Maybe, Baby

Thirteen

This was not how I had imagined things to go.

I have been stuck inside this beautiful room with nothing but room service and the TV. He had not visited as frequently as he had promised; the first day checked on me for a total of four minutes and twenty-seven seconds. The next, he just called. I felt caged in. I felt like I losing my mind. I asked God for rain so people would have to run for covers in their rooms, but then I thought about it, and rain while standing on a Caribbean beach didn't sound that bad, so I took it back.

Just like he said, the left side of my face was bruised, lightly, but I couldn't hide it with the limited amount of make-up I had brought with me.

My beautiful sundresses, shorts, and sandals just stayed inside my drawers. I never felt the salty warm water on my face. I had just sat in front of my open window and gazed down with hope. Travel day arrived, and I made my bags and walked down the lobby with the only pair of sunglasses big enough to cover half my face. He had sent them a few hours before check out. I stood mute beside him while he gave handshakes and joked about whatever had happened in my lockdown. I had kept my hair loose and all curled up around my face, making it impossible for prying eyes to see the remnants of my tumble at the beach.

"I'm sorry you feel ill while being here, maybe next time." One of the staff members had made her way towards me and engaged in conversation. Wasn't she aware that crossed arms and shades meat please don't talk to me and stay away?

"Yes, I have a sensible stomach. Maybe next time." I smiled coolly at her and turned away.

I looked at the massive fountain at the entry and sighed. This was the ultimate dream for me, on the very top of my bucket list, and I wasn't really sure if I had accomplished it or not. I mean, I had spent five days in paradise in between four walls.

I turned up the volume and listened to music while resting my body on one of the columns at the entry. There were still a few hours for our flight, and the airport wasn't that far. I assumed a few more minutes before it got uncomfortable, so I just enjoyed the open air and my alone time. The few minutes on our walk down from the room, I felt the tension. Something told me that Mr. Westbrook's mood wasn't going to improve as the minutes ticked by, not while he was being bombarded with questions. I couldn't save him. I knew nothing about the hotel, and he hadn't really included me in the conversation before.

I was also hungry, but I could slip away once we got to the airport and buy something. Yes, that was definitely what I was doing. I rummaged through my bag, making sure I had my debit card, when a warm hand held the back of my neck lightly. I moved, fearing for my life obviously, but when I turned to see who it belonged to, I couldn't two angry sets of eyes shut whatever complaint my brain had been making up. He slowly took one of the earbuds off.

"I have been calling your name."

"Sorry, I was. –"

"Trying to make your ears bleed." He was actually snapping at me. I bit my tongue before I started talking back at him. Whatever his problem was, I had nothing to do with it. I had stayed in eyesight, just like he asked. I had not said a word, just like he said. I had done everything he had told me to, and he wasn't happy. What was I supposed to do now? "Let's go."

He was actually using the hand on my neck to guide me. I tried, I really tried to use the weight of my body and stop him from controlling me in front of whoever was watching. I was on the verge of making a scene to make them see he wasn't a pleasant and charming as everyone thought. He was brutish and a pushover. "Move," he hissed at me, and I had no other option to do so.

Where was the man who had held my hand on the airplane? Where was the man who had expressed concern a few days back? The man who had kissed my forehead. What had made him change to whatever he was now? I pressed my body against the door, as far as it would let me be away from him, but his leg touched mine and his whole left side, even inside the ample space of the car he was keeping caged, now by his body and the door.

Everything about him affected me; his presence, smell, and heat of his leg touching mine. I unconsciously clawed for the door handle. It was too much. I had fallen front and hard for Liam H. Westbrook, and I also hated him. I hate that my heart thumped rapidly whenever we stood in the same room. I hate that my sense of smell and sight enhanced when he was in surrounding areas. My brain made up minor events where we were together, that between my legs ached and pulsed with need. I needed out, and with him so close, my brain didn't process the fact that we were going really fast and that if I opened the door and threw myself out, well, it was going to hurt.

"Whatthehell!" Strong arms pulled me back, and the door that had barely opened was slammed shut. I heard his angry snarl, asking if I had lost my mind and also the yells of the driver. I fought him, kicking and punching the air. I felt my hands connect to some parts of him. "Calm the f**k down." I yelped in pain when he restrained my wrists at the small of my back with one hand and used the other to hold my chin.

"Don't touch me." I felt a tear spill out of the corner of my eye. The very one I had been fighting to contain. I don't know what triggered my meltdown, but here I was, sitting stride on his lap, crying. I was a contradiction. Every cell sings at the rough grip of his hands, but my emotions are maximized with this result.

"Stop acting like a child."

"Everything good back there?" The worrisome voice of our driver made me gasp. I had forgotten all about him while I threw my little act in the back of the moving vehicle. I had screamed, slapped, and kicked. A child indeed,

An irate child.

My chest was still rising rapidly as I tried to catch some breath.

"Just worry about driving." I felt the sting of his hard words.

I felt cold, an air draft, or maybe it was just that the dark heated gaze on me was making me shiver over him. I tried pulling back, but his grip tightened on my face making me wince in pain but as soon as I stopped moving, he stopped applying pressure.

"You don't throw tantrums, you behave and you talk about what troubles you. If anything is wrong you come to me. You don't scream. You don't yell or tell others about it, just me."

I don't understand.

"Dolores." He warns.

I licked my dry lips and tried to say something, but I just shifted over him and stared down at his pursed lips. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like it when I don't do as he says. His whole body shows it. He has let go of my face, and now his open palm falls on my upper leg as the other one holds my hands together, still on my back. The car is moving. I feel it sway when we take a curve, and then I lean forward, closer to him, almost brushing him. I try to hold myself down, but all I can do is tighten my legs around his open legs and squeal as I fall forward.

His scent engulfs me. A hint of his aftershave and cigarette. I know he smokes. I have seen him and the littering on his ashtray I clean whenever every once in a while. It is not something I love about him, it is one of the little things I wish he didn't do, but I am no one to whine about it.

I'm suddenly free. No longer holds my hands but my hip and back. I feel sore and tight on my arms.

"Stay." He whispers against my hair when I try to move.

Here is a nineteen-year-old girl on his boss's lap. I'm barely half his age, I'm barely experienced in life, and I could quickly die in his arms, just like this. I dare not to touch him, so my arms just dangle from my sides while his arms bring me closer and closer to him until my front is full-on his own. That's how I sat almost all the way towards the airport.