♫ Don't call me late at night, knowin' what I'm like, can't trust myself
When you walk out, don't turn around, don't talk me down ♪
{Jojo—Don't talk me down}

With no windows to peek outside, no means to tell if the sun was blaring or if the sky had taken on a drab, grayish color, all Coralie could stare at was her computer screen. At the cursor flashing, faster and faster, reminding her of the blank page she needed to have filled by the end of the day. The song she was supposed to write and submit, titled Complicit, that she'd mentioned to Nikita. That she'd claimed would be big—bold, shocking, and truthful.

But she never should have told Nikita; she never should have boasted that she'd come up with lyrics so fast, when she couldn't make sense of the feelings she was supposed to use to write them. Her feelings—the deep, poignant emotions that kept rumbling about in her heart. Those that pricked at her scalp and inside her brain, and that animated the nerve endings in her vagina so much that she couldn't sit still.

What had she been thinking? Sure, she'd been enticed by the idea of writing in a journal to keep track of her thoughts for a month, to determine which of her three potential suitors—she still scoffed when thinking of that word—popped up the most. To understand which one seemed to haunt her, taunt her; which one was strictly physical or mental or both. And to use all of it as inspiration for lyrics.

But it had been a few hours since she'd had the discussion with Delilah, and already she dreaded having made that decision. Committing to jotting down her feelings—and thinking she'd easily turn them into a song—and to actually figuring out what and who she wanted? Blocking all three men so she'd have a reprieve, time and space to think, a break from the constant ups and downs they caused? Or that she caused herself—she was responsible for all this, after all.

Who was she kidding?

The screen's brightness made her squint. And its emptiness made her throat itch, her fingers twitching over the keyboard restlessly. She shifted to look at her cell-phone, instead, as it sat inches from her mouse. Its screen was locked, black, blank as well—but she feared what hid underneath it, past its blockade. What would populate once she unlocked it, if she chose to? She'd felt it vibrate several times since she'd silenced it, and hadn't looked at it, hadn't wanted to discover which of the three culprits was bothering her.

Asking her for forgiveness—Ryan, always Ryan. Asking to meet with her—Michael, of course. Or wanting to fuck her senseless—Chester, who else?

She couldn't let any of them in, right now. She'd made a vow to herself—and chortled at the idea of keeping that vow. Last time she'd promised herself something—to stay celibate—she'd lasted a few months before giving in to the urges she'd repressed for years, the sensations she'd been scared of and now craved. Sex—how she'd loathed it when with Jayden, with how he'd treated her, how he'd forced her. And before that, the near-rape; she'd been scarred, and had never expected to retrieve her sex-drive.

Oh, she'd retrieved it—it had launched straight into her face, plummeted into her core, and held on to her vagina in its tight clutches, refusing to give her a chance to breathe or a moment to gather herself. She was antsy, angsty, aroused all the time, and she considered speaking to a specialist about it.

"I can't stop craving sex, and I can't stop myself from having it."

Was she a nymphomaniac? A psycho? A woman with destructive tendencies? All of the above? Were these issues something she could sort through on her own, or did she need to be diagnosed? If only she'd kept the number of her therapist, that she'd seen a few years back. How easy would it be to reschedule an appointment and blurt out all her troubles and walk out of there with answers? Who to pick, why to pick them, and how to survive with the guilt of breaking the other two's hearts in the process? Only a professional could help her deal with that bullshit.

"No, my insurance sucks," she muttered, grabbing her phone and unlocking it, bracing for the missed calls and messages that would swarm her.

To her surprise, there were no texts from Chester, and nothing from Ryan, either. The latter had made it clear they needed a break, and for once, he'd stuck to his word.

"Good, that's one less person to explain the situation to," she said, clicking on the only text she'd received—from Michael.

MICHAEL: I still can't believe this whole NYC thing is going to happen. I'm so excited. I know we said we'd figure this out, and I know you're nervous about it, but this is good, Cora. Talk when you get a chance? :)

She bit her lower lip and dug her teeth in so hard, she feared she might start bleeding. Thus was the way Michael made her feel—pleased, happy, comforted... then gross, guilty, cruel. He was the best of the three, she knew; Ryan was a prick and Chester wasn't the most faithful or trustworthy. But Michael? Michael was kind, compassionate, respectful, driven—without stepping on anyone's toes. He was funny, sexy—in that I don't even realize it way—and creative, and Coralie further chewed on her lip realizing how much she didn't deserve him.

And he didn't deserve this—the mess that was Coralie's life and feelings, the chaos that was her heart, and the disgusting thing that was her sex-drive.

Her "break" from Ryan was expressed, and Chester already knew she needed time; so now, she had to inform the last of her men of her need for time-off. And this conversation would be the hardest—which was why she'd kept it for last.

She swiped on Michael's message to call him, hoping he wouldn't pick up. Leaving a voicemail about this was tasteless, but she didn't know if she could speak to him directly. Didn't know if she could listen to his sweet voice without melting, without changing her mind, without caving to his—

"Cora? Already?" He sounded surprised, but pleasantly so, when he picked up, three rings later. "I didn't think you'd get a chance to call for a while. Aren't you at the office today?"

Coralie cleared her throat as she put him on speaker; her hands were trembling too much to hold the phone up. "I am." His voice was pulling her, lulling her into the lullaby-like state she'd been frightened of. The one that made her say yes to everything and forget her true intentions. She sat up straight in her chair and glared at the computer screen as if Michael's clean-shaven face were displayed on it. "But I'm not really calling to—"

"—I'm flattered you'd take time to call me, babe. You worried me, the other day, with what you said. All that stuff about me being sure of what I was doing and the risks or whatever... I thought you were breaking up with me. I didn't know what I did wrong."

She gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, and released a slow, nearly silent breath. "You did nothing wrong. Maybe you've been a bit too spontaneous, and went a little too fast... and maybe I'm a bit scared."

"Scared?" A loud beeping sound came from his end, momentarily interrupting him. When he came back on, he was breathy, almost choked up. "Is this what you think, Cora? That I... that we're moving too fast?"

That was it—her way out. Her opportunity to ask for him to take it slow, to take a quick pause. It was a lie—he wasn't going too fast, and she enjoyed every minute with him without fear. But how else would she be able to get her point across, to make it clear to him she needed space?

Can't tell him the real reason, not yet.

"I've been going through a funk lately. Not your fault—between the bar and the studio and this new life in New York, my brain hurts. And you..." she blushed, smiled, and then frowned realizing Michael couldn't see it. "You've been nothing but wonderful, but it's all a lot. And you moving here... it's out of nowhere. Your admiration of the city; you never told me of that. It caught me out of the blue. I'm still sorting through this rhythm, juggling jobs and writing songs and learning to work with a team. I'm overwhelmed."

Michael's lack of a response prompted Coralie to think he'd hung up on her. There were no breaths, no sounds of traffic, no grumbling or growling or anything on the other end. As if he'd entered a meditative trance or pressed the mute button on a remote control. Or the pause button—the one Coralie needed him to push.

"Michael?" She gulped. "Are you there?"

"What are you saying?" His words were choppy and curt; impatient and pained. She winced, hearing the sadness, the frustration, the confusion in each syllable. "You are breaking up with me?"

"No!" Coralie's mouth moved before she could stop it. "I mean... no, not breaking up. But I do need some time, some space to figure all this out. What I want, what I need. I love talking to you and your surprise visits have been fun. But it's all catching up to me, and my professional life is kind of taking a dump right now."

"Taking a dump?" Michael's sigh was pronounced, heavy. "Time, space? What are you talking about? This is... you talk about me being spontaneous, but this is worse than my decision to move. This is... hitting me hard."

Coralie peered at the phone's screen, at the picture of Michael staring back at her. She pictured him in her office, sitting across from her, eyes watery but no tears falling, shoulders slumping but still strong and sturdy and doing their best not to shiver, to shatter. She envisioned his fingers twitching, his leg jiggling, his gaze glossing over the desk's surface, avoiding looking at her.

But she couldn't do it—she couldn't temporarily bar him from her life. It broke her to hear him, to detect the irritation in his voice, the disappointment; to sense his heart breaking from thousands of miles away.

"Michael, I—"

"—Your timing on this is bad, Cora."

She furrowed her eyebrows. "Okay, but I didn't ask you to switch your entire life around. I told you, your visions of NYC took me by surprise, and if I'd known, I'd have told you to take more time, to plan better, and to discuss this with me first, yeah?" She sucked in her lips, wary of the tone she was taking. It was biting, brittle, bitter—and she wasn't the one who was supposed to be upset, he was. She needed to control herself. "Look, we're in a relationship, and you springing this on me was, like I said, a lot. No matter how much I care about you... I need a minute to adjust, please."

Again he went silent, but this time, Coralie heard background noises—cars whizzing by, a few more honks, someone talking on the radio. Michael was there, processing, considering what to do.

Would he break up with her for this? For asking for space when he'd pushed his agenda on her? She adored him, but he'd made this huge decision without her, and the more she thought of it, the more she realized how much it bothered her. Ryan had implied it was stupid on his part; and she hated to agree with Ryan, but Michael had skipped a few steps.

"Fine. I get it."

He was being short, and Coralie knew he was holding in his temper. He wasn't one to blast out insults or burst out in anger, but she'd seen him when he was on the verge of losing it. Cheeks puffed and red, forehead glistening with sweat, fists tight, knuckles white. A few times, back in the days when she worked for him, she'd noticed him trying his hardest not to explode when on the phone with a rude vendor, a demanding client. She remembered that behavior—and pictured it now.

"Listen, things are already in motion. I'm not moving yet, but I will be in NYC next week to check out some office spaces. I was," he let out a disheartening chuckle, "going to tell you that today, or whenever you planned to call me. No more surprises, yeah?"

He puffed out a breath, and it fizzled through the receiver with such strength Coralie almost felt him breathing on her cheek. It was hot, stinging, and would have been sexy under other circumstances.

"I..." Coralie scrubbed her face, fixing her gaze on her empty computer screen. "I won't be able to see you. No, I can't. I mean it, Michael, I need time. If you're in town, then focus on your objective. Don't... don't ask to see me. I need us to be on a break."

"Ouch." Michael hissed. "Smack me in the face with it, will you? I get it, I told you. But I wanted you to know I'll be here. Cora... I miss you." He huffed again, this time like the big bad wolf blowing down a house of straw. Coralie—she was the straw. "Please, let me meet with you while I'm there. I won't try anything, but I want to talk about this face to face. Over the phone is so impersonal. I need to see your face when you're telling me all this. I need to understand."

She grimaced. Oh, he was smart. He was cunning. He knew—somewhere in that innocent, precious brain of his—that Coralie would melt in person. That she wouldn't follow through, wouldn't be able to resist him. Kind and caring as he was, he also knew how to manipulate; did he do it on purpose? Coralie wasn't sure, but she didn't want to find out.

And yet... she missed him, too. She missed his warmth, his positivity, the joy that always resonated within him. His passion, his almost childish look on life, smiling, laughing, enjoying every moment. He—and the others—suffocated her, but at the same time, she wasn't positive she could breathe properly without him.

Or Ryan. Or Chester.

Fuck. They always tag along, don't they?

"I..." She swallowed. "I have to go, Michael. We'll see. No promises. Depends on how I feel."

She barely gave him a second to say goodbye before hanging up. She'd had enough—his voice had done what she hadn't wanted it to, what she'd been afraid of. It had wrapped around her heart, squeezed it, drained it of determination, and filled it with shame.

In her notebook, in the "pro-con" section at the end, she scribbled that Michael would prove difficult to avoid during their break. And she added that a part of her didn't even care. A part of her wanted him to seek her out, to beg her to reconsider. She'd been postponing their break-up—at Ryan's request—for so long now that she wondered if it wasn't meant to happen. If she wasn't meant to distance herself from him... but to choose him over Ryan, instead.

Or Chester.

"Damn you, Chester." His green eyes came to life in her mind, dancing all over her computer screen, swirling around the word Complicit. Because he was, like Delilah, complicit—he alone, out of her suitors, knew the full situation.

Coralie fought the never-ending urge to call him and discuss what had happened with Michael. But the thought of it—of caving, of dialing his number, or of visiting his office a few floors below—prompted her inspiration to flow. Her fingers tapped over the letters, the keyboard clack-clacked—and next she knew, she had the first verse of Complicit written.

♥♥♥