Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Chiara
I’m taking full breaths, but I’m not getting any oxygen.
He stole it all.
With his dark eyes. Bottomless black orbs burning with so much damnation.
With his words. Threats and promises all at once.
With his touch. Still sizzling on my skin where he wrapped his large hands around my wrists. Applying pressure in a way I imagine he would in different circumstances.
I place my hand to my throat and try again to take a deep breath, to coax the air into my lungs and find the relief that comes with it spreading through your chest. It doesn’t come.
Neither does any sign of relief. Instead, my breathing is shallow.
I swear I can still taste the malt and smokiness of the top-shelf scotch that laced his breath on my tongue.
I want more, and the notion drags me under even further, because his words were also a barb directly to my heart.
Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when you’re used and discarded by a fucking playboy only after one thing.
“Hey, pretty girl, are you doing alright?” asks Hudson, a lazy grin on his face. “Do you want to go somewhere quieter for a breather?”
Yes, yes! I think that’s exactly what I need. Quiet. A distraction. Maybe your tongue in my mouth so I can rid mine of the lingering aftertaste of him.
Raf.
One syllable.
Three letters.
A Rubik’s cube. Frustrating. Highly addictive. All sharp corners and edges.
A puzzle begging to be solved. Endless algorithms but only one that will fully unlock him and put him back just right. I want it to be me, I think in this vulnerable state. The one where I want to hate him but also want to scream at him, “What is so unlovable about me?”
I’m on the verge of only being able to take deep gasps to procure the air I need to keep me from passing out.
I feel myself sway, woozy as if all the alcohol has hit me at once.
The air feels thick, and I swear there’s a weird smell, but I can’t place what it is.
Using all my willpower to keep my panic at bay, I answer Hudson while I desperately claw for the diversion I need from the kaleidoscope of the colorful words spewed from Raf’s mouth, trying to lock in the edges and corners of them to solve the mystery of his words, specifically where the fuck they came from and what the fuck he meant by them.
“Yes! Let’s find somewhere quiet, maybe a bit more private,” I say suggestively, turning back to look up at him, meeting his steel-blue eyes.
They’re a little hooded, whether because of the alcohol, the promise of what he’s hoping will happen, or confusion at my erratic behavior, I can’t tell.
I’m still trying to regulate my fucking breathing while simultaneously convincing myself I can see this plan through.
I can fuck him when and where I want, I chant to myself as we make our way around to an opulent alcove with dark walls and more plush velvet furniture offset with gold and marble.
The sound of my own rapidly beating heart whooshes in my ears as Hudson moves in closer and works to spin me and pin me against the dark paneled wall.
His gaze and touch are gentle but hungry.
I mean, we did just spend over an hour dirty dancing, me rubbing my ass against his crotch deliberately, all with the intention of turning him on.
But ironically, none of it was for his benefit, and now that it’s time to follow through on the promise of all my sexual innuendo and mutual flirting, all I can think about is being sick.
As his face inches closer to mine, his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
Panic claws at my chest, the kind that comes when I think about what I’ve lost. The same kind that clutches my throat when I remember the last man who looked down at me with big, blue eyes and the promise of fulfilling all my desires.
And I can’t fucking do it.
I dart under his arm propped on the wall beside my head, and he spins to watch as I stumble towards the door leading into the bathroom, dodging people rushing the other way.
“Hey Chi—” but his words are cut off by a woman’s British accent.
“Hello, Hudson, fancy seeing you here. I believe you still owe me something.” And then it sounds like his back hits the wall.
But I don’t have the energy or the will to turn around and see what’s happening.
Instead, I launch myself inside the bathroom, locking the door and pressing my back to it to help keep me upright.
My head is spinning and I still can’t breathe properly.
Moments later, my legs finally refuse to hold up their end of the bargain, and I find myself sliding down the door and collapsing on the floor.
Embarrassment, shame, panic, all wrapped in the hot mess that is me sprawled out on the floor.
Every raw nerve ending feels exposed as I go over the events of the night, the promise of a new and exciting life here in New York, only to be reminded of who I am and where I come from and the family curse that continues to make me wish I could leave it all behind. Turn the loaded gun on them.
I use the last of my energy to move towards the corner of the room, wrapping my arms around my torso and dragging my legs up and into my body as I fold into myself, making myself as small as I possibly can.
Head swimming, tears falling, room spinning, the rapid staccato of my labored breathing pounding in my ears.
My chest constricts, and my feeble attempts at trying to take deep breaths are not working, instead coming out quick and shallow, only heightening that choking sensation that’s winding itself up my throat.
I’m shaking uncontrollably but also sweating like I’m stuck in a heatwave when it’s minus degrees on a New York winter’s night.
It’s all futile. So I stop fighting against the inevitable and do the only thing I can when there’s no oxygen to be found.
I close my eyes and, as always in moments like this, the last thought that flits through me kicks me like a heavy-footed boot: You’re not worthy of good things.
I tell myself it’s just the alcohol talking, lulling me into the familiar solace of darkness and the sweet silence of the nothingness.