Naked Love(55)

I stare at it. “Please,” I whisper.

“Please what?” He exhales a sharp breath.

I look up, feeling on the verge of either laughing hysterically or crying. “Please get in the truck, Avery,” I say, settling on a simple, defeated shrug. “That’s it. One tiny word.” Turning, I toss his phone on the driver’s seat and grab my clothes from the bag I unzipped a few minutes ago. After slipping on a sundress, I worm my way out of my impossibly tight and wet sports bra and bottoms, then I slip on my panties.

Before I can turn back toward him, his hands slide around my waist, hugging my back to his chest as his lips brush along my ear. “Please forgive me.”

Blinking back the pain, I drag in a shaky breath. “Francine … I remind you of her. That’s why you hate me.”

“You’re not her.”

I turn in his arms, leaning back to get a clear look at his face. “No. I’m not. But do you really believe that, or do you have to talk yourself into seeing past the part of me that is like her?”

His gaze falls to the small space between us.

Sometimes silence feels like the coward’s truth.

“It’s fine, Jake. You fucked me good today. Hope that helped you work out some of your issues. I know I figured some shit out today. My days of trusting men are over. At least my fancy bags and expensive shoes make me look good. Men are so much worse than anything materialistic. You say the right things for the wrong reasons. You lie to get what you want. You make me look bad. You make me feel bad. There’s nothing wrong with my taste in fashion. It’s my taste in men that’s fucked-up.” I push his hands off my waist and climb into the truck.

Swarley rests his snout on the console like he’s trying to show me some sympathy. How ironic that my K9 nemesis has become my source of comfort. I run my hand over his head, and he sighs.

I don’t care that Jake’s still standing at my open door. There’s no way I’m looking at him. After a few moments, he shuts the door.

Anthony and I were together so much longer than I’ve known Jake. We discussed marriage. He said he loved me. Yet, this hurts more than the chocolate incident because I allowed Jake to see me emotionally stripped. It’s embarrassing. It’s degrading. It’s just … fucking painful.

When he gets in the truck, I angle my body away from him, keeping my gaze affixed to the road outside my window.

*

“Do you want to stop for lunch?” he asks after several hours on the road.

I don’t acknowledge him.

We stop for Swarley. I get out, not giving Jake a single glance. Not a single word.

We drive until after dark, making one more stop for Swarley to get out of the truck and do his business. When we do stop for the night, it’s a small motel in Sedona, Arizona instead of a campsite.

Still, I don’t give him a glance or a word. Even my hunger wanes under the shadows of my anger. Swarley and I sleep in one bed. Jake sleeps in the other bed.

The next morning, I wake early, slip back on my sundress, and catch a pretty spectacular sunrise from the wood bench outside our door while Swarley sniffs the surrounding area. When the sun hits its halfway point on the horizon, the motel room door opens. I lift my knees onto the bench and hug them to my chest, trying hard to ignore Jake in his jeans and naked inked chest. I try to ignore his sexy, messy morning hair and his scruffy and equally sexy face.

He stands directly in front of me, blocking my view and replacing it with his well-defined abs and low-hanging jeans.

Blink.

Blink.

I’m not going to look at his face. Nope. He can block my sunshine in every sense, but I’m not going to acknowledge his existence.

He squats in front of me, resting his hands on my bare feet, sans toenail polish. As soon as I get back to L.A., I’m going to get a mani and pedi. I’m going to get hair extensions. And I’m going to sell some jewelry to buy new clothes because I like that stuff. Screw Jake and his bullshit. I don’t want to be his perfection. It’s an impossible role. I’ll take the designer handbag.

I just …. I just wish his touch stopped at my feet. It would make it easier to step on it—to walk away. Why do I have to feel the ache of his touch behind my ribs?

“Please …” he whispers.

My eyes betray me. They meet his gaze. It’s so sad, just like the slope of his lips.

“Please what?”

His forehead rests against my bent legs. “Please everything. Just … please …”

“This is messed-up, Jake,” I say slowly … with little fight left in me. “I remind you of a woman you obviously despise.” My fingers find their way to his hair. When I run them through his thick, blond strands, he lets out a soft sigh.

He’s in pain, but I can’t fix him when I’m still scattered in so many pieces. And as much as he might like to put me together to fit the mold he desires, I can’t bend that way anymore.

“Good job, Ave. Stand the fuck up for yourself. You said that to me. So this is me, standing up for myself. I have no job, no money, no car, and I probably won’t have a home by the time we get to L.A. But … I’m going to stand up, even if the only thing covering my naked body is an itty-bitty piece of self-worth.”

Jake lifts his head. I hold my breath as he gives me an unreadable expression. Bravery isn’t a trait, it’s a few moments of time where we pretend that we’re not vulnerable. My chin tilts up a fraction. If he doesn’t say something soon, my bravery will slip, and once again I’ll be nothing more than a hot mess.