Page 87 of Hot Nights in Morocco
Jake’s head jerks up and a look passes between us. I can see he’s trying to remember all the good about his own father, too.
“Can I have a drink?” I mutter.
“Christ, yes.”
He crosses the room to the drinks cabinet in the corner, his long stride covering the distance in no time. I hear the sound of liquid sloshing into a glass, and then something brown and pungent is thrust into my hand. His skin brushes against mine, and I watch our fingers reaching out for one another. It’s instinctive, as if they were separate entities entirely.
Transferring my drink to the coffee table, Jake collapses onto the couch next to me, my right hand now firmly embedded in his left. Neither of us seems willing to let go.
“You won’t leave?” I sound so scared and vulnerable.
His grip on me tightens. “Never.”
Will he take on my past? Is he strong enough for the both of us?
“In case you hadn’t noticed, my mother was, and still is, a social climbing bitch,” I begin quietly. “My father was never good enough, and she constantly punished him for it. They married when she was young, and I came along soon after. He loved her, but she put him through hell.” I grind to a halt, struck by the parallels in our lives again. Both our fathers had been tormented and ultimately failed by our mothers.
“What happened?” murmurs Jake.
“He snapped.” I glance down at our hands again. “He found my mother in bed with my future stepfather, David. It was the final humiliation. He ran up to my room and set about breaking the one thing my mother cared about almost as much as money.”
“You,” says Jake harshly.
“Me.” I reach out for my glass and take a large sip of whiskey, choking as the liquid scorches a hole in the back of my throat. “He was rough, grabbing my wrists and throwing me into the back of the car. He didn’t care. To him, I was nothing more than an extension of her. He probably didn’t even think I was his. My mother had never been faithful.”
“Where did he take you?” Jake’s voice is like stone.
“Some deserted farm. He kept me there for five days.”
“Where the hell were the police? Why the hell didn’t they find you sooner?” He’s on his feet and pacing now. He’s all fire and vengeance on behalf of a six-year-old girl who was all alone and scared to death. He hasn’t even heard the worst part yet.
“My father drank all day. Every day. But he never took his eyes off me. He wouldn’t let me sleep or eat. Some days the hint of a conscience flashed across his face. On those occasions he just drank more.”
Jake stops pacing. “Did he touch you?”
“Not like that. He got his kicks from mental torture instead.”
“What about the gun? Tell me about the gun.”
“How did you—”
He knows. Of course he does.Any man who hires a team of professionals to follow me around would have delved into my past. But when? At what part in our relationship did he uncover my dirty little secret?
“After Morocco,” he says roughly, answering my unspoken question. “Those nightmares you were having.” He shakes his head at the memory. “There had to be a reason why you kept on pressing that self-destruct button. I had to know.” He drops to his knees in front of me, clasping my hands to his chest. His heart is like rolling thunder beneath his shirt.
“Is that the reason you were so cold to me in London?” I whisper. “Knowing what you do about me?”
“Fuck, no.” He looks furious at my insinuation. “I convinced myself you had enough to deal with. You didn’t need all my shit, as well. I came to London because I couldn’t keep away from you. This last week has been hell. I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t sleep. I missed you so fucking much. Besides, nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to demote Brad by phone.” He turns my hands over and gently presses his thumbs into my palms. “Come to bed with me, Charlie. I want to consume you, take your pain away. Make you feel secure and wanted. Let me love you. It’s the only way I know how to do that.” He presses his lips to mine, and I can feel his strength bleeding into my mouth.It tastes like paradise.
“What about your business?” I say, breaking away to trace his jaw with my fingertips.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“I’ve broken another rule,” I confess softly.
“You mean the don’t-ever-drag-your-producer-to-hell-and-back-just-because-he’s-a-stubborn-bastard one?” He leans into my touch and gifts me a faint smile.
I shake my head. “It’s more of a never-fall-in-love-with-your-producer kind of one.”
