Release: Symbols of Love, page 7
"Not for all the tea in China," he returns. His easy dismissal, this casual rebuff is more humiliating than I can bear.
His voice is so cold, so cutting that I can’t stop the gasp that escapes me. The fact that he won't even look at me is making me angry to the point of irrationality. I want him to look at me again. I want him to touch me again. I want him to want me again.
"Fucking look at me when you're talking to me."
Before I can think better of it, I shove him. I’m surprised at myself. I haven't lifted a hand to another human being - not counting the fights I had with my sisters when we were kids - in my entire life.
I expect him to yell at me, maybe even shove me back. He doesn't even turn around.
"No. It’s looking at you that got me here in the first place. I’ve seen enough.”
And even though he’s not looking at me, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Lacking
The elevator dings its arrival. He steps inside. Without stopping to think, I do, too.
I'm unwilling to let him have the last word. He can’t ignore me.
"Are you following me?" he says as he presses the button for the top floor penthouse. He still hasn't looked at me. The elevator begins its ascent in a soundless rush. And with every floor we pass, I feel like I'm watching the sand drain from an hourglass. When he gets off this elevator, I know I probably won't see him again. He's really angry with me. And I hate how much that bothers me.
"Are you scared of me? I mean, you can't even bring yourself to look at me," I say to his profile, trying to provoke some sort of reaction from him.
“Scared of you?” He throws his head back and chuckles. I stare at his profile. My eyes travel down his sharp jawline and down his strong, tanned neck, wishing he’d meet my eyes.
His laughter stops abruptly, and he turns so quickly that I don't see it coming.
I hear my mother’s voice saying, "Be careful what you ask for, you might just get it." His eyes are ice cold, his luscious mouth set in a firm, stern line.
And I want to weep and beg him to smile at me again. I want the warmth back, I want him to laugh again, even if it's at my expense. Anything but that cold, disdainful stare. I watch the small muscle that hinges his strong jaw tremble as we watch each other, trying to see the truth behind the anger and hurt.
The silence is like a scalpel on the festering boil of my shame - it pours out of me. I’m drowning in it. And he’s bearing witness to it all.
"What are you looking at?" I ask. I know I sound defensive, and as if they have a mind of their own, my arms cross over my chest.
"I don't know," he says quietly before he turns back to face the elevator doors.
My blood rushes in my ears as I step toward him. His eyes cut in my direction at my approach, but he still doesn't turn to face me.
"Really? You seemed to know when you were shoving your cock into my hand on the plane." I say softly, silkily.
His jaw clenches and he swallows hard, but still he won't look at me.
I step toward him again and put a hand on his arm. I'm not prepared for how the touch sends a whole herd of elephants thundering through my blood.
He inhales sharply at my touch, and his head swings slowly in my direction.
"What are you doing?" His voice is low with warning, his eyes trained on my hand.
I step closer, and just then the elevator door dings. A crowd of almost ten people step on. They're all talking once, and they crowd around us, forcing me closer to him. Their raucous laughter provides a perfect backdrop to the absolute silence inside my head.
I look up at him through my lashes. He's staring straight ahead, the cool, enigmatic expression in his eyes is betrayed by the harsh rise and fall of his chest.
I slip my hand up his arm and round his well-muscled shoulder. I pause and glance at him again. He's closed his eyes, his indecision and anger stretched taught across his face. But he doesn't say anything, he doesn't move as my hand travels down from his shoulder to caress his pectoral muscle. He flinches as my cool hand touches his heated, cotton clad chest.
When it passes the center of his chest, I can feel the telltale thumping of his heart. My fingers skate to the right, and just before I reach his nipple, his hand comes up and grabs my wrist in a grasp so tight that I couldn't move it if I tried.
The doors shut, and we're alone again.
"Stop," he whispers. It’s a warning and it causes a curl of fear in the pit of my belly that should give me pause.
But my good sense has left me. All I want now is to prove him wrong.
I press my body into his side. My breasts yield to the hard muscle of his arm, I let my pelvis press into the side of his hip, and I bring my mouth down and let my lips skim his shoulder.
His eyes close, and his rigid posture eases.
"Not for all the tea in China?" I ask.
He looks down at me then, his posture gaining its tight, controlled stance again.
He has a look of challenge in his dark eyes. They are hooded, and his mouth, which has been set in a stern line, is slightly tipped up at the corners.
"Not for anything," he returns silkily, but in a voice so cold, it freezes everything. His grip loosens, and his voice has lost some of its frost when he says, “Except… the real you. Not this character you’re playing.”
I'm rendered so completely speechless by his cold rejection that it takes me a moment to notice the elevator isn't moving.
I want to get off this elevator. Away from him. From his beauty and his idealism. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be brought to your knees by loss. He would never understand the things I’ve had to do. When I think about my life...No, I can’t let myself go there. Not now, not in front of him.
I want to be alone, I shouldn’t have come after him. I can’t handle this.
My head starts to spin, and I want to lie down.
"I've had too much to drink. I feel sick," I mumble.
“Don’t you fucking throw up.” He warns.
“I’m not going to throw up, I just need to get off.”
The elevator feels like it's moving at a snail's pace, and I press the button for his floor. Repeatedly.
The elevator comes to a sudden, jerking halt. A cry escapes me as it sends me flying toward him. He catches me but sets me away almost immediately.
"Great, what did you do?" he snaps as he peers at the elevator's panel of call buttons.
"I didn't do anything, it’s not my fault," I plead miserably.
I cannot be stuck in an elevator with this man.
He stands up to his full height and peers down his haughty nose at me. "Well, one minute I was on my way up to my room, and more importantly on my way to being away from you, and then you start overzealously pressing buttons, and now the elevator is stuck."
I walk past him to look at the panel myself. "Don't these things normally have a phone?" I ask as I scan the smooth surface of the wall.
"I don't know. I've never needed to know anything like that because I've never been in an elevator with a mad woman who caused it to break down," he says snidely as he reaches into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out his mobile phone. "Shit, of course. No service," he gives me an irritated glance and says. "Check yours, too. It's the least you can do. Seeing as how this is your fault. We need to call down to the front desk and ask for help."
I’m annoyed with myself for my lack of action, and I pull my phone out of my small cross body purse and find that I don't have service either. I drop the useless device back into my purse and stalk to the corner of the elevator. I glare at him.
He meets my glare and scowls. "You're like a bad luck charm. Let's hope they're aware of the problem and are working on fixing it."
I ignore him and close my eyes and take deep breaths. I start to count backwards from one hundred in my head as the reality of my circumstance starts to sink in.
I'm alone, in an enclosed space with a man who can't stand me. I have no way of getting out. What was I thinking getting on this elevator with him? I try to squeeze myself into the corner, as far away from him as possible. My entire body flushes as blood surges, my breathing is labored and I run my hands through my hair, trying to find a thought that might calm me.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice brusque. My eyes snap open and find him watching me, his eyes still irritated but now tinged with some concern. "Are you claustrophobic or something?" He puts a hand on my shoulder, and I freeze. My blood runs cold, and I can't remember where I am.
I look at his hand, so large that it completely covers my shoulder. It's also suddenly too heavy. I can't bear the weight. My heart is beating so fast that I'm sure it's going to rupture. I hear myself whimper. He drops his hand and takes a step back. I close my eyes again and count backward from ten.
He continues talking. "Hey. You need to breathe."
I try to speak, but my mouth won't move. I try to take a deep breath, but my lungs won't cooperate, and I clutch my throat as they burn with the effort it's taking for me to get air into them. I haven't had an attack like this in almost three years. I can't believe it's happening to me now. When I can't hide it or do anything to stop it.
"Listen, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you. Or touched you. I promise I'm not going to hurt you."
I'm not going to hurt you.
Instead of his voice, I hear those words spoken by a voice that I usually only hear in my nightmares. It sets my panic into overdrive. I can feel my head spinning and my eyes lose their focus. I can't move. I can't breathe. All I can do is sit here, helpless and unable to save myself. Again.
8
Harry
She's having a panic attack. My twin sister, Freya, had them for years when we were teenagers. She was involved in a horrific car accident she walked away from, but which killed her best friend. The trauma manifested itself in frequent bouts of acute panic. They threw my entire family into a tailspin, and we all went to counseling to learn how to help her cope.
I look down at the woman in front of me. She's gone from trembling to shaking, and I'm worried that she is going to fall over. I want to put my arm around her, but I'm not sure that it won't just make things worse. "Hey, I know you're scared, but they must know we've broken down. They will probably have it fixed in just a few minutes,” I say in as soothing a voice as I can manage given how nervous I feel.
She doesn't respond, only shrinks further into the corner of the elevator. Her eyes, the first thing I noticed about her, are wide open but unseeing. The flecks of gold in them, which seemed to cut through the shadows cast by the ambient lighting in the hotel's restaurant, first reminded me of the summer and sunshine. But right now, they’re dull and full of terror and confusion.
I need to get her and myself off the elevator. Until I can manage that, I need to help her calm down before this escalates and becomes a crisis. I take a step towards her, and she shakes her head and whimpers. I stop moving but try to figure out how I’m going to get her to focus and calm down.
She's clearly claustrophobic because she went from looking like the reincarnation of the Greek goddess Athena, ready to battle me to the death, to looking like she's afraid for her life. She’s shivering. The elevator is cold and her white tunic is slightly see-through, but it covers every bit of her, except her throat and hands. Her jeans are form fitting, but her tunic hits her at mid-thigh. Her feet are encased in black thong sandals, are also exposed.
I’d noticed her toes earlier by the pool. They’re painted a bright, cheerful red. It’s the one flare of color she seems to allow on her person. Now they peek out of her sandals and I see them flexing a little and recognize that as a sign of stress. But Freya never trembled like this during her attacks. And I feel a stab of guilt at the way I treated her tonight. Shit.
I decide to try and help her in the only way I know how. I reach out slowly and gently wrap a hand around her arm. She whimpers again but doesn't fight me as I pull her close. She's only a few inches shorter than me, and her head comes to rest on my shoulder. Her hair tickles my nose, and I can't believe how good it feels to have this woman - as infuriating as she is beautiful - in my arms.
After our confrontation yesterday, I hadn’t expected to see her again.
I was struck how, even in the waning light of dusk and with only a few torches lighting the outdoor bar, her flawless skin glowed like dark honey. She watched the crowd as I watched her, her face reflecting disgust, annoyance and at times envy.
When that man approached, she'd flashed that fake smile, but I could see the moment she decided to go with him. She ordered another drink, but I could see, even across the pool, how white her knuckles were as she clutched the glass and threw it back.
When they got up, I sprang into action. Even though I’d resolved to stay away from her, I couldn’t sit there and watch her leave with another man. I knew she'd be angry when she found me behind her. I hadn’t expected her to crumble when I touched her.
I don't know what to do about her. She’s drives me crazy, but I’m also drawn to her. I know that no matter how angry I was, I wouldn’t have been able to keep my distance. Not as long as she was nearby.
She sobs softly and I pull her into my chest and wrap my arms around her and feel her shiver. I try to lend her some of my body heat. A sweet fragrance from her dark, loose, and glossy curls wafts up to my nose. Her arms are by her side, but she’s tucked tightly against me.
I feel the heat of her body through the cotton of my shirt, and I can feel the thud of her thundering heart against my diaphragm. I don't move, don't speak - I just stand there with this puzzle in my arms and say a silent prayer hoping that what worked for Freya will work for her. I don't know how much time passes, but her shaking recedes to a tremble and then to an occasional shudder. Her breathing goes from hitched to deep and slow.
I'm careful not to move, for fear of reigniting her panic. But I start to speak. "Are you okay?"
She gives a slow, halting nod and lifts her head to look at me. Her eyes are still wide with fear and now glassy with unshed tears. She puts her hand to her throat, and I immediately drop my arms and take a step back. Without turning my back to her, I back up and sit down on the floor of the elevator. I hope this assures her that I am not going to touch her again. I clear my throat to make sure my voice sounds neutral before I speak.
"Have you been to Italy before?" I say.
Her eyes are wide with confusion, and I try to stay focused on my task. But this close, I can see the flecks of color that make the tawny gold of her eyes, the tourmaline, amber, hazel, the nut-brown ring around her irises. They are so beautiful that I forget where we are. That tether that knows better than we do coils around us and holds fast.
We stare at each other. I don't have a single thought in my head but her. How can it be that I met this woman less than a week ago?
She should be a stranger, but I feel like I know her. Her eyes regain their focus, and her breathing slows. Her hand finally comes away from her throat.
That movement reminds me why I started speaking, and so I continue.
"I've only been once, in the summer. I usually vacation in cold weather. The heat drives me crazy, but I had the trip booked already, so I decided to go anyway." I hope making small talk will pull her out of her panic.
She just stares at me for a minute, her eyes clearing. "If you hate it, why did you book a trip?"
I wait for the bristle that comes whenever anyone asks why I made that trip. It's a benign question, an obvious follow up when I say I’ve been. But the bristle doesn’t come, and I find that telling her the truth is easy.
"My fiancée loved the heat. It was supposed to be our honeymoon. But she died. So, I went by myself." I can hear how cold and distant I sound.
She gasps. "Oh. I'm so...sorry," she says. The uncertainty of her condolence tells me she's confused by my blunt, emotionless statement which is completely at odds with the words I spoke. I'm only glad she's no longer looking at me like she thinks I might be Jack the Ripper. I look down at my hands for a moment, my ring-less finger a reminder that I should be married by now. That I'd probably be here with my wife if she hadn’t died.
I know I should feel guilty for not being sad. I know I should at least pretend to feel something for the memory of the woman I'd been preparing to spend the rest of my life with. But I can't.
I realize I've let myself get lost in my thoughts when her movement makes me look up. She's joined me on the floor, and she is leaning forward, her long, shapely legs crossed at the ankles and her clasped hands resting on her knees as she watches me, her leonine eyes now keenly trained on me. She’s calm, focused, thinking.
The tables have turned. She seems to be in complete control of her senses again. I, on the other hand, become aware of how small this elevator is. I chafe under her scrutiny; my hands feel uncomfortably clammy, and I feign a sudden interest in the walls of our confine and look away from her knowing gaze.
"This was recent, right? Her death?" she asks quietly.
I don't respond. The elevator will start moving soon, and I can get away from this woman and this conversation. This is what I get for trying to be nice.
"You're still very hurt by it. I'm sorry. I really am." Something in her tone, is so soothing and kind that it annoys me. I don't want her pity. I don't deserve it.
"I'm not hurt by it. You don't know a thing about it. You don't need to be sorry." I glance at my watch. "Listen, I only started talking to stop you from freaking out. I am not really interested in having this conversation."
She doesn't respond. I glance back at her. She is still watching me with those suddenly canny eyes. She seems completely unfazed by my brush-off.
"Oh, okay," she says with a dry laugh and breaks our eye contact.
"What?" I say, moving my head to capture her eyes again, but she looks down, avoiding my probe.
"You want me to be honest, but you can't be?" she says.
"I'm being honest,” I insist. “It’s an ugly truth, and some days I think there's something very wrong with me because I'm not sad. I was, but I'm not anymore, and I haven't been for a long time."
