I Love My Healed Heart: 4 Book Box Set/Omnibus (Erotic Romance) (4 page)

Forty-five Minutes
Later

We are
sitting across from each other at this little table in an Indian restaurant;
every wall is covered with bright beads, fabrics, lights and every gaudy
knick-knack you could imagine. Unbelievably, this is one of the more tame
establishments in terms of decoration. About six or seven (I’ve never counted)
sit side by side in this neighborhood, all brightly competing and beckoning, in
mostly reds and oranges and greens; Sit. Eat. Enjoy.

“I work
for this software company in San Francisco. It’s good. I like the people and
the job is okay but…” he shrugs and dunks a bit of Naan into delicious eggplant
goo.

“But…?” I
encourage him.

He looks
up from beneath his eyebrows, his forehead wrinkles up like James Dean. I’m
having a hard time focusing on what he’s saying.

“I’m
designing an app on my own that hopefully will be my ticket out there. I like
it, my job, but I think I’d be happier on my own. Not working in a corporate
environment. I don’t know.” He shrugs again, and smiles.

“I think
that sounds great. I mean, I don’t know what the app is, but there are so many
opportunities today, you know? So, why not try it?” The curry is a little
hotter than I anticipated, but I love it. I reach for some water and he leans
back in his chair and just looks at me. “What?” I ask, shyly. This man does
something to me. It’s scary.

“You’re
really beautiful, do you know that?”

My
stomach jumps into my chest.

“Um,
Thank you… that’s very sweet to hear.” I look down out of habit. I’m not so
great at accepting compliments from men that turn my knees to jelly. Plus, I
know he’s lying. No one ever says I’m beautiful.

“It’s
true. You are. You’re not aware of it though. There’s something about you that
I really dig.”

“Yeah?” I
bite my bottom lip, and peek at him from beneath my eyelashes.
Dig?
Did he just say
Dig?
It’s taking all I have to not get
attached. My heart can’t take another beating. It just can’t. As quickly as the
idea, the wish of him enters my mind, it leaves. San Francisco is a long way
away. I unknowingly let out a sigh as I pick at my plate.

“What?”
he asks me, leaning in. He cocks his head to the side and looks at me,
obviously concerned.

“Nothing.
I just, I think I’m done. Are you done? I should probably go. I have work in
the morning and I’m supposed to send out some emails and… you know. Just
stuff.” I’m rambling. Stop it, Jessica. Stop it and just look at him. What are
you doing?

When I
do, he looks detached and confused. I should tell him I’m having a great time
and don’t go.
Stay another night, Mark
.
I can’t do that. No! I will do no such thing. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just
coming off of a breakup, rebounding, and Mr. Gorgeous Amazing-Sex Guy is just
here to help me through it. I know this. There’s no way anything could come of
this.

Right?

Mark
calls over our waiter and hands him a credit card to take care of the bill. While
we wait, we talk about casual topics, avoiding the tension that weighs heavily
between us. We talk about how the weather is so nice here in the fall. It’s
going to get cold soon. How’s the weather on the west coast? Foggy. Huh… that’s
cool. Better to keep it light and simple, I convince myself, feeling my chest
tighten, regardless. He pays the bill, thanks the smiling waiter who nods his
head and asks us to
please come back soon
.
I smile and walk out the door that Mark holds for me.

When we
get back to my place, even though he’s held my hand the whole walk home, I feel
separate from him. I can’t get it out of my head that he’s leaving and I don’t
need my heart broken again. My lips are raw from my chewing on them.

“Here we
are,” he says, smiling in the most disarming way. He’s got a casual ruggedness
to him and all of a sudden I can easily imagine Mark building a fire at a
campsite, catching fish in the stream, sleeping in a tent underneath a blanket
of stars. Holding children, but they don’t look like me…That’s weird. I shake
my head. I’m losing my head.

“Yep.
Here we are. I had a really great time, and I would love to ask you up, but I’m
really tired so…” I sound very unsure of myself, even to my own ears.

“And you
have those emails to get back to,” he offers. I can see he knows I’m protecting
myself.

I’m a bit
defensive about it, because hey, don’t call me out like that with those eyes of
yours, buddy. “I do!”

“You do.
I know.” He smiles, leans in and touches his lips to mine. The tingles warm up
all
of me, and I lean into the kiss. His
lips caress mine, telling me that he had a great time, too.

He pulls
back and breaks our connection with distance… three thousand miles of it. He
looks into my eyes one last time. “Goodnight, Jessica.”

“Goodbye
Mark.” I nod. I pull out the key and turn to the door.

“It’s
broken,” he offers. I look back over my shoulder and he’s not smiling this
time. He looks sad.

“Right. I
forgot.”

And
without another word, I turn and walk away into my building. I don’t look back.
I don’t let myself.

The Next Morning

I wake up
irritable and cranky. And alone. Coffee will help, I tell myself, forcing my
feet onto the floor to make myself get up and go to the bathroom to brush my
teeth, take a shower to wash away this feeling, too. This curry taste, day two,
is always really bad, but oh man do I love it on day one. I shower, get out,
dry myself off numbly. I get dressed, come back and do my hair, which
surprisingly looks pretty awesome when I’m finished.
At least I have that,
I shrug. The humidity of summer helps it, so
much easier to maintain. We’ve got a couple more blessed weeks, although I do
like Fall. Rambling thoughts like these spin as I look into the mirror. Then I
remember. Mark called me beautiful. Am I beautiful? I search my own face, tilt
my head to this side and shrug. I don’t feel beautiful today.

Hang on
to the sweet memory of the elevator, Jess. And the flowers. I walk over to the
vase where it sits on a little table by my door. I touch one of the orange
flowers.
Hold onto the good stuff. Let go
of the rest.
But it is really hard not to beat myself up over how the night
ended. I keep telling myself I was protecting myself. I’m only human. We women
have to protect ourselves.

Right?

When I go
down the elevator, I block out the image of yesterday. I have to close my eyes
and I barely succeed to think of other things. When the doors open, I hurry off
and walk the long hallway to the front door with its broken lock. Outside, on
the busy New York street, I avoid a street performer, and then have to jump out
of the way as two men in suits on their cellphones almost bowl me over. Coffee
will help me feel better, so I ignore the subway entrance and opt for getting a
cup for the ride, to help me feel a little more like…me.

Starbucks
is closest, so it will have to do. I walk in and see they are out of the only
thing I really love there – Pumpkin Bread. Damn. Just coffee then.

I tell
the girl working the counter - an early twenties hipster with braids and ear-plugs
for earrings of a more permanent nature - that I would love a Grande Chai Latte
and I would love it now. Please and thank you. She smiles like she knows how I
feel – more or a smirk, really, but instantly I feel we are soul sisters
and my day is getting better. I’ll take what I can get.

When my
coffee finally arrives, I see the time and realize I have got to hurry. No time
to take a sip. I’ll have it on the train.

But
wouldn’t you know it, who do I run into the second I leave Starbucks?

David. Oh
joy.

“Jessica!”

“Don’t
talk to me.”

“Oh come
on – don’t be like that!” he says, as if he didn’t drag broken glass over
my heart by first cheating on me, and THEN telling me he wanted to see other
people. I walk past him, but the dickhead turns on his heels to follow me. I
cannot believe the nerve of this guy.

 
“David, I don’t have time to tell you
what an asshole you are. But let me just say it anyway since we have about two
seconds before I make it to the subway – you’re an asshole.” People don’t
look at us, even though I am not being quiet. It’s New York. This is mild shit
right here.

“Jess, I
told you I was sorry. Why haven’t you returned my call? And I texted you, too.”

He’s
having to jump around people who are walking against us. A train must have just
arrived because there are a lot of people walking out of the subway all of a
sudden. Damn, I hope that wasn’t my train.

“I
haven’t returned your call because I have no idea
why
you would be calling me!” I start to ditch him, really annoyed.

He grabs
my arm to stop me. “I hate that you won’t talk to me! I miss you. I think I
made a mistake.”

Shocked,
I spin on him, jaw to the floor, my eyes the shape of saucers. “You
think
you made a mistake?” I demand,
incredulous.

“Yes!
Jess, I miss you. I can’t stop thinking about you. Let me take you out to
dinner. We can go to The Red Bamboo. Just give me a chance to talk things over
with you and tell you what I realized.” He looks so proud of himself for
remembering that I love The Red Bamboo, I can’t help but be a little amused. He
is cute.

 
But I am not having it.

“David,
the only reason you want me back is so that you can prove to yourself that you
are not a monster.” I watch his face closely for a reaction.

“No.
That’s not why…” he defends, lamely.

But I can
see in his eyes that it is
exactly
why he’s doing this. The fact that I see this, combined with my already crappy
morning, gives me courage.

“If I go
out with you, and forgive you, then that means you are not a monster. And then
when we break up – again - it would be just because it ‘didn’t work out’
and you’d be off the hook. I’m not giving you that chance, David. Uh-uh. You
are going to have to live with the fact that you fucking cheated on me –
when we both know I was your best friend. I loved you. I would
never
have cheated on you. And you
betrayed me – and probably more than once! So
you
…are a monster. Live with it.”

I hold
his stunned sheepish stare for just long enough to really nail my point home -
then coffee in hand, bag over my shoulder, I turn with dramatic flare and
practically dance down the stairs to catch my train.

This day
just got
great.

End of Part 1

By Sabrina Lacey

Contents

1 Two Weeks Later

2 The Next Morning

3 Minutes Later

4 After Work

5 Twenty-Two

Minutes Later

Two Weeks Later

“He deserved it. I wish I’d been there to see his face.” Amber says
as she thumbs through the rack at H&M.

I’ve just told her - for the millionth time - about my faceoff with
David, my ex. It’s been a couple weeks since it happened but because she’s one
of my best friends, she’s still excited for me. I love girlfriends. Would not
be able to exist without them. Not happily, at least.

I follow her through the store. “You know how you have those times
where you’re faced with someone, and you don’t say the right thing and then
later you keep playing it in your head –”

“—over and over and over. Yes. I do that aaaaaall the time,”
Amber confesses, holding up a neon pink 80’s style dress, which I immediately
veto.

“Me, too! Well this time, I said exactly what I would have wished to
say. It was like my guardian angel was helping me talk, like she was super
happy that we had the chance to tell the cheater off, and gave me the perfect
words to do it with,” I hold up a yellow dress that is so Amber.

“Oh, I love it.” She snatches it, excitedly.

“Exactly.” I don’t see anything for myself on these racks. Do I have
a fever or something? I feel my head - half to amuse myself, half to really
check - because I always find something. I don’t have a ton of cash to shop…
but c’mon. H&M is ridonkulous. So cheap. But hey, maybe they’re having an
off day.

“You know what Josh did last night? I’m gonna go try this on. Come
with,” she says over her shoulder.

“No, what’d he do?” I follow her quickly to take advantage of the way
she, like a blond Moses, parts the waters of messy racks and bargain-obsessed
tourists.

It’s our lunch hour and we’re at the store on 5
^th
Ave. It
is always nutty-busy with tourists here. We don’t mind though because there are
two upsides to that. One is this: because it’s packed with active buyers, the
store’s turnover is extreme and that means new clothes/styles/colors/patterns
are stocked daily. And the other is this: You get to hear accents from all over
the world. I don’t know if Amber loves this aspect of it, but I do. That’s one
of the best things about New York, in my opinion. Anywhere you go, you hear
people talking in languages from all over the world - French, Swedish, Russian,
Japanese, Finnish, British, Italian, Spanish, Czech - you name it, we hear it.
And here, next to the Empire State Building, where
everybody
visits, chances are that you will hear at least four
different languages as you shop, maybe more. So cool.

“Nothing. He did nothing! Aaaaagain.” She goes into the fitting room
as soon as she sees the sympathetic look on my face. Through the door she tells
me, “I don’t know what to do. He used to be fun, Jess. But now all he does is
watch TV, or YouTube on his stupid computer, and then goes to sleep. I’m so
bored and I’m wondering if I made a huge mistake by moving in with him.”

I see my hair could look better and start to fix it in the mirror
outside of the rooms. I know exactly what she’s talking about. Don’t we all?
“You know, we women are always looking for ways to make our relationships
better. How do we keep things exciting, so men don’t leave? How ‘bout this
piece of lingerie, this perfume, this sports team. What are they doing?
Watching TV and having sex with us in the same way they did the last fifty
times. Does he even want to go out to dinner, ever?”

“No,” she answers flatly.

I look to the H&M fitting room attendant, a girl in her early
twenties with her long hair swept into a cute bun above stud earrings, a
salmon-colored sleeveless blouse, bright blue ankle-high skinny jeans and flat,
sparkly sandals that I immediately want. She is nodding to herself, but when
she sees me looking at her, she says, “It’s such bullshit.”

Amber pops her head out of the fitting room and in unison she and I
exclaim, “Right?!” Then she pops back inside. Hilarious.

“Totally,” says the attendant, over her shoulder as she leaves to put
away a huge stack of clothing discards.

Amber comes out in the yellow dress. I love it - it’s sexy without
making the women who see her, hate her.

“I love it!” she says, turning in the mirror I was just using to fix
my hair.

“It’s perfect. So what are you going to do about it?” I am of course
referring to the whole Josh situation, which of course she knows.

“I’m going to do what he’s been doing.”

And in unison we say, “Nothing,” and shrug.

A bit later, when I decide my lunch break should probably be over, I
hug Amber goodbye and head back to hell. I found a dress after all, and love it
so much that I’m wearing it back to work. It’s above the knee, v-necked and
sleeveless. The green goes really great with my red hair. Amber and I are such
great shopping buddies. Some people you go with make you want to buy stuff you
would never wear. That is never the case with us. We get each other, and we
know what attributes to bring out in each other to make the other shine.

Back at work, when I’m riding up the elevator, a vision of Mark
flashes into my mind. He’s changed elevators for me, forever. I’m beginning to
forget what he looks like. I think that’s a defense mechanism of my mind, and
one I am grateful for. It was really hard, those first few days. I missed him…
or the idea of him Which one? I don’t know. I do know that I regretted not having
him stay the night so that I could enjoy him for as long as was humanly
possible. But see, that’s just the point. I’m human. And I’m a woman, which
means I’m romantic and sensitive. I know this now. My emotions are not to be
taken lightly, especially in my own consideration, a fact I’ve overlooked for
way too fucking long. This is what I have to remind myself, over and over and
over, so I don’t beat myself up. Finally the thoughts about him came fewer and
farther between.

I’ve let it go, now. Except when I get on elevators… big sigh.

When the doors open, I walk past the receptionist and we nod to each
other like two captive prisoners who are planning a breakout. Conspirators.
That’s what most of us little people feel like. At our level, you have to stick
together. Or stab each other in the back, which, let’s be honest, happens. But
you can’t really blame someone for trying to get to the top in a world where
people work very hard to keep you at the bottom. So much easier to look down,
than look up. Me? I’m somewhere in the middle. But I identify with the people
below me more than the ones above, because the only one above me – on
this floor – is The Bitch. And I do NOT want to identify with her. As I
walk to my desk I am wondering what the hell I am doing in a place that makes
me imagine myself as wearing prison orange.
 

The Bitch takes longer lunches than me sometimes, and I’m hoping that
this is one of those days. My desk is in a cubicle. I have made it my own with
some funny quotes on the wall to amuse me, an emblem of The Michigan
Wolverines, plus some fun pictures of me, Amber and our other best friend,
Nicole. There’s also an orchid plant, which thankfully needs little light. What
arrests my attention, the second I plop into my swivel chair, is the empty
space where the picture of David and I used to hang. There’s still a shard of
tape and disappointment lingering there. Why haven’t I filled that space, yet?
I could put another pic of me and my girlfriends, up. The least I could do is
tear down the tape fragment. I’m staring at it for maybe three - maybe thirty -
minutes when I hear her. The Bitch. I didn’t even hear her footsteps.

“Where have you been?” she screeches like a pterodactyl, flying in to
capture me and carry me to her hungry babies. I jump two feet in my chair.
Since she scared the hell out of me, I am speechless. “Well?!” she demands,
hands on her too-skinny hips.

“I… I was in the bathroom because I had some bad shrimp last night,”
I lie.

“I looked for you in the bathroom. Try again.” The look on her face
is so gross. I want to tell her. But I don’t.

“No, I used the handicap/family bathroom downstairs. It’s got one
room and a lock. I needed…privacy. It ain’t pretty.”

She purses her lips, not sure whether to believe me or not. “Weren’t
you wearing a different dress earlier?”

Oh no. What a dufus I am. Think fast! “Yes! I got vomit on it. It was
awful, green… yellow… some brown –”

“Stop!” She is holding up her perfectly manicured hand, palm out.

I can see I’ve got her, so I bring out the big guns. “I’m sorry. I
was going to call in sick, but I knew how much you needed me and
I
didn’t
want to let you down
.”

Tada!

The hands drop from the hips. The pursed lips relax. She leans back
on her heels and her face almost looks happy. Almost. She doesn’t have a
pleasant face in general. I think she did when she was younger, but the years
of hard work, control issues, romantic disappointments, etc…hardened her. She
is no longer soft. The severe, perpetual too-tight ponytail doesn’t help her
case, either. She believes me, though. I still have a job, so that’s nice. I
think.

I keep quiet and wait for imminent instruction. She doesn’t
disappoint.

“I’ll be in my office. Let me know as soon as you’ve heard back from
Stella McCartney. If we get her perfume in the goody bags, it’ll make my year.
And you look like shit. Put some lipstick on or something.”

With that, she marches to her gorgeous office. How she can have such
a stick up her ass when she works in an office like that, is beyond me. It’s
got floor to ceiling windows and the most gorgeous skyline view of Manhattan
you could wish for. Her desk cost more than all the furniture in my little
cubbyhole apartment, combined. To top it off? She’s got a bar that reminds me
of the one they have in Mad Men. So jealous.

As soon as she closes the door, I stop watching her. I’m safe. Coast
is clear. I can hear the typing and chatting on the phone from my co-workers
around me. I shouldn’t complain. My cubicle is larger than theirs, since I’m
the executive assistant to The Bitch. On the other floors, the executive
assistants to the other department editors all have around the same size as me.
But on this floor? Mine is the biggest. She offered me a desk out in the open,
nearer her office, but I didn’t take it because I like a little privacy. Easier
to get work done… or not.

Do I really look like shit? I was lying about being sick, so I should
look pretty good. Let me see. I sift through my purse and choose MAC “Mocha”
over “Twig” lipstick, and take out my compact to apply it in the mirror.
Checking myself out, I see she was just trying to get under my skin. I look
fine. Man that woman can make me feel really small. As I touch the lipstick to
my mouth, I see the light change in my mirror. All of a sudden it’s a little darker…
like there’s something blocking the light. I turn my head to see if a bulb went
out in the recessed lighting and see James standing there, arm on the wall,
leaning with a smile on his face as he watches me. Oh.

“No, don’t stop,” he says quietly, so no one can hear him. He can see
that I, with my lipstick still mid-air, am at a loss for what to say, or do. I
raise my eyebrows and smile a silent question at him, so he adds, “I love to
watch women put on lipstick.”

“My boyfriend hates lipstick.” I shut my eyes at my mistake, open
them back up and correct, “EX. Boyfriend.”

“Yeah. I heard you guys broke up,” he says, and there is genuine
compassion on his face as he nods, looks down at his stylish shoes and adds,
“Sorry about that. That’s never a good time. I just went through a breakup, too.”

“Yeah? Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m over it.”

“Me too.”

Are we lying? Probably.

James is a couple years younger than me, works in H.R. and is very,
very
handsome. Black hair, blue eyes,
trim physique, great ass, and his shirts always pull a little across the
broadness of his chest. He wears them tight. He’s the kind of handsome where
you assume he’s gotta be gay. But I’m not sure if he
is
gay. The
rumor
is he’s
gay because there are very few straight men working in fashion. He could be.
I’ve never seen anyone he’s dated and he keeps to himself a bit. Right now I’m
getting a straight vibe and hard. Hard. Hmm… The thought makes me smile. Which
makes him smile back.

Here we are smiling at each other, which of course makes our smiles
grow because electricity is building in the silence of this moment. I start to
giggle. Then, those blue eyes of his get serious and lock onto my mouth. I
freeze, unsure of what to do. He lowers his chin a bit, narrows his eyes, and
says, “Keep going.”

Oh. Okay. I look back to my mirror to put on my lipstick. I turn my
swivel chair toward him so he can watch. Why not? I don’t do it like how I do
it, when I’m alone. Instead, I take my time. Glide the stick across the heart
shape. I slide it along my bottom lip next and tug it to the side a tiny
teasing bit. I look up at him, open and inviting, still holding the compact
between us as I press my lips together to blend. He intakes a breath and holds
it as I drag my right pinky finger along the outline, for effect. He’s looking
at me like a wolf looks at a sheep. He’s the best-looking wolf I’ve ever seen
so I just smile, and put the compact and lipstick on the desk. I know James
from the Christmas party, from minor bits of chit-chat. He’s always struck me
as a nice guy, as much as hot guys like him can be nice. This little cat and
mouse game we’re playing now? It’s brightening my day like you wouldn’t
believe.