Falling for a Bentley

by Adriana Law

  Right now he is.

  My fingers twitch wanting to brush his bristly cheek. Run a finger over his bottom lip. Move the strands of dark hair out of his eyes.

  “Don’t make me fall for you,” I whisper near his ear.

  My hand reaches for the arm resting on the bed by his chest. Lifting his hand I gently turn it over. I suck in a sharp breath never expecting to see two scars on his right wrist: pink, raised scars. Razor marks. Two times this guy thought death would be better than living. A panicky feeling envelopes me at the thought of never getting the chance to know Sterling.

  My gaze trails higher to the needle marks on the inside of his arm. My gaze doesn’t stop there. There are needle marks visible in his lower stomach near a hip bone, a couple of the marks are fresh ones, bruised and inflamed. I remember him stumbling in last night with the blonde. The puking. The hard time he had staying upright. Mix alcohol with heroine and no wonder the guy was so out-of-it.

  His lowered lashes flutter and a sound comes from his throat. I swallow hard, freezing, my fingers pressed into his flesh. If he wakes up and catches me he’ll know: I’m either crazy or obsessed.

  Heroine.

  I have never used heroine; it’s something that’s never crossed my mind. I don’t know anyone who uses. When I think of people using I think of lowlifes: the kind of people you see walking down the side of the street, strung out, begging for a couple of dollars in a parking lot somewhere or raiding a dumpster for something to pawn. I guess anyone can become an addict.

  Sterling stills and I bring his hand down on the bed, easing my way off the bed backwards, small, slow movements that won’t jar the mattress.

  I’m faced with two options: call my parents and ask for a plane ticket home or stay.

  Lies

  Victoria

  From across the apartment, glancing over my shoulder from where I’m standing in front of the stove I see Sterling peel the sheets back and sit up on the side of the bed: bare skin and ink catches my eyes. He scrubs his face with both hands exhaling a long breath as he reaches for the pair of jeans thrown on the floor. My focus returns to the sizzling pan feigning disinterest in anything going on behind me.

  “Whoa!” he says. “Ouch! What’s with all the banging this morning? Is it necessary?”

  I turn to look at him, a spatula in my hand.

  He lazily leans against the other side of the bar. Planting his elbows on the granite top he buries both hands in his hair, pressing into his scalp.

  “I’m making you breakfast,” I state.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You need to eat.”

  “I’ll repeat … I’m not hungry.”

  Using the spatula I rake half of the eggs in the pan out onto the plate in front of Sterling. I’m not big on pouting, but I figure it’s worth a shot. Extending my bottom lip I try to whine like one of the girls I’ve seen him with. “Okay, if you want to be rude and not eat what I cooked for you then whatever.”

  A dark eyebrow goes up. Okay. My pouty face needs work.

  He sighs and drags the plate down to the stool he settles onto. “Since it’s obviously going to hurt your feelings if I don’t eat, then I will try to force down some….” He pokes the food on the plate with a fork. “What is it exactly that I’m eating?”

  “It’s an omelet with bacon and spinach.”

  “How much spinach did you put in it?”

  “A lot.”

  “Shit. It really stinks.” His face goes pale and he makes a sound between a gag and a belch. “Don’t take it as an insult if it comes back up.”

  “I won’t,” I say leaning a hip against the bar with my own plate in hand.

  A fist pounds the front door and I jump fork full of omelet hovering near my mouth. Sterling’s expression turns to stone as if he already knows who it is. He abandons his food, opens the door not inviting in whoever it is out in the hallway.

  “The office called this morning. One guess, who didn’t show up for work?”

  I set my plate down on the counter at the sound of his father’s voice. My stomach drops knowing he has every right to make me leave if he wants to. I suspect this is his apartment.

  “I’m sick,” Sterling replies sarcastically.

  “You’re hung-over, not sick. There is a difference. My question is … are you going to continue to be a fuck up your whole life? Because it’s getting real old … having to support your ass.”

  “I thought you were staying in Colorado Springs for a couple of days,” Sterling tries to shut the door, but a hand stops it.

  “Yeah, well you made certain to screw that up real good before you left. Colton thinks you seduced his girlfriend which makes your brother and I unwelcome in his home. I give the boy a week and he’ll land on my doorstep.”

  “You sound pretty sure about that.”

  “Oh no, I’m not here to talk about Colton. You leave all that to me.” Uncle Bentley pushes the door wider, insistent he is coming in. He ignores his son’s scowl his gaze landing on me. “Mind explaining what the hell you’re thinking bringing her here? In case you’ve forgotten I pay the bills around here and she’s not staying. March your ass down to the airport, buy her a ticket and put her on the first plane home. Her mother is considering pressing charges on your dumbass.”

  “For what?”

  “For kidnapping!”

  “I’m eighteen,” I interrupt. “It’s not kidnapping if I go willingly.”

  “You heard her.” Sterling crosses his arms over his chest, his jaw clenched. “She’s here of her own free will. Tell her mother that.”

  “You fucking knocked her up, didn’t you ... you stupid shit!” Uncle Bentley reaches for the wallet in his back pocket, making a show of pulling out crisp bills. “How much will it take to clean up the mess you made this time? Five hundred?” he pauses. “A thousand? How about I make it well worth your time … two thousand? Will that get it done?” He slams a fist full of cash in the center of his son’s chest. “Here, take it! Or do you need more?”

  Sterling’s gaze drops to the hand, to the cash. His brows pull together. And then he grabs the money out of his father’s hand. “This is enough.” He grips the money in a tight grasp

  My mouth falls open. No he didn’t! He didn’t just take money from his father for a fake pregnancy. Why would he do that? Why would he think it’s okay for his father to think I’m pregnant and WORSE why would he let him think that I wouldn’t want to keep my baby. My baby? What the hell!

  I shake my head to clear it. My fingers curl around the edge of the cabinet envisioning it is Sterling’s neck. I want to break it.

  His father makes a deep throaty sound, gives me a look that could kill, and then strolls triumphantly toward the door. I am scum on the bottom of his polished dress shoe. “I expect her to be gone and you to be back at work in the morning. I don’t pay you to sit on your ass.”

  The door shuts and all the anger I’ve been suppressing is let free.

  “To be so defensive when your brother referred to me as a whore you sure took that money quick! Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”

  “I need the money.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Don’t look at me like that. Like you really give a shit what my father thinks.”

  “I definitely care if he thinks I’m pregnant when I’m not. What if he tells my parents?”

  “Relax. He’ll be on to another one of my screw ups by tomorrow.”

  “I have to go get ready for work,” Sterling says.

  “No! We’re not finished!”

  “Yes we are.”

  “So, that’s how it works! He bullies you. You do nothing, never fighting back because you’re afraid he’s going to cut off your money supply?”

  “Sounds about right.” He is halfway across the apartment. “You’re a lot smarter than I thought.”

  “Apparently not smart enough to stay away from you,” I throw out.

  His head turns in my direction, gray eyes narrowing. He st
alks toward me and my entire body tenses. He stops once his face is only a few inches from mine. His chest; still bare and still very much a distraction rises and falls quickly. His intense gaze holds mine. Neither of us says a word, neither of us willing to look away first. Finally Sterling breaks eye contact, slapping the wad of cash down hard on the bar next to us.

  “Go buy yourself some clothes and your own damn tooth brush.”

  I scoop up the money counting out twenty hundred dollar bills. My gaze lifts to his, green flashing in my hand. “Don’t I at least get half? Since I am the one getting the fake abortion?”

  “You want half?”

  “No, Sterling! I don’t want half!” I glare up at him, a head shorter, as I slap the money to his chest. “Here! You can keep it all! It’s obvious you need it more than I do. I’m curious though, how long are you going to let your father control you so he’ll continue to pay your bills? Wouldn’t it be easier to just get a … I don’t know … A REAL JOB!”

  He takes a step closer. Warm breath hits my cheek.

  “How about this … I give you enough for a plane ticket? I’m sure mommy dearest is dying to have you come crawling home. You want to talk about controlling. She’s right up there at the top, but I’m sure you’ll set her straight … since you’re the authority on standing up to people.”

  Oh My God. I’m sharing an apartment with Satan.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap.

  The muscles along his jaw jump under the surface. His voice is deep. Doing things to my body it shouldn’t.

  “I saw the way you always acted around Colton. You didn’t like the guy, but your mommy sure did. You did whatever it took to stay in her good graces, which I think makes you no different than me. I think you’ve got this notion in that pretty little head of yours that you’re lucky to get whatever bread crumbs life throws at you.” His gaze drops to my bad leg. “After all, you are damaged.”

  Silence. My chest rises and falls in quick breaths.

  “I’m not the person to save you, Phoenix. I can’t even save myself.” He lays all the money his father gave him on the bar and turns; his cocky gait obvious as he crosses the apartment.

  I glare at his back as he walks away from me, if only looks could kill. I’m forced to turn quickly when he drops jeans to the floor. I can hear the rustling of clothing and turn around to see Sterling is now wearing a black pair of gym shorts and, of course, still no shirt. I feel awkward and out of place, watching him slide tight black gloves onto his hands. He avoids looking at me as he struts to the shelf in the far corner of the apartment.

  “I didn’t ask you to save—”my words are interrupted as Sterling reaches the stereo across the room. He deliberately twists the small knob and music blares from the large speakers.

  My mouth drops open when he jumps grabbing onto the pull up bar mounted to the wall.

  The song is screamed through the speakers:

  ‘I'm scared to get close and I hate being alone. I long for that feeling to not feel at all. The higher I get, the lower I'll sink. I can't drown my demons, they know how to swim. Can you feel my heart?’

  I drop my weight down into one of the chairs at the bar, crossing my arms over my chest, resembling an angry bird sitting on its perch with its feathers ruffled.

  He can’t avoid me forever; after all I am in his apartment.

  I watch him intently as he lift one, two, three times—his muscles contract under the flesh with each determined thrust, his profile demonstrating his mouth is set in a thin line.

  Yea, I’m watching you arrogant asshole.

  My eyes travel the curves and lines that are Sterling Bentley. I see the sweat starting to cover his muscles, the mandala on his shoulder glistening with the salty moisture. His black shorts are hanging low on his hips, showing a faint white tan line. I have the intense urge to go shank him, but I’m sure he would continue his pull-ups as though nothing happened. It’s as though he is reading my thoughts because I see a crooked grin developing on his lips. I rise from the stool in defeat and stalk towards the bath room, all too aware of the joy he’s getting from ignoring me.

  I glare one last time over my shoulder, my eyes meeting his. They boar into me, sucking me in like a black hole, I feel the pull to fall into their darkness.

  You might have won the battle, but you won’t win the war.

  I slam the door and strip, stepping into the shower.

  After Sterling leaves to go work with his father the silence in the apartment drives me insane; too much quiet with nothing but my own thoughts to keep me company. I replay the scene with my mother.

  I meander around the apartment noticing there are no photos in frames. No clutter. I pick up the glass ash tray on one of the tables, the only thing sitting out.

  Who the hell doesn’t have a television?

  I admire the paintings, the view of the city from his windows. Several times I pause by the bar chewing a thumb nail staring at the stack of money.

  “No. You’re not going to spend it. It’s a matter of principal.”

  Flopping down on the King-size bed, I stretch out, ankles crossed. I stuff a pillow between my back of the wrought iron headboard settling in, Sterling’s laptop computer balanced on my lap.

  Being noisy I pull up recent history and scroll through the websites Sterling has visited recently: soccer stuff … ugh, boring. No porn. I’m shocked and now more intrigued.

  Sterling is a mystery.

  I move on to his saved documents. I’m a horrible person. I’m five seconds away from clicking out of what is none of my business when something catches my interest, The Last Will and Testament of Sterling Bentley. The arrow hovers over the file. I’m tempted, but this is a huge invasion of the guy’s privacy. I clutch at my queasy stomach remembering the faint razor marks across Sterling’s left wrist and the needle marks. Oh God. I’m in way over my head here. My heart is heavy with sadness. Why would someone so young think about death so often?

  Clicking out of my documents, I bring up Sterling’s Kindle. My eyes widen when I come across Fifty Shades of Grey in his library. Am I the only person who has never read this book? I select it to read dying for a distraction. Hours pass like minutes. Pages turn. I literally bark with laughter, ridiculously blushing, when Christian Grey spanks Anastasia for the first time. A ball of jumbles nerves collects in the bit of my stomach.

  Run girl! Run as fast as you can from this possessive damaged man.

  Afternoon turns to evening, evening turns to night forcing me to look away from the screen long enough to lean over and flick on the lamp beside the bed. I’m captivated by the story, a little turned on, and a little freighted now to be sitting in some strange guy’s bed.

  My gaze reaches out into the apartment swallowed by the dark except for where I’m at on the bed. I’m alone in an unfamiliar city. No family here. No friends. I’m vulnerable; at this guy’s mercy.

  I haven’t seen any red room of pain. No bleeding woman’s womb.

  No whips.

  No floggers.

  Sterling hasn’t asked me to sign any contract.

  But I do know he is on a collision course to self-destruct.

  I glance over at the time. 10:30 p.m. and still no Sterling. There’s no way he is still at work.

  It hits me: how stupid and reckless this all has been. It’s not so much all the ways Sterling could hurt me physically as it is all the ways he could hurt me emotionally.

  I don’t think I’m ready for his kind of intense.

  Crawling off the foot of the bed I stand and slide down Sterling’s boxers, reach for the pants I’d worn here and tug them up. I leave on his Manchester soccer jersey since my only shirt is dirty. I’m sure the loss of one shirt won’t kill him. I wince. Swiping a twenty from the counter I head for the door, giving the apartment one final glance before I leave.

  “Can I get change for a twenty? A couple of dollars in quarters?” I ask the waitress in Something Italian. The smell of pizza
surrounds me luring me in. I consider spending the twenty on food instead. But then I remember why I’m leaving.

  “Sure,” the waitress smiles her black tennis shoes squeaking over the floor. She motions for me to follow her over to the cash register. “Nice shirt,” she says, eyeing the jersey with interest. Her fingers slide the money out of the dividers in the open drawer, her gaze glued to me the entire time. Her hip clips the drawer, shutting it.

  “Thanks.” I absently slip one of the quarters she gave me in the box for children with leukemia, taking one of the mints in exchange. I feel guilty about worrying over what I’m going to tell me father when I call. The bald children smiling in the picture on the box make my problems seem trivial.

  Whatever you present situation is … it could always be worst.

  “My ex played soccer for Manchester,” the girl draws my attention back to her. She nods at the jersey. “He had a full ride until he fucked up his life.”

  What are the chances?

  All of a sudden I feel possessive when I have no right to. She’s probably not even talking about Sterling. A Manchester jersey isn’t all that uncommon. Is it? The girl (I now notice as beautiful) stares at me with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. Her arched brows scrunch together in thought. I can sense she is waiting on a name. Well she’s not getting one. If she wants info about her ex, she’ll have to ask him.

  “Thanks for the change.” I force a fake smile before turning to leave.

  Sterling Bentleys dating life is none of my business.

  Cradling the receiver between my ear and shoulder I listen for a dial tone. Behind me the city noise makes it impossible to hear. I drop in a couple of quarters, punch in the numbers to my father’s cell and wait, pressing a fingertip into the opposite ear so I can hear. It goes straight to his voice mail.

  I slam the receiver down hard.

  What now?

  I pick the receiver up again and drop in more quarters, calling the house phone this time. “Please, pick up dad.” It rings and rings until finally …

  “Hello.” My body tenses and my heart races at the sound of my mother’s voice. I panic and immediately go to hang up but the bite in her voice causes me to pause, bringing the receiver slowly back up to my ear. I don’t say anything. I just listen. I don’t know why. I’ve heard it all before, but maybe I’m hoping she’ll say she is sorry and she misses me.