A lithe, buxom redhead sidled around Jax, into the kitchen, and toward me. She wore the micro-est of bikinis, barely covering her nipples, and the thong so tiny, it left nothing to the imagination.
“Nadia wanted to get to know you.” Jax smirked. “Why don’t you go in the living room or upstairs where she can kiss your hurts all better?”
I set my glass of water on the counter and studied the beautiful woman in front of me. There were always beautiful women around. For the most part, they left me alone. Jax said I gave off an unapproachable vibe. I didn’t care what it was as long as no one touched me.
Nadia strode forward with well-oiled hips that told me she’d walked a few runways in her life.
“How old are you?” I asked.
She fluttered her lashes as she reached forward to trace my pec through my shirt. “Old enough to know how to make you feel good,” she purred.
“Not interested.” I was never interested—I’d seen sex used as a weapon. Plus, the only woman I wanted was Aya.
“Let me change your mind.” She tossed her hair, and I counted five freckles on her shoulder, bunched together in a cluster.
Those freckles caused me to waver toward want. And the wavering pissed me off. But Aya had moved on—I’d seen the picture with my own eyes.
Maybe I’d gone about this the wrong way. Maybe this was the only way for me to move on, too. My mother had a new boyfriend every couple of months and said she was happier now than she’d ever been.
This wasn’t about using sex as a weapon; it was about pleasure, about letting go. Having fun. I was a rock star. I was supposed to let loose. To party. Jax was always telling me. Hugh, too.
They were happy. Gratified. Relaxed. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt good.
Yes, I could. The last time I was with Aya.
She’d moved on. So should I.
I slipped my arm around Nadia’s waist, but every fiber of my being revolted, remembering the perfection of my time with Aya.
I stiffened as my gaze roved around the room and took in the number of semi or completely nude women. The place reeked of sex.
My stomach turned at the smell—a smell I associated with Brad. I booked it down the hall to the bathroom, where I wretched and wretched.
This attempt to move on had left me…dark. Stained. Broken.
Nadia slipped in behind me.
“Oh. I didn’t realize you weren’t well.” She nibbled her lip. She lifted a miniscule bag at her side. “Want something to take the pain away?”
That sounded like Lindsay. I edged back, fearful of what was in there. Fear and guilt rioted inside me, and I wanted to crash my fists against my temples—anything to make the feelings stop. I needed all the feelings to disappear.
I grabbed the pill she offered and slammed it back.
32
One Year Later
Aya
* * *
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Yamir asked, running his fingers through his wavy brown hair.
It was chocolate brown—I steered clear of men with sun-kissed hair, just as I refused to date anyone with whiskey-brown eyes.
Or who were taller than six one or could sing. Or that I actually cared about.
“There’s nothing to say,” I replied.
I stared past him, waiting for him to run out of emotional steam and leave. I remained a few feet away on the large terrace, looking out over the sprawling traditional British garden. I wished I could transport myself to the gazebo at the far end. I needed to be alone.
I touched my wrist, after all this time, still not used to my missing malas.
I’d had nearly two years to acclimate to my life without Mum, without Nash, but nothing had seemed to level out.
“You think there’s nothing to say about the fact that I want you to be more emotionally available?” Yamir snapped.
Yamir Ali, the scion of United Arab Emirates oil barons, paced and cursed, clearly not used to breaking up.
I’d dated him to appease my father and because I wanted a connection with someone. That hadn’t happened, not once. I touched my wrist again, missing the bracelet’s comforting weight, missing my mother. Missing Nash, in spite of myself.
I shut down the thought before I could conjure up his face. He was traveling Europe with his band, Oblivion. The name shocked me even as it felt like an insult. Nash wanted to obliterate the life he’d had? The person I’d known? Fine.
He’d moved on without me. Why couldn’t I do the same? I frowned.
“Finally, an emotion,” Yamir said, throwing his hands in the air.
I blinked up at him, nonplussed by his dramatics. “I have emotions. And right now, I’m annoyed.” I sighed. “Look, it’s been fun, but it’s over.”
Yamir reached forward and gripped my bare shoulders. The gown I wore tonight was held in place by a swath of material that wound close to my neck and clasped to the high panel on my chest, leaving my shoulders and upper back bare. The rose color complemented my skin and the exorbitant price tag hadn’t caused me to flinch, so at the urging of Harriet, my father’s wife, I’d bought her and my younger sisters’ gowns, too.
“You can’t mean that, Aya,” Yamir protested. “I’m good for you. We have fun in bed.” He smiled, flashing his white even teeth, made even more stark against his tanned skin.
I kept my face devoid of emotion, not wanting to offend him. His kisses were…fine. But I’d never experienced anything like being held in Nash’s arms. I stepped away, hugging my waist, needing to break this abominable habit of comparing every man I met to Nash Porter.
At least I hadn’t had sex with him.
“This is over, Yamir,” I said, my tone as cool as my interest in him. “Accept it like a gentleman.”
He stared at me for a long moment, his jaw ticking, before he sneered. “You are a cold, tiny-hearted bitch.” He stomped away.
I sighed, touching my elegant updo. Breaking up with men was tiresome. Life, in general, was an annoyance.
That could be, in part, because I was still in London, attending yet another party of the social season at my father’s request. “You’re about to start your junior year at university, Aya. It’s time for you to plan out the next stage of your life,” he’d told me. “Princess Diana was about your age when she married Charles.”
The princess might have been older, but I felt ancient. I pulled my phone from my clutch, taking a moment for myself. The alert I saw there stilled my breath. My mouth formed the word no, but I couldn’t manage to exhale.
Model and actress Carolina Syad killed in fiery crash near Milan
Oh, Nash. His mother was dead. I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth, then bolted inside and wove my way through the partygoers.
Harriet waylaid me with a soft hand to my arm. “What’s wrong, dear? Yamir seemed upset.”
I blinked. Yamir? Right. “We broke up.”
Harriet sighed in that soft but disdainful way that told me she wasn’t happy. “And whose fault was that?”
“Mine,” I said, tone flat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to go home.”
She narrowed her eyes for a moment before a calculating gleam appeared. “I understand.”