Scared of Forever (Scared #2) (3 page)

I laugh as I realize
she’s pinned to the wall by me and my dick. “
Mmmm
,
and what if I refuse?” I ask. She unclamps her legs from my waist
and slides out of the gap.

“Then I’ll just
leave,” she says walking away, offering me a full view of her bare
ass and barely there G-string.

I contemplate ambushing
Emily in the shower, but realize after the testosterone has started
to deplete, that I’m completely exhausted. I duck into the guest
bathroom and take a quick shower myself before falling into bed. I
vaguely hear Emily come out of the en suite bathroom later and barely
feel her lay down next to me. I’ve become so accustomed to feeling
her next to me, hearing her even breathing as she sleeps in my bed.

“Blake!” I hear
Emily’s faraway voice shout the next morning as I struggle to open
my eyes. I glance over at the clock. 5:30 am.
Too
fucking early to be awake
. Emily hands me a cup of hot,
black coffee.

“What would I do
without you?” I ask.

She looks down at me
adoringly. “Hmmm, let’s see. Well, for starters, you would have
to make your own coffee and wake yourself up. Beat off regularly—”

She checks the items
off on her fingers with a grin. I place the coffee on the bedside
table and grab her around the waist, pulling her down on top of me.

“Oh, hell no, you
have to get dressed!” she says, swatting at me. “And I have to do
my penance today.”

“What, why?” I ask,
confused.

“Your mother invited
me to brunch.” Emily says it politely, but I know she hates these
little dates that my mother insists on having with her. Emily
tolerates her for my sake, and my mother does the same with Emily.
We’re all just too polite to say anything.

“I’m sad for you,”
I say, only half joking.

“Sure you are,” she
laughs. “You’re just happy that it’s not you.”

“Guilty,” I retort
climbing out of bed and walking over to the closet.

“What do I tell her?”
Emily calls, perched on the edge of the bed.

“About?” I ask,
sifting through my dress shirts.

“The wedding plans,
the date,” she answers wearily. “You know I don’t want to
commit to a date yet, and the last thing I want to do so soon after
the engagement is immerse myself in bouquets and boutonnieres.”

I walk over to her.
“Tell her whatever you feel comfortable with. Tell her tomorrow if
you like, since I have no problem marrying you tomorrow at all, or
next year, or the year after.” I kiss her forehead gently. “Don’t
let her bully you.”

Emily deserves a
wonderful mother-in-law. She is a dream daughter-in-law. But she has
my
mother. The woman
who looks down her nose at everything and everyone. The woman who
will
never
accept
Emily as her equal or view her as an appropriate choice for her son.
Not that her neurotic maternal behavior doesn’t have its perks. It
irks her to no end that Emily insists on working at a beauty salon
down the street. Or that she refuses my mother’s offers to pay for
her to start her own spa, or go to college to study anything at all.
Still, Eliza Carson persists in her attempts to turn Emily into the
next social standout. I know my mother, and she must like Emily to
some degree; otherwise, she would have swiftly eradicated her from my
life already. She certainly wouldn’t have offered her blessings on
our recent engagement. Eliza Carson will eventually be won over
completely by Emily; everyone is.

“Pray for me,” she
says with a pouted lower lip.

“You don’t need my
prayers,” I say. “You can handle her.”

The ride to the
University Hospital of Brooklyn wouldn’t be so bad, were it not for
the seemingly ever-present New York traffic. I grab another coffee
down the street before settling into the BMW for the tedious trip.
Just as I’m about to veer into the traffic, a call comes through on
my display. “What’d I forget?” I ask, sure that it’s Emily.

“Me, asshole!” My
cousin Chayse’s voice blasts through the car’s Bluetooth system.

“Aww, fuck,” I say,
rubbing my forehead. I had completely forgotten that I agreed to pick
him up this morning. My father got Chayse a job in security at the
hospital after he found it nearly impossible to find one, owing to
his prior prison record. My mother barely acknowledges his existence,
being that he’s the son of my father’s aunt. Still, he did stay
with us for a long while after his mother passed away, so he’s more
of a brother than my real brother ever was to me. “Why can’t you
walk? It’s like fifteen minutes,” I ask.

“Because it looks
much better to arrive in a BMW,” Chayse retorts sarcastically.

I smile despite my
tiredness and annoyance. Chayse is my favorite family member, by far.
He just doesn’t give a fuck. I like that. I can relate.

I roll down my window,
and the balmy fresh wind rushes at me, instantly waking me up. What
should have been a seventeen-minute drive actually takes almost
forty-five with the current traffic. I pull up outside Chayse’s
apartment block, and he jogs down the stairs. A few women walking by
turn to look. One exiting his building gives him the finger.
Must
be last night’s conquest
. Chayse is a ladies man, and
not surprising with his copious tattoos, piercings, and ever present
five o’clock shadow. I have a few tats too, but Chayse? Not to
mention the body he managed to sculpt during his year in jail. I
guess prison doesn’t give you much else to focus on. I used to envy
him.
I still do
.
Freedom is a wonderful impossibility in my life.

Lounging across the bed
on my stomach this morning, I took in the beautiful sight that was
Blake Carson.
My very own
walking contradiction
. I watched him inspect his perfectly
ironed shirt, obsess over finding the perfect tie to match it, and
finger his expensive designer suit appreciatively. Then there’s the
real Blake, the one I am so in love with, with his left shoulder and
half of his back covered in intricate ink, his toned and sun kissed
body blessed with a perfect ass. His hand came up to rub his freshly
shaved, angular jaw as he inspected his perfectly groomed, golden
brown hair in the mirror. His low set eyebrows furrowed as he looked
upon his reflection, making his deep brown eyes seem so much more
enchanting. Wrapped in a towel from the waist down, I observed
leisurely as he slipped on the shirt and buttoned it to the second to
last button from the collar, as always. And just like that,
contradiction
.
Tattoos now covered, he had transformed into the epitome of a
handsome, respectable future doctor.

After donning his suit
and slinging the tie casually around his neck, he leaned over the bed
and kissed me. Softly and sweetly at first, then with more need.
More
passion.
I had pulled away reluctantly upon seeing his
warm eyes bore into me with their familiar lusty glaze. He had no
self-control. I often wonder how he got to be so perfect. And how I
had managed to win his heart.

I walk into the kitchen
and pour myself my second cup of coffee this morning, after Blake
leaves for work. Ideally though, I would prefer to throw back a few
tequila shots in preparation for brunch with his mother. I’m sure
the woman hates me with an absolute passion. Not that she believes
that anyone is good enough for her precious baby boy, but I am
certainly the last candidate she would have backed for the position.
A country girl from Cuba
.
Not Cuba the country, but Cuba, Missouri. Plus, I’m a beautician by
trade, whose family only makes it to the obituary section of Cuba’s
local paper, a far cry from the society pages of
The
New York Times
.

In fact, in the last
five months that Blake and I had been together, the closest thing I
had received to a compliment from her was that she was ‘proud of me
for dressing with some class,’ a sentiment that had nearly floored
me. Until she added, ‘for a change.’ I hate the way she looks at
me, like a war-torn orphan who needs saving, a new hairdo, and to be
educated on the First World’s societal expectations.

Standing in the
full-length mirror an hour later, I inspect my outfit. High-waisted
navy blue pleated pants with matching kitten heels, and a silk,
champagne colored blouse. I turn my head to examine my perfect
chignon bun.
Let’s see if I
meet her standards this time.
Honestly, I tolerate these
meetings only for Blake’s sake. I hope he appreciates it.

I’m convinced that
Eliza Carson never brunches in the same place twice, because every
time we engage ourselves in this little game of torture, I have to
navigate my way to yet another one of New York’s opulent,
chandelier-toting restaurants. This time, thankfully, the restaurant
is only a few blocks away, so I decide to forego the cab and walk. If
I’m honest, when I left Cuba, I was fascinated by the bright lights
and big city atmosphere. I wanted to be a part of this amazing
metropolis. New York was a dream, one that myself, my one suitcase,
and the meager amount of pennies in my pocket had rushed towards with
fantastic hopes and plans. Now that I’m here, I find the city to be
pretentious, irritatingly concrete, and claustrophobic. I look up and
miss the sight of a clear blue sky, or stars unobstructed by
buildings at night. I’m sure they are still up there. But they’re
hidden by a thick layer of smog. Still, it’s better than being in
Cuba. At least here I have Blake. There, I’m all alone.

A painful memory
surfaces as my feet pound against the asphalt of the pavement. The
last memory I have of my whole family. When I was fifteen, before my
mother passed away. Before my father had immersed himself in his work
as a truck driver, leaving my younger sister and I home alone for
days at a time. Always with food, but never company. Then he died six
months ago. My sister had moved out with her boyfriend about a year
before that. So, being that I was an orphan, my sister was nowhere to
be found, and Cuba was a one-horse town, I sold our modest family
home and used what little profits that came from the sale to venture
out to the wonderland that is New York City. But I quickly realized
that I am a simple girl, who enjoys simple things, in a city that
celebrates grandeur and extravagance. A city that parties hard and
takes no prisoners.

I thought I was early,
until I walked into the restaurant and was quickly ushered to a table
that held a waiting Eliza Carson.

“Emily,” she says
curtly with a plastered-on artificial smile.

“Eliza,” I say,
leaning in and giving her a short and uncomfortable hug.

The first few moments
are bearable. They always are. We order our meals and an uptight
looking waiter lays the napkins across our laps. Blake’s father,
Dr. Carson, is such a warm and lovely man. I can’t imagine how he’s
stayed married to this exacting woman for such a long time. Then
again, her family comes from old money, and lots of it, so I suppose
that helps.

“So,” Eliza says
taking a sip of her sparkling water.
Here
it comes.
“How’s the wedding planning going?” she
asks with a sickly sweet smile.

There
it is.

“We haven’t
actually given it much thought,” I say. “Blake’s been very busy
at work, as have I.”
As have
I? Dear God, I’ve developed snob-speak!

“Oh honey, it’s not
nice to live in sin at your age,” she says.

Sin?
My age?
First of all, the demon Lilith has no business
preaching about sin, and secondly, I’m only twenty-one. That’s
hardly geriatric!

“We
have
spoken about it, but we haven’t put any solid plans into place just
yet,” I say sweetly.