Wethering the Storm (The Storm 2)

“Gift?” I give Stuart a puzzled look, then direct one to Jake, who shrugs. He’s in on my little bit. “We were supposed to get you a gift?”

I start to pour tea from the pot into three waiting cups, suppressing a smile.

“Don’t fuck around. Come on, duty-free purchases are part of my contract. Gimme.” He proffers his hand, curling his fingers up in an impatient gesture.

I put down the teapot. Holding a steady face, I bite my lip for effect. “I’m really sorry, Stuart. I didn’t realise we were supposed to get you anything.”

I see the light disappear in his eyes. His face drops. “Oh, it’s okay, honey, don’t worry…”

“I mean, I didn’t realise gifts were part of your contract, so I guess it’s a good job I got you these Oliver Peoples aviators,” I say, reaching over and pulling them from out of my jacket pocket.

Stuart’s been hankering after a pair of these but they’ve been sold out everywhere—I didn’t even know sunglasses could sell out—so I asked Jake to pull some strings and get a pair directly from the designer. Which, of course, he did. The perks of being Jake. They were waiting at LAX for me to pick up.

“Holy fuck!” Stuart says. “How did you…? Never mind. These are so totally fucking awesome! You are so totally fucking awesome!”

He picks me up and spins me around, then sets me back on my feet. He takes the sunglasses from my hand and puts them on.

“How do I look?”

“You look amazing. They totally suit you. You know, with those sunglasses on, you look a bit like that model. You know the British one, David Gandy.”

“More like Gandhi,” Jake quips.

I can’t not laugh at that.

“Fuck off!” Stuart says, admiring himself in the glass of the oven door. “You’re just jealous you wouldn’t be able to carry off something so stylish.”

“Um, hottest male two thousand and twelve here, as voted by the great American public.”

“I think they were voting for the snake, not you.” Stuart smirks, inferring to the nickname for Jake’s huge…anatomy. The one he regularly uses on me.

“So anyway, chica, this David Gandy dude…is he hot?”

“Oh, so totally and completely hot.” I nod enthusiastically.

“Uhum,” Jake clears his throat loudly.

“But not as hot as you, baby.”

“Damn straight,” Jake mutters.

“On that note, I’m going to bed to spend the rest of the night looking at myself in the mirror and researching pics of this hot Gandy dude.”

Stuart picks up his tea and heads out of the kitchen with a wave of his hand. “Good to have you back,” he says to us both.

“It’s good to be back.” I half mean that. “Sleep well,” I call after him.

“You too, chica.”

“You know…” Jake says, pouring milk into the two remaining teas. He picks one up and hands it to me. “Stuart is the only man I will tolerate mauling you. And that’s only because he’s as gay as they come.”

“Stuart doesn’t maul me.” I laugh. I take a sip of my tea, then set it down. “He’s just a tactile guy. I like tactile people,” I add, positioning myself between his legs.

“Yeah? Well, if any man ever touches you here”—he brushes his finger over my lips—“I’ll kick his ass.”

“What about here?” I point to my breasts.

“Hospitalised for sure,” he replies, eyes now glued to my boobs.

“What about here?” I point to the V between my thighs.

“Stone-cold fucking dead. You belong to me, Tru.” He lifts my skirt and puts his hand to the very place I just pointed to. “No one touches you but me.”

He presses his fingers into my panties. Into me.

Heat consumes my body, firing through me.

He’s fucked other women here.

I step back, letting his hand fall away.

“What’s wrong?” He looks confused.

“Nothing…” I glance around, looking for my excuse. “It’s just…Stuart might come back.”

I wonder if he’s ever had sex in the kitchen. Probably. Knowing Jake, he’ll have utilised every room in this house.

The very thought makes me want to throw up.

My fingers curl into my hand, my nails biting into my skin.

“He won’t come back.” Jake hooks his fingers into my T-shirt and reels me back in.

He starts to kiss my neck, his other hand grabbing my ass, pulling me closer to him.

Crap, he’s hard. But then, Jake’s always hard.

I close my eyes and try to get into it. The feel of him pressed up against me. His hard body. His masculine scent.

But all I can see in my mind is a preconceived image of Jake with another woman. Him doing exactly what he’s doing to me, to her, right here.

I wriggle out of his embrace.

He sighs, and his darkened eyes meet mine. “Okay, what the fuck’s going on?”

“Nothing.” My voice has gone squeaky. Traitor voice.

“Tru?”

I glance down at my feet. “I just…” I bite my lip.

“You just, what?” There’s no happy in his tone.

“I just feel weird having sex in your house.”

“You mean our house.” His eyebrow lifts. “And why? Because Stuart lives here?”

“No. Because of all the women you’ve fucked here.” Okay, so that didn’t come out exactly as I had intended.

I look up, meeting his eyes, biting my lip, hard.

Jake’s face is a mask.

I also note he doesn’t deny that he’s screwed other women here.

I know it was a long shot, but I was harbouring a tiny flicker of hope that maybe he’d never brought a woman back here.

Stupid, right?

Sighing, he shoves a hand through his black hair.

I move farther away, increasing the gap between us, and lean against the counter. “How many women have you had here?”

“Do you really want me to answer that question?” His eyes burn into mine, waiting.

Looking away, I focus on the wall. I fiddle with the hem of my T-shirt.

Do I really want to know?

The sadistic side of me does. Thankfully self-preservation wins out.

“No.” I shake my head.

Pushing off the counter, I start to walk away. I just want to go to bed, sleep, and leave this conversation behind.

“Where are you going?”

I stop by the archway and turn back to him. “To bed. It’s okay, Jake. I get your past, I do…sort of.” I drag my fingers through my hair. “And I know there’s nothing you can do to change it, no matter how much I may wish it. But I can’t pretend that at times it doesn’t bother me…affect me.” I point. “Out there, I can cope with it, mostly…but in here, our home…just knowing that you’ve been…with hundreds of women…here.” I try to shake the sick-inducing images out of my mind.

“It’s not hundreds.”

“What?”

“I haven’t brought hundreds of women here.”

“Thanks for the clarification.” My tone is sharper than I mean it to be. “Look, however many it is, it’s more than one, and that’s enough to have me feeling like this. I just need a little time to figure out how to get around it—being here, knowing that. And don’t think I’m punishing you because of your past, because I’m not. It’s just my own jealousy and insecurities getting the better of me. Just give me time to figure out how to get past it, okay?”

I can see his hands curled around the edge of the stool, knuckles white from the intensity of his grip. He looks like he is having to physically restrain himself from coming over to me. I can almost smell his need to touch me in the air, floating around me like a physical presence.

I need to touch him too. Just without these images in my head.

“Okay,” he sighs. He sounds defeated. “I’ll follow you up to bed in a minute.”

Leaving him where he sits, I go upstairs, get dressed for bed, and brush my teeth. When I reemerge from the bathroom, there’s still no sign of Jake.

Turning off the light, I climb in bed, and for the first night in a long time, I fall asleep without Jake beside me.

CHAPTER FOUR

You promise you can’t see anything?” Jake asks for the tenth time.

“I promise I can’t see anything.” I sigh, feeling a little exasperated and a lot blind.

I’m currently sitting in the passenger seat of Jake’s treasured Aston Martin DBS, aka the James Bond car.

Jake’s driving, and I’m wearing a blindfold.

Yes, a blindfold.

A makeshift one, made from the silk scarf I was wearing.

Why?

Because Jake has a surprise for me. A surprise that apparently requires me to be blindfolded to get it.

We’ve been back in LA for five days.

Jake has spent most of that time at the label, dealing with the accountants, trying to sort things out with the fraud. It’s definitely five hundred thousand dollars stolen, but they are no closer to finding out who took it.

It’s consuming all of his time. He is literally getting home as I’m heading to bed, and he’s gone when I wake.

Am I worried about the strain this will be putting him under?

Absolutely.

Am I checking for visual signs of him using again?

Definitely.

I hate that I am, but he’s not long clean. I would be stupid not to be a little worried. I don’t want either of us to go through what we did before.

It’s not that I don’t trust him, I do. I just know how easily a slip can happen. I watched it happen to him before and I was blind to it, and it got too far too fast.

I won’t let that happen again.

Have I checked the cisterns in the toilets and other hidey holes in the house for drugs?

Yes.

I know it’s horrible, checking on him like that, and I know he would be really angry if he knew. But when Jake’s life is in play, nothing is more important.

I know he went to a meeting with his drug counsellor on our first day back, and I heard him on a call with someone I think is his sponsor late the night before last.

It’s natural that he’ll still be struggling, especially now back in the real world, surrounded by temptation. I’m just glad he’s making use of the professional support he has to help him get through it.

And I’m here for whatever help he needs.

In my heart I don’t think Jake will ever go back to drugs. I saw what the last episode did to him, losing us because of it.

It nearly broke him.

But it also doesn’t hurt for me to keep alert for any signs of trouble.

Of course I ask him how he’s doing, but I haven’t asked directly about his recovery steps, because I know if he wants to talk to me about it, he will.

I’ve missed him like crazy this last week. But the time apart has had its benefits. Now I’m back from holiday, it’s back to work, and I’m glad for it, even if I am working from home. It’s allowed me to get on with my work writing Jake’s bio, and I’ve also been working on my column for Etiquette.