Icy Pretty Love (20 page)

"The accident," he whispers. "My mother...died in a car accident when I was young. I was in the backseat. I've never been able to get it out of my head."

I cover my mouth. That must be why Renard tried to convince me to treat him gently. I'd always assumed that because he had money, his life was perfect. That problems didn't exist for him. "That's...that's horrible. I'm so sorry."

He shakes his head. "It was a long time ago. I don't think about it. I'm fine, I'm stronger than those feelings were, it's just at night that the dreams come and I can't do anything about them. Except what I did tonight."

I swallow. "This isn't a healthy way to deal with it, though. No matter what."

"I know." He sits down at last. "I know that."

I don't know what to say. How is it my right to shame him for the one thing that seems to help? All my friends back home self-medicated. Everybody has something they're unable to forget, and if a substance gives them a vacation from their own heads, however brief...

I go to the kitchen and fix a cup of tea. The simple actions—filling the kettle with water, twisting the knob on the stove—help clear my head. No matter what pity I feel for him, I can't let him do this to himself anymore. He'll run himself into the ground.

I bring the tea to the kitchen, but it's too late. Cohen is sleeping on the couch. His head's fallen into the crook of the sofa next to the armrest, and his breathing is deep and soft. His arm dangles over the edge, fingers grazing the floor.

There's nothing to do but drape a blanket over him, put the tea on the coffee table, and go back to my room for my own uneasy sleep.

~12~

I wake up early, the light filtering in through the gauzy curtains. My sleep was fitful and unsatisfying. I know I have to help Cohen deal with his problem, but I don't know how.

My phone is on my bedside table, next to the lamp. Right. Sam. It's been a while since I've talked to him. I'd almost decided to let our weird relationship go—after all, how healthy is it to consult someone you've never met for advice on a semi-regular basis—but he's helped me before. And this time, maybe...

RG: Hey.

There's no response for a long while. I stay curled in bed. I have to pee but I don't want to get up, don't want to let a possibly awake Cohen know that I'm conscious and available for whatever uncomfortable conversation that'll surely take place this morning.

Finally, my phone buzzes.

Sam: It's early.

RG: Yeah, I know. Sorry to bug you.

Sam: You're apologizing for bugging me? That's a first.

RG: I take it back. You deserve to be bugged.

Sam: At least you acknowledge that what you're doing is annoying.

RG: I think bugs are cute. So the word 'bugged' should be positive. I've decided that it means 'pleasantly interact with.'

Sam: As pleasantly as a spider dropping from the ceiling interacts with the open mouth of someone sleeping in bed.

RG: That was a great visual.

Sam: I try.

RG: We can have these dumb conversations forever. But the truth is, I was hoping you could help me out with something.

Sam: Yeah, I figured. It's the only reason you ever text me.

RG: And for our charming repartee.

Sam: That's par for the course. Assuming it's a problem with that guy again?

RG: Yeah...

Sam: Ever think maybe you should give him up as a lost cause?

Sam: People can't be fixed like broken toys.

Sam: Some of them are just inherently messed up and even they don't know why, and they're best left to their own devices so that normal happy people can lead their normal happy lives without getting dragged down.

RG: There's no such thing as normal happy people!

RG: That's what I've learned recently.

RG: Even him, who I thought had the perfect life, has a reason to be sad.

RG: Everyone does. It's just that other people don't always see it.

RG: Lots of times I've pretended to be a girl nothing bad's ever happened to, and it was perfectly convincing.

RG: Everyone does that in a way, I think. Plays at being someone who's not hurting.

RG: Anyway. I'm rambling.

RG: Basically the issue is that this guy has been dealing with his sadness in a way that's not healthy, I think, and I want to help him change.

RG: But I don't know how.

RG: Back home when my friends would do that sort of thing, I'd just let them. I figured everyone deserves a break from themselves, no matter how they get it.

RG: But I'm a smarter person now, or at least I like to think so, and I can tell this kind of behavior isn't good for Cohen.

RG: Oops, now you know his name. Oh well.

RG: It's just, like...what right do I have to tell him what to do or what not to do when I didn't even believe he had a reason to be sad in the first place?

RG: I've just been making all these assumptions about him based on nothing.

Sam: It sounds like you're letting guilt make you second-guess yourself.

RG: Maybe.

Sam: It also sounds like this guy doesn't respect anybody.

Sam: But I think he respects you.

Sam: Maybe what he needs is for someone he respects to tell him honestly what they think.

Sam: Whether it's that what he's doing is bad, or if it's that what he's doing is okay.

Sam: If you told him what you thought, honestly, I'm sure he'd be happy to hear it.

RG: You think he respects me?

Sam: Why wouldn't he?

RG: Uh, maybe because he's a rich zillionaire and I'm...

Sam: You're...?

RG: Let's just say that my profession is considerably less highbrow than his.

Sam: He doesn't care about that.

RG: How do you know?

Sam: Because you talk about him like he's worth your time. And you're smart.

Sam: You're smart enough to know that somebody who cared about something like that isn't worth your time.

RG: I kind of thought he treated me like everybody else because he dislikes everyone equally.

RG: But I'm starting to think maybe that's not true.

RG: Who knows. Maybe you're right.

RG: Either way, for some reason, I want to help him.

RG: He's rude and dumb and way too full of himself, but I want to. I can't help it.

RG: So that's what I'm going to go do.

RG: Thanks again. I sure lucked out texting you.

Sam: Yeah, I guess you did.

RG: Modesty is a virtue ;)

Sam: And the winking face makes its hideous reappearance.

RG: It's like an STD. It never really goes away for good.

RG: And on that note, have a nice day! ;)

I toss my phone on my bedside table and get out of bed, wrapping my bathrobe around myself. I take deep breath, steel myself, and leave my bedroom.

Cohen is sitting upright on the couch, toying with his phone. He stands up immediately when he sees me. Like he was waiting.

"Cohen..." I start.

He holds up a hand. "Wait. Can I say something?"

"Sure." My lecture can wait.

"At first, I was pretty irritated that you followed me last night. But it's only natural for you to be curious." He sighs. "You shouldn't have seen me like that."

"It's okay, I've seen lots of people at their lowest points."

He laughs ironically. "That wasn't my lowest point. If you'd seen me at my lowest point, I'm certain you wouldn't be talking to me right now."

I just wait.

"I've been trying to stop," he says after a while.

"Trying's not good enough." I've decided to take a hard line with this. "You have to stop. Now."

"It's not that easy."

"I know it's not. Nothing's easy. That doesn't mean it's not worth trying for." I uncross my arms. "I'll help you."

"How?"

"You only feel the need to do at night, right?" I say. "So I'll sleep in your bed every night, starting now. I'll wake up if you move around."

"Rae..."

"And," I interrupt, "if I need to, I can always distract you with something that's just as fun and considerably less illegal."

A ghost of a smirk appears on his face. Okay, so my offer wasn't entirely charitable. But helping him with his problem is the main point, I swear.

"To be honest, I don't know if it only happens at night," he says slowly. "Maybe I'm getting the urge right now."

I roll my eyes. "Are you seriously using your drug problem to get me into bed?"

"There are worse things to use it for."

That's true. He steps forward, the smirk growing slightly. "And who says I want you in bed?"

“You don’t want me in bed?” I pretend to pout.

“Of course I do,” he says into my ear. “But I was thinking somewhere more interesting this time.”

“Where were you thinking?” I ask.

“Let me show you.”

And he does show me. He lifts me up and carries me into the kitchen, sitting me on top of the table. He pushes my dress up as high as it will go, and begins to bend down.

“You’re going to eat me out here?” I laugh.

“What else are you supposed to do in the kitchen?” he asks wickedly.

He’s got a point there. But I forget about it as soon as his tongue finds me. I let my head fall back, breathing heavily.

“You taste delicious,” he murmurs into me.

I want to say something back, but he finds my clit and then I can’t say anything.

It doesn’t take long for him to drag a moan out of me that rises into a cry as I explode. I curl over onto him, against his back, panting.

He leans forward and breaths into my ear. "Thank you."

"No," I manage, still utterly out of breath. "I should be the one saying thank you."

"I mean..." He hesitates. "Thank you. For saying what needed to be said. Earlier."

"Ah. Right."

"For a long time, I felt that I had no need to try and stop, as long as I could still function normally during the day."

I doubt the way Cohen acts—or used to act—during the day could be categorized under normal functioning, but I don't say anything.

His mouth still close to my ear, he says, "But now I feel like I have a reason. So thank you."

"Careful," I say, to cover up the fact that his words went straight to my heart. "Those aren't the words of someone just in this for the sex."

"Aren't they?" he says quietly, and then rolls over, so all I can see of him is his back.

"Renard!" I yell into the hallway through the crack in the door. "I need your advice again."

A bald, butler-esque sigh echoes outside the apartment. "Yes, miss."

I push the door open wider. "What do you think about this dress instead? It's pink."

"I believe the term for that particular shade is peach, miss."

"Do I want to look like a fruit? No. Just tell me if you like this one or the green one better."