Chapter 62

I'd given up on TV and had resolved to read Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility, of which I had neither. Perhaps I'd learn a thing or two. I missed my copy at home, but my trusty Kindle app was handy and readily available to download whatever I wanted on a whim. By chapter ten, I was done with reading about Marianne taking up with the young and handsome Willoughby and tossing poor Colonel Brandon like an old hat. I turned off my Kindle app and looked toward the stairwell. It was awfully quiet up there. It had been a couple of hours and Monroe should've come downstairs by now. What was he doing? I set my cell phone on the coffee table, finished my glass of wine, and gradually walked upstairs.

The bedroom door was still closed. I slowly opened it, but Monroe wasn't in there. The bathroom door was closed and the light illuminated from the crack under the door. I lay down on the bed. He'd be out soon enough. My eyes drifted over to a tan leather book that set on the nightstand on Monroe's side. He must have been reading, too. The book had no markings on the front. I touched a finger to the smooth, worn exterior. This one had been read many times. What was it? I gingerly picked it up, expecting history or science, but no, it was handwriting… Monroe's handwriting.

January 25th 2012 -
She returned for the cuckoo. That smell… Her scent. The vanilla is still everywhere, I can't get it out of my nose. Maybe I shouldn't have asked her to the symphony. What the hell am I thinking asking her out? And that look she gave me. I can't read her. Those lips of hers kill me. I wanted to take her right in my living room. Fuck her hard, claim her. What the fuck am I saying?

My eyes widened as I continued to flip pages.

January 31st 2012 -
I don't know how I survived being in her home again. Her smell, everywhere. Her hands on me. It's still clinging to my clothes, my skin. I wanted her to continue, so bad. I wanted to reciprocate. Why didn't I just take her? I wanted to take her… rip her clothes right off that perfect skin. Take her right on her couch. The desire is too much. Days off will be good.

February 2nd 2012 -
She's in my brain and she won't leave. Her cloying scent remains on my jacket. I can smell it from here. Nick won't shut the hell up. I don't know what's worse, him nagging or the nagging of her in my brain. Need to concentrate. I'll just go over to her house, take her, fuck her, and then… No. Dammit! I don't want that. I want more… But it would be so easy.

February 4th 2012 -
That damn song. If she only knew how inappropriate that damn Duran Duran song is. But she can't know. She'll never know. But when she played for me today. Her music…That violin. She plays like an angel. And she wants me. She was fucking turned on while I played the cello. The arousal flooded out of her. That overwhelming urge. The lingering scent in my house… Dammit, I should've at least kissed her… No, then I'll want more. But I do want more. More of everything. FUCK!

February 12th 2012 -
Man, I wanted to fucking rip her ex's throat out last night. How I refrained I'll never know. The rage is still in me, coursing through me. But then I think of her. She wants me. I want her. Adores me? She was drunk. I can't believe her words… But maybe they're true? I want her to be mine and I can't hold out much longer…Mine? It's stupid. Preposterous! Oh man! I need to bow out. No, I don't want that either. Maybe a movie tonight. A movie is easy, non-committal. Note: Nick still owes me $300. I'm never getting that back. Maybe I should've kept some of that gallenblase after all.

"OH, MY GOD!" Monroe's voice echoed, high and shrill in the bedroom, and I shot up quickly. I hadn't heard him open the bathroom door. "You can't read that!" He rushed toward me, removing the book swiftly from my hands. "How much did you read? What part?" he bellowed with red eyes flaring. "This is, like, personal… stuff… I…"

My face flushed. "I thought it was a history book, but then it was…"

"It's not that kinda history book." Monroe shook his head, clutching the leather to his chest. His breath practically heaved out as his eyes bulged. "This is off limits." He shoved the book in the nightstand drawer, shutting it abruptly.

"I'm sorry." I bit my top lip while looking down. Too nosy.

"So, how much did you read?" Growling replaced most of the words as he gripped my shoulders.

My head shot up. "Just a few entries," I gasped out. The panic hit me again full force. There was panic in his eyes, too. What the hell was in there he was so afraid of?

"Which entries?" he persisted.

"January and February when we were… " I only managed to get part of it out. The words caught in my throat. I couldn't breathe. He loomed over me, eyes hot and burning as he pinned my shoulders back against the headboard.

"Did you like what you read?" A glint passed through the fire in his eyes.

"I-I…" Did I like it? Shocked was more like it, but I couldn't let him know that. "I… really didn't read enough to make that judgment."

"Don't lie."

I stared directly into his eyes. "It was wrong to read it."

Monroe let up, and oxygen refilled my lungs as I held my pounding chest.

"Yeah, it kinda was." Monroe crossed his arms. "MP3 player."

"What?"

"Go get it and hand it over. I'm listening to every damn song." My chest tightened again for a whole other reason.

"No, now that's different…"

"Yeah, it's different all right. It's not even your own words. But it's as close as I'm gonna get."

I sat up, straightening my back. My stomach formed a knot, tightening to the point of nausea.

"Go get it." Monroe repeated in an octave lower as he glared at me. "I'm not joking."

I edged out of the bed and shuffled over to the stairs. Each step was like walking toward a death sentence. Too nosy for my own good. Clearly I'd learned nothing from Jane Austen. I obviously had no sense whatsoever.

I moved to the cedar chest and opened my shoulder bag. The MP3 player weighed a million pounds in my hand. I pushed out a sigh and then pursed my lips to prevent any more from forming. Well, at least none of my songs mentioned claiming him. But the songs… Oh, who was I kidding? I loved him, and it was all there. If it wasn't clear already, then he was more oblivious than I ever thought possible.

I moved back toward the stairs, hovering at the bottom. But what did loving him mean? What was really going on inside that head of his? My curiosity was augmented by my reckless spirit. It was wrong, but I wanted to read that whole book. I wanted to understand, to know what he really wanted to do to me, especially after what had happened just hours ago. Oh, it was too much, too damn much.

I ambled back upstairs. My eyes met Monroe's as I walked into the bedroom. He hadn't moved. Arms still crossed, along with his expression.

"Hand it over." He uncrossed his arms, holding his open palm out to me. I walked forward and laid the MP3 player in the flat of his hand.

"Now all those songs…"

"I'll figure it out." He cut me off. "Which one is mine?"

"The one not labeled."

A snort escaped him and he shook his head. "Can't label it, huh? Why doesn't that surprise me?" He idly tossed my MP3 player back and forth in his hands.

"I'm sorry," I said again.

"You wanna know something, you ask me. Leave the books alone." Was he referring to his journal or were we back to Nick's books? I nodded regardless. "I'll give this back to you when I'm done with it."

"That's fine." I kept my face smooth, but my stomach was forming knots on top of knots. "So are we okay?"

"I'll tell you later." He put my MP3 player in his pocket. "Grimms," he muttered and went out the bedroom door toward the stairs. I held back another sigh as I followed.

As I reached the living room, Monroe was already hooking up the MP3 player to his stereo.

"Oh, so you're doing this right now?" I asked. "What do you expect to gain from my playlist that you don't already know?"

He didn't reply. Buttons were pressed and shortly after Fiona Apple was crooning 'Paper Bag.' I held on to the back of the couch. Monroe cupped his chin in his hands as Fiona sung the tale of hopeless love.

"That was downloaded for the chorus," I mumbled under the tune. "And it was before…"

"I'll figure it out," he said again.

He wasn't going to figure it out. The songs didn't tell a story from beginning to end. Some did, but most wouldn't make sense if I didn't break apart each one. Oh, this was not good at all. Fiona began the chorus as he listened.

"Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills,
'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up.
I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold.
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love…"

Monroe didn't stir. He seemed too absorbed in the words, staring at the stereo as if the singer was standing right in front of him, telling him my thoughts. I stood silent, waiting for him to say something, anything. Fiona ended and Cat Stevens began as my heart stopped briefly.

"How can I tell you that I love you, I love you.
But I can't think of right words to say.
I long to tell you that I'm always thinking of you.
I'm always thinking of you, but my words,
Just blow away, just blow away…"

Monroe remained stoic. Oh, that Scorpio could hold in every emotion on command. Cat Stevens continued strumming my pain with his fingers, singing my life with his words. I understood that 'Killing Me Softly' song now. My face flushed as I crossed the room to the cedar chest. I couldn't stay here and listen to this. Monroe was upset and he had every right to be. It was best if I just went home. Today had been a mess already, and I just needed to go home and put it behind me for tonight. I grabbed my jacket and bag.

"Please call me tomorrow," I said over the music. Monroe remained fixed on the stereo, never batting an eyelash. As I closed the door, my tears fell and I trudged to the car, letting out the sigh I'd been suppressing.

A/N: Taking a flashback to Sweaters are a Girl's Best Friend... So, we're seeing some of Monroe's thoughts from his journal when he and Renée were first hanging out.

Renée isn't perfect. She has flaws. Nosiness is one of them. This time she went over a line. Seems that playlist of hers is going to finally be heard. And not the way she wanted it to... Yikes!

This chapter pushed the envelope a bit. My editor's thoughts about Monroe's reaction to the journal were taken into consideration and I actually toned it down. (It was far rougher than this in the previous draft... I know, right?) It's not easy to go from one extreme to the next... But this book is about extremes and there will be more extremes later on, too.

Just trust me and follow along.

One more chapter today...