Sexual Healing (34 page)

“Baby, please . . . say something . . .”

Cruze's voice faded in and out.

She smelled fire. A car.
Their
car.

Something was burning. Tires.
Her
tires.

Oh, God—
her
car. Gone.

She heard the screaming in her head.

More gunfire.
Pop, pop, pop . . .

“Arabia, baby . . . c'mon, let me help you out of these . . .”

Unease crawled over Cruze's skin and coiled around his neck in what felt like a chokehold as he called Arabia's name. She had a blank look on her face, and her eyes were vacant. She was unresponsive. If only he would have kept his ass in Philly, none of this shit would have happened. It was all so goddamn fucked up now. And he hadn't wanted Arabia to know, see, this side of who he was trying to get away from. He tried to bury that part of him along with his demons, but he just couldn't catch a break. In the end, something or someone was always trying to pull him right back into that same dark place he'd fought so hard getting out of.

He had no one to blame for the fucked-up predicament he was now in, except himself. He was kicking himself for getting all wrapped up in Arabia, and letting his guard down. Now look what happened. He could have been killed, or worse . . .
her
.

“Arabia . . .”

Some of the numbness had worn off, but she was still in shock.

“Arabia, c'mon . . . you're scaring me, baby. Talk to me . . .”

She blinked. Confusion clouded her beautiful brown eyes as Cruze came into view. She blinked again.

Cruze's hand stroked her chin. “Baby, you had me worried for a minute . . .”

She stared. Then tears welled and a sob crept out of her throat.

Cruze tried to comfort her, but she pushed his arm away. Her nostrils flared and her eyes blazed. Then came the rage, like a wildfire, its heat and flames engulfing Cruze, catching him completely off guard as she leapt up and attacked him; her fists swinging wildly as she punched and clawed at him.

“You motherfucker! You almost had me killed! You no-good piece of shit! You low-life thug! I should have never
fucked
you! I wish I had never met you!”

Cruze blinked.
Oh shit.
Her words pierced through him. “C'mon, baby. You don't mean any of that.”

“Yes, the fuck I do!” she snarled as she launched herself at Cruze, her long nails aimed directly at his face. “I hate you for what you put me through!”

Cruze wasn't in the habit of putting his hands on females, but he couldn't let her fuck him up, either, so he curled his arm around her waist and tried to restrain her. But she let out a shriek of outrage and began kicking and thrashing like a wild woman.

“Get your fucking hands off me!” she demanded. And when he wouldn't let go, she bit his arm hard, her teeth sinking deep into his skin.

“Ow,
fuck,”
he yelped, letting her go. He put his hands up in surrender. “Calm down, baby. Let me explain . . .”

“Let you
explain?”
she scoffed, her chest heaving in and out. The metallic taste of blood was now on her tongue, his blood. She'd broken the skin on his arm. “Calm down hell! You can't explain shit to me! Don't ever want to see your murderous face again! You murderer!”

He cringed. “C'mon, baby. You don't mean that.”

“Don't call me that, you killer!” she yelled. “I'm not your baby. I'm not anything to your hoodlum-ass! Now get the fuck out of my home! Now!”

He blinked, stunned by her venomous words. He'd never seen this vicious side of her, and he didn't like it. He'd rather had taken two bullets to the chest than to endure her fury. And, still, he tried desperately to talk, to reason, to hold out from tossing in the towel.

But Arabia had become blinded by shock and rage. She cursed and screamed until her throat ached. “Fuck you, Cruze!” she spat. “I hate you!”

In her wild fit, she reached for a crystal ashtray, and slung it at him. He ducked out of the way, the sharp object missing him by mere inches.

“I want you out of my home! And out of my fucking life!”

Stunned at her aggressive behavior, he hung his head, somehow feeling as if he deserved everything she dished out. She'd hurt his pride, stabbed his ego, and crushed his spirit with her words. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he reached for the door.

Tears streaming down her face, she snatched off her heel, and hurled it at him. “Get out! Get out!” She snatched off her other heel, and threw it. “Get out! You fucking killer!”

Nothing more needed to be said. He opened the door, and walked out, shutting her world out from his. The last thing he heard as the door closed behind him was, “I fucking hate you, Cruze Fontaine!”

Arabia grabbed a crystal decanter. And then there was a smash against the door, the sound of glass crashing against the floor, cognac splattering everywhere.

And then she sank to the floor on her knees, the gurgling sound of gut-wrenching sobs clawing their way up her throat and out of her mouth, the sound of a broken heart.

Thirty-Seven

T
hree weeks. That's how long Arabia hadn't seen or spoken to Cruze. Three weeks, six days, and approximately thirteen hours and forty-three seconds.

This thing between them had never meant to be a love story, she kept reminding herself. It wasn't supposed to last. Ever. She knew this. And, still, she ached for him. Missed him. Everything in her burned raw. Her heart, her soul, the pit of her cunt, throbbed from the longing and emptiness. And she hated him for that.

She sat up in bed with a strangled cry just short of a scream.
3:35 a.m.
How could that no-good son-of-a-bitch do this to
her?!

Hurt her like
this?

Haunt her in her dreams like
this?

She'd never trusted a man before. And she shouldn't have trusted him. Against the warnings that had flashed in her head like floodlights, she'd allowed him to come into her life—in spite of, and, somehow, he managed to rob her of her senses. She'd known from the beginning
not
to get involved with the likes of him, that he'd be trouble. He was only supposed to be a
fuck ‘n' go.

Not
this
—a lover she couldn't stop missing or thinking of.

He'd captured her heart. And that wasn't her.

No. She only loved one thing, herself. Men came and went. She'd proven that every time she'd dismissed one, and moved on to the next without a second thought. She'd always been in con
trol, orchestrating her own life, compartmentalizing her feelings.

Now this.

She wasn't
this
woman.

Out of control.

Lost.

Lonely.

Confused.

Still wanting him, still missing him.

In the blink of an eye, she'd become a walking contradiction of emotions. Everything about not being with Cruze nauseated her, made her physically ill.

She'd given up her control, and handed it over to him. And he'd abandoned her. Walked away without another word. Okay, maybe she'd cursed him out horribly. Still, why hadn't he come back to her?

Arabia hated herself—more than she hated him—for that.

Nobody was perfect.

But Cruze—
that big-dicked bastard!
—had been perfect for her, so she'd sadly thought. Oh, how wrong she'd been.

Still, for the first time in her life, someone had come into her world and had opened her heart and mind to new possibilities. Cruze had done that. He'd pushed her, unknowingly, to dream of finally having a love of her own.

A killer! A thug!

Before
the lies,
before
the gunshots,
before
the stray bullets . . .

She jammed the back of her fist into her mouth, and bit back a scream, her life flashing before her eyes.

Yes.
She'd been the one to end it. She attacked him. Told him to never fucking call her again. Told him how badly she hated him. In that moment, she'd meant it. Oh how she meant it, every last word. Now those words burned the back of her throat like acid.

It was over. Sadly, it had to be—for her sake.

Still, she hadn't expected him to
not
call. And she hadn't expected—for weeks—to be foolishly holding on to hope that he would. Picking up her cell, checking for messages and missed calls that she knew hadn't been left.

It was torture.

And when the agony of not being with him, or hearing his voice had finally become too much for her, she deleted all of his contact info and changed her number—for
her
, more so than him. She couldn't trust she wouldn't try to call or text him, beg him, to come back to her.

But that heartless bastard hadn't called her. Nor had he attempted to come groveling back to her on his hands and knees to apologize, to win her back—
nothing!

He hadn't stalked her to give him another chance, hadn't sent flowers, cards, or gifts—not one damn thing to overwhelm her, to beg her for forgiveness. He'd simply given up, moved on with his life.

Fuck her, right?

The fucking manwhore was probably somewhere laid up, pumping his dick into some other bitch, slicing into her cunt, giving her all the heated pleasure he'd once given her.

She swallowed, hard.

What kind of man was he?

A man who'd never given a damn, that's who.

And what kind of woman had she become because of him?

Weak.

Vulnerable.

Obsessed.

She felt like someone had taken a wrecking ball and smashed through her chest, knocking the wind out of her. She cried out. Slung the photo of the two of them—the one they'd taken while
at the zoo, the one she'd been desperately clutching to her chest since the wee hours of the morning—across the room. The frame hit the wall, glass shattering everywhere.

Like her heart, her life was smashed into a thousand-and-one tiny pieces. Arabia felt herself starting to hyperventilate. She felt as if she would throw up at any moment. This, this pain was killing her. She could barely breathe. The sadness was strangling her.

She struggled with her tears.

She was helpless. Things that she had never wanted were now things she craved most for. She had never felt so, so . . .

Her cell phone buzzed madly. She sucked in deep breaths, and when her smartphone fell silent, the landline started to ring. She knew it had to be one of her sisters, most likely Maya out of the three. But she didn't have the energy for any of them. Not at this time of morning. They'd have to wait until she was ready to deal with their inquisitions. And the inquiries would surely come, along with their opinions.

She sighed, breathing in regret with every breath.

Finally, she closed her eyes, and all that she saw in those few silent moments was . . .
him
. His smoldering brown eyes, his lips, his dimpled smile, his sculpted shoulders, his chiseled chest, his rippled abs, his thick, veiny dick; his beautiful muscled ass—every part of him.

Her lids snapped open.

Oh, God!

He was everywhere she didn't want him to be—in her head, on her skin, on her tongue, on her breasts, on her clit, in her pussy, in every crevice of her soul.

Arabia despised weak women. Had snubbed them. And now she had become one. She was a slave to his memory, to his touch, to his thick black dick. This wasn't her. Losing sleep. Being this needy, crying, bed-ridden, lovesick bitch.

Shedding a tear over a man was
not
who she was.

And, yet, here she was.

Behind closed doors, a sniveling hot damn mess!

Fuck you, Cruze Fontaine!

He was a liar! A goddamn thief! A user!

Wait. Who was she kidding?

He hadn't
used
her for a damn thing. He hadn't taken from her anything she hadn't been willing to give. And she'd given of herself willingly. So, no, he hadn't stolen anything from her. He'd taken her, roamed her body freely, because she had wanted him to. However, she'd almost gotten killed, thanks to him, and she couldn't lose sight of that.
Ever
. The idea of being with him after what had happened frightened her. But the realization of
not
being with him scared her more.

And, now, a thousand questions raced through her mind: What if . . . what if she reacted hastily? Had she overreacted? Should she have given him a chance to explain? Was she wrong for her behavior?

After several painful moments of contemplation, Arabia shook her head, shaking loose the craziness of second-guessing herself.

No.

She'd done what she had to do.
Her
life meant more to her than having
him
in it. She had every right to be livid with him. He should have told her he had hit men out to do him in. He had no business dragging her into his deadly drama.

She knew better than to fall for a man like him. Men like him never changed. The streets were in them, stamped in their DNA, embedded in their brain. It flowed through their veins. Trouble followed them wherever they went. It was Karma. All the fucked up things they'd put out into the universe eventually came back to them. There was no escaping it. It always came back. No matter how far, or how fast they tried to flee from it, somehow, some way, that bitch Karma would find her way to them, and sink her teeth in.

And make them pay for their sins.

Arabia took a deep, burning breath. Her walls, her world, had come tumbling down because of him. She had been better off before she'd met him—
fucked
him. Before she knew him, touched him, smelled him, tasted him, felt him in every part of her soul. The realization made her blood boil. He'd ruined her. And, sadly, she'd let him.

Pull yourself together, Arabia! All a man like him would ever do is bring you down with his bullshit and drama. You're better than that, girl. So get over it. Goodbye and good riddance!

Yes. Goodbye. She had to let it go. Let
him
go—all of him. She had to pull herself out of this chasm of depression that consumed her, and held her hostage.

Yes. It had to end. All of it.

Now.

Arabia swiped her hands over her face, sweeping fresh tears from her flushed cheeks. Holding a hand to her quivering stomach, she inhaled, deeply. Steadied her racing heart. Her mind was made up.

These were the last tears she'd ever shed over the likes of him, or any other man.

Groaning in misery, Arabia swiped away a lone tear and flopped back onto her bed, the back of her head swallowed by the king-size pillow. Lying in his shirt, she brought its collar to her nose and inhaled the faint scent of him, for one last time.

It was over.

Yet, he was everything she knew she shouldn't want.

And, still—haunted by his eyes, and his touch, and by the last time they'd made love and every other time in between, she slid her hand between her legs, where she ached most.

Oh God, yes.

This would be the last time she told herself as her fingertips slowly brushed over her clit.

Oh God, oh God.

Her body arched up from the mattress, her fingers delving inside the empty space of wet heat, where she craved sexual healing most. This would be the last time she'd allow herself to feel anything for Cruze Fontaine, she promised herself as she felt herself quickly coming undone, melting under the sheets.

It just had to be.