Pulse - Part 3 (Pulse 3)

"Enough?" I mimic him. "Enough, what? Enough of your goddamn lies? Why the fuck can't you just leave me alone? Why can't you just call another random and fuck her brains out so you forget about me?"

I see pain wash over his expression. His hand jumps in the air as if he's about to grab hold of me, but his jaw clenches and his hand freezes. "Jessica." It's barely a whisper. I can hear something skirting the edges of it. I can't tell what it is.

"Nathan, we're so far past being done with this." I move to the door but he's on me before I have time to react.

"Jessica, please." His voice cracks and a small part of me feels sympathy for him. I can't do that. I can't let him get to me that way. It's all about actions. Everything he's ever said to me stands in the shadow of that hotel suite filled with liquor and condoms and that phone. That goddamn phone that was bursting with endless pleas begging him to crawl back into bed. All those women, all that sex.

"I'll never forget what I saw on that phone." I close my eyes as if that will shudder away all the memories of those names, of the numbers and of the painfully intimate messages.

"I can't change my past." His eyes narrow. "This is killing me. You have to let me back in."

"Back in?" I exhale sharply, my pulse racing. "Back into this?" I pull my hand over my body.

"No." His tone is icy, hard and calm. "Back into here." He pushes a finger against my chest. "You were feeling everything I was."

I can't respond. He's right. I was feeling everything he said he was. I was falling for him at breakneck speed until I crashed into that hotel room and everything changed.

A knock at the door jars us both. Drew's timing couldn’t be any worse. He's waiting for me. He's waiting to take me on a real date. He's waiting to take me to bed at the end of the night. He's going to help me get over Nathan once and for all.

"I need to…"

"You're going out with him, aren't you?" He cuts me off; his voice is even and tempered. "It's the chef, isn't it?"

I nod. "Drew asked me… well, he asked me," I stutter unable to clearly say that I'm going out on a date with another man.

"Have you fucked him yet?"

"No." I shouldn't have answered. This isn't his business. Anything I do with Drew tonight isn't about Nathan. Except it all is. I'm only going on this date to forget the way it feels when Nathan kisses me, when he's inside of me, and when he says things that make me believe I'm special.

"You want to?" The que

stion is ripe with pain. Not only for him, but for me too. I don't want to sleep with Drew I want to say. I want Nathan to erase everything I saw in that room from my memory so I can feel like I did two weeks ago. I want to float back into his bed and his arms and feel like nothing exists but the two of us.

"Don't ask me that."

He steps towards me until his breath is skirting my forehead. "If I would have found you first, I wouldn't have fucked any of them. Don’t use his body to get back at me."

Chapter 8

"That guy that was at your apartment is intense." Drew takes a leisurely drink from the wine glass in front of him. "He was at the club the first night I saw you. What's his deal?"

"He's a lawyer," I jeer. I don't want to talk about Nathan right now. When I'd opened the door to greet Drew, Nathan had pushed past him and didn't look back.

He surveys my face as if he's trying to read between the lines of what I'm saying and feeling. "Did you hook up?"

Of course he'd ask me that. Why does it seem as though every man in Manhattan has to know about the sex life of every other man? "A few times." I don't see any reason to lie. It's not as though it matters at this point.

"Is that still going on?"

Why the inquisition I want to say. We're out on our first date, enjoying a pre-dinner glass of wine and Nathan is already spoiling the evening for me. "That's over," I say it clearly.

"What was he doing at your place?" He tips the glass in my direction before he takes another sip.

"Just talking." I know I shouldn't be irritated by his questions but I am. We're not twenty minutes into our evening and he already knows way too much about my personal life.

"I don't share, Jess." The words are misplaced.

"You don't share?" I repeat them back hoping I misheard them. Who does he think he is? The second coming of Nathan Moore? Why do these men insist on marking their territory before I'm ever served an entrée?