Chapter Twelve

No Going Back

Cristina jolted awake, startled by the frantic knocking on her door. She looked at the alarm clock; it was just past four. It felt like she had just fallen asleep. Pulling back her covers, she got out of bed, putting on her bathrobe and tying the white garment tight around her waist as she padded towards the front door. The knocking hadn't ceased. Peering through the peephole, Cristina quickly unlocked the door and flung it open, stunned to find Mike on the other side. He was clearly inebriated, holding a bottle of beer in his hand. She hoped he didn't drive to her place. His hair was mussed and his clothing was in a state of disarray. Cristina noted his eyes; they looked sad, lost. She quickly reached out and took his hand, leading him into the apartment.

"Michael. What's wrong, il mio amico?" she asked softly, locking the door behind her.

"She...she accused me...and she...all of them..."

"Sit down, sit down," she cooed, leading him to the couch. They sat down beside each other. She took the beer bottle from his hand. It was empty. She placed it on the table before getting up to make a pot of coffee for the two of them. She was convinced that she was not going to go back to sleep now. Mike was murmuring to himself on the couch. She watched him, her lips pursing into a tight line.

When the coffee was ready, she poured two cups and took them to the couch. Mike thanked her for the cup and they sat in silence, drinking their coffee. It was an attempt to sober Mike a little, and as he drank more of the coffee, she noticed that he seemed a bit more alert. "What happened?" she asked, breaking the silence.

"She went out tonight. I had Alex tail her. I've been a little suspicious of her lately. She's been disappearing a lot lately and coming back...I shouldn't have been surprised," he said with a sigh. "Alex caught her not with one, but with two guys tonight. Guys I know. Guys I work with. She's been playing me like a fucking idiot." He set his mug down and rest his head in his hands. "I'm so stupid."

"No..." she assured him softly.

"I am."

"You are not. She is stupid. How she can not see what is in front of her is crazy."

His head perked at her words, his eyes conveying the surprise he felt. A broken smile curved his mouth. Cristina smiled back at him. There was so much warmth and comfort that radiated from her. Cristina looked into his blue eyes, eyes that shone with unshed tears.

"You really think that?" he asked.

"I know it, Michael," she told him, reaching out to smooth his hair.

"I should have known better," he lamented. "People have been warning me for a long time that she wasn't any good for me." Cristina didn't know what to say. He shook his head. "If I was ever in love with the woman, I'm not now. I just...I don't want her around. I find myself hating her." He shook his head. "I feel like an idiot."

"She is the idiot," she promised him, moving her hand to rest on his cheek. It was a comforting gesture. She used her thumb to brush away his tears. He placed his hand over hers, holding it to his cheek.

Something different flashed in his eyes now. Cristina felt herself vibrate with nervousness. The way that he looked at her now made her heart beat a little faster. He leaned forward, his lips touching hers. She tried to pull away in shock, but his hand moved to the back of her neck, keeping her in place. He tasted of coffee and beer. The moment their lips connected, Cristina felt her soul ignite. She placed her hands on both sides of his face and pulled away. "Michael, you are drunk," she reminded him. "This is not right. You do not know what you are doing..."

"I know exactly what I'm doing," he assured her, leaning in to kiss her again. Against her better judgment, she kissed him back. Her hands moved up his arms, moving until she had her arms wrapped around his neck. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her until she was straddling him on the couch. She could feel him, pressed against her most intimate area. Their kiss became more passionate; their tongues working in tandem before he moved his lips to her jaw, down her neck and down the V of skin her bathrobe left exposed.

He reached underneath her robe, inwardly groaning when he felt the smooth skin of her legs. Mike removed his hands, going to the sash on her robe. He pulled at the white tie, trying to get it undone. She pulled back, her eyes clouded with lust, her lips swollen from their kissing. "Michael...are you sure about this?" she asked.

"I've never been so sure of anything in my life," he promised her. The sash came undone and he pulled it off her shoulders. He learned she slept in a tank top and panties. He moved his hands underneath the back of her shirt, exploring the skin there. She was melting fast, her shaking fingers struggling at getting the buttons of his shirt undone. They were both eager to lose control, to become overwhelmed by passion. He needed her; he needed every inch of her.

He stood, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. "What...?"

"We're going to the bedroom," he told her, connecting his lips to hers once more. She nodded, but there was a little voice in the back of her head that said she was making a mistake. But at the moment she didn't care. She wanted this, and she was willing to deal with whatever came after.

"This is Mike – you know what to do..."

Eve hung up the phone after the beep, placing it on her counter. She sighed in frustration. For the past hour she had been calling, but he wasn't answering his phone. Alex had called earlier and told her everything. She wanted to get in touch, to see where his head was at, but he wasn't answering. Alex said Mike had practically shut down once he found out that he worked with these men. She had made him look stupid.

"Goddamn it, Mike," she cursed to herself quietly. "You had better not be out there doing something stupid."

She looked down at the phone. It was too late to phone Cristina; she was probably fast asleep. She tried to think about where Mike could be, if he had any hangouts, or if he was just out driving the streets of LA. Eve wanted to find Maryse, to hunt her down and slap her. She wasn't at all ashamed to admit that she was happy that things appeared to be over between Mike and Maryse, but the pain and humiliation she knew he was feeling was something she wouldn't wish on her worst enemy.

The house was well lit but silent when Maryse walked inside. She assumed Mike had left the lights on for her before he went to bed, and she smiled at the thoughtfulness. Peering into the living room, her eyes narrowed when she took in the ransacked appearance. "Mike?" she called out. There was no answer. Outside of the living room, nothing else inside of the house seemed out of place.

Walking into the kitchen, Maryse's eyes fell on the counter. There was a stack of photographs. She approached, picking up the papers, her heart sinking into the soles of her high-priced stilettos when she saw the photographs of her and Chris Masters and Dolph Ziggler. The pictures were damning. The realization that Mike had sent somebody to spy on her hit her like a tidal wave. She dropped them, the photos sliding to the floor. "Baiser!"

She turned, rushing through the arch and into the foyer. Maryse climbed three of the steps. "Mike! Mike!"

Making her way to the top of the stairs, Maryse began searching through all the rooms, looking for any sign of him. He was nowhere to be found. As each second passed, she felt herself becoming more faint. Moving slowly, she sat down at the top of the stairs and put her head in her hands. There was no way she could talk herself out of the situation now; even though she had accused Mike, she had no proof. He had it.

There was a surge of anger within her at the knowledge that Mike had hired somebody to spy on her. She felt violated. He had obviously been suspicious of her for a while. She couldn't understand how she got caught; she always thought her rules were foolproof.

Cristina opened her eyes when she reached out and felt nothing but mattress beside her. Her body aching, she got out of bed slowly, wrapping her bed sheet around her body. Her eyes narrowed. "Michael?" she asked softly. She breathed a sigh of relief when she found him standing on the balcony, staring out at the California skyline.

There was a part of her that felt ashamed of herself for sleeping with Mike, since he hadn't given her a clear indication of what he planned to do about the situation with Maryse. She felt as though she had taken advantage of his pain, that she was making a bad situation worse. But the more she thought about what they had shared, the more it felt right. She didn't regret her night with him, only the circumstances. She moved towards the balcony door, startling him when she opened the door behind him. She stepped onto the balcony, wrapping her sheet tighter against her body.

"Michael?"

He turned his head to her, his eyes sorrowful. She looked so beautiful. "I'm so, so sorry, Cristina," he told her. She felt a pang of hurt inside of her chest. "I'm...what I've done...this..." He trailed off, taking a deep breath and reorganizing his thoughts. "What I've done to you isn't fair."

She surprised him by reaching out to touch his cheek. Her touch was warm and soft. Cristina kept her free hand on the sheet, to keep it covering her naked frame. "Nessuno guarda mai bene al microscopio," she told him softly. He sighed.

"What does that mean?"

"It means nobody ever looks good underneath a microscope, Michael," she told him. "You will do well to remember that." There was a beat. She stroked his cheek. "Come back to bed, Michael. Sleep. Then decide what you want to do."

"Cristina..."

"No arguments. Sleep." He nodded, watching her walk back into her apartment. After a moment, he followed her back inside, stopping to stare one last time at the California skyline. He got into bed with her, pulling her against his body. It didn't take him long to fall asleep, nestled against her.

Maryse lay horizontally on the bed she once shared with Mike. He still wasn't home and she was becoming concerned. If anybody else had seen him, they weren't telling her any information. Alex had been useless. Eve didn't say anything. She had been desperate when she called Eve, who coldly observed that Maryse had disentangled herself from a paramour long enough to see Mike wasn't around. Offended, Maryse had hung up on her, yelling in aggravation.

No matter how angry Mike got with her, he always came home. It wasn't like him to not come back. Even after their worst fights, he always came back within the hour. For the first time in a long time, she felt powerless, and she despised the feeling. All she could do was wait and rehearse in her head what she was going to tell him, how she was going to explain everything to him. The wait was killing her.

She stared up at the ceiling, thinking about happier times. She had loved him once. But it had faded months ago, and neither of them could get it back on track. Maryse always wished it was like it had been in the beginning. He had been so happy to have a woman like her on his arm, that he had a small fraction of her attention. She would have given anything to get it back. As she waited, her eyes slowly began to close, the exhaustion taking over her. Before she knew it, her eyes closed and she was asleep. But it was far from peaceful.