Whoops--the whole thing this time
I just realized that I managed to not even post the entire story last night. It doesn't end that abruptly, really. *facepalm* (The last three paragraphs are what was missing.) Trying this again...
He knew he shouldn’t read it. Josh looked from the briefing in front of him again to the pages he’d set aside, set aside casually, as if they were unimportant and as if he didn’t care about them enough to tuck them away properly, as if the briefing was anything more than a poor attempt at distraction. Alone in his mostly darkened office, he wondered if she knew such things were all a front.
He shouldn’t read it. But, wouldn’t she expect him to? Didn’t she know him well enough by now, and wouldn’t she, if the situation were reversed-not that the situation ever would be reversed. If she expected him to, and if he was already guilty in her mind, he might as well live up to the expectation. Maybe she even wanted him too. Maybe somehow this was her twisted way of making him jealous. Well, of trying to make him jealous anyway. He wasn’t jealous. Why would he be jealous? She thought he was pissed at her. He wasn’t pissed. But it was stupid.
He wished he hadn’t yelled at her, hadn’t been so harsh. He hurt her, he knew her hurt, why was he always hurting her. And why was she so easily hurt by this? She was the one who messed up, who messed up huge. Of course he yelled at her. She made things worse for the President, for Leo, for everyone. You don’t do that, you just don’t do that. Not that he was perfect, entirely. Not that he never messed up. But when he did, he didn’t give Leo those looks for yelling at him. He kept it how much that killed him inside. God, did his yelling kill her that much?
He yelled because he loved her. No, not love. He yelled because he cared, because she was important to him, professionally. And personally, of course, that was nothing unusual, but he didn’t love her.
He yelled because she slept with that guy.
The diary pages were in his hands, he wasn’t sure for how long, and he stared at the words without taking them in. Did they contain details? The thought of details about their escapades made him feel ill. And intrigued him. And turned him on. Details. That was the kind of thing women wrote in their diaries, wasn’t it?
He probably should read it. After all, he needed to know what these pages contained in case he needed to use them. He was just protecting her, protecting all of them. It was his duty to read whatever she had said, even if there were details.
And there were, many. There were details about meeting him and the things he said, about testing taxis and dinner the second night. But the sex, the sex she practically glossed over. He knew exactly the wrong amount, not enough to envision her, just her, her reactions, whether she tosses her head back when she comes, all blonde and tousled, or if she digs in with her fingernails; does she moan or whimper or cry out? Instead, he was left only with images of Cliff on top of her, thrashing into her.
Josh found no mention of himself. Not one. He wondered what was in the rest of the book, what Cliff had read only an hour earlier.
He gently set the pages aside, mind still adrift, only moments before Donna knocked on the open door as she walked through it. She said it was late, but he could tell she hadn’t come in because she was eager to get home. Everything about her demeanor said guilty and grateful, embarassed and hurt. She stayed closer to the door and spoke softly. He may not have noticed if his mind hadn’t been enveloped too, but he wondered how long it would be before the tension went away.
He told her she could go. He was just finishing up with a briefing.
He knew he shouldn’t read it. Josh looked from the briefing in front of him again to the pages he’d set aside, set aside casually, as if they were unimportant and as if he didn’t care about them enough to tuck them away properly, as if the briefing was anything more than a poor attempt at distraction. Alone in his mostly darkened office, he wondered if she knew such things were all a front.
He shouldn’t read it. But, wouldn’t she expect him to? Didn’t she know him well enough by now, and wouldn’t she, if the situation were reversed-not that the situation ever would be reversed. If she expected him to, and if he was already guilty in her mind, he might as well live up to the expectation. Maybe she even wanted him too. Maybe somehow this was her twisted way of making him jealous. Well, of trying to make him jealous anyway. He wasn’t jealous. Why would he be jealous? She thought he was pissed at her. He wasn’t pissed. But it was stupid.
He wished he hadn’t yelled at her, hadn’t been so harsh. He hurt her, he knew her hurt, why was he always hurting her. And why was she so easily hurt by this? She was the one who messed up, who messed up huge. Of course he yelled at her. She made things worse for the President, for Leo, for everyone. You don’t do that, you just don’t do that. Not that he was perfect, entirely. Not that he never messed up. But when he did, he didn’t give Leo those looks for yelling at him. He kept it how much that killed him inside. God, did his yelling kill her that much?
He yelled because he loved her. No, not love. He yelled because he cared, because she was important to him, professionally. And personally, of course, that was nothing unusual, but he didn’t love her.
He yelled because she slept with that guy.
The diary pages were in his hands, he wasn’t sure for how long, and he stared at the words without taking them in. Did they contain details? The thought of details about their escapades made him feel ill. And intrigued him. And turned him on. Details. That was the kind of thing women wrote in their diaries, wasn’t it?
He probably should read it. After all, he needed to know what these pages contained in case he needed to use them. He was just protecting her, protecting all of them. It was his duty to read whatever she had said, even if there were details.
And there were, many. There were details about meeting him and the things he said, about testing taxis and dinner the second night. But the sex, the sex she practically glossed over. He knew exactly the wrong amount, not enough to envision her, just her, her reactions, whether she tosses her head back when she comes, all blonde and tousled, or if she digs in with her fingernails; does she moan or whimper or cry out? Instead, he was left only with images of Cliff on top of her, thrashing into her.
Josh found no mention of himself. Not one. He wondered what was in the rest of the book, what Cliff had read only an hour earlier.
He gently set the pages aside, mind still adrift, only moments before Donna knocked on the open door as she walked through it. She said it was late, but he could tell she hadn’t come in because she was eager to get home. Everything about her demeanor said guilty and grateful, embarassed and hurt. She stayed closer to the door and spoke softly. He may not have noticed if his mind hadn’t been enveloped too, but he wondered how long it would be before the tension went away.
He told her she could go. He was just finishing up with a briefing.