Beneath This Man(10)

'Sure, you go.' Kate shoos me with her hand and takes the bin bag from the floor. 'We'll get rid of these.'

We say our goodbyes and I promise to call her in the morning before I head back to the elevator, instructing Clive to sort out Jesse's car window and the door to his penthouse on my way. He, of course, gets straight onto it.

When I arrive back on the top floor, I shut the door, but it doesn't secure fully. It will do until the repair man turns up, though. I wander into the living room and see Jesse still asleep.

So, what do I do now? I look down my body and note I'm still in my taupe dress and heels, so I take myself upstairs, allocating myself the natural room at the far end of the landing. I'm staggered to find all of the pillows on the floor and the bed sheets crumpled from my brief lay down before Jesse transported me back to his bed after the dress massacre. I set about fixing the bed and then change into my ripped jeans and a black t-shirt. I could do with a shower, but I don't want to leave Jesse alone for too long. It'll have to wait.

Making my way back downstairs, I make a black coffee and as I stand sipping it in the kitchen, I figure it would be a good idea to read up on alcoholism. Jesse must have a computer somewhere.

I go in search, finding a laptop in his study. I fire it up, and I'm immensely relieved when it doesn't prompt me for a password. This man has personal security issues. I take it downstairs and settle myself in the big chair opposite Jesse so I can keep an eye on him. Pulling up Google, I type in "Alcoholics", and I'm presented with seventeen million results. At the top of the page, though, is "Alcoholics Anonymous". That would be a good place to start, I suppose. John might have said that Jesse isn't an alcoholic, but I'm doubtful myself.

After a few hours of browsing the internet, I feel like my brain cells have been zapped. There is so much to take in - long term effects, psychiatric problems, withdrawal symptoms. I read a piece about severe childhood trauma leading to alcoholism, which leaves me wondering if Jesse had something happen to him when he was a boy, the vicious scar on his abdomen springing to mind immediately. There are also genetic connections, so then I wonder if one of his parents was an alcoholic? I'm bombarded with information, and I don't know what to do with any of it. These are not the sort of questions you just come right out and ask.

My mind flicks back to last Sunday and the things he said to me. "You're a f*cking prick tease, Ava", "I needed you and you left me". Then I had left him...again. He'd said he didn't tell me because he didn't want me to have another excuse to leave him, but then he said he wasn't an alcoholic. John said the same thing. If it's a problem and it involves alcohol, then doesn't that make him an alcoholic?

I shut the laptop in exasperation and put it on the coffee table. It's only ten o'clock, but I'm totally spent. I don't want to go upstairs to bed in case he wakes up and I don't want to make myself comfortable, so I gather a few cushions up, lay them on the floor next to him and settle myself, resting my head on the sofa and stroking the hairs on his toned arms. It relaxes me to have the contact and it's not long before my eyes are heavy and I'm drifting off.

'I love you.'

I'm vaguely aware of his palm holding the back of my head, his fingers running through my hair, and it feels so comforting...so right. I open my eyes and I'm met by a duller version of the green I know so well.

I jump to my feet and smack my ankle on the coffee table. 'Shit!' I curse.

'Watch your mouth!' he scolds me, his voice gritty and broken.

I grasp my ankle, but then I wake up fully and remember where I am. I drop my foot and swing my gaze to the sofa, finding Jesse sat up slightly, looking terrible, but at least he's awake. 'You're awake!' I cry.

He winces, clasping his head with his good hand.

Oh shit!

He must have the hangover from hell and here I am screeching like a banshee. I walk back the few steps needed to find the chair behind me, and then lower myself onto the seat. I have no idea what to say to him. I'm not about to ask how he's feeling, that is pretty obvious, and I'm not going to hit him with a lecture about personal safety or for disregarding his health. I really want to ask him if he remembers our fight. What should I do?

I don't know, so I resolve to sit with my hands in my lap and shut up.

I look at him, looking at me and my mind is racing with things I want to say, none of which I can. I want to tell him that I love him, for a start. And I want to ask him why he didn't tell me he owns a sex club or that he has an issue with drink. Is he wondering what I'm doing here? Does he want me to leave? Oh, God, does he need a drink? The silence is killing me.