28. Gemma
TWENTY-EIGHT
GEMMA
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
It takes a moment to register that the incessant, high-pitched noise isn’t actually in my dreams, but out of it. It takes another few seconds to stretch out my full body, rub my eyes enough so that they’re willing to cooperate and open for me, so I can make sense of my surroundings and figure out how to shut that noise the fuck up.
My left hand fumbles around on the top of my nightstand until my fingers close around the slick edges of my iPhone, and I manage to unplug it single-handedly (do I get some sort of award for this?) and bring it to my face. Sunday (my only day off), 8:02 AM , the display tells me.
A weighted sigh, because I was really hoping to sleep in for once in my damn life. By the time I’ve sat up, thrown my legs over the edge of the bed and mustered the strength to stand up and walk over to the window on legs that are complaining (still not used to all the hours of standing at my new job, I had a lot more sitting time as an assistant), the noise has stopped but my curiosity and annoyance is still present, so I have to know what woke me up.
My fingers separate two horizontal blinds like little lobster pincers, opening them up so I can peek out and crane my neck to try to see the smallish street my townhouse is nestled on. There’s a truck out there—I can only see the back end of it from this angle, but I guess a neighbor is getting a delivery, or maybe moving out? I give up on that mystery, too tired and lazy to go to my front window and get a better view, so instead I jump in the shower, brush my teeth and throw on a forest green, oversized hoodie from some designer or another (it may or may not be stolen from Aaron’s closet many moons ago, don’t judge me), and a pair of black, spandex bike shorts that will let me be comfy no matter what couch, bed or chair I decide to lounge on today. Maybe I’ll change it up and move from one to the next while I devour my latest read, pretend I’m on a luxurious vacation.
The look is a little more casual than I’ve been doing lately, but I’m indulging in a self care day. I’ll be spending the day at home—alone, for once. I need the space away from him. I need to keep my head straight, Aaron’s made too much progress this week, his proximity, his presence doing too much to get close to me again, and it’s too much, too soon. My plan is to lock myself away in my house all day and work on my project in between spending some quality time with my current book boyfriend, and maybe a sheet mask.
Some loud noises from said street steal my attention from my coffee maker (rude), and I give in, heading to the front door, opening it wide and nearly screaming when I see the truck is backed into my fucking driveway.
I shove my feet into my fuzzy slides waiting by the entrance and practically run out the door in confusion, trying to figure out why that truck is—by the looks of it—nearly done depositing a vehicle in my driveway.
And then I spot him.
Of course.
He’s chatting with the driver, some seriously swole guy who’s probably late forties, who appears to be rolling up some thick, formerly silver chains. Meanwhile, Aaron looks casual as any off-season Sunday, hands in the pockets of his black sweats, leaning against said vehicle, toned biceps slightly stretching the short sleeves of his plain white tee, having the time of his life shooting the shit with this rando in front of my goddamn house.
What is he doing here? What is this car doing here? Did he really get another Mercedes and have it delivered to my fucking house and wake me up early with this shit on my only day off?
A growl comes up my throat and I’m not sure if Aaron senses the impending danger of it, if he heard the door open, or maybe the telltale, furious clip clop of my slides as I half march, half sprint toward him, but he turns to face me fully, a smile lighting his entire stupid, handsome face when he takes me in.
“Jellybean!”
The nickname is embarrassing enough behind closed doors, but on the side of my street, early on a weekend morning, in front of this absolute stranger, my cheeks pink and I can do nothing to stop the flush. I pretend it’s strictly from embarrassment, and I’ll ask you to do the same.
“Stone,” I growl threateningly.
As per usual of late, he doesn’t let me start in on him before he heads me off. That grin still in full bloom on his face, he tosses me something small and kinda heavy. I catch it on reflex. A black and silver key fob. Mercedes logo.
“I’m not your fucking—” my eyes dart to the ridiculously built driver standing a few feet away and I clear my throat. “I’m not your assistant anymore. Fill your own damn tank.” I toss him the key back.
Irritatingly, infuriatingly, his eyes just twinkle even more if possible.
“I’m gonna head out,” the driver says, looking between us. “Good luck, man. Can’t wait to tell my nephews I got to meet you, they’re gonna flip at that pic.”
He and Aaron do some sort of bro shake that I’ll never understand how men just seem to know instinctually, and the guy makes his way to the front of his truck, throws the chains in, and climbs up and in, before pulling away.
Aaron and I are left standing maybe eight feet apart, on opposite sides of this shiny white SUV in between us. He walks around the front of the car, stopping less than what I would call the appropriate distance in front of me (my heartbeat quickens just a little—but don’t read into it), and his eyes don’t leave mine. Now my breathing is changing too, and I want to get away from him. I don’t want him to see the effects he has on me, how easy it is for him to get under my skin with nothing but his sheer presence in my vicinity. The more we’re around each other, the more he wears me down, the more it feels like it used to, yet different , the harder it is to keep him out of my head—and other vital organs.
“I’d be happy to fill its tank as often as you need me to, Gem. But this one isn’t mine.”
He tilts his chin down a little, keeping those gorgeous deep blue eyes trained on mine, waiting for me to accept what he’s telling me.
I don’t.
I won’t.
I can’t.
It’s ridiculous!
My head begins shaking even before his meaning has fully sunk in, and I back away from his hand, outstretched with the key fob in his palm. Eyes bouncing between his hand and his own stare, I’m lost for words.
“Come on, Gem, she’s all yours. Let’s check her out,” he tells me softly as he approaches me, putting the fob in my hand despite my best protests. He nods his head toward the SUV and I actually look at it for the first time. Fuck, it’s gorgeous.
“What is this?”
“Brand new GLC,” he says a little proudly, like that combination of letters means a single thing to me.
My eyes tell me it’s a sleek, white, off-puttingly new-looking Mercedes SUV. Beyond that, I couldn’t tell you more.
“Black, imitation leather interior, all the upgrades you could want, Gem, it’s even got this interior ambient lighting for when you’re driving at night, it’s so freaking cool—” My gaze shoots to his and cuts him off mid-sentence.
“Why is it here ?” I clarify.
“It’s yours,” he says, like it’s obvious.
“I don’t need a car, Aaron. I have one.”
He scoffs in a way that somehow doesn’t make me want to claw his eyes out? His superpower (last few months excluded) has always been this kind of good-natured, boyish charm that lets him get away with more than most. Frustrating, really. I’m putting a lot of work into staying mad at him, or at least keeping him at an arm’s length away. The least he could do is to not make that so hard for me.
“Gem, your car is a joke. You’ve had it since you turned sixteen. You deserve a new one, so I got it for you. It doesn’t mean anything beyond that.”
I hate him for knowing why I wouldn’t want to accept it, and for making me okay with it in one breath. I double down. “I’m not driving it, Aaron. Call your new buddy and have it taken away again, I’m not accepting this from you.”
He rolls his eyes but can’t hide the little tug at the corner of his lips. “No one is taking your car away, Gem. It’s yours. Don’t think of it as a gift. Think of it as…a belated birthday not-gift.”
All he gets is two middle fingers to that. I’m not taking his fucking charity. Even if this is the first birthday of mine he’s missed since I turned thirteen.
He smirks at the birds I flip. “Okay, then. It’s an early birthday gift to myself.” A huge grin overtakes his face, he’s proud of that one.
My middle fingers stay raised. Aaron pauses and thinks for a second, and his eyes light up when an idea hits him. “All right, all right. Think of it as a long overdue bonus. You were my employee for five years, and I must’ve realized a dozen times a day these past few months how underappreciated you went. Surely that means you should’ve gotten some nice bonuses in those years, too?”
He’s leaned in so close to me as he’s been talking that I can see the flecks of green and gold within the deep blue of his eyes, and it’s unsettling me. I grab the key out of his hand just so I can get away from him.
“I’m not driving it,” I tell him resolutely.
“You can do whatever you want with it, baby. It’s yours.”
My stomach flips at the term—it’s not the first time he’s used it with me, but it feels entirely new still, and it shoots an unwelcome thrill through my core to hear it on his lips, directed at me.
“Great, I’ll have it towed. Have a good day, Stone,” I toss over my shoulder as I head back into the house and lock the door behind me.
It’s been almost a full week. I still haven’t invited him back into the house. It’s my only safe place right now. I need to keep it that way for now.
I don’t drive the car. I mean, I had to drive it to park it on the street so it wouldn’t block my car in the driveway. If someone happens to hit the SUV while it’s in the street, maybe try to steal it, well, what a shame that would be if Aaron had to take it back.
I guess I should’ve said, I don’t drive it for the first two days it’s here. But on Tuesday? My Toyota won’t start. And more than a small part of me wonders if Aaron made that happen on purpose.
“Now what kind of psycho would I be to disable my best friend’s car so she had to drive the brand new luxury vehicle I bought for her instead?” He let the thought sit for just a minute before he smugly added, “But aren’t you glad you have a spare right here?” I still can’t tell if he was serious or not. Surely not, right?
Begrudgingly, I have to admit that it drives like a dream. Even for all fourteen feet I took it on Sunday. Fuck him for getting something I love so much, without having to consult me. He’s making it a little hard to stay as mad at him as I’d like. But it’s easy to remind myself that a fat charge on his credit card doesn’t make up for the way he dismissed me out of his life. The hurtful things he said to someone who had been by his side through every good, bad, and positively shitty thing that happened for a dozen years. And that he didn’t see the best parts of me until he lost me.
So I managed to ice him out the entirety of the first week. Do I get a cookie?
It’s the following week—the one after the new fucking car —that I cave—just a little—and silently invite him over while I’m eating the lunch he brought me (some chicken and pasta dish that’s actually quite good), kicking a chair out for him in the breakroom and looking at it meaningfully, before I continue to eat wordlessly that breaks the dam and ends the first phase of the cold war between us.
For the next three days, he proceeds to happily ramble to me while I eat whatever he brings me each day. Annoyingly, for someone who is trying to hold a grudge, he brings me something delicious from somewhere else I love each day, which is more thoughtful than I’d like to admit right about now. He tells me about innocuous things, anything and everything that comes to mind, but mostly, he talks to me about the books he’s reading. I try not to respond, but sometimes I can’t help myself. How invested he is in these plot twists, the couples, their efforts to save the world, it’s adorable.
“She picked the blonde one? Are you kidding me? Over that dark-haired fucking stud that showed up and saved her life? Like three times? What a joke!”
“Because you’re so good at picking the right people right off the bat?” I ask him icily. “Weren’t you just telling me how hot the blonde one sounded on Monday?”
He raises his eyebrows at me and tries not to choke on his salad (even though he doesn’t seem to be following the same meal plan he’s usually on for this past week, he is still staying in shape, damn him). The look makes me take pity on him. His quiet words, more so. “I got it right in the end.” Not sure if he’s still talking about the love interest in the book, or his own life.
“Yeah well, bear with her.” I don’t let him read into any possible double meaning there. “It’s only the first book.” I concede to his original point. “Anything could still happen.”
It’s been…a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Aaron in any real setting outside his industry. I say pleasure because it’s hard not to have a good time around him, not to enjoy being in his company, when he’s being himself, that is.
He’s almost always in a good mood, and this effortless boyish charm thing he’s got going for him could win over a nun, or maybe even Satan himself. It’s frustrating as all hell (no pun intended) when I’m trying to stick to my plan, but I’ll admit it’s endearing to watch him in my environment.
True to his word, he hasn’t let his fame interrupt my daily routine. He’s had a few regulars approach him for an autograph or a selfie, but he’s managed to ward off any new throngs of fans swarming the place and causing a disruption. We haven’t talked about it directly, but I did overhear one conversation with a teenage fan after school hours on Aaron’s first day in the library. We were overflowing with returned books after the weekend and short on volunteers that afternoon, so I was putting some books away, deep in the stacks that border the table he’s chosen and claimed for his own, less than thirty feet from him. Despite the low voice he was using, I still caught almost the entire exchange between them.
“Are you Aaron Stone?” Brooks’ excited tone carried a little farther than he probably meant it to, which can make Aaron uncomfortable when we’re in public without security.
He looked up from the book he was reading, a kind smile on his face that didn’t look at all fake. He’s almost always happy to indulge fans, and it tugged at my heart in an annoying way to see him make Brooks’ day with that little smile and nod. Brooks is one of those kids that doesn’t have it easy, and he spends a lot of time in the library instead of at home, I suspect for good reason.
“Yeah, I am.”
“Ah! Dude, no way! Rough and Tumble is my favorite movie! Can I get a snap with you?”
“Of course, man!” Aaron leaned toward him easily, but before the younger guy could lift his phone up and take the picture, Aaron looked him in the eye and made a request. “Can you do me a favor though?”
“Anything,” was the kid’s eager reply.
“I’m gonna be here for a few weeks, prolly more like a few months, maybe longer, cause I’m trying to win my girl over.” Aaron sounded almost conspiratorial. Brooks nodded enthusiastically; being let in on the secret was clearly the highlight of his month. “I’m happy to take a picture with you, but can you do me the favor of not telling anyone about this, not posting that pic until I’m done here? My girl’s only letting me stay here if I don’t distract the customers, and, well…” He ran a hand through his tousle of light brown hair and continued good-naturedly. I pretended hearing him refer to me as his girl didn’t do unspeakable things to my insides. “Sometimes when word gets out…you know.” He nods, pointedly. He’s always hated talking about his fame to anyone in his ‘real’ life—anyone outside the industry, because he said from a young age he never wanted to become a Hollywood douche. But some things about his life are different, that’s just facts.
Anyway, Brooks was so appreciative of their little talk, the photo he got with Aaron, that I’ve caught him acting as Aaron’s bodyguard on more than one occasion, turning people away who’ve tried to approach him, shooting Aaron a conspiratorial wink like I got you, bro .
Aaron’s even started bringing an extra meal back most days that he slides over to Brooks quietly when he gets to the library around two-thirty most afternoons. I refuse to admit that this is cute, and I demand my heartstrings remain unpulled.
I think I’m losing this battle with myself. I can feel myself caving, missing his company, wanting to face the elephant in the room, have the talk I know we need to have. Not sure how much longer I can hold out on him.
It’s been almost two full weeks he’s spent his entire day, all six days a week I’ve been working, at the library with me. He meets me at the house every morning, a hot tumbler full of my favorite vanilla latte waiting for me when I get to the new car, which I—begrudgingly—am obsessed with driving (don’t tell him). I’m not sure exactly how early he’s getting there every day, I’m still not talking to him enough to ask, but he’s always waiting out front by the time I’m out of bed and peek out the front window each morning.
Aaron leaves the library every day to run out and bring back lunch for us both, and there was one day he disappeared mysteriously for several hours in the afternoon with nothing but a head tip and a wink in my direction.
About an hour after he’d left, when I finally couldn’t pretend (even to myself) any longer that I didn’t care, I gave in and checked my phone. Sure enough, I had a text from him.
The Kid
Be back soon. Something I gotta do.
When he came back, he looked as happy and at-ease as ever, whistling softly as he strode back to his table, picked up the book he’d left out and resumed his journey through another world. A tiny voice inside my head tried to plant a seed that he’d gone to see Kayla, or some other girl, but in my heart, no part of me actually thinks that’s true. My old insecurities can fuck right off.
Besides, it’s not like I have a right to be mad even if he did. I’ve hardly given him so much as the time of day since he showed up back in my life, swearing to make up for what he put me through.
Even though I’m not taking him up on his offer—I’m not asking him for any help, any favors—he refuses to not be present, just in case. And he says he’s really enjoying some of the books I’ve given him. Others, he’s been more delicate about discussing with me, and I know a few of those were not his cup of tea. But some of my favorites…well, he’s made at least one or two comments to me already about if there’s ever a screen adaptation, he’d throw his hat in the ring for this character or that one. I try not to picture that too much, because… damn . Is it hot in here? My face feels flushed for some reason.
Also, speaking of characters he should play, I’m positive he should be filming again by now. Midnight Empire has got to be in production once again and I really don’t know how he is here all day, every day. I know Alex goes back a little earlier than the cast, but she’s been on set for a couple weeks now. I’ve hardly gotten to talk to her in that time, much less have a girls’ night, which I’m sorely in need of. When I tried to be stealth and ask her if Aaron wasn’t expected on set yet (not sure which outcome I was hoping for there—that he needed to leave, or that he could stay with me a bit longer), she just sent me this cryptic message and now I know something is going on.
Alexandra the Great
He’s not needed for now.
Me
What does that mean?
That he isn’t needed ??
Thanks for clarifying.
Anytime, babe.
You’re gonna have to hear him out eventually.
I know.
How’s it been with him since…everything?
Weird?
Totally not weird at the same time?
Like he’s just back to the him he always was before he went all psycho, like nothing ever happened, except everything did happen. And I catch him staring at me, like, a lot. That never used to happen. It’s unsettling.
I know he was a raging monster dick for a hot minute there. Tentacles and all. But I think he’s had some realizations. He seems different.
You’ve been talking to him?
Maybe. You should try it.
Or maybe just fuck him and see if that helps clear anything up?
I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see it, and pray that my physical response to that text isn’t visible to Aaron, watching me from across the library. The warm flutter in my lower belly says I don’t hate her suggestion at all. My brain tells my heart to feel otherwise.