Page 18 of His for Christmas
“Why not?” The question was blunt. And painful.
“There are a lot of people looking for jobs. And not that many jobs. And, well, I’m not the brightest bulb. I know that too.”
He made a dismissive sound. “That again.”
“It’s the truth,” I said. Liar. “But I think I can do a good job. If I can find someone to take a chance on me.”
Like you. But I didn’t say that. All I was hoping for now was that he wouldn’t ask any more questions. If I could make it out of this elevator, out of his sight, he’d forget all about the mousy temp assistant he’d had. And I’d be safe.
“I’m sure I’ll find something soon,” I said hastily, attempting a smile.
“Jesus,” he muttered. Then without warning, he banged on the elevator doors. Bang bang bang. I jumped back, startled, my heart jumping into my throat.
The silence that followed rang in my ears. No footsteps came running. No shouts asked if we were okay.
No one was there.
I bit my lip. “Mr. Thompson?”
“I think, considering all that’s happened, you can call me Gage,” he said wryly.
My eyes lowered in the dark. “How long do you think it’ll be?”
“Not long.” A longer pause this time. “I don’t know. There’s always someone from security on standby even when the building is mostly empty. But they might be patrolling the grounds. They might be unable to get here due to the storm. For all I know, they could be in one of the elevator cars, stuck just like us.”
“Oh.”
With a muttered curse, he started pacing. Since the elevator car was small and his stride was long, he could only go one-and-a-half steps before turning. And with each turn, his movements got a little more jerky, his stride a little more clipped. He practically vibrated with tension; it filled the air, making me jittery and hot.
“Don’t like small spaces?” I asked.
He turned to face me. “What?”
“Small spaces. They make you stressed? That’s understandable.”
He laughed shortly. “No, the space isn’t the problem.”
Was the problem… me? It seemed crazy that a girl like me could impact him this much, but clearly he was upset. Hurt arced through me. He’d already told me he didn’t like me, didn’t like the way I made him feel, but it still hurt to be reminded of it. “I’m sorry,” I said, hating how my voice shook. “I’m sure they’ll get us out soon.”
He swore. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“You can’t see me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Angel. I can see you in the dark. I can see you with my eyes closed. I see you in my dreams. I can’t seem to stop seeing you.”
The air rushed out of me. “Mr. Thompson?”
“Don’t Mr. Thompson me. You know exactly what effect you have on me with those goddamn ugly skirts and those goddamn ugly heels. And that smile. So fucking innocent. Do you practice that?”
Tears stung my eyes. “Why do you talk like that to me?”
I waited for a sharp retort, something angry and cutting, but it never came. “Because I’m an asshole,” he said shortly. “Because I don’t know how to deal with you. With this.”
Pain laced his words, and my anger melted away. “You don’t have to deal with me.”
I won’t be here tomorrow. Won’t see you again. Am I the only one sad about that?
“I want you,” he said, his voice raw and rough like an open nerve. “I need you. But I can’t touch you.”
Because of what he’d told me? It seemed impossible that it would hold him back if he really wanted something, wanted someone, and yet he seemed so torn. Like a wolf with his paw caught in a trap—except the trap wasn’t a physical thing made of metal. The trap was his own past, his own mind. His own fears. My heart broke for the mother who’d seen her rape every time she’d looked at her child. It broke even more for the child who’d seen that shame in her eyes and understood he was the cause of it.
I can’t touch you.
If he couldn’t touch me, then I could touch him. I could be the bridge between us, my hand on his arm, his skin hot under my palm. His whole body stilled at the contact. I felt his muscles flex under my hand as a shiver ran through him.
“Don’t do that.” Almost a growl.
“Why not? You won’t hurt me.” To prove my point, I squeezed gently.
For a moment, his whole body leaned toward me. I was sure he would kiss me, but then he yanked himself away. “God, Angel. Do you want to be raped? Is that what this is about? Some sick game of chicken? Because I will do it. I’ll hurt you, and I won’t even feel sorry for it.”
His words sickened me—not because I believed them, but because he did. He really believed he was capable of hurting me. I knew otherwise. And as for feeling sorry… he was already suffering deep, searing regret for things he hadn’t even done, for crimes his father had committed.
