by Tracy Wolff
There’s a part of me that wants to stay right here in bed with him all day, but just because it’s Sunday doesn’t mean I don’t have work to do. I’m not shooting today, but I’ve got a ton of details to go over for the Blue Willow contracts before they get sent out to the agents involved. Plus, there’s a pile of scripts in my office that my agent has been hounding me about. It seems crazy, considering I’ve got one film about to open, am in the middle of filming on a huge action blockbuster, and have a period piece lined up that begins shooting in five months. But timetables are skewed in this industry and unless I want a gap in my shooting schedule for 2018, I need to pick a project. And quickly.
But first I’m going to make breakfast for Ian and me. After everything that happened last night, I think we deserve to splurge on blueberry pancakes of the non-whole-wheat variety. Even if it is—I glance at the clock—two in the afternoon.
I start to climb out of bed—no time like the present to get started—but I’m distracted by the bulge of his biceps and sleek line of his deltoids. Because I can’t resist his body any more than I can resist the way he looks at me when he’s half mad with lust, I lean over and press kisses to his arm and shoulder and back. He stirs, but he doesn’t wake. Not that I’m exactly surprised. It takes a lot of energy to put me through my paces the way he did last night.
One more kiss—this time on the vulnerable stretch of his jugular—and then I’m rolling out of bed with from-scratch blueberry pancakes on my mind. At least until I pad into the bathroom for my robe and catch sight of my naked body in the mirror for the first time.
Yesterday, I’d been too humiliated to look at the marks he’d left on me, too devastated by the way he’d shown me the door so abruptly. I’d gotten dressed without once looking in the mirror, and then, when it came time to cover up the bruises the dress didn’t hide, I’d made a point of looking at only one at a time. So much easier to pretend they didn’t exist that way.
There’s no pretending these bruises away, though. And no way to hide them short of full studio makeup. Surprisingly, that’s okay with me. More than okay, really. I’m not sure what it says about me that the idea of people seeing me like this—all marked up and obviously well used—doesn’t embarrass me nearly as much as it thrills me. At least not when Ian is the one leaving the marks. And not when it shows just how much he wants me. Reluctantly, I reach for one of the robes I have hanging off a hook on my bathroom door. But as I do, the bruises ripple in the early afternoon sun and I find myself turning back to the mirror just to catch another glimpse—of the bruises and the woman wearing them so proudly.
From the time I was a young girl, I’ve had a love/hate relationship with my body. Part of that, of course, was growing up in Hollywood, my body constantly under surveillance by the press, the public, my mother. Anyone and everyone thought they had a right to comment on my health or my looks every time I gained or lost a couple pounds. It only got worse after everything that happened between eight and ten, the love portion of the love/hate relationship fading slowly to disgust.
From that point on—from the moment a man first put his hands on me against my will, from the moment the press started writing about me as if I was their personal property—my body ceased to be my own. It became this impersonal thing, this weapon I wielded, this image I projected, this role that I played. And every day that passed I grew more disconnected from it, more afraid of it, until I ceased to relate to it at all. I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t have an orgasm. Hell, most days I could barely breathe.
And then Ian came along, and he brought with him all of this.
Walking forward slowly, I rest a hand against the coolness of the mirror. As I do, I stare at the bruises and raw spots and whisker burn that cover my shoulders, my breasts, my stomach, my hips. I feel them all, every single one of them, and I couldn’t be more grateful.
It seems so strange to think that and I know there are people who would take it the wrong way if I said it out loud, but I believe in giving credit where credit is due. Is it so wrong to suggest that Ian gave my body back to me? I’m not saying I needed a man to do that for me. I’m just saying that, maybe, what I needed was Ian to take me where, for so long, I’d been too afraid to go.
Oh, he didn’t do anything that I didn’t want him to do—that I didn’t, in fact, beg him to do. Just that every touch, every kiss, every bite he delivered had been calculated to bring me the maximum amount of pleasure.
And he’d succeeded—God, had he ever. Before he came into my life, I never could have imagined that I was capable of the kind of response he pulls from me, the kind of response that has me grinning at the mirror hours later even as I catalog the damage. No, Ian Sharpe hadn’t given me my sense of self back, but he did show me how to reclaim it. And that’s made all the difference.
With that thought I turn to the side, tilt my head a little so I can get a better look at my body—and all of the marks on it.
There are so many I almost don’t know where to start.
Love bites line my throat, dot my breasts, color my stomach and inner thighs and even my calves. Purple bands circle my forearms and biceps, where he held me down at times. If I look closely I can see the imprint of his thumbs on the inside of my wrists and forearms, from when the heat of it all got away from him. Got away from us both.
It’s freeing to see all of these marks on me. Freeing to shift so that I can see the whisker burn on my lower back and the bottom of my thighs. Reaching out, I trace a soft finger along a particularly livid bruise and remember bucking against his hold as he went down on me from behind. I hadn’t felt any pain while it was going on—the pleasure had been far, far too intense for that, but still seeing all this in the cold light of day…It’s overwhelming.
Taking a few deep breaths for courage, I continue to stare at my own reflections as I run my hands over my breasts and across my too sensitive nipples before skimming them down my stomach and arms and thighs and hips. Suddenly, my knees tremble so badly that I find myself sinking against the mirror. Holding on to it, to the wall with all of my strength.
I’m responsible for the marks on my body, not Ian, because I’m the one responsible for pushing him so close to his own limits. He’d wanted to be soft with me, to be gentle, to show me how sweet making love could be. I’m the one who wouldn’t let him do it, who poked and prodded and pushed him until he’d done this.
I can only hope he doesn’t regret it when he opens his eyes this morning, can only hope he doesn’t run away today the way he tried to yesterday. Because this isn’t wrong. It isn’t shameful or hurtful or any of the other things other people might think when they see it.
It’s beautiful. Because these marks aren’t just about him taking control of my body. They aren’t just about us pushing each other past our comfort zones. It’s about Ian giving my body back to me, one kiss, one bite, one bruise at a time. More, it’s about him showing me how to reclaim my body for myself after being alienated from it for so very, very long.
Screw what anyone else thinks about us. For that alone, I will always be grateful to him.
With the issue settled in my own mind, I grab a robe and pull it on. I make sure to belt it securely so that it covers me from neck to ankle. Again, not because I’m ashamed of the marks we put on my body last night, but because my gut tells me no matter how I look at it, Ian might need a little time to catch up.
He’s such a good guy.
When I sneak back into the bedroom, he’s stirring, but not waking up. More like he’s looking for me in the bed. I think about crawling back in to join him, but if I do that I have a feeling we won’t leave the bed today for any reason. And delightful as that sounds, it’s not really an option.
Once I get to the kitchen, I turn on my Ed Sheeran playlist as I rummage in the cupboards for all the ingredients I need. It isn’t long before I’m chopping fruit to the strains of “Photograph,” blueberry pancakes cooking on the stove.
I’ve got coffee percolating for I
an and water boiling for my tea and, as I add the last bunch of strawberries to the fruit salad I’m making, I realize that I’m happy. I’m not content, I’m not not happy, I’m not pleased or comfortable or any of the other words that kind of sort of mean happy. I’m actually happy. No, I’m fucking ecstatic and that…that is something I can’t remember ever feeling before in my entire adult life.
The knowledge threatens to bring me to my knees in a way that the bruises never did.
I grab on to the counter, suck in some breaths through my nose and blow them out slowly through my mouth. I might even give myself permission to cry a little, except that Ian chooses that moment to walk into the kitchen.
He’s pulled his dress pants back on, but the top clasp is undone and I get an eyeful of his V-cut as he makes his way slowly toward me. His eyes are on me, too, and I can tell he’s cataloging all the damage he can see—which isn’t much, thankfully, due to the robe I picked out earlier.
But still he stops a few feet from me, as if he’s nervous about facing me. Or as if he’s asking permission to touch me. It’s a ridiculous idea considering everything we did to each other in that bed last night, and I’m determined to break through his reticence whether he’s ready for me to or not.
It helps that the universe seems to be on the same page as I am, considering the playlist shifts over to Ed’s “Thinking Out Loud” at the same moment I reach over and flip off the stove. I leave the last of the pancakes in the bottom of the pan to stay warm, and then I grab on to Ian and make him dance with me right in the middle of the kitchen.
It’s no ballroom dance like in the video, but he goes with it and it’s fun and sexy and exactly what we both need to break the tension on the first morning after we’ve actually managed to spend together.
The song comes to an end too soon, but I don’t feel so bad about it when Ian lowers me into a huge dip. I shriek a little, clutch onto his shoulders, then smack him playfully as he laughs at me. But the clouds are gone from his eyes and that’s all I can ask for really. It’s more than I was expecting when I got my first glimpse of his eyes this morning, so dark and resolute.
“The coffee’s ready,” I tell him as he brings me slowly back to center. “Why don’t you grab yourself a cup while I dish everything up.”
He makes a noncommittal noise, but then does what I say, depositing his coffee on the counter before grabbing the kettle off the stove and pouring me a cup of Irish breakfast tea.
Does the man miss nothing, I wonder, as I slide a plate full of pancakes onto the breakfast bar that doubles as a kitchen table. I’m not complaining, obviously, because tea, but geez. How am I supposed to keep up with a guy who remembers not only that I drink tea, but how I drink it, after only seeing me with it twice in the last five days.
“Sit down.” I gesture to one of the barstools as I grab the bowl of fruit salad, but he cozies up to my back instead. He wraps his arms around my waist, nuzzles kisses into my neck. And though I’m fully aware that he’s doing this at least partly because he wants to check out how bad my bruises are, I don’t actually care. Because he’s holding me and he’s happy—we’re both happy—and after everything we got through last night, that alone feels like a celebration.
We talk about everything and nothing over breakfast, politics and music and art and philosophy. At one point Ian launches a whole campaign to convince me that waffles are better than pancakes, but considering he’s eaten seven pancakes so far, I’m having a hard time taking his arguments seriously.
When breakfast is over and the dishwasher is loaded—with Ian’s help—we grab another cup of coffee/tea respectively and make our way out to the patio. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the sky is a gorgeous blue instead of the more typical smog gray, and the ocean is glistening invitingly.
For a second I think about talking Ian into taking a swim, but I recognize it for what it is. An avoidance technique. Because there are things I need to tell him, things that will affect our relationship and that I have no desire to try to hide from him. Not when he’s been so brutally, brutally honest with me. And not when I want so desperately to actually give this relationship thing a try.
And so I gesture for him to sit down in one of the patio loungers that is angled to look out over the ocean. Once he does, I settle in between his knees, my back pressed snug to his front so that we’re both looking out over the waves as they crash, strong and infinite, against the shore.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping I could borrow a little of their strength for this last big talk we have to get through.
I don’t know where to start, other than at the beginning. But still, I’m reluctant to do so when the morning has been so perfect so far. Ian and I don’t exactly have a great track record of sticking around after sex and I want today to be the day that changes that, that helps move us from the intensely physical to the intensely personal, as well.
But Ian, as always, knows when something’s up. This time he doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t push me to get started like he’s always done before. Instead, he strokes his hands over my shoulders and down my arms, presses soft kisses to the back of my neck, even holds me tight against him like he’s giving me permission to borrow as much of his strength as I need to get this out.
God, is it any wonder that I’m falling for him? The man is perfect. He makes me feel inadequate next to him.
It’s that feeling, more than anything else, that finally gets me talking. Because it’s a trust thing. I told Ian last night that I trusted no one and I know it hurt him to hear me say that, especially when he ended up telling me his truth, hard though it was for him. When I lay in bed this morning, holding him as we both drifted off, I knew I could do no less. Partly because he needs to know what he’s getting into and partly because if this thing between us is going to work, I need to give him my trust. No matter how hard it is for me.
It’s that thought, more than any other, that finally gets me talking.
“I told you earlier that I don’t trust anyone.” He shifts, like he’s about to say something, but I keep talking, refusing to yield the floor. If I stop now, there’s no way I’m going to get started again. “I don’t mean to be like that. It’s just Hollywood is a really shitty place to grow up. Then again, maybe everywhere is. This is all I have to measure against.”
A cool breeze comes off the ocean and I wiggle closer to him for warmth, pulling his arms more firmly against him. “I know I sound ridiculous. I mean, I had a lot of advantages growing up Salvatore and Melanie Romero’s daughter. I got to travel, I had the best tutors, I got to watch the magic of movies coming to life right in front of me. And I had pretty much every material thing I could possibly want. What’s not to love about that?
“Except, upsides like that always come with downsides, right? And mine was mostly that I had the two most self-absorbed parents on the planet. Oh, I knew that they loved me—I mean, I know that ’til this day. But I always came second or third or even tenth to what they wanted. What they needed. What they had to do to keep themselves in the public eye.
“For the most part, it wasn’t bad. I got to see the world at an early age, I didn’t have to go to school like a normal kid. They even made sure I had proper supervision—a nanny and or a bodyguard with me at pretty much all times. My parents weren’t around much, but someone always was.”
Ian has gone from relaxed to stiff behind me, and I pat his leg absently, soothing him and myself as I gear up to tell him the rest of the story. The part that I’ve never talked about to anyone before.
“Of course, they’d swoop in at weird times—whenever they remembered it had been a while since they’d seen me or, more often because they needed me to be in publicity photos that would make them look bad if their daughter wasn’t with them. Hard to be parents of the year if your kid is always left to fend for herself.
“And I mean, it was fine. For a long time it worked out well for all of us. I didn’t have a lot of friends because of th
e not-going-to-school thing, but other than that, it was okay. And then, when I was eight, my longtime bodyguard left because he was getting married and she wanted a husband who was actually around. So I lost Tad, who had pretty much been a fixture in my life from the beginning—more so than my nannies because they were always having falling-outs with my mother, who, looking back, was always paranoid about them wanting to sleep with her husband.
“But Tad, Tad had always been my constant. From as far back as I can remember, he was there, watching over me. When he left my dad hired a new bodyguard, a man by the name of William Vargas. And that’s when everything kind of went to hell.”
Chapter 27
I need to tell her.
Right now, I need to tell Veronica that I know who William Vargas is and that I had originally sought out the Vanity Fair interview specifically because I wanted to talk with her about him. I need to come clean before she spills all this and things between us are never the same.
Fuck. Just fuck.
I really thought I’d have more time. Really thought I could figure out a way to deal with this without it blowing up in both of our faces and ruining everything.
But it’s already too late for that. I’ve already missed whatever chance I had to tell her the truth before it got ugly. Because she’s already talking, her nerves strung taut as a violin string. And short of gagging her right this second, there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing I can do about any of it except listen. And pray. Because if I interrupt her now I don’t think we’ll ever get back to this place and that is not a risk I’m willing to take. Not with her. Not with us.
Because she needs to be able to talk about that son of a bitch, but she also needs to know that she can trust me. The fact that right now those two needs are running counterintuitive to each other is just something I’m going to have to deal with. Because there’s no fucking way I’m leaving her alone in this. Not anymore. Not ever fucking again.