“Go,” Dave urges, pressing his hand against Jake’s arm.
I start to back up, wanting out of here.
Jake takes a step back, moving with me, when Jefferson says loudly, “Call me, Tru.”
Jake moves so quickly, he’s almost a blur. Luckily, Dave is faster and catches hold of Jake before he can do any damage. I’ve seen what Jake can do when he loses it. And someone like Jake cannot be pummelling guys in clubs.
Especially journalists.
No longer wanting to be party to the scene I’ve caused, I turn, and putting my head down, I start to move quickly, weaving through the crowd, heading for the exit.
Jake catches up with me near the door.
Grabbing my arm, he yanks me back, turning me to him. “Where are you going?” He sounds out of breath and angry.
“Home,” I state harshly. I’m still pissed off with him for flirting with the blonde and for what I had to hear in the bathroom. And also for the scene he caused with Jefferson. I know I was wrong to dance with Jefferson for the reason I did, but he didn’t have to react the way he did—making a show of us.
I try to pull my arm from his hand, but there’s no give.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jake states angrily in my face.
“Me? What the hell is wrong with you? I was only dancing with him, for crying out loud!”
“Dancing?” He lets out a caustic laugh. “It looked like he was getting ready to f**k you right there and then on the dance floor. And you weren’t exactly pushing him off either.”
“Screw you, Jake! You can bloody talk with your whores scattered left, right, and centre, in my face all night! Then I’m privy to the absolute displeasure of hearing a conversation about how one of your whores sucked you off in your office. Oh yeah, then you f**ked her over your desk!”
He looks confused. It, marred with his anger, makes for a scary-looking Jake.
“I got to hear the full lowdown while I was sitting on the toilet, about your activities pre-me. They didn’t know I was there,” I add for clarification. “But I got to hear how I’m not good enough for you, and how she was going to go to the label tomorrow to offer her services to you.”
“Who?” he asks, voice hard.
“Have there been that many you’ve screwed in your office that you don’t know who it would be?”
“Yes.” His tone is low and cold and absolutely heartbreaking.
“You make me f**king sick!” I cry, my eyes filling with tears. “What about the blonde? Is she one of your office conquests too? Or did you just screw her at the house?”
He looks confused again.
“The blonde at the bar I saw you flirting with! Have you shagged her too?”
“I wasn’t flirting with her. That’s Dina. She works for me. She manages Vintage.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes!” I shout at him. I’m past caring who hears me. “I want to know if you’ve f**ked her too!”
His eyes darken. “No, I haven’t.”
“Just everyone else in LA, then.”
He takes a step back, leaning against the wall. “You knew how I’d lived my life when we got together, Tru. Don’t act like this is a surprise now.” He rubs his face hard. “Are you ever going to be able to get past this?” he asks. His voice is softer but serious.
My anger wilts.
I wrap my arms around myself. “I don’t know.” I shake my head, looking down. After a beat, I say, “And if I can’t, where does that leave us?”
“Right where we are but having to find some way for you to be able to cope with my past mistakes.”
Moving away from the wall, he steps closer to me. “I’ve never given you any reason to doubt my faithfulness to you.”
“Aside from the girl I found in your bed in Boston.”
Shit.
I shouldn’t have said that. But it’s too late. I know I’ve pushed the wrong button.
His face darkens, taking me back a step.
“Out of the two of us, I think I’m the one with more cause for concern—you didn’t exactly have any trouble jumping straight from Will’s bed into mine. So who’s to say you won’t do the exact same thing to me?”
I feel like he’s just slapped me. Hard. Repeatedly. Over and over.
My face burns. My eyes sting. I can’t stop the tears leaking from them.
Without another word or look, I make for the exit.
“I’m sorry.” He takes hold of me from behind. Wrapping his arms tightly around me, his chest presses up against my back, and his lips are against my ear. I freeze in his hold.
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it.” He blows out a breath, and I feel it rush over me, momentarily heating my chilled skin. “Just seeing you, dancing with him to that song, of all songs.”
My ears instantly become alert to the song playing in the club coming to finish—Beyoncé’s “Sweet Dreams.” The song Jake and I danced to in the club in Copenhagen. The night that was the start of us.
Did I subconsciously dance to this song on purpose to hurt him?
“I want to go home,” I say quietly. Shame and embarrassment course through me. And in this moment I’m not really sure which home I’m referring to.
His body stiffens. “I’ll take you,” he says, releasing me.