by J. Kenner
I think of the man I met in the hotel last night. A man whose pain was so palpable it hurt my heart. "I'm sorry," I say again, the words seeming small and useless.
"It's okay. It was a long time ago."
Except it's obviously not okay, and I can't help but wonder what happened to her that has haunted him for thirteen long years.
A reflecting pool dominates the plaza, and we walk past it toward the entrance. Now I can see reporters buzzing around. And camera flashes. And microphones.
And, oh God, there's even a red carpet.
"Showtime," Lyle says, and I jerk my head up to look at him, then wish I hadn't moved quite so fast. Because now I'm afraid that I might throw-up the swarm of butterflies that are duking it out in my stomach.
I point dully at the crowd. "I didn't realize--I mean, this is all very--"
"Shhh," he whispers. Then he leans in and brushes a soft kiss over my lips. "You're going to be fine."
He pulls back, his hands on both my shoulders as he studies my face. "Okay?"
I nod, managing a wobbly smile. "Yeah," I say, fighting the urge to lift my hand and brush my finger over my lips where he kissed me. "I just didn't expect all this, well, stuff. I've never done a red carpet thing before."
For a second, he looks abashed. "I didn't think. I should have warned you. After so many years, I've gotten used to the hoopla."
"It's a lot of hoopla," I agree.
"I promise it's painless. We'll walk down the red carpet, pause at the step-and-repeat for a photo, and then head on inside."
"No chatting with reporters?"
He shakes his head as we start walking again. "Not today. They'll see you with me and they can draw their own conclusions. Usually, I chat them up so that I can get in a pitch for the Stark Children's Foundation, but considering the erotic nature of this exhibit, we decided that it really wasn't the place."
"Guess that makes sense," I say. I've heard about the SCF, of course. It's a major charity in the LA area that provides help to abused and neglected kids. I also know that Lyle is the current celebrity sponsor. It's hard to miss, since his picture is on donation posters all over town.
"Ready?" he asks, and I realize that the line has gotten shorter as we've talked, and now we're next in line for the picture.
The step-and-repeat is basically an area off to the side with a giant publicity poster behind it. This one for the Stark Center for the Visual Arts. Lyle puts an arm around my shoulder, and I lean in, feeling more comfortable with him than I probably should.
We smile, the photographer snaps, and then we move on.
Lyle was right. Easy-peasy.
At least until we step through the glass doors into the Center's main exhibit space. It's like walking into the annual meeting of the Rich, Powerful, and Well-Dressed Club.
"You okay?"
"What?" I look up at Lyle's face, and see him peering at me with concern. "Why?"
He glances meaningfully at our joined hands, and I realize I'm holding on so tight my knuckles are white. "Oh. Right." I let go, then resist the urge to dry my palms on my skirt.
"This is a little bit out of my comfort zone," I admit. "I mean, the fanciest place I've ever eaten is a place we ate half an hour ago."
This time when he looks at me, I see understanding on his face. "It'll be okay," he promises, then takes my hand again, this time more gently. "I've got your back."
"You didn't grow up attending parties like this either," I say, as he leads me further into the room. It's large and circular, with a few hallways leading off from it. I know from experience that those halls lead to the permanent exhibit areas. Tonight, they're roped off. "Are you comfortable with it now?"
I expect him to say yes. To tell me how easy it is to survive with money and privilege. Instead, he says nothing.
I clear my throat, feeling like a dolt for asking what was obviously a wrong question, and I glance around the room, trying to look like I'm fascinated by the new set-up so that I can hide my embarrassment.
Usually, this room is a large, circular space with four other rooms opening off of it as if at fifteen-minute intervals on a clockface. Today, however, only three of those openings are visible, and each of those three are blocked by velvet ropes that prevent anyone from going into the other exhibit spaces.
The twelve o'clock opening is blocked by a makeshift walkway that comes off that point and extends to the center of the room, like a line partially bisecting a circle in geometry class. The corridor is formed by temporarily erected walls, and some of the show's photographs are displayed on the exterior sides of those walls.
I don't know what's on the inside of the corridor, as the entrance to the walkway--which is right at the center point of the gallery--is currently blocked by a velvet rope, and from what I can see there are no lights inside the corridor itself. I assume that part of the show is in there, and I can't help but wonder what we'll eventually see.
When Lyle clears his throat, I look up at him. I've completely given up on him answering my question, so I'm surprised when he finally says, "Not comfortable," his voice low and steady. "It's familiar now, but I don't know if it will ever be comfortable."
I face him, both surprised and pleased that he's not only answered me, but is also obviously telling me the truth instead of just tossing me a platitude.
"Why not?" I ask as we stroll along the exterior walls and look at the sensual, evocative photographs. The kind that make me want to blush and look away.
The kind that make me think about the man whose hand I'm holding.
"I don't know," he says. "And I didn't mean to bring down the evening. This is supposed to be us out together, having a good time on a date, remember?"
"I know," I say. "But--" I cut myself off, shaking my head.
"What?"
"No. You're right." And he is. This isn't a night of getting to know each other. I'm not going to go home after this and wonder if he's going to call. We came here so that I could be seen on his arm. And once I've been seen enough, that'll be the end of the story.
I know all of that. But clearly, I'm a raging idiot, because the next thing out of my mouth is, "It's just that I'd like to get to know you better."
The words hang between us, all bright and shiny and inappropriate, and I stand there wishing I had a magic wand that I could wave to make them disappear.
I'm sure he's going to ignore the question and keep walking, which is fine by me, since I just want to get past this moment so that I can quietly extract my foot from my mouth.
Once again, though, he surprises me. "It's a very surface life here," he says. "Well, not here in the city. Here in this business. Any business, really, where there's fame and money involved."
"I get that," I say. "It must always feel like people want a piece of you."
He nods. "That's true. And that makes it a lonely profession. Which is fine if you're living your dream--there are always sacrifices. But that doesn't mean that it isn't hard sometimes."
"Is that why--you know. Me. The other girls? Why you do what you do?"
We're standing in front of a line of photographs. Sensual images of women in dim lighting and very little clothing. In the photo right in front of us, the woman's hands are above her head, wrists bound as she stands naked, lit from the side. She's trapped. On display. And yet she's looking out of the canvas with pride and not the least bit of shame.
It's shocking. Disturbing.
And, as I stand with Lyle by my side, a little bit arousing.
Now he moves behind me, then puts his hands on my shoulders, also looking toward that provocative image. I'm hyper aware of his presence. The pressure of his hands. The heat of his body. He's standing close enough that his trousers brush my dress, and with every tiny bit of motion, my pulse flutters in response.
"That's part of it," he says, and I have to struggle to remember my question. "The desire to be with a woman who has no hidden agenda. No secret ploy to use me to try to land a part or get
a script read."
"Part of it?"
"I told you," he whispers, leaning in so that his lips brush the back of my ear as he speaks. "It's a pressure release. A controlled explosion."
"Controlled," I repeat.
"Usually," he whispers as his hands glide down my bare arms. "But sometimes it gets completely out of control. Sometimes," he says, "I want it to."
10
I want it to.
That's what he said, of course.
But what I heard was I want you.
And, damn me, I want him, too.
I know I should look away, but I keep my eyes on the photos, their sensuality only intensified by the feel of the man behind me. And when he eases me back to lean against him, I sigh with pleasure--and then jerk guiltily away the moment Cass calls out, "Laine! I had no idea you were going to be here!"
I raise a hand and wave, and as she hurries toward us, Lyle bends and whispers in my ear. "You don't have to jump away from me, Sugar. You're my girl, remember?"
"Right." I close my eyes, wishing I could will myself not to blush. Because now I feel even more like an idiot. I mean, I was genuinely aroused by his touch--but Lyle's words are a rather dispiriting reminder that for him, tonight is nothing more than another acting job.
Hell.
"You should have told me you were coming," Cass says as she reaches me, then shifts her attention to the man behind me.
"It was a last-minute decision," I say at the same time as Cass says, "Hey, Lyle."
She frowns a little as she looks from Lyle to me and then back to him again, and I wonder if she saw the way I'd been leaning against him, or if our positions had been blocked by the crowd.
Doesn't really matter, though, because even as I'm thinking those thoughts, Lyle puts his hands back on my shoulders.
"So are you two--?"
"Dating?" Lyle says. "Yes."
His fingers tighten on my shoulder. "For about three months now," I blurt.
"Really. Huh. Does Joy know?"
"Um, well, yeah." I swear I want the floor to swallow me whole, and I'm having to force myself not to turn around so that I can see Lyle's face.
"Lyle and I have been keeping it low key," I continue. "I'm not big on all this, um, hoopla. This is the first event he's taken me to."
Cass laughs. "Well, the hoopla tonight is awesome. I should know--Siobhan's been working her ass off. So you picked a good event to bring her to," she tells Lyle. Then she shakes her head, as if baffled. "Honestly, I was beginning to think you only went stag."
"Just waiting for the right woman," he says, then brushes a kiss on my head.
"Well, I'm on a quest to find Siobhan, but Laine, it's great to see you. And you," she adds to Lyle, "don't be a stranger."
She gives us both a little wave, then disappears into the crowd.
I deflate so thoroughly that Lyle has to hook an arm around me to hold me up.
"How do you know Cass?" he asks.
"My best friend Joy works for her." I squint at him. "You probably know Joy. She's the one who introduced me to Marjorie."
"Ah," he says. "And I'm guessing Cass knows none of that."
"Not a bit," I say. "Honestly, I can't believe she bought our little performance just now."
"Why wouldn't she?"
"Because I'm a terrible liar?"
He laughs, guiding me away from the wall and into the crowd. "That's not a bad quality, you know."
"Hey, you're the one who needs this to be believable. I'm just trying to do the job right."
"Method acting."
I pause to glance up at him. "Um?"
He flashes that sexy smile I've seen on so many magazines, only this time, it's meant only for me. "I mean you have to get into the role. It's not only on the surface like playing pretend, it's being the role. Truly being my girlfriend."
"But--"
"Here," he says, sliding an arm around my waist as he pulls me closer. And then, before I have time to breathe or think or do anything at all, his body is pressed against mine, and his fingers are twined in my hair. But it's his mouth that is truly making my head spin. The way his lips close over mine, demanding and yet gentle. The way his tongue teases, then takes advantage when I moan with pleasure, sweeping inside my mouth, taking the kiss deeper. Hotter.
I melt against him, letting myself get lost in the pleasure of this moment. Letting everything else fall away, so that I'm nothing more than the sensation of his mouth claiming mine, of his hands clinging to me, of the sparks that rip through my body, firing a deep, hot need that we can't do anything about because we're standing here in the middle of a gallery, and--
With a gasp, I pull away, completely embarrassed and certain that my blush is the brightest thing in the room right now.
Lyle, however, looks perfectly calm. He holds my gaze for a second, then reaches for me, and I shiver from the contact when he sweeps a lock of hair off my face. "You see?" he murmurs. "Method acting. Can you do that?"
I swallow and nod. And all I can think as we continue to walk is that if that's how deep I have to get into this role, I may not survive the night.
We fall in step with the rest of the crowd, moving slowly along the walls of the exhibit, taking in the stunning images, including one of Cass that is so well executed it's impossible to decide if it's dangerously edgy or stunningly beautiful.
When we've seen every erotic image in the main gallery--when I can't deny that my body is tingling from more than just Lyle's kiss--Lyle leads me toward the center of the room where a cluster of cocktail height tables form a small gathering area.
"Wine?" he asks, then snags two glasses from a passing waiter before I can reply. I take it gratefully and sip it as we continue toward a nearby table.
He waves at several people as we walk, all of whom seem genuinely pleased to see him. "That's Bird," he says about one. "He's a director. And the guy beside him is Griffin Blaize," he adds, pointing to an extremely attractive guy whose face is marred on one side with some vicious scars.
"He's an amazing actor. Voice right now, but I wish he'd go ahead and do screen." He shrugs. "I've tried to convince him, but I don't think he'll ever make the jump. Too self-conscious."
We continue like that for a few minutes, him pointing and saying, "That's Anika Segal, one of Hollywood's legends." And, "That's Jackson Steele, the architect. I've gotten to know him pretty well over the last few years. Great guy."
And on and on and on, until I feel like my escort is a walking Who's Who of the rich and famous.
When we finally reach the cocktail table, I notice a small placard on it that tells a bit about the show and the artist. "The Stark Center for the Visual Arts presents W. Royce's stunning new show, A Woman In Mind," I read. "Featuring a provocative view of sensuality--"
I glance up at Lyle. "Well, that's for sure," I say, then continue reading, "the show combines photographic elements with a compelling live performance that will begin at eight. Guests are asked to follow docent instructions when the introductory music begins."
I put the card down and return my attention to Lyle. "I didn't realize part of the show was live. The whole thing is pretty amazing."
"Wyatt's seriously talented."
"You know him?" I've picked up the card again and am tracing the edge, just to give me something to do with my hands other than holding and sipping my wine. Best not to get too tipsy tonight, I think.
"He's a good friend," Lyle says, at the same time I see the photograph on the back of the placard and squeal, "Oh! I know this guy."
"You know Wyatt?"
"Well, sort of. Not personally, but I've seen him around. He comes into Blacklist sometimes."
"Makes sense. He lives in Venice Beach, so that would be his local bar."
"Me, too," I say. "I've probably seen him other places, as well." I glance around. "I really am impressed by the show. Will I get to meet him?"
Lyle skims the room. "I don't see--wait." He lifts a hand to someone behin
d me, then grins. "Yeah, I think you will."
A few moments later, an attractive man with golden brown hair and a charming smile joins us. He's accompanied by a striking woman who makes her simple wrap dress look like the most haute of couture. "Wyatt, Kelsey, this is my girlfriend, Laine."
"It's a pleasure to meet you," I say, as Kelsey's smile widens and she gives me an enthusiastic hug. Wyatt's reaction is less vibrant. He's polite and pleasant and tells me how glad he is that I've come. But I see the way his eyes cut to Lyle, and I note how they widen just a little, as if in surprise or disbelief.
I glance at Lyle, who doesn't seem bothered, and decide not to worry about it. All I can do is play the role. If Lyle's friends don't get on the girlfriend train, there's nothing I can do about it.
"The show is amazing," I say. "The images--they're all incredible."
"I appreciate that," he says. "We move on to what I call Act Two in just a few minutes. If you like what you've seen so far I think--hope--that you'll be blow away by what comes next."
"I think I will." I tap the placard. "I'm intrigued by the idea of a live part."
"Intrigued is good," Kelsey says. "I'm nervous."
It takes me a minute, and then I understand. "You're the one performing?"
She nods. "I assumed you knew."
"The original plan was for Kelsey to be anonymous," Lyle tells me. "There was a social media leak."
"That happens," Wyatt says, his eyes on Lyle. "You can't control what gets out there."
Lyle says nothing, and I glance at Kelsey, who's frowning slightly, as if she's working out a puzzle. I have a feeling that puzzle is me.
Before I can think of what, if anything, I should say, Wyatt glances at his watch. "Sorry, we need to go do a quick system check. Laine, it's great to meet you." He points to Lyle. "I'll see you Wednesday, right? At Noah's send-off?"
"Seven o'clock. I'm there," he promises, then we finish up the goodbyes, and they hurry away, pausing now and then as they cross the room to speak to other guests.
"Send off?" I ask.
"A friend of ours is moving to Austin."
I nod, thinking, and he tilts his head, his expression amused.
"Okay," he says. "Tell me."
"There's nothing to tell."
"Bullshit."
"You don't know me well enough to read my thoughts."
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. "Nonsense," he says, then lifts my hand to kiss my fingertips. "I'm your boyfriend. I know you better than anyone."