybe wasting away the afternoon over coffee. I never, ever expected you to take me to a loft in the middle of downtown. Gorgeous with the tall windows and exposed brick and open floor plan. I loved the sound of my heels clattering on the hardwood. Powerful and purposeful as we toured the vast space. That I naively assumed to be your new office.
Not the perfect studio.
That you found for me.
So you bought the entire building.
Somehow I found my voice to speak, explaining that while I really appreciated your efforts and generosity I couldn’t afford this despite how much I loved it.
You shook your head, waving me off when I tried to argue the reality of the facts. If that wasn’t enough to deter you, I told you that I was offended because I can take care of myself. My own irritation rising as I explained that I don’t need or want you controlling me. Your face may have been impassive but the severity of your tone left no doubt of your reaction to my complaints, when you told me I was now yours to protect.
I should have been beyond furious at you. Who are you to try and take over my business and make decisions on my behalf? And I was. Kind of. But you made it so darn difficult with your sincerity. How could I be mad at someone who worries about my safety enough to go to all this trouble? To spend his time and money to ensure my well-being?
Even more curious that you cared. So quickly and so deeply. After just one photography session, following a single date. That you felt this intense urge to take care of me. To buy me a building instead of a latte like a normal man.
That made you laugh. All of your indignation evaporated. “I’ll buy you a latte too if that’s what you want. Caramel or vanilla?” you asked with a mischievous tone.
So then I was the one who was mad. You were being obtuse on purpose. Teasing me instead of discussing the issue with me. Acting calm and untroubled. As if I’m the crazy one. Winking at me before you walked off to inspect the storage room. Leaving me to chase after you. Boy did I. I hustled as fast as my stilettoes would let me and yanked the back of your jacket. The cashmere suit luxurious under my fingers. Rich and opulent. Like you. Like this place. Like your life.
Not me or mine.
All of your cocky nonchalance faded when I told you I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you like this. I didn’t want you trying to buy me.
I learned quickly why people fear you. No one defies you and lives long enough to regret their challenge of you. But I made that mistake. I could tell you were summoning all your patience to rationalize why me working there made perfect sense.
You have money, I don’t. You want me to be safe despite how unconcerned I am with my own security. You want me to have this because a man takes care of his woman. You explained to me why I’m the crazy one between us not to accept your gift.
Well, that messed with my entire rationale. Making me question my logic. Causing me to doubt my judgment. My arguments seemed trifling. You could do what you want with your money. It wasn’t like you were going to go broke or anything. One loft in a huge building could be spared for me.
I knew deep down inside it was all levels of wrong and crazy and irrational. But that’s what you make me. What you do to me. I told you I had to think about it. You ignored me. I told you I would let you know. You said nothing. I told you if, and only if, I agreed, I would pay you something toward the rent. You went back to checking out the cabinet interiors. When I told you I was leaving, that finally got a reaction.
This time you chased after me. I wanted to hate you as well as my body’s reaction when your hands slid around my waist and you whispered in my ear. But you are some kind of sorcerer, and I stupidly let you hold me and reassure me that you would never hurt me. Promising me that you’d make sure I’d never regret giving myself to you. Vowing that all you wanted was to spoil me and if that included buying me a damn building then that’s what you’d do. Swearing that you never wanted anyone the way you want me and you couldn’t let me walk away.
