The Carrero Heart - Beginning (Friends to Lovers)

I don’t know even how to react to that, and all I can feel are Natasha’s trusting eyes on us, as we both act like guilty kids whose
mom just caught them dry humping on the couch. I grab it from him as we both catch it and click on any button my finger hits.
Only it’s worse, and it is actual porn this time, with an up-close view of someone’s ass being violated by the world’s biggest
penis. Arrick has one of those dumb TV’s with internet crap and buttons for crazy things. It would seem he has a direct link to
porn on this damn demon-like contraption, which actually surprises me. He doesn’t seem like the porn type. I throw him a serious
questioning, if a little accusatory, frown as he slaps a hand over my eyes, covering them.
“For the love of God.” Arrick groans and slides the thing from my fingers as I push his other off my face, to do some damage
limitation. Flicking it off whatever crazy menu I have navigated onto and switching to Pulp Fiction instead, a movie favorite. I can
literally feel my face flaming with shame. He just raises a brow my way and shrugs unapologetically as though to say ‘yeah, men
like porn’.
Natasha looks wholly uncomfortable and probably traumatized, not that I blame her. She does look like she is a missionary
position girl, who only has sex on Sundays. That guy’s dick had been abnormally huge, and that girl’s ass was so not equipped
for that kind of torture. I’m not exactly a prude, but even I’m flustered by that little getup and have no idea how to react.
Arrick hands me wine, intent on pushing us into drinking to cover up whatever the hell just happened, and I take it gratefully,
unable to meet his face, aware that he has shifted a foot away from me, and the heat erupting all over me has me feeling like
some wanton whore who obviously has a porn curiosity.
“Interesting movie choices you have.” Natasha is still trying to make polite conversation on the most ridiculous of topics, and I
have to double-take her face to see if she’s being serious. I spot her trying to curb a smile and impulsively smile too, then laugh
like a crazed loon, because the tension inside of me breaking loose makes me feel like I have seriously just lost the plot. We
both burst into giggles and I sense Arrick relax too. He chuckles, and then we stop, weird atmosphere abated, and return to the
fact that this is the craziest scene of all time. There’s the return of awkward silence, and I have no clue what I’m even doing here
anymore.
“Maybe I should leave you two alone.” I interject and make a move, but it’s Arrick’s concealed grab on my hand that stops me. I
throw him a frown and see nothing in his expression. He looks completely deadpan like he hasn’t just stopped me from getting
up, and then he smiles across the top of me, at her. I’m seriously confused by what he’s doing. I feel like one of those dumb kids
in school who miss out on all the in-jokes the popular kids throw around and yet try to act like they know what the hell is going
on.

“We should go, Natasha.” He smiles at her and it suddenly makes me feel sick to my stomach, confusion written all over me.
Natasha is instantly wary like she thinks he is about to throw her out, and that tearful look she gets in her eye obviously affects
him, because I spy that subtle jaw-tense tell of his that he feels shitty.
“We could go for a drink and maybe talk somewhere else.” He looks right at her, like I’m not even here, and I can’t ignore that
adoring puppy dog look she has for him shining through, melting visibly in front of me because Arrick has offered her a lifeline. I
shove him back out of my way aggressively, curbing the urge to glare in his face and stand up, getting out from between them
harshly and unable to hold in the jealous pang of pain that just punched me in the gut.
“I’m going for a shower, anyway...So knock yourself out.” I snap and spill my overly full glass of red wine all down my clothes. I
avoid his eyes on me, even though I can feel them burning into my face. “Shit.” I lay it on the table and make a grab for the towel
that’s been sitting there all day for no apparent reason; pretty sure it was me who left it here and start dabbing it off my prized
dress. Arrick’s on his feet and grabbing the towel to help me, almost in my face and I realize he’s trying to translate some sort of
look to me. Silent messages of some kind and I lose my temper instantly. Sick of whatever this is and snap at him.
“I can do it. Just go out and go do whatever you’re going to fucking do with your girlfriend.” I snatch the towel from him, turn on
my heel, and storm into the nearest room, heading for a sink. Except it’s his room and not mine, and I feel like tonight I’m a
serious contender for complete moron of the century. I head straight for his bathroom to sponge the red mess from my clothes
hopelessly. It’s only a few shades darker than my dress, but it will forever be like a permanent scar. I love this dress, it cost me
half my allowance and I don’t want it to go to ruin with a stupid spillage of wine.
“Take it off and I’ll soak it.” Natasha’s voice behind me startles me. She comes in and holds out her hand expectedly, like a bossy
mother with a no-nonsense tone and the impulse to tell her where to go evades me. I pull off my dress by shimmying out of it
expertly and handing it to her instead. Not at all shy about standing in my new Victoria secret two-piece, sexy lace lingerie, and
definitely not caring if I’m standing here like a swimwear model. Watching her warily and wondering why the hell she followed me
in here. Why tonight, she seems to be all over my ass. She moves by me filling the sink with cold water, squirting a little of the
hand wash into it and swirling it around.
“If we soak it out, then it shouldn’t stain.” She smiles up at me, nothing in her expression to suggest anything is out of the
ordinary, other than my behavior. I stand in my underwear and bare feet and watch her, not sure what else to do, feeling like I’m
in the throes of the weirdest day of my life.
“I’m sure I could have done it myself.” I add and then catch her pause; a tear fills her eye and she looks at me in the vanity
reflection for a moment. I’m like a deer caught in the headlights and have no choice but to meet her gaze. That unexpected
reaction thaws my ice a little, a strange sensation in the pit of my stomach making the cool attitude of my facade soften guiltily.

“You’re his best friend,” she sighs, and my heart pounds instantly through my chest. I falter and for a moment wonder if she has
guessed what this is. Holding my breath as my insides shift painfully. “I know he tells you everything.” She carries on as that tear
rolls down her cheek painfully. I stand dumbfounded, looking around hoping that he too will wander in here and save me from
whatever this is, but he seems to be staying away.
“Not everything.” I reply stiltedly. Not sure what else to say, or what to do. I don’t even know if this is how murdering a side chick
begins. A sane person washing out your clothes, who then turns the nail file into a fatal weapon in a moment of broken-hearted
fury. I really have no clue if I should be running.
“Has he said anything to you about why he’s doing this? Why he’s suddenly so confused about what we are?” She focuses
directly on me, so much pain and sadness in her face that my breath catches in my chest, to the point of being unable to inhale
and I literally have no response. I never liked her, never cared, but while she’s looking at me like that and asking me this, I have
nothing but a huge pit of shameful regret hitting me hard.
“I ... I ...” My palms get sweaty and I lose the ability to talk. Nerves overtaking me and a ball of heavy pain consuming me.
“Of course, you can’t tell me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ask you; I shouldn’t put you in that position. I’m sorry, Sophie. I’m just going
out of my mind and feeling like every second I’m losing more of him. I don’t know what else to do. I love him so much.” She starts
to cry softly, her mascara running down her face, and my own eyes fill with tears in a knee-jerk reaction to a girl in pain. I can
practically hear that devil on my shoulder poking me in the face and repeating the word ‘GUILTY’ over and over.
“He still loves you.” I croak painfully, knowing it’s not a lie, even if it hurts me. I don’t even know why I feel like I should console
her in some way. Maybe it’s the devastating way she is sobbing into the sink while scrubbing my dress and looking like the most
pitiful being I have ever encountered. It really would be like stabbing a kitten with a hot poker, and I have a little humanity in me,
even for her.