#whydidwefallinlove

[emotionalghostown]

The 007

This one is about Jake—a rich kid with hazel eyes and a magnetic pull I couldn’t resist. I met him through my mentee at a house party in the fanciest part of the city, the kind of party I’d only seen in movies. His apartment was sleek and spacious, practically begging for trouble, filled with people whose effortless wealth radiated from the walls.

His friends were textbook bourgeois. I’d been around snobby rich kids before, thanks to my private school scholarship back home, but this was a whole different level. These people weren’t just rich—they were powerful. They knew it, and they made sure everyone else did, too. The men wore their privilege like it was a family heirloom, and the women around them were all perfectly slim, polished, like they’d been cut from some expensive mold. I felt like Ginny Humphrey when her dad married Lily: what in the Gossip Girl was I doing here?

But thank the lord for my Scorpio rising. I had piercing black eyes and a razor-sharp wit to match. My private school education had taught me how to blend in, how to be a chameleon in any social setting. So, I played the part, fighting my way into their world with a smoothness I’d perfected over the years. I could laugh at their jokes, volley back their sarcastic comments, and make them think I belonged. But the whole time, I was thinking, This is a game, and I’m damn good at it.

Jake, though, was infuriatingly aloof. He didn’t flirt, didn’t even give me a second glance in public like he had an image to uphold. Still, I could feel the tension when we walked to the party, a silent pull that made my blood boil. By the time we got there, I was ready for something to happen.

Fueled by the frustration (and half a bottle of Monbazillac), I found myself wandering to the kitchen to grab water. And then I felt him behind me, close enough that I could sense his presence before I turned around. He was standing there, looking at me with those impossibly sexy hazel eyes. I started to walk away, but he leaned in and asked if he could kiss me. I laughed, partly from nerves, but he leaned in closer, his voice all smooth and quiet, and asked, “Don’t you want to?”

Oh, I wanted to. And that was all it took. We made out right there, and soon we found our way to his room, where we had the kind of soul-shattering sex that makes you believe in cosmic connections. That night turned into a week, and then into months. Every time he was in town, we would meet up, and the same thing would happen. It was primal, physical, just pure raw lust. I didn’t know anything about his life, and he didn’t know much about mine. We rarely spoke, but when we did, it was as if words only got in the way. It was freeing, easy, and insanely pleasurable.

But you can feel the but coming, can’t you?

One summer night, I was out with a friend at a bar when my phone rang. I checked the caller ID and saw Jake’s name. Now, you have to understand—he never called. We’d been doing this thing for over a year, and all we ever did was text. So when his name showed up, I knew something was off. I picked up, and right away, I could tell he sounded drowsy and a little paranoid. I asked him what was wrong, and he laughed, saying, “Damn, how’d you know?” He asked if he could come meet me, and, feeling curious, I told him to come by the bar.

When he arrived, he looked like he’d seen a ghost. I immediately knew something was wrong, and he looked me dead in the eyes, saying, “You know me as Jake, that is my real name but that’s not the full story.” I raised an eyebrow and joked, “What are you, CIA or something?” He smirked, but this time his face was dead serious. “Yeah, actually, good job. And tonight, I think I blew my cover.”

I laughed, thinking he was joking, but his face was dead serious. He told me he actually was CIA and that he’d messed up on an assignment that night. He looked me in the eyes, and I realized he wasn’t kidding. He said he needed me to help him clear his head, that I was detached enough from him and smart enough, and he just wanted to be in my arms tonight.

So there I was, walking him home, feeling like I’d fallen into some bizarre, high-stakes spy thriller. He started telling me details I’ll never repeat because, frankly, I’d like to avoid jail time. When we got to his apartment, we kept the lights off and tiptoed to his room. And as I turned to get ready for bed, I saw him in the moonlight. He was checking a gun, making sure it was loaded before he slid into bed beside me. He held onto me, practically trembling, and I stroked his hair, trying to calm him down.

I stayed awake, terrified out of my mind, listening to his breathing slow as he drifted off to sleep. Guns aren’t exactly common here in Europe unless you’re law enforcement or someone in deep, dark places, so the whole situation felt surreal, like a scene from a smut novel gone terribly wrong. I lay there in the dark, trying to make sense of everything, but I couldn’t shake the fear.

And that was the last time I ever saw him. He vanished just as mysteriously as he’d appeared, leaving me with a night of secrets and a story no one would believe.