The Carrero Solution (Carrero Book 3)

“Who else would it be….” I slur crazily. I try for light and humor, then get angry at myself for being this weak and calling him at all. Even now, I cannot stop the stupid onslaught of tears pouring down my face. I’m aware my mind is still in a deep pit of confusion, but my itchy hands and aching heart must’ve overridden my brain with the need to see him.

I hate you. I love you. God, I miss you.

“Baby, are you drunk?” I can decipher the concern in his beautiful voice, which only makes me want to cry even more.

He’s still calling me baby, his baby. I want my Jake.

“I’m too drunk … I don’t like it much. You’re not here to take care of me.” I burst into half gasp, half sob trying desperately to right myself on my shoes, stumbling and recoiling rapidly when my arm scuffs a warm arm.

“Don’t touch me,” I snap, in anger, at the blurry mess of a figure to my right. Recoiling at the male touch, wishing that Jake was there beside me.

“Calm yourself, sweetheart. You fell into me. Watch where you’re fucking going.” The male voice snaps back angrily as they turn away from me.

Screw you, asshole.

“Who the fuck was that asshole, baby? Where are you? I’m coming to get you.” Jake isn’t so gentle anymore; he sounds like bossy Carrero with a serious touch of aggression. Internal me picks up with satisfying warmth. The same me who wants the Jake I know and love to raise his head. He must’ve heard the asshole down the cell, who is now snarling at me with evil gleaming eyes and a twisted mouth, over his shoulder. I turn my back to him and stumble against a bar stool.

“I don’t know.” I sigh heavily, tears replaced with exhaustion. The desire to listen to his voice and hear him talk. I sigh, and the drunken wave of daydream tugs at me for a moment. My drunken mind instantly distracted by Leila hitting an impressive high note.

“Leila is singing. Can you hear her?” I lift the phone above my head and hold it at an odd angle so he can get full clarity of that wonderful sexy soul-stress. She’s in the full throws of Christina Aguilera’s ‘Voice Within.’ Right now, it’s all I can think about to distract me from his voice being so painfully close, too alluring, even though I wanted to drown in it a second ago, causing me pain and joy and more pain.

Damn you, Carrero.

I sway in time to her singing a few lines, then bring the phone back down when I can stand the sound of him again.

“Emma? … Emma?! … Fuck’s sake! Emma?!” Jake’s mid-ranting and sounds overly worked up into aggressive mode.

Oops. He obviously didn’t like Leila’s singing.

“Don’t swear at me! You, of all people, should not be swearing at me right now,” I snap and immediately burst into tears. Drunk and emotional are not a good combo. Having him verbally close is just making me worse.

Does he have no clue of how much he’s hurt me or messed my head up?

He inhales slowly, steadily, to calm his temper. His tone lowers, but there’s that sound he makes when he’s talking through gritted teeth; his - angry yet trying to control myself tone. I get a little ripple of longing again.

“Baby, listen to me, don’t cry. I’m sorry, okay? I’m really worried about you and losing my mind a little, tell me where you are, and I’ll be right there. I’ll come to take you home. I’ll take care of you.”

Home? Home sounds good. The apartment in Manhattan overlooking the sea of lights and tall buildings, wrapped in bed with Jake, wrapped up in Jake; that’s home for me.

“I don’t know where we are. Somewhere, Leila brought us. Sarah’s here too, but I think she’s dead.” I watch as she slides ungracefully off the bar where her body previously was, and she ends up in a chaotic heap on the floor, behind her bar stool between two men, seemingly ignoring her.

I don’t seem overly concerned for someone who thinks Sarah might’ve died. I trip toward her a little, stooping to see if she’s breathing, almost losing my balance, and nearly fall on top of her.

“Never mind. She’s just snoring,” I slur down the phone with a dramatic sigh of relief. I slump down on my knees beside her to peel what looks like a beer mat off her cheek.

Yay, my friend isn’t dead after all. But that is disgusting.

I hold the beer mat out in front of me and squint, looking at the blurry, sticky vile thing, before tossing it casually over my shoulder and rubbing my hands on Sarah’s dress.

“For the love of God, are any of you capable of something coherent? Emma put Leila on,” Jake commands, the tone of his voice riling me a little.

You’re supposed to be groveling for my forgiveness, not barking commands, Dick. Asshole. Gorgeous, sexy asshole … But I still hate you.

“Jerk.” I sniff down the phone, and I swear Jake growls … like, actually growl.

I find myself sighing and attempting to walk toward Leila, rolling my eyes, my defiant chin stuck in the air. I’m instantly confused when suddenly I’m facing down on a leather booth seat after the wall I was using to keep me upright opened into nothing. It was a splat and vertical drop without my attempting to save myself.

“Ouch,” I murmur as my face peels painfully from the seat. I realize my phone is squished to my face, and I can hear Jake rather loudly on my cheek. Opening my eyes, the lit screen blinds me near my eyeballs.

“Did you just fall? What the hell …?! Emma, hello?! Okay, look, hang up but don’t leave that bar. I’ll find you my way.” It sounds more like a threat, and when I reply, I realize he’s disconnected my call.

Asshole! I didn’t ask you to come for me. I don’t want you to come for me! You don’t know where I am anyway, so good luck with that.

I crawl onto the booth where I’m already lying and curl up on the seat, trying to get a hold on these damn infernal tears. I should call him back and tell him to go to hell, but I don’t want to. Part of me wants him to find me and take care of me. Wanting him to ignore my pleas to stay away and do what Jake does – Come charging in all dominant mode trying to bend my will to his. If he does that, maybe my confusion can take a long walk off a short pier for a while and give my mind a well-needed break.

I don’t like it here anymore, and I think Sarah may really be dead. She’s not moved at all, but I’d rather rest first because she’s too far away to get to. I wiggle my feet out of my shoes and drop them on the floor, feeling an odd sense of heartache at this simple act. Jake always took my shoes off for me when I was drunk. He always took care of me regardless of his mood or sobriety. I hate that he plagues everything I do.

I sigh, trying to wipe away the mess pouring down my face, resting my head against the wall and closing my eyes to block out the wave of people mulling around the bar and floor. For a small place, it’s crowded and noisy, with a thick foggy atmosphere. Maybe if I drown it all out for a few minutes, I could get my head straight and get us back home. Take Sarah home somewhere safe, to sleep in a position a little more natural and get Leila off that damn infernal bar, so men stop trying to grope her.

* * *

“Emma, Bambina, wake up.” Jake’s voice comes at me through the darkness, and suddenly I’m aware of music, people, and a lot of noise. Warm fingers trace my jaw, and I push my face into them, rubbing like a greedy cat at the touch. I choke on the atmosphere and come to in complete confusion. I find my neck stiff from the angle I’ve been curled up at the booth’s corner.

“I’m going to lift you, okay?” warm, strong, familiar arms slide under my legs and behind my back, and I’m hoisted up against the smell of my Jake, the feel of him, his warmth, and his strength like some fantasy dream. I close my eyes, nuzzling into him, wanting this dream to last forever. I want the safe and comforting feel of him surrounding me to last, keeping the horrible ache of not being with him at bay.

I come to my senses a little, aware of movement, and open my eyes suddenly, looking right at Jake’s face. Not a dream or a hallucination, but really him, and the pain of what that means right now is sheer agony. I choke back the gulf of emotions at seeing him again.

Bittersweet sums this up completely.

My chest feels like it might concave, and my heart has stopped beating. He looks beautiful if a little tired and sexy and ruffled, yet completely here and familiar and safe.

We’re still in the bar, and he’s carrying me out of the booth across the floor, my head is swimming, and I realize he did it; he found out where we were and came for me. Impulsively I reach out to that beautiful face and poke him in the cheek, checking that he’s real and not some sweet figment of my imagination. I always did like poking that man of perfection in the face, but he frowns at me with an amused expression.

How the hell did he do that? I shouldn’t be surprised with Mathews on his security; he probably tracked my cell.

Asshole! … My asshole … Jerk! … My sweet jerk.

“Your face is still too pretty!” I sigh in defeat, looking for something to criticize and finding nothing.

“Glad to hear it.” He smiles at me softly and lifts me with a little jerk to get me in his arms better.

“Wait, my shoes! … Sarah … Leila,” I mumble as coherently as I can, regaining my senses, surprised at the slurring mess I hear in my own ears.

Still drunk then? How long was I out?