The Carrero Effect Trilogy

Chapter 31

He's been gone more than two days, and I've tried his cell so many times. He's monitoring his calls, and I get voicemail almost immediately. I know he's declining number, and it hurts more than I can bear. I don't want to email or text, so I don't because my pride is bruised, and I won't beg. I don't know what to say; I only want to hear him and know he's still there. I want to know what is going on in his head, why he's being this way, and what happens when we go back to work together.

I've been swimming and reading to distract myself and eating with the others; I'm getting used to them, and although Marissa and I give each other a wide berth, I'm starting to warm to the rest of them.

Leila is always a joy to be around, but I'm melancholy and would rather have my own company. We went shopping on the mainland yesterday, and I loved what having a girly friend felt like again. I made sure I abused Jake's credit card shamelessly; somehow, it felt like payback, not that he would care. With more money than sense, he would not even blink at it.

She showed me how she does her beachy makeup and gave me tips on wearing my hair; she's the girly girlfriend I've never had before, and she's a good distraction. Sarah was never much into female things and shopping.

Daniel seems to have changed somewhat in that he's treating me respectfully now he's back on board and fully recovered. I don't know when the shift happened, but I'm warming up to him. We have had many enjoyable conversations about movies, books, and politics, surprising me. He seems to have heard from Jake, appears to be in the know, and gave me a knowing look over dinner last night when Marissa continued to press about his absence.

Daniel is an odd one. The playboy, sleazy, all-around party guy seems to have slipped a little after his near-drowning. He's been reserved and less laid back. He looks somehow sad and pensive. I wonder if this is a Jake-less Daniel or if the near-death experience has maybe given him something to ponder.

I miss Jake in a way I've never really evaluated until now. His presence has always been looming until now. Even when I've not been working and have had time off, he's always been on the other end of the cell, sending me frustrating texts and pointless jokes, songs that make me laugh or have some vague meaning in the title or lyrics.

I'm getting the cold shoulder. He's freezing me out, and it hurts; I know he's punishing me, but I don't understand why. I can't stop thinking about him, my mind wandering over memories of him, his face, body, and mouth on mine. It's only been days, but the inability to talk to him makes it seem like weeks. I'm so done with crying in bed over him. He's supposed to be my friend, yet he's acting like a number one asshole.

Margo emailed me asking about my trip, and I broke as I read it. She's enjoying retirement, only not as much as she thought she would, and she enquired about Jake. I think she misses him. I think she misses being part of the sixty-fifth floor, and her husband has a newfound love of golf which she hates. She asks a dozen questions about her golden boy, obviously suffering from a lack of Carrero charm, and I honestly cannot tell her the truth.

That I know how she feels.

I reply as breezily as I can, being vague and not mentioning that he's left me here, not mentioning that we have ceased to communicate, and I send my reply into the depths of the Interweb. I hover over Jake's personal email address in my contacts list and then close my laptop sharply.

No, I won't lower myself to that.

***

It has been six days, and I'm done with this yacht. I'm done with the people, the sea, and the silence. I'm going out of my mind. The others like to party every night, and even when I join in, I can't get in the mood. I don't drink much without him here; I don't want to let my guard down and get in that state with no one to put me to bed. No one to watch over me. I smile sardonically at that.

Who knew the reason I felt able to get that drunk and let go a little was that he was around? Ironic really.

It's the one thing he accused me of being unable to do, and I did it because he was here.

I checked my cell for the millionth time; I guess he needed to let off a lot of steam. I wonder how many women it's taken precisely. It isn't like Jake to spend six full days with just one; he doesn't like any of them that much. In six days, he's probably seen at least three women, if not more. It's a sobering thought, and I try to squash it back down.

I've trawled my iTunes list so many times, considered sending him a song, and picked more than a dozen, ranging from deep and meaningful to witty, then angry. I discarded them all, knowing I should leave him alone to simmer and sulk through whatever is wrong with him. This is sheer agony, slow torture. But I have my pride, and he's bruised it.

Pounded the crap out of it, more like.

***

"Are you sure?" Leila is pouting at me, and I give her a quick squeeze; she cuddles me back. It's like being hugged by a child as she's so tiny and adorable. I feel a tug in my chest at leaving her, but I can't stay here anymore.

"Yes, I think I just need to head home," I sigh. I'll genuinely miss her. She's the friend I never knew I needed, infectious and sweet. Like Jake, she has a way of getting under my skin and pulling a different Emma out.

"Was it a bad fight?" She throws her doe-eyed expression up at me, pouting her lip, making me chuckle at her.

"What do you mean?" I smile, patting her on the head playfully, trying to play it cool. She perches herself on the yacht's rail as we stand on deck watching the early morning water.

"You and Jake? Butthead is not answering calls, so I can hardly ask him." She's blinking at me innocently, not fooled at all.

"I told you he had to leave for business. I wasn't needed, so he left me here," I lie expertly, PA mask perfectly in place despite my wild, wavy hair. I reconnected with emotionless Emma somewhere over the past six days.

"I think you fought, and he's off sulking. Men sulk! Jake, not so much, but he's still capable." She blinks at me.

"There was no fight; we're not together. I'm his assistant, that's all." Betrayed by the warmth in my face that I hope she doesn't see rising, I turn back to my bag and push my cell inside, trying to hide the blush. My luggage is already packed and on deck as I wait for the speed boat to come for me. One of the crew has gone ashore for supplies and is due back any minute.

"Men only bring assistants on vacation that they're screwing or in relationships with, Emma." Her tone is serious and honestly forward, one of her cute qualities.

"I'm not screwing my boss, Leila. We're just friends." I'm irritated at how close to a lie that statement has come; I need to go. I have a plane to catch and still have to get ashore.

"Are you in love with him?" She flashes up at me with fluttering lashes and a wispy half-smile. I blink at her and swallow hard.

"No, I'm not."

Am I?

I don't know how I feel anymore, and I don't want to examine that possibility.

"I think you are. I think he's maybe in love with you too," she pouts sweetly, her eyes wide with possibility. I shake my head sadly. Well, I know for a fact that's not true. The fact that he's somewhere doing God-knows-what to other women is proof of that.

"Jake doesn't do love, Leila; he likes things casual," I point out emptily. A fact I know only too well.

Hasn't he even admitted it?

"I've seen him in love once," she responds wistfully and looks away from me shadily as though she's let a secret out.

"You have?" I blink hard, and my cheeks flush. That stomach lurch of pain at her admission almost strangles me.

"Just friends, huh?" She watches me with a bit of a smirk on her face. I stay silent and frown. "I've known Jake since I was seven; our parents are friends." She's avoiding my gaze. I wonder why she's never been on his bed list if he's known her all that time. She's adorable and pretty; I look her up and down and try not to dwell on that thought.

"I can't imagine him being with just one woman," I shrug, my insides pounding erratically at how this is going.

Do I really want to hear this?

"He was very young; I think he was maybe fifteen or sixteen. She was his first real girlfriend. We don't get on much." She glances at me shyly, a wicked look in her eye as though she wants to reveal more. I don't want to know; I don't like this feeling burning inside me, and I want this conversation to end.

"Leila, I really have to go. Don't forget, I told you to keep my number, and we can meet up sometime." I kiss her on the forehead affectionately, impulsively Jake-like, and lift my bag.

"Yes, yes, I love New York. Just try and keep me away, sassy Ems. Give that boy a good talking to when you get home," she gushes and kisses my cheek, overly excited and energetic, a Leila trait. The subject change is something she does, flitting from one thing to another in a blink of an eye.

I am sad to be leaving Leila behind; I never imagined I would let someone in as my friend the way I've let her. Sarah would be shocked at seeing us together these past few days, and I experience a pang of guilt about it as Sarah's face lingers in my mind's eye.

***

The plane ride will be long, so I pull out my laptop, drink a glass of water, and try not to dwell on the fact I've cut my vacation in the sun short to go home to New York and Sarah's sleazy boyfriend in my apartment. I should tell Jake somehow, maybe in a text or email, but I don't want to. If he wanted to hear from me, he would answer my calls.

I answer some emails briefly and sort some minor issues out for Rosalie. Now she knows I'm back in work mode, I tell her to relieve the temporary stand-ins on my return.

I can't concentrate. I dwell on Leila's last conversation and find myself pulling up Google images of Jake in his early teens, trying to see if I can find this mysterious first love. There are so many images of him with women that it brings pain to my chest, and I can't look anymore. I can't bear to see the endless pictures of him with gorgeous bimbos. I don't want to see some ethereal-looking woman-child he once fell in love with; I can almost bet she wasn't one of the leggy boobs and would stand out a mile.

It mustn't have been that serious because she no longer exists. He's never mentioned her. Not once.

Or maybe she is the one that got away, and that's why he never brings her up, why he never commits to women. Way to ruin your mood, Emma.

***

My apartment is depressing after living on a luxury yacht for a week, and I can smell Marcus in everything, even the air around the front entrance. It makes me cringe. There's no one home, and I'm grateful for that. It's late; Sarah will be at work, and Marcus, God knows where. I leave Sarah a note on the fridge not to disturb me because I'm jet-lagged and head to bed. I want to lie down and get lost in a book or movie, anything to keep my head empty and unfocused.

I need to wait until my boss decides to finally show his face or contact me to know what the hell is going on. For the hundredth time, I dwell on the fact he might fire me, and I shrug.

Maybe I'll quit. With this job on my resumé, I'm sure I'll get another PA job quickly.

Do I want that? I don't know anymore. It might be for the best now that things have gone south.

***

After midnight, I'm woken by the buzz of my cell sliding across my nightstand. I reach out to it, fuzzy from fatigue, blurry-eyed, and disoriented.

"Emma Anderson," I breathe huskily without opening my eyes. I'm on autopilot.

"Where are you?" That bark has me sitting up with a start.

Crap. Jake!

He sounds pissed, and I'm too frazzled with sleep for this, shocked awake by his surprise contact.

"New York," I gulp, suddenly reeling from the fact he's finally calling me.

Is he back on the yacht?

I get a tinge of regret at leaving.

"You're at your apartment?" He's grumpy and coldly distant.

"Yes," is the only reply I can give; I sound so vulnerable and young that it annoys me. Silence and tension are crackling on the line. I rub my eyes to feel less zombie-like and pinch my cheek to wake me up more, hands trembling.

"You cut your vacation short?" he starts, his voice softer but tinged with irritation.

"Yes. I wasn't in the mood for any more surf and sun, Mr. Carrero." I hope he hears the sarcasm in my voice. Did he really think I would stay without him and hang out with his friends for two weeks? Again, another agonizing silence.

"Good, because we need to be back at it. The Hunter merger has encountered issues; I need you at the office tomorrow." He's in business Carrero mode, devoid of all affection and humor.

"Will you be there?" I'm trying to sound as cool as him, but that rising warmth of hope lift its head, and I scold it back down.

Get a grip, Emma. Stop being pathetic.

"No, I'm still elsewhere. You can handle things for a couple of days," is the curt response, and I want to cry.

"Yes, sir." I hate that it sounds childish and weak; he's caught me off guard. I'm half asleep and crumbling at how he's being, still aching for some of my regular Jake to shine through, but he's completely gone.

"I'll be back Friday. I want a full report on my return." His tone is still icy and flat. I miss my Jake. It's evident that, for whatever reason he left, it is still in his head that, despite the distance, he isn't going to talk about it. He's making it clear our relationship is now all business, with no hints of friendship or caring anymore.

"Very good, Mr. Carrero." PA Emma raises a haughty head and pushes feebleness out of the way.

Well, fuck you very much, Mr. Cold & Moody. Yes, sure, I shall jump because you've demanded it.

"Enjoy the rest of your trip," I say sarcastically, knowing that will only piss him off more.

"I intend to." His voice is raspy, almost threatening, but it has the desired effect, and I'm glad he hangs up before the sob surfaces, the wound in my chest turning into a crater. He leaves me alone with a silent line and not even a goodbye.

I fucking hate you. Bastard!

I throw my cell across the room, not caring if I smash it.

Screw you! I don't want to work for an egomaniac with a constant fucking hard-on anymore. Maybe I'll resign.