Page 47 of Playing Hard to Get

For the first time, I didn't want to run away.

For the first time, I wanted to be the shoulder to cry on. The friend to confide in. The lover to rely on.

It was another of my firsts Mitch claimed as his own. One in a long line he'd already collected.

I wanted to make him feel better. I wanted to heal whatever fractured his soul. When he asked me for my body, for the silence it gave him… Who was I to deny him what he needed?

Something tortured him. I already knew, because I'd heard his screams. That first night I slept with him, I was awoken by his cries. I pretended I was asleep as he looked down upon me before leaving me in his bed. I watched him from the top of the steps as he sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. I hid from him. I didn't try to comfort him then. But that's all I wanted to do now.

After Mitch made love to me one last time in his bed, he dropped me off at my apartment. Walked me to my door and gave me a kiss that promised we'd start this up where we left off, whenever we had a chance.

For the first time in my life, I was looking forward to it. I craved his touch, his presence. I craved the way his body felt against mine. I craved the way he knew me, knew exactly what my body needed, and how he gave me my release.

Who knew losing control could feel so much like freedom?

The next few weeks without Mitch were torture for me. Every night, he stared in my dreams. Except this time, knowing the difference between my hand and reality made me one unsatisfied woman. I couldn't get myself off the way I used to. Or maybe I could, but it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t Mitch.

When I wasn’t dreaming of the things he did to me, I was dreaming of those scars. I knew he was in the Marines. By his cries, I knew something bad happened to him. But the tattoos that covered his body hid the evidence from anyone who wasn’t close. I'd seen the tattoos on the back of his neck before. It wasn't until I touched them, kissed them, and saw them up close, I realized there were scars under the ink.

There were scars all over his back. Puckered skin in jagged lines, small marks hidden under black. I wanted to kiss each one. Take away the pain he held inside him. Fill him up the way he filled me.

Make him whole.

While my nights belonged to my fantasies, I forced myself to focus during the day. My company, V, ran well without me most of the time. I was the name. The designer. But I'd hired people for everything else. It was one of the lessons my father taught me at a young age: Do what you're good at and find good people to do those things you can't.

I answered questions from my production team via phone and email. They took my designs and brought them to life before bringing it back to me for approval.

There were always changes. Always things in the look books they brought me that I thought I liked when I created it, but I hated when the concept came to life. A wrong color. A wrong cut. Sometimes inspiration hit and I had to change the design completely because something better waited inside my head, just dying to get out. I demanded perfection from my team, but mostly of myself. The control I relinquished to Mitch in the bedroom was still mine in the rest of my life.

Between my phone calls and emails, redesigns and new concepts, I doodled. I filled my sketchbooks with the same black swirls I dreamt about. I drew pictures of the dark eyes I longed to see.

And it almost got me in trouble.

Vinny and I made plans to eat together last week. He had a key to my place and didn't bother to knock. I had just seconds to cover the sketch I was working on of Mitch’s gorgeous body before my brother came into the room.

You'd have thought that would have taught me a lesson. Or maybe convinced me to take my spare key away from my twin.

Instead, for the second time in two weeks, I was surprised by my brother’s sudden presence in my home. This time I was dancing. I had my music blaring as I cleaned my place. Unlike Frankie, I didn’t feel the need for a maid to clean my space. It felt good, oddly enough, to do it all myself. So there I was, rocking out with my broom as my make-believe microphone stand, when I turned and found Vinny watching me.

I let out a yelp and stumbled backward. I tripped over the edge of my coffee table and landed on my back on my couch. Vinny barely concealed the smile on his face as he watched me. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his jeans as he tipped back on his heels five feet inside my door.

“Vinny!” My yell reverberated through sudden silence as my music cut out. My eyes flashed to the corner bookshelf where my tablet and phone were docked. “Frankie?”

“Sorry, sis. Didn't mean to barge in on you.”

“I knocked, I swear to God,” Frankie said, not bothering to hide her grin.

“She did. We both did,” Vinny said when I didn't respond.

I didn’t respond because I spent those precious seconds trying to remember if I put all my things away. My sketches. My doodles. The toys I bought after I last spoke to Mitch on the phone.

I was sure my face flushed at the thought. Just clicking the button on my mouse to purchase them had my heart racing in my chest. Never in my life did I think I'd ever buy something like that. Never did I think I'd want to use one.

“What are you doing here?” I finally managed to force out.

Vinny pursed his lips and watched me while Frankie took a seat in one of my chairs.