Whore

by Elise Faber

I couldn’t fix this. I didn’t know how.

  The last time I hadn’t kept my interactions to one night had ended up with me wearing a ring on my left hand and a cast on my other.

  The last time had taken my independence.

  The last time had broken me.

  “Shit,” I muttered, tears welling in my eyes, terror making my heart skip a beat. I needed to get out of bed, get dressed, and make sure Damon left.

  And yet, I just continued to lie there. Paralyzed, weak, fucking stupid as hell. All I could think of was his face, the dark slashes of brows drawing together, the hand lifting before it made contact with my face. The need to layer on extra foundation for days. The way I’d had to move cautiously and carefully because he’d also struck my ribs repeatedly.

  No.

  No.

  I was never going to be that person again.

  I was strong. I was independent. I was—

  Damon walked back into the room, a dish towel tossed over one shoulder, carrying a plate in one hand with a sheepish smile on his face. He extended it toward me, but when I didn’t move to accept it, he set it on the nightstand.

  “Because I ruined the first one,” he murmured. “I’m sorry it’s a poor substitute.” He turned and left the room again.

  My eyes flicked to the plate.

  Toast, though not French-style this time.

  Instead he’d placed two slices of toasted bread on a plate, slathered them with butter, and covered them both in cinnamon and sugar.

  And though the past faded and the angry face of my ex-husband disappeared from my mind’s eye, my heartbeat didn’t slow, and the terror didn’t fade. Because there was a plate of toast on my nightstand and Damon had been in my kitchen making me said toast.

  He’d made me toast.

  He’d cooked for me because we’d fucked each other senseless on the kitchen table, knocking our breakfast to the floor in the process.

  He’d tried to fix something that he’d broken.

  Th-that didn’t happen. It just wasn’t possible—

  Damon strolled back in, a glass of orange juice in one hand, a bowl in the other. Syrup. The bowl contained syrup, I realized when he set both on the nightstand.

  If I was keeping things in perspective, syrup shouldn’t have been my breaking point. But he’d cooked, he’d fixed, he’d brought me fucking toast and syrup. I shook my head, sitting up at the same time and tossing the covers to the side. This couldn’t be happening. I couldn’t let this happen.

  I jumped up from bed, looking for . . . hell, I didn’t know what. I just had to get away, and I had to do it right in that moment.

  “Eden?” Damon asked, probably shocked by my whack-a-mole tendencies. “What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t do this.” I took a jerky step forward, starting to run . . . somewhere, but I was tugged to an abrupt halt.

  Not a rough grip, not a jolting or harsh movement, but suddenly finding myself tugged to a stop, my back against a hard chest, a firm arm banded around my waist, hot breath in my ear . . . and I freaked. I didn’t hear the gentle words, the soft “Baby? What is it?”

  My past swarmed forward.

  The darkness swamped my mind and in one heartbeat I was back there, on the opposite coast, in that apartment with him, the fists and kicks coming my way and—

  I snapped.

  Syrup had made me snap.

  “Let go of me!” I screamed and tore at Damon’s arm, my nails scratching at the bare skin, creating bright red lines at first and then when he didn’t let go, cutting into his flesh.

  Everything happened in both fast-forward and slow motion.

  I saw the first cut, watched the blood drip, drip, drip slowly to my gray rug.

  It felt like it took an hour for that drop to hit the plush fibers.

  But then it did, the crimson circle spreading, staining.

  “Let go!”

  The arm dropped and then time sped up, more drops hitting the carpet, stained circles of red expanding, taking over, choking me.

  “Ed—”

  I scuttled backward, colliding with the dresser, hearing the items on top rattle, one or two falling over with a sickening crash, the crunch of glass shattering.

  “No. No,” I said. “Oh God. Don’t touch me. Oh God. No.” My knees buckled, hit the hardwood on the edges of the room and I gasped out in pain.

  “Shit,” Damon said. “Are you okay?” He took a step toward me.

  I scooted backward, hit my head against the corner of the dresser, and stifled a cry.

  It was better if I was quiet.

  It would be over sooner. Would stop if I was just able to stay quiet.

  “Eden.”

  I shook my head jerkily.

  “Eden.”

  The sharp tone made me blink and probably worked better to snap me out of the past than anything else ever could. Because Damon didn’t snap. Not at me. Not at anyone. Not ever.

  And that his raspy, velvety voice had sharpened to a point was shocking enough to have me coming back to reality.

  To painful, humiliating reality.

  “Eden. Look at me.” He was crouching about ten feet away, his hand clamped over his arm, blood running between his fingers. When I met his eyes, he held my gaze for a few moments then nodded, reaching over to grab the towel from where it had fallen to the floor.

  Tears dripped down my cheeks, falling more steadily when I saw that I’d sliced his arm pretty badly.

  “I hurt you,” I whispered. “I-I’m so s-sorry.”

  Damon glanced up at me. “It’s just a scratch.”

  It wasn’t. And now I’d become my worst nightmare.

  He stood and instinctively, I cowered back against the dresser again. He froze. “I’m not going to touch you. I’m going to back up and stand by the door until I see you didn’t cut your knees or head to hell and back.”

  Not the softest bedside manner. In fact, it was quite terse.

  But I didn’t think I could handle soft and sweet at that moment.

  I was critically embarrassed and ashamed and—

  “Eden.”

  I pushed to my feet.

  Silence then, “Now turn so I can make sure you’re not bleeding.”

  I turned.

  “Okay,” he growled. “Your ass is back in your bed and you’re eating your fucking toast.”

  My chin lifted, the orders piling up enough that I was starting to feel more like myself. “Stop snapping at me.”

  “Then eat your fucking breakfast.”

  “No.”

  “Eden.”

  “Fuck you, Damon.”

  I couldn’t explain it, but for some reason, me cursing at him made Damon’s shoulders relax, his face clear. “There you are, baby.”

  My lips parted on a surprised exhale. “What?”

  “You’re you again.” But he didn’t move from the doorway, and I couldn’t lie and say I wasn’t thankful. “Now, be you, but be you eating the breakfast while it’s warm.”

  I hesitated, stomach growling, wanting to sit down and eat, but also feeling very fragile and raw and flayed open. I wanted to—

  “I’ll leave you alone,” he murmured.

  That.

  I wanted to be alone. To forget I’d just done that, that I’d hurt him, that I’d freaked out and revealed—

  “But I’ll come back, baby. And we’re going to talk about this.”

  Fuck.

  I shook my head.

  Damon didn’t respond to that.

  Instead, he just took a few steps back into the hall, repeated, “We’re going to talk,” and ordered, ”Lock up when I leave.” Then he turned and left.

  Talk.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Five

  Damon

  I sat in my car for several long moments, trying to figure out what had happened and trying not to feel guilty for it.

  Except, I did.

  Because I’d pushed.

&nbs
p; And she’d . . .

  Freaked? Yes, but that wasn’t just a simple freak out, or a model throwing a hissy fit. Hell, I’d endured enough of those on set to know the difference. Which meant I knew without a doubt that hadn’t been Eden pulling some drama.

  That was PTSD. That was trauma. That was—

  Absolute terror.

  And I’d been party to it.

  A drip landing on my leg had me blinking and shoving the key into the ignition. I needed to go home and deal with my arm, and then I needed to figure out how to move forward.

  Because I had the feeling I’d just opened up a fuck-ton of painful memories, and I didn’t know how I could possibly justify my pushing.

  She’d asked me to leave, and I’d—

  “Shit,” I muttered, putting the car into reverse and backing out of the driveway, happy I’d followed her home the night before so I could leave easily now, even though me following her home had been another way for her to create distance. Run along now. Get your ass in your car and leave.

  Well, that had worked perfectly, hadn’t it?

  I’d had the most spectacular sex of my life—five times over—and now . . . I might lose my friend.

  The dark gloom of my emotions weighed heavily on me as I drove home. I didn’t see how Eden and I could go back to normal after our night together, after this morning. I mean, clearly I’d been hoping for abnormal, to move in a new direction, to shove through that opening, but now I’d be a total asshole if I didn’t reevaluate, at least a little bit.

  What had been the trigger?

  If she didn’t somehow cut me completely out of her life and I could convince her to let me have a shot, would we be able to work through that trauma? Was she even capable of a relationship at all?

  I’d been an egotistical ass, thinking that she just hadn’t met the right man.

  Meaning me.

  I hadn’t allowed a second thought as to why she didn’t form meaningful relationships with the opposite sex.

  Well, I sure as shit had an idea of why that was now.

  My apartment was only a couple of miles away, but L.A. traffic meant that it took much longer than it should have to get there. Though at least by the time I pulled into the lot, my arm had stopped bleeding.

  I had that much going for me.

  Sighing, I pushed out of my car and went up to my apartment. At minimum, I’d need to clear the air with her and apologize. At maximum, I’d . . . fuck, I’d forget about that sliver of opening in the armor surrounding her heart and go back to being her friend. I’d pretend the night hadn’t happened, forget about the chemistry.

  Not what I wanted, but if Eden needed that, I wasn’t selfish enough not to give it to her.

  My place was on the third floor and mostly empty. I’d only been in L.A. for a few weeks and though I’d had a couch and bed delivered and mounted a TV to the wall, I’d basically been subsisting on DoorDash and embracing the minimalist lifestyle.

  That was going to change. Or rather, the minimalist part.

  Since I'd made London my home base for the last few years, I’d shipped a bunch of stuff from the U.K. I was tired of the rain and the dreary weather. I wanted sun and heat and . . . much less rain.

  Plus, my family lived here. Or well, in the northern part of the state, that was, but it wasn’t a long drive up, and I was looking forward to spending the few free days I had with people I was close to.

  Not that I hadn’t had friends or people I was close with in London, but they weren’t the same as someone who’d known me my whole life. With my parents, there wasn’t any pretense or B.S. or trying to be nice. And even though my sisters had scattered, Cindy in Oregon and Colleen living on the East Coast, they still regularly came home to visit.

  I wanted in on that.

  Plus, it was refreshing to be around my family. They called me on my shit without ill feeling and definitely didn’t let asshole or egotistical behavior of any type slide. In a world where I’d become successful enough that people kissed my ass on a regular basis, I needed someone who’d be straight with me.

  So, I’d moved to California to be closer to my parents, but I’d settled in the southern portion because I didn’t want to be too close—

  Of course, there was also the fact that Eden lived here.

  That hadn’t factored in at all.

  I snorted. Didn’t even believe my own bullshit, yet alone someone else’s.

  After unlocking my front door, I pushed through into my nearly-empty apartment and headed to my bathroom. I thought I’d seen a first aid kit under the sink when I’d moved in. Hopefully I was right in it being there, because I sure as shit hadn’t stocked up on Band-Aids during the last few weeks.

  I barely had furniture, let alone an assortment of bandages.

  Thankfully the kit was there, and so within a couple of minutes, I’d washed the cuts then thrown a couple of Band-Aids over them. With a wince, I left the bathroom, grabbed my laptop, and plunked my ass on the couch. I had emails to answer, meetings to schedule on my calendar, shoots coming up that I needed to prepare for, and I—

  Needed a break from thinking about Eden.

  That wasn’t to be.

  Buzz. Buzz.

  I pulled my cell from my pocket.

  I’m sorry I hurt you.

  Hearing from Eden had been pretty much the last thing I would have ever predicted. I’d expected . . . what? To have to go over there and bang on her front door, demanding that we talk about what happened.

  Yeah. That.

  My phone vibrated again.

  Damon. Are you okay?

  I shook off the surprise and made my fingers move.

  I’m fine. I’m more worried about you.

  Silence.

  I’m broken, Damon. I’m not right.

  My heart squeezed.

  You’re not broken, baby.

  A beat.

  I think we both know that’s not true.

  Fuck, but I couldn’t deny she was wrong. Or at least, not completely. She had trauma and baggage and pain that was clearly overwhelming.

  I shouldn’t have pushed. I’m so sorry that I didn’t listen to you.

  Her response came almost instantly.

  Sorry that you were sweet and cooked and cleaned for me? Sorry that you gave me orgasms?

  I smiled despite the circumstances.

  No, not for the orgasms.

  I’d never regret bringing her pleasure. It was all the rest of it that I was sorry about.

  I shouldn’t have grabbed you.

  A beat.

  I think there were a lot of shouldn’ts that have happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  That wasn’t a lie. But I also couldn’t bring myself to regret everything about our night. Still, before I could tell her that, she texted again.

  Can we just go back to how things were before?

  How could I possibly forget everything and go back to how things were?

  And yet, how could I not?

  If I didn’t agree and she retreated, I would lose all of her—the friendship, the weekly calls, the woman I’d grown close to over the last six years. However, if we did go back, I wouldn’t have the sex, of course, I wouldn’t have the fucking spectacular . . . well, fucking. But I’d also lose the connection, the freedom to kiss and touch and stroke.

  And . . . that was okay. It would suck, but what I knew deep down was that I couldn’t lose Eden. I couldn’t lose my friend, couldn’t not have her in my life in some form.

  Even if it wasn’t the form I wanted.

  Life sucked sometimes.

  A man bucked up and moved on and accepted the licks thrown his way. Then he made the best of it.

  Just like I was going to.

  Because Eden was worth it.

  And even if I didn’t get everything I’d hoped for out of our night together, I still got to keep her in my life. I still had her as a friend. I was still important enough that she’d texted first.

  After e
verything had gone down, she’d reached out.

  I could reach back.

  Which was why I texted her back:

  Only if you promise to give me your recipe for guacamole.

  Silence. Then,

  You know that’s never going to happen.

  I knew a lot of things I wanted weren’t going to happen, least of all was getting my hands on her delicious dip recipe and so I sent:

  Make it for me sometime?

  Her reply came in a few seconds.

  Sure.

  But no word of when that would be, no suggestion of days and times. I had the feeling that was intentional. No, I knew Eden well enough by now to recognize it was intentional.

  More distance.

  But distance I was going to let her have.

  Somewhat.

  I’m still bringing pizza by tonight.

  The “. . .” indicating she was typing immediately appeared, but I already had my next reply primed and ready. Because, yes, I could pull back, yes, I wouldn’t pressure her for intimacy she couldn’t give.

  But I would be her friend.

  We’ll run over your lines, gorge on extra pepperoni and olives, but then I have to go home early because I’m meeting a potential tomorrow.

  Lie, but I wanted to give her an out, and she didn’t need to know that my plans for the following day included sitting on my ass doing absolutely nothing.

  Especially when my response made the “. . .” of her response stop then start, then stop and start again.

  Especially when it made her reply.

  Come over at 7.

  Another buzz a heartbeat later.

  Don’t skimp on the garlic cheese bread.

  Yeah, I could give her outs and space and understanding.

  But I couldn’t give up on being in her life.