Unwrap Me (4 page)

I wake to the feel of a man's body pressed against mine, warm and comforting. My eyes flutter open, and I reach over and grab my smartphone off the battered bedside table that is littered with a half-dozen trade magazines focusing on web applications and smartphone apps.

I glance at the screen—two a.m. on December 24—and I frown, because something about that's not right.

“Hey. You okay?”

The voice is gentle and masculine and familiar, and I roll over to find myself looking into Ollie's sleepy eyes.

Ollie?

I sit up, suddenly confused. “What are you doing here?” But even as I ask the question I realize that
here
isn't right, either. This is my room in Jamie's condo. There's my desk and my laptop. My dresser that needs refinishing. My favorite math geek T-shirt tossed negligently over the back of my desk chair. My room. My things. But I'm not supposed to be here.

Where? Where am I supposed to be?

“You look confused. Weird dream?”

“I…”

He tugs me back down. “Don't tell me you're regretting it. Because I'm sure as hell not.”

Regretting what?

“I—no.” The words come automatically, as if they fit, and it all starts to fall into place.

I remember a night drinking with Jamie and Ollie as we commiserate about Courtney leaving him, this time for good. Or at least so she says.

And then Jamie heading off to bed. And then Ollie kissing me, so sweetly after so many years of just being friends. And then…

And then…?

My head is so damn foggy. “I'm just groggy. I feel so weird.”

“Too many drinks and too little sleep.” He kisses my nose. “But it was worth the sleep deprivation, wasn't it? And we can sleep in now. Come on, Nik. Four more hours until we need to get up, and I need my beauty sleep even if you don't.”

“Right. Sorry.” I blink, trying to recall the strange dream I was having. A dream with a big house and a Christmas tree and a man who held me close and kept me safe. A man who wasn't Ollie.

Then who?

I reach out in my mind, trying to find him again. But it's gone, lost upon waking like so many dreams.

And so I succumb to Ollie's demands. I curl up against him and let his steady breathing and the warmth of his palm against my bare skin guide me back into sleep. And, maybe, back into the wonderful dream that now feels lost to me forever…

The morning sun is streaming in through my bedroom window, and I prop myself up on an elbow and watch as Ollie straightens his tie in the mirror that hangs on my closet door. For a moment, he is focused only on pulling his tie snug, but then he must realize that I'm looking at him, because he meets my eyes in the mirror and grins. “Hey there, beautiful.”

Ridiculously, I feel my cheeks warm. “Hey, yourself.”

He turns and leans against the door, his focus on me never wavering. “We're good, right? I mean, last night wasn't a mistake?”

“Of course not,” I say automatically, even though I vaguely remember waking in the middle of the night, groggy from some dream I can't remember now, and unsure about pretty much everything. But that had been a dream, whereas the man in front of me is real. He's my best friend, and he has been for years.

The truth is, I hadn't expected that we'd end up in bed after drinking too many homemade margaritas while watching movies and commiserating over his latest breakup with Courtney, his on-again, off-again girlfriend. But we did, and I can't deny that it feels comfortable. Easy, even. After all, Ollie knows about my demons, about my scars. And considering the shit I've been through with men, I know that has to be a good thing.

He's hinted around that we should get together before, but I'd always deflected, scared that something physical between us would screw up the friendship. But last night the power of tequila overcame the fear, and maybe that was a good thing. Maybe me and Ollie were inevitable.

Maybe the man I've been looking for has been right under my nose my whole life.

I tilt my head as I smile at him. “So do you really have to go in on Christmas Eve?”

“All part of being a big-shot lawyer in a huge law firm,” he quips. “We're filing an appellate brief on the twenty-sixth, and if I don't have the draft on Maynard's desk by the time I leave tonight, I'll have to cancel my trip tomorrow.” He moves to sit on the edge of my bed, then reaches for my hand. “Although I wish I wasn't going. Especially now.”

“Me, too.”

“You could come with me.”

“No chance in hell,” I say. Ollie is going back home to Texas to see his parents for a few days. Theoretically, I could go with him, but that would require seeing my mother. And just the thought makes me queasy.

“You don't have to see her,” he says, because Ollie knows exactly why I have no desire to go to Dallas. “We can stay at a hotel. Veg in the spa. I'll go back to the house without you, do the loving son thing, and then come back and spend time with you in the evenings.” He lifts my hands and kisses my fingertips. “My treat. This year's bonus was pretty damn nice. I'm happy to share the love.”

“No thanks. I'll just drive you to the airport in the morning.” Honestly, I'm not sure why I'm determined not to go. Because he's right. I don't have to see my mother. And it's not like work is keeping me tied to LA. I have my own business that is reasonably portable, especially over the holidays. Plus, I've been seriously overworked lately, and a spa week sounds like heaven. But something about going with him just doesn't feel right.

I bite back a frown, my thoughts in a jumble. It's not Ollie. Why would it be? Being with him is good, after all. Nice and warm and safe.

And, no, last night wasn't full of knock-you-off-your-feet passion, but honestly, I don't believe in those storybook tales. Besides, I'm not a woman who likes to lose control.

“You're sure?”

I nod. “It's not you. It's Texas,” I decide. “I escaped. Going back is like the opposite of a Christmas present.”

He nods, and because he really is my best friend, I know that he gets it. “Fair enough. But you realize this means I'll have no excuse not to stay at my parents' house. They're going to expect me to sit and watch their
Murder, She Wrote
DVDs. One after the other after the other.”

I laugh. “And you will, because you're a good son.”

“If your mom comes over? What should I say?”

“Don't tell her shit about me unless she asks. And then just say I'm doing fabulously.”

But I don't expect that my mother will ask Ollie any more than she'll bother to call me over the holidays. I'm not my sister, Ashley, so why would she think about it at all?

Ollie glances at the clock, then bends down to kiss me. It's a gentle peck, sweet but oddly settled. And despite the fact that I've already told myself that I neither need nor want nor believe in wild passion, I can't help but feel weirdly disappointed. As if we skipped right over courtship and settled straight into a boring marital rhythm.

Where the hell are these thoughts coming from?

“Go on,” I say, motioning for him to leave. “Go start working toward another fabulous bonus. I'll see you tonight?”

“Absolutely,” he says.

I nod, but I don't believe him. When Ollie's working on a brief, dinner usually falls by the wayside. I don't expect that either Christmas Eve or this new shift in our relationship will change that.

I hear the front door slam, and instead of feeling a loss, I feel the strangest sense of relief.

I shake my head, frustrated with myself, and decide it's just the tension that comes from the shift from friend-friend to girlfriend. Perfectly normal. Perfectly understandable.

Then I climb out of bed, pull on a pair of yoga pants and a tank top, and head into the kitchen for coffee.

The condo's two bedrooms and one bath are at the top of two stairs. If you're descending, the dining table is on the left and the galley-style kitchen is on the right, with the front door and living area pretty much filling the space in front. It's still early, and Jamie, my best friend and roommate, rarely drags herself out of bed before noon, so I'm surprised to see that the coffeepot is half full, and even more surprised to find Jamie at the table, nursing a mug so full of cream that the coffee looks white.

“You're up,” I say. “Merry Christmas Eve.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “It would be merry, except my parents are incapable of remembering that I'm two hours behind them. They called an hour ago. Ugh.”

I turn away and pour my own mug so that she can't see my smile. Jamie has great parents. If it were legal, I'd have them adopt me.

“So you and the O-man have a good time last night? Then again, maybe I shouldn't call him the O-man,” she says mischievously. “I didn't hear any screams of pleasure coming from your room in the wee hours.”

“Seriously, James?”

She holds up her hands in surrender. “Sorry. Couldn't resist. But, honestly, I'm right, aren't I? You two didn't just share the bed for sleeping, did you?”

“God, you're nosy.”

“Ha!” She can't keep the triumph out of her voice. “About damn time.”

“You think so?” I take my coffee and slide into the seat opposite her.

She lifts a brow. “Well, that was way less enthusiastic than I was expecting. I was joking about the lack of O-ness, but if there's a problem in that department…”

“No,” I say, pressing my hands to my cheeks in an effort to stop a rising blush. “That department was just fine.”

“Then what?”

“It's just—” I cut myself off, because I really don't know. But somehow I feel like I've stepped through the looking glass and am living a life that isn't really mine. Or that's wrong somehow.

But how the hell do I say that? For that matter, why would I even feel that way? “Nothing's wrong,” I begin. “I think it's just all new, you know? I mean, we've known each other our whole lives, and now everything has shifted. Growing pains, I guess. That's got to be normal, right?”

“Sure,” she says. “But at the same time, Ollie's been in love with you forever. So it's a little weird, but not unexpected, you know?”

I nod, because I do know. “I think I just drank too much last night. My head's been feeling fuzzy for hours, and I had a seriously bizarre tequila-induced dream.”

“Yeah? Tell?”

I take a sip of my coffee as I try to remember. But I can't seem to grasp anything. It's faded completely, and all I am left with is a hollow sense of loss.

“I can't. It's gone. But I can remember it was weird. And, I don't know—now it feels like my world is off-kilter.” I shake my head. “Sorry. I know that sounds nuts.”

“I think it sounds like you're right about the margaritas.”

“Nothing more coffee can't cure,” I decide. “And you? What did you do after the movie?”

I hold my breath, afraid she's going to say Douglas or Kevin, two of the guys in the complex that she fucks regularly. Jamie is my best friend, but that doesn't mean I approve of the way she goes through men like some people go through Diet Coke. But, honestly, I don't know if she's ever going to find a guy who can tie her down.

She purses her lips. “Sat in bed and read, can you believe it? But that's okay. I'm totally finding someone new tonight.”

It takes me a minute to remember that we're going to a holiday party at Jamie's agent's house in Malibu. Evelyn Dodge is a Hollywood institution, so much so that even I—who know next to nothing about television and movies—have heard of her. Jamie introduced us once, and I could immediately see why she's such a fixture in this town. She's brassy and smart and doesn't take anyone's shit. She's held pretty much every job in the industry, and has recently returned to agenting.

She saw Jamie in a commercial about a year ago and signed her, which surprised the hell out of Jamie, but not me. Jamie's movie star gorgeous, and the camera absolutely loves her. Since signing with Evelyn, she's landed a few more national commercials, and I'm certain that she's going to get a series or a movie soon. At least, I desperately hope so. If for no other reason than maybe a daily routine will keep Jamie from screwing her way through Los Angeles County.

“We're supposed to meet Lisa for breakfast in less than two hours,” she says. “I'm gonna hop in the shower first, then you can, okay?”

“Sure,” I say. I freshen my coffee and then take my mug to my room. And as soon as I hear the shower turn on, I yank open my middle dresser drawer.

I know I shouldn't—I know I should just look in my closet for an outfit or fire up my computer and work—but I can't help myself. This is what I need. Something to center me. To push me back upright so that I no longer feel like I'm toppling out of my own life, overwhelmed by how fast things are shifting, even if those changes are for the good.

The antique leather case is small and battered, and I take it out reverentially. I open it up to reveal a plain interior with little pockets and elastic loops, all filled with gleaming metal tools.

I take out an X-acto knife, my hand closing reverentially around the handle, which fits comfortably in my palm. The negligible weight is almost misleading, because this blade will do the job so perfectly, so brilliantly.

I have alcohol in a little bottle along with cotton balls. And I pull them closer so that they are at the edge of the dresser. Then I peel off my yoga pants and sit on the foot of the bed in my underwear, my legs spread wide.

I haven't cut since I moved to Los Angeles. Getting away from my mother was the best thing I ever did. And in celebration, I threw away all my blades even before I got here.

But that's not to say I haven't wanted to, which is why I bought this case a few months ago at a flea market when I was feeling lonely and a little lost.

I tell myself this is a one-time thing. I touch the blade to my inner thigh, then slowly and lightly drag it over my flesh, running parallel to the scars that already mar my legs. I bite my lip as I watch the beads of blood rise from this first, thin cut. The blade is so sharp there's not even any pain initially, and it's almost as if the blood rises from magic alone. As if the pressure that is building up inside me has been searching for release and has found it here, along a mystical line of blood.

It's not enough though. I don't just need to cut; I need to
feel
. And so I take the blade back, craving another stroke, deeper this time. Harder. I need the pain. I need the release.

I need to know that I am real—that this is real—and that I'm not trapped in some dream world where everything is—

My door bursts open. “I'm totally out of deodorant,” Jamie says. “Do you have an— Oh, shit. Oh, fuck.
Nicholas!
”

I toss the blade onto the ground and whip the bedspread over me the instant she barges in. But it doesn't matter. She sees it all.

“What the hell?” Jamie's voice is soft, but fierce, and she kneels in front of me, her hands on my knees, her expression earnest as she looks into my eyes. “How long, Nikki? How long have you been doing this?”

I can barely see her, and I realize that I'm crying. “I haven't. I swear. But today—” I wipe my eyes violently.

“Because everything is off-kilter? Like you were just saying?”

I nod.

“Oh, man. Oh, Nik.” She climbs up onto the bed beside me and pulls me close. “Don't do that. You scared the crap out of me. You don't need that. You're better now. You've been better. Just talk to me. Okay?” She pulls away and looks into my eyes and the fear I see there is enough to make me agree to anything. “Okay?”

I nod. “I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me today.”

Her shoulders sag. “It's the holidays. Everyone goes nuts over the holidays.”

I nod. Maybe she's right. Maybe that's it.

“Don't tell Ollie,” I beg. I don't want him to worry that this is because of him.

“Cross my heart. But, damn, Nik, if you do it again—”

“I won't. I swear I won't. Take it. Just take it the hell away.”

She does. Right then and there she drops to the floor to get the knife, then puts the case back together and holds on tight to it. That's how I know just how much I've freaked her out. And I really am sorry—so damn sorry—but that doesn't change the fact that I'd needed it.