Venice Nights (His Submissive #4.5)(7)
Author: Ava Claire

I had only managed to send her a clipped text before Jacob whisked me away to Italy a few weeks ago. So much had happened since I climbed on that jet. There was so much I wanted to say—but I just stared at the screen, not sure where to begin.

I put the cursor in the body of the email, the blinking an indicator of the moments lost. I could write paragraphs on how the air was different in Venice. How every street called to me, promising adventure and history as brightly colored as the buildings that surrounded me. I could type until my fingers cramped telling her about the amazing museums. The Palazzo Ducale with its over the top architecture, the Galleria dell’ Academia with its paintings. St Mark’s Square…and how I nearly went into cardiac arrest when I was charged thirty euros, around 41 dollars, for a latte and scone. I could even  flesh out the quiet moments when I just paused, in awe that this was my life.

I drew my hands from the keyboard. Negativity was becoming uncomfortably familiar, settling over me like a wet blanket. It soured the happy memories. I glanced around, shaking my head. I was staying in a multi-million dollar villa in Italy, lounging near the pool; not to mention the fact that there was a guy upstairs who loved me. Instead of basking in that, I was stuck beneath a storm cloud, unable to enjoy the sun shining down on me and the birds whistling in the trees.

I could not shake the feeling that there had to be a catch.

There’s your opening. You don’t have to say any more than that. Any more than the truth.

But I could not make myself plunk out the letters. Not after her flabbergasted response when I told her I was being whisked away to Italy in the first place.

The phone buzzed on the bedside table, snapping me from sleep. I let out a groan, considering ignoring it since it was probably my mother calling for the umpteenth time, fan-girling over me and Jacob’s trip abroad.

Business and a little bit of pleasure, I thought mischievously, remembering the note Jacob left after our argument on the plane. I had put my self out there, heart on the line, and he shut me down. But he didn’t leave it that way.

I opened my eyes, his letter fresh in my mind. Words crisp and clear, even if his mixed signals were confusing.

Be patient.

The phone stopped humming. I turned to the wall, drawing a pillow to my chest. I wondered what he was doing at this very moment. I wondered—

My phone started going off again—and patience was no longer an option. I rolled over, snatching the phone to my ear. “Mom, I don’t know what time it is there, but here—”

“I’m not your mother.”

Not Mom—but the deep, northern accent was still familiar. Megan. My partner in crime. My bestie. The girl whom I could count on to help me bury any skeletons in my closet. But presently, she sounded like the only person she wanted to bury was me.

“Megan.” I pulled into a seated position, folding my feet beneath me. “How’s it going?”

“How’s it going?” she repeated, her voice rising. I pictured her in her living room of her studio, pacing back and forth as she fiddled with one of her fiery red strands. “You don’t text me that you’re leaving the freaking country with Jacob Whitmore then ignore the ensuing freakout!”

Freakout was right. She’d left a series of texts, each one composed of question marks spilling down the page.

“We’ve been busy,” I lied. “I was going to call you once we got settled.”

“We?”

I blushed, lowering my voice like he was in the room with me. “I meant I. Me. Not we.”

“Yeah right,” she scoffed. “I’m happy for you, Lay. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried. Jacob Whitmore isn’t just any guy. This whole situation is kinda insane.”

My nostrils flared indignantly. The last person I expected to say Jacob and I were ill-paired was my best friend. “Don’t worry about me, Meg. I can take care of myself.”

“Not with someone like him, I…I don’t want him to break your heart.”

I discarded the empty message. With a level head, I knew her words were innocent enough. Jacob Whitmore had a reputation of being a playboy. Even though I knew he only had a D/s relationship with a couple of women before me, he was no monk in the romance department.

Magazines were filled with pictures of him with some Glamazon on his arm. When the relationships dissolved, the gorgeous women were given space to air their grievances. None of them had trash talked Jacob or given any details on why they were no longer with him. They shrugged it off, chalking it up to busy schedules and growing apart. But their tight little grins matched the chill in their eyes. They had become a statistic. A notch on his bedpost. Deep down, they hoped they would be the exception to the rule…and he had broken their hearts.

I knew I needed to get this out of my system. I needed her to tell me I was wrong; that I was different—but I was not willing to risk her saying the opposite.

I pushed my shades to the bridge of my nose, trying to pretend the sting in my eyes was the sun and not tears brimming the edges. As nice as it was to be in this beautiful place and have someone order me not to worry about price tags, I was not there for the glitz and glamour. None of it would mean anything without him.

He was the thing I couldn’t lose.

“And you won’t have to lose him,” I said aloud, my voice firm. He let me in; opened up to me when he only let others peer through the iron wrought gates. He made me happier than anyone before…and I made him happy too. I saw it in the way he looked at me.

There is no catch. You deserve this, dummy!

I refreshed the page. That was exactly what I needed to say.

The page reloaded, and the first name in my inbox turned the blood in my veins to ice.

Not her.

Not Rachel.

But what other Rachel Laraby could it be? There was only one.

The one that tried, and nearly succeeded, in her efforts to ruin me. Who poked and prodded me until I was ready to throw away a career in public relations before it even began.

She blackmailed me, using my love of Jacob to weasel her way back into his life. She had even used suicide as a last ditch effort to prove that while I was with Jacob,  the world still revolved around her.

My fingers itched to grip the edge of the iPad and put it to sleep. Hell, I was even entertaining the thought of hurling it into the pool. But there was no point in acting like I was going to do the smart thing and send the email directly to the trash, where it belonged.

My finger drew up, hovering at the message line. There was no subject. Of course she wouldn’t accurately label it as,“My Latest Attempt to Break-up You and Jacob”.