Playing With Her Heart (Caught Up In Love #4)(14)
Author: Lauren Blakely

Yeah, she’s kind of sickeningly happy.

She considers a purple scarf with white stars, looping it around her neck and pouting at me like a glamour queen. “What do you think?”

“Oh, darling, purple is so your color.”

“You really can’t leave rehearsal early?” She tosses the scarf on top of her other clothes. I switch legs and do more lunges. I rarely sit still.

“Have you met Davis Milo? If you’re late, he paddles you.”

She laughs. “Really? Got a BDSM director there, do you?”

I shrug, and look at the floor. Why am I even making stupid jokes about Davis? But I can’t seem to stop. “I wouldn’t be surprised. I bet he ties up all his conquests.”

“Maybe I should leave the scarf with you then,” she says, then winks.

“I didn’t say he was going to tie me up,” I say, feeling the need to draw some sort of line between Davis and me. I didn’t tell Kat he kissed me at his office. Because it was a mistake. Because it won’t happen again. Besides, I haven’t thought about it since then.

“Would you let Patrick tie you up though?”

I roll my eyes. “I’d let Patrick do anything to me. But I doubt that’s his style,” I say because surely Patrick is passionate but also loving, caring, and oh-so-sweet between the sheets. He’d never tie up a girl or talk dirty to her. Besides, he wouldn’t have to. He doesn’t need tricks or techniques like that.

“Have you ever been? You know, tied up? Or handcuffed? Or anything? Like by Stefan maybe? I could see him as the type.”

I focus intently on a framed vintage poster of Paris on Kat’s wall. “No,” I say softly, and it’s true, but it feels like a lie. Because nearly everything I told her about Stefan was a lie. She thinks I slept with him, that he’s some sort of wizard in the sack. He’s a singer and we kissed once while we were at a club checking out a new band last year, but that was all.

Look, it’s not as if I want to lie to Kat about my love life, or lack thereof. It’s not as if I don’t trust her. But I don’t want to tell anyone the real story. What would they think? That it was my fault, like Aaron said? No, it’s hard enough to bear that. Besides, I’ve kept it hidden for so long that I wouldn’t even know how to exhume it from deep down inside me. I sometimes wonder if the truth of what happened with Aaron will be buried forever, like some archaeological relic that’s never uncovered. At this point, I don’t know how to begin to dig down that far, so I craft my new story with tales that make me seem like a normal gal, like any other twenty-three-year-old in New York who’s dating and doing it.

The truth is I’ve gone six years without sex. I’m not a saint, and I’m definitely not a prude. I think about sex just as much if not more—probably way more, all things considered—than the average woman. I walk down the street and imagine epic, panty-melting, waves-crashing, out-of-this-universe sex. I dream of deep, passionate kisses that can’t be contained, that lead to bodies smashing into each other, to heated encounters, to promises of more.

But if I’m going to be with someone again, I need to know it’s not a tainted kind of love. That it’s not twisted. That it can’t be used against me. Or against someone else.

“What about you?” I layer a salacious tone in my voice, so I can shift the attention back to her and off of my fictionalized love life. “Does Bryan have ropes for you?”

She laughs and shakes her head, then places her hand on her chest. “Jill, let me introduce you to your vanilla friend Kat. But even so, it’s better than anything I’ve ever read in a romance novel. Speaking of, I downloaded this hot new rock star erotica. It’s scorching. I’ll gift it to you. Maybe you can use it tomorrow when I’m out of town.”

I hold up my hand and waggle my fingers. “If only my eReader could vibrate.”

At least now I’m telling the truth. The only sex I have is in my head. I am masterful at solo flights. I return to my room to get ready for bed, but I leave my eReader alone. I can’t go there tonight. It would feel wrong.

Instead, I cycle through my plan for tomorrow as I toss my jeans into the hamper. I could try to catch Patrick on the subway to ask him out, or try to find time with him alone at rehearsal. The prospect makes me nervous as hell, and I feel as if my organs are all boinging around inside me. But I remind myself that I’m ready, that it’s time to step beyond the past.

I choose the perfect outfit to wear: a jean skirt, black tights, and a teal sweater. Maybe I’ll even wear a charm necklace Kat made for me last fall with a beret on it for when I won the part in Les Mis. I keep it hanging from the lamp on my nightstand so I can see it every day, and when I reach for it to lay it on top of my clothes, I’m instantly reminded of what else is in the nightstand.

The small wooden box inside the top drawer. I’ve kept this box with me for six years. And it’s calling out to me in a haunting voice, an ever-present reminder that I can’t forget or ignore.

I answer the call once again. I open the drawer on my nightstand, and I remove the box, place it in the middle of my bed, and take a deep, calming breath. I know what’s inside, but this thing is a bomb nonetheless. It’s living and ticking and it’s tried to destroy me before.

I reach inside the drawer, pull out a chain that holds a tiny key and unlock the wooden box. Before I even look at the pictures, I can see him perfectly–Aaron. Dark hair, close-cropped, light brown eyes, and that dimple on the right side of his lips that made me fall for him. His sense of humor, the jokes he made about our school mascot, the dozens of red roses he brought me when I played in our production of Mamma Mia. Those are the good things.

I reach into the box, my fingers shaky. I take out a picture. Him and me at prom. I’m wearing a red dress that falls to my knees and my hair is in a French twist, with a few loose tendrils. He’s unbearably handsome in his tux, that smile giving nothing away. I open the note next, the folds in it so permanent now they’re like tattoos. I read the first few lines.

“God, I f**king love you so much, Jill.”

That’s what gets me every time. Those words. Those awful, painful words.

I close the box, lock it and return it to the drawer.

* * *

The next morning I’m on the train, a cute knit cap pulled over my blow-dried hair, a red scarf wrapped around my neck, and a skirt on even though it’s winter. But Patrick doesn’t board at the same time. Or on the same car.