Working Girl (15 page)

“Whatcha smiling about?” she asks, twisting the cap back on her nail polish bottle with a look on her face that makes me wish, not for the first time, that she didn’t know me so damn well.

“Nothing,” I quip back, sliding my cell phone under my pillow and lying on top of it.

“You always were a horrible liar, Presley. I know you’re texting him. You might as well tell me. Besides, who are you going to ask for sex advice?”

I playfully toss the pillow next to me at her. “I am not going to have sex with him.”

“Sure, you say that now . . .”

“Chrissy!” I whine.

She laughs and lies down next to me. “Stop thinking, Pres. Live. Let him in. You deserve to have someone else on the inside. You have way too much beauty locked up in there to not share it. Whether or not you want to believe this, you have so much to offer someone if you would just take the chance and let someone else in. Trust me, I know what is behind those carefully constructed walls, and it’s amazing.”

If it were possible to look more like a goldfish I’d be stunned. Living this life has made Chrissy hard-faced, and although she is forever telling me she loves me, and that I’m worth more than I believed, I’ve never heard her speak with such conviction before. The problem with keeping yourself locked up tight and spending most of your time alone is that the thoughts and opinions you have about yourself fester. They fester and grow and seep into every aspect of your being, until one day, you wonder how it is that you even managed to get one true friend. Even then, I managed to convince myself that had we not been born into the same life, that there’s no way Chrissy would have wasted her time on me. She thinks so, but up until now I haven’t been so sure. We’re just so different. She exudes confidence, whereas I shy away from life. She walks into a room and commands attention; I am more than happy to sneak in via the fire exit, just to make sure no eyes are on me.

Chrissy’s eyes shimmer with tears and I know that she not only means what she is saying, but that it means something to her that I believe her. This beautiful broken soul has believed in me for so long that I owe it to her, and to myself, to allow her words to take hold of me. I reach for her hand, unable to form words eloquent enough to tell her how much she has done for me, how much she has given me. I look into her eyes and I try, with everything I am, to convey what I feel burning in my chest. I am enough.

A moment passes between us; a moment too special to mar with anything but silence. When Chrissy sniffs and shifts in her seat, I know she’s ready to move on. And I know just how.

“He’s asked me out for coffee tomorrow,” I say quietly. “What should I do?”

“Meet him. Meet him tomorrow, and every day after that.”

“But . . .” I start to argue. Getting involved with Emerson is dangerous for both of us. Someone is bound to get hurt.

Chrissy reaches out and softly places her hand over my mouth preventing me from talking anymore. With her free hand she snakes underneath my pillow and grabs my cell phone before handing it over to me. “Stop thinking, and just say yes.”

Needing no further encouragement, I look down to the screen and write him back.

Me: Yes.

SITTING AT THE COFFEE SHOP
with Emerson is beyond easy. In fact, it’s effortless. With my wall down our conversation flows, and I feel at ease with him. I might even say that I’m relaxed, forgetting everything shitty about life, if only for a moment.

“Favorite childhood memory?” he asks.

A lump forms in my throat. I don’t have many positive childhood memories, but there was always one thing Momma could do that would soothe me. “That’s easy,” I say. “My mom singing Elvis songs to me. She had such a beautiful voice; it was my favorite thing about her.”

He smiles and nods. “I get that. My mom reciting poetry to me when I was younger brought some class to life. It annoyed me the older I got, but now I appreciate it.”

I act like I understand what he’s saying, but actually I don’t. Because I don’t understand why our mothers would try to smother us like that. It’s bad enough that they named us after their obsessions, but to force it down our throats?

“So, what’s yours?”

He takes a sip of his coffee. “My what?”

“Favorite childhood memory.”

“Easy,” he says. “Making blanket forts and acting like pirates with my brothers.”

Huh?
“Blanket forts?”

With his eyebrows lifted, Emerson sets his cup down on the table and stares at me in disbelief. “You did not just ask me what a blanket fort is. You can’t be serious.”

My eyes shift nervously. “
Should
I know what a blanket fort is?” He nods and I understand that this must be some sort of childhood rite of passage that I evidently missed. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but I’m afraid that I might have just slipped up so I quickly start backpedaling, hoping to cover my tracks. “I didn’t have any siblings. No one to play with.” I shrug, hoping that I sound convincing enough.

“You haven’t lived until you’ve played in a blanket fort.” Emerson slams his fist down on the table and stands in one fluid motion. “Get up,” he commands. “We’re going to my dorm, and we’re going to make the biggest blanket fort known to mankind.”

I’ve never had more fun in my life. Strangely enough, as Emerson and I throw blankets around his room we laugh and I actually feel like a kid—more so than I ever had when I was younger. We place pillows on the floor underneath the canopy that we’ve constructed and crawl under.

“Oh my gosh,” I laugh. “This is so awesome.”

“You get it now?” he asks, pulling a deck of cards from his pocket.

“Oh yeah,” I smile. “I get it.”

“I can’t believe you’ve never made a blanket fort before.”

“What can I say? I led a sheltered life.”

“I guess so.” Emerson shuffles the cards in his hands and starts dealing them out.

“What are we playing?”

“Go Fish, duh.”

I laugh before picking my cards up. We go back and forth with each other as we play and I feel completely at ease with him. I can’t stop smiling. “Got any fours?” I ask and he begrudgingly hands me over a card, allowing me to lay down my last match. “I win!”

“Only because I let you,” he teases.

Leaning forward I reach for his shoulder to give him a push, but at the last second he moves. I launch forward and he wraps his arms around my waist, softening my fall. We hit the pillows and lie still for what seems like an eternity, his arms wrapped around me, my eyes burning on his. Emerson leans forward so that our noses are practically touching. “You don’t want to get mixed up with me,” I finally manage to whisper when I can draw breath.

He doesn’t move an inch, just holds his position, his eyes still burning through my soul. “Who are you to decide what’s right and wrong for me?”

“I’m the smart one. You don’t know me. My baggage—”

“I don’t give a shit about your baggage. I’m strong enough to carry yours . . . and mine.”

I can’t possibly imagine what other baggage he could possibly have. He’s perfect: he loves life, and life loves him back. “Don’t offer to carry things you have no idea about.”

“It doesn’t matter what it is, Presley. I’d carry it all for you.” He inches closer and I’m pulled so tightly to him I can feel his heartbeat reverberating through my body. I’m practically humming having him so close; my body feeling things its never felt before. With my head full of fog, I silently plead for him to take my lips between his. “But, I can’t take it all on until you let me. I’m not going to force you. You have to let go, and give it to me.”

Tentatively, he lifts his hand and runs his thumb across my cheek and I close my eyes, reveling in his touch. This is what I’ve been missing all these years. While my walls were up and my nose was stuck in a book, these were the feelings that I dreamed and read about. But now, being here with Emerson, and feeling them, I know I’ll never be the same. Suddenly, I feel like a normal twenty-one year old. All my problems melt away with that one touch and I can feel those carefully constructed walls crumble to my feet. “I’m trouble,” I breathe, never opening my eyes. I can feel his nose press to the side of mine and his hot breath on my lips. My skin flushes with heat and my brain turns to mush.

“So am I,” he whispers just before his lips press gently against mine. It doesn’t last long, but when he pulls back I open my eyes and see that he’s looking at me, waiting for a reaction.

Words escape me, but my sudden desire and confidence push me back towards him. I’m no expert at kissing, or anything else for that matter, but I’ve seen enough to know what I’m doing. Wrapping my arms tightly around his neck, I pull him back to me, this time parting my lips, my heart pounding in my chest as his tongue cautiously seeks out mine. With one deft tug he pulls me to him, connecting our lower bodies and slipping one leg between mine, half his body covering me. I feel a dull ache deep in my belly and I groan into his mouth. The noise startles me but I don’t stop; if anything, it only increases the urgency that I feel. Reading romance novels has in no way prepared me for this. As many times as I’ve read about that feeling the heroine gets between her thighs when she’s turned on, it’s nothing compared to what I feel now. Drunk with ecstasy, I slide my hand under the back of his shirt, running the pads of my fingertips along his soft skin. Feeling his skin ripple as his muscles contract, I dig my nails in and drag downward lightly. Goose bumps break out across his skin and he nips at my ear, whispering, “God, Presley. Jesus, what you do to me.” Bold in the knowledge that I’m affecting him as much as he is me I kiss his neck, tasting the salt on his skin and inhaling a smell that will forever be burned into my brain. It’s not a smell that is Emerson; it’s a smell that is
me
and Emerson.

Our mouths part for a second and I giggle. My moment of laughter is short-lived and Emerson pushes back into me, his lips dancing with mine. His hands snake their way under my shirt and his fingers leave a trail of fire behind as he continues to explore my body. I can feel myself falling deeper into the abyss and I know that I’ve got to stop before I lose my head completely.

It takes every ounce of self-control to bring my hands up and away from his body, but I do and give a gentle push against his chest with my palms. Our mouths make a popping noise as they separate and my chest heaves while I attempt to regain my composure.

Bringing things to a screeching halt isn’t easy, but it
is
a necessity. I’ve held onto my virtue this long; I’m not about to just go and give it up. Besides, letting go of it scares me. Fear of the unknown, or perhaps fear of the known. “Sorry,” I mutter, breaking eye contact.

“Don’t be. I got carried away,” he adds, very matter of factly.

He’s not kidding. We both let our bodies take control of the situation. I need to be more careful. While Emerson is great, part of me still thinks he is almost too good to be true. And by my sleeping with him, he’d be awakening a beast I don’t know how to control.