by Ava Claire
“Whose shit is all over your place, D?”
My heart came to a full stop in my chest. Damon was a lot of things: infuriatingly sexy with his dark, wavy hair and even darker, onyx colored eyes. He lived in the gym but he didn’t sweat, he glistened. None of that mattered though, because he wasn’t the type to refer to himself in the third person and his voice was definitely not female.
Still in shock, I edged forward, hoping, stupidly, that my ears were playing tricks on me and that the guy I’d been dating since freshmen year, the first guy I said I love you to, the guy I gave my virginity to, who claimed he wanted to marry me, had not only cheated on me God knows how many times, but had brought her back to his place for another round.
“Baby,” his voice oozed through the crack in the door. “We’ve talked about this.”
I couldn’t look, but I didn’t need to. I knew that tone. He’d used it on me; after an argument, cupping my cheeks and staring deep into my eyes. Telling me the prettiest little lies.
“She means nothing to me at all,” he finished.
Something deep inside me snapped in two.
I left my body as I threw open his bedroom door. I barely noticed the fact that she looked just like the girls he claimed he had no interest in, complete with her pink sweatshirt with Greek letters emblazoned across the front, blonde hair piled on top of her head, and pearls twinkling in her ears. She looked more shocked than he did, his mop of black hair flying around his head as he dodged out of the way and the underwear smacked the other girl in the chin.
I wanted blood. I wanted the years I’d wasted back, but I settled for grinning as she touched her face gingerly like I’d punched her. Her eyes were a few shades darker than mine, going as wide as saucers as she squatted to the floor and picked up the underwear.
“That’s right,” I snarled. “I found your underwear, bi-”
“These are not mine!” she said shrilly, tossing the skimpy thing at Damon, who was currently standing still as a mannequin, his olive complexion bleaching before my very eyes.
Her questions didn’t register for me. She was asking him the same questions I had locked and loaded, ready to fire at will. Questions like, how could you? and, how many were there? and, why?. Questions that were irrelevant.
I stood there in my panties as the Damon I’d fallen for peeked out from behind the clouds, his color returning as he looked right through her to me. The other girl was screaming her head off, a sea of arms and profanity. But in the stillness, he said two words that meant next to nothing coming from him.
I’m sorry.
I had two words of my own. I threw my middle finger up, just in case he missed it over the other girl’s histrionics: Fuck off.
I pulled my clothes back on piece by piece, throwing him a murderous glare when he had the nerve to reach his slimy hand toward me. I dodged a flying mug as I slipped my backpack on and made my exit.
He was suddenly full of apologies, or maybe he was just trying to escape his crazy mistress. He wisely stopped following me when we hit the parking lot. The tears I’d been so sure would be a bitch to keep locked away when I confronted him fell in the midst of laughter as I watched him hastily climb into his Wrangler. I stopped laughing when she literally ran after his SUV, giving up after he peeled out of the parking lot, nearly taking out a jogger to get away from her.
I made a promise to myself while I watched the sorority girl drop to the ground in a sobbing, gasping heap.
I’d never chase after a man.
Ever.
***
I was breaking a promise I’d made after I found out my first love was cheating on me. My first college boyfriend, my first everything, shat on everything my junior year of college. ‘No more running after a man!’ I’d proclaimed. But here I was, saying to hell with the whole not chasing after a man thing.
I told myself rules were made to be broken. I’d been breaking them from the start, anyway. It began when I decided to write the story on Hush on my own, cutting my magazine right out of the loop. I kept up the trend when I promised myself that I’d be the consummate professional, then I went and broke the cardinal rule of reporting: I fell for the subject of my story.
As I tugged on my disguise, a plain white T-shirt I’d pulled on and a non descript black ball cap, I hoped that my raggedy hair and the honest-to-God fatigue that was scrawled all over my face would make me believable. This was my last ditch effort. This was me chasing after a man that I believed was worth chasing after.
I hadn’t slept at all the night before, breaking yet another rule by blowing up Desmond’s phone. It wasn’t enough that I’d texted after he left lunch yesterday, asking the dumbest question I could’ve possible asked.
“Are you okay?”
The fact that I saw that he read said text, then got the ensuing ‘...’ like he was typing a response, then never received said response, was solid proof that he wasn’t. Well, that, or we weren’t at a place where I was supposed to be texting him anyway.
I’d dodged Peter’s pointed questions about lunch when we got back to the office, insisting that Desmond and I didn’t know each other. But from 1PM until I finally put my phone out of texting reach at 4AM, I’d laid out all my regrets to Desmond like I was making my final confession. That it wasn’t all a lie. That he’d awoken something fierce and wild and naughty in me. That now that I’d lost him, I realized that I needed him in my life. That being so close to him at lunch and not being able to touch him was torture.
Every text was read, and still, no response.
So I decided to dial up the crazy. There was no going back to Hush now, after all. Mary had reached out to me last night. I’d expected her to tear me a new one, and she made sure I knew that was her first reaction and she was mad as hell, but she’d convinced Desmond to not pursue any further action, as long as ‘Sin’ or Sophia didn’t return to the club. And Desmond’s apartment complex was as secure as the freaking White House, which left only one option. Sneaking onto the set of America’s Chef.
I saw a huddle of similarly dressed people, decked out in T-shirts and jeans and hoodies and ball caps gathering near the security gate. I hustled over, falling in step with the zombie shuffle. The gravel beneath my feet crunched as loudly as my nerves, trying to talk me out of doing something that could land me in jail. I focused instead on the people around me, all talking in grunts, barely looking at each other because their attention was locked on their cellphones. I shuffled along with them, a knot forming in my throat when I realized they were all scanning their badges. My disguise had its limitations. I didn’t have the time or resources to secure identification, short of knocking someone over the head and swiping their badge.
We inched along and I forced the worry from my face, focusing on the fact that I was bone tired and irritated and had a long road ahead of me if I was going to convince the most stubborn man I’d ever met to let me back in.
The person in front of me tapped their badge on the reader, then I was up. I stole a look at the security guard, a burly man who could tackle me without breaking a sweat, but was barely paying attention. His eyes were squarely on the newspaper in front of him.
I pretended to shuffle through my purse, precariously balancing my cup of coffee.
“Sorry,” I murmured with a groan, digging deeper in my bag. “I know it’s in here somewhere.” It wasn’t, but I’d been behind myself a million times; some unprepared woman or man who held up the line. The only thing worse was when they dumped the entire contents of their bags onto the counter, taking up even more time.
The gaggle behind me let out a round of agitated sighs and I cast another ‘sorry’ over my shoulder before I looked at the guard. I hoped he would be on the ‘sympathetic’ end of the spectrum instead of the ‘thoroughly annoyed’ end.
He didn’t look up from his paper at all. Indifferent? I could work with that.
I read the name tag affixed to his chest. ‘Frank’. With his wrinkle lined face and salt and p
epper hair sticking out from his cap, he looked like a Frank. Unappreciated. Unseen from shift start to shift end.
“Frank, I think I left my badge at home,” I confessed, my voice a hushed whisper like I was about to die of embarrassment.
That got him to lift his eyes from his paper. When I flashed him a toothy grin with a wince following quickly behind, he returned it with a smile of his own. I started babbling, begging for his forgiveness, trying to exude utter incompetence and that I was completely at his mercy.
“I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot!” I even name dropped one of the head honchos on set. “I’m already running late and Kara is gonna tear my head off-”
“You go on in,” Frank nodded gently, still smiling. “Have a good day now...” He trailed off, waiting for my name.
“Sophia,” I answered, subconsciously kicking myself for not having the foresight to use some other random name. I thanked him, taking the tiny victory in stride. The hardest part was done...now I just needed to find out where Desmond’s trailer was.
I’d been on a television set once before, doing an interview on The Ring, a bachelorette inspired show for The Dish. It had the same frenzied feel as America’s Chef. Everyone was in constant motion, barking into earpieces and walkie talkies. Everyone was high on caffeine or clutching a coffee cup in desperate need of being re-upped. Everyone was bumping into each other because trailers and makeshift tents were crammed into a tiny space.
I gravitated toward the catering hub, making a beeline for a table where croissants and other pastries and coffee flowed like milk and honey. There was a blonde and brunette stuffing rainbow sprinkle doughnuts in napkins and cradling coffee cups near the center of the table. When I heard Desmond's name, my ears perked.
"Desmond likes the ham and cheese croissant. Lightly toasted, or else," the blonde said, wiggling her eyebrows.
The brunette took a bite of one of the doughnuts. "Stacy told me that he didn't even bite her head off when she forgot the scoop of sugar in his coffee yesterday. And he even said thanks."
The blonde's green eyes doubled in size. "I guess the rumors are true. Desmond O'Connell is a changed man." She bit her lip. “Or somebody has ironed out his kinks in more...interesting ways.”
I didn't even have anything in my mouth and I choked, drawing both of their gazes to where I stood awkwardly beside the packaged utensils.
I gave them a little wave and they stared at me like I was the new girl, daring to speak to the most popular girls in school. "Hi."
The brunette looked at the blonde like she must be in the Twilight Zone. "Are you talking to me?"
I bit back the urge to flip her off and smiled instead. "Sorry, first day."
The blonde nudged her friend with a scolding smack of her lips. She put her free hand over her heart like I was the most adorable thing. "I remember my first day. What department are you looking for, sweetie?"
Sweetie? I cringed on the inside, but kept my smile nailed to my face. "I'm supposed to be attached to Des-" I corrected myself when something flared in the brunette's eyes. "Mr. O'Connell's hip." I dropped my gaze for a moment and peevishly lifted my eyes back to her suspicious ones. "Or else."
The suspicion turned quickly to sympathy and the brunette abandoned her friend without a backwards look. "Come with me." How she balanced an armful of food and looped her other arm through mine like we were the best of friends without tripping was beyond me, but I focused on the fact that she was steering me in the right direction. In Desmond's direction. Head honcho or not, I doubted he was on set at the ass crack of dawn. That meant I had time to sneak into his trailer, convince myself that I wasn't completely crazy, and when he pulled the door open and came face to face with a woman that he'd made it clear he had little interest in, hope he'd do me the favor of not calling security.
I acted as wet behind the ears as possible, effusively thanking the brunette before she extricated herself and stalked back to the food table to resume gossiping.
I twisted the knob painstakingly slow, even though I knew he wasn't inside. After I took a sobering breath, I shook off the last shreds of fear and pushed the door open.
There was no Desmond—but there was a red haired woman curled up on his couch.
My first thoughts were ‘not again’, my stomach curling into a fist. I knew what went on in trailers on set. The groupies that must throw themselves at him. And with this chick's wild hair, skin tight sweater dress and boots with razor sharp spikes on the toe, I was guessing she was one hell of a good time.
But Desmond O'Connell was mine.
She hadn't even noticed that I was in the room, her eyes locked on the laptop that was perched in her lap. "You're up bright and early."
I squared my shoulders and tipped my chin up a few inches. I could care less that I was wearing a disguise and supposed to be discreet. I didn't have a comeback, so I settled for clearing my throat.
Her chin flew upward, crashing into me. Her bright green eyeballs bulged from her skull. "Who the hell are you?"
I propped both hands on my hip and put every ounce of authority that I didn't have behind my words. "I'm Sophia Slater." I cleared my throat again, deciding that I'd put a cherry on top. "Desmond's girlfriend."
Her forehead wrinkled, her expression pure incredulity. "Desmond doesn't have a-" She stopped mid sentence, slamming her laptop shut. "Wait a minute, you're her, aren't you?" Before I could confirm it, and let her know I was the only 'her' that mattered, she rose to her feet, taking a similar stance with both hands on her hips. "You're Sin."
Confusion shuttled through me and I peered at this woman with her electric jolt red and blonde strands and suddenly, jungle green eyes that were full of predators and deadly traps. "How...who-"
"I'm Mallory O'Connell," she answered frostily. "Desmond's sister."
I exhaled audibly, trudging over to the plush seat in front of a mirror, complete with bright lights twinkling. It was a literal light at the end of the tunnel. Fate wasn't a cruel you-know-what, writing some destiny where I was doomed to fall for two guys who couldn't keep it in their pants. Not that Desmond and I had made anything official (yet) but we'd made promises to each other nonetheless.
Before I dropped into the seat, I glanced at his sister, remembering my manners. And the fact that I was technically somewhere I wasn't supposed to be. "Do you mind if I sit?"
"Actually, yes, I do mind," she growled, eyeballing me, up and down. "Why are you here? It wasn't enough that you got your hooks in my brother at that raunchy sex club, but you have the nerve to show up at his job?"
I opened my mouth to protest, to explain myself, but she already had me pegged.
"Who do you think you are? How did you even get on set?" Mallory didn't wait for my answer, reaching around to her back pocket. She wielded one of the black walkie talkies and I gasped like she pulled out a gun.
"I'm calling security-"
"Wait!" I almost lunged toward her, but there was something in her eyes that told me she would clock me right in the jaw without hesitation. Instead, I held out both my hands in a show of defenselessness. "You would totally be in the right if you called security and had me hauled out of here. I snuck on set. But I did it because I didn't know what else to do."
Her fingers held steady around the walkie, but the tense line of her jaw slackened ever so slightly. I swallowed, taking in the petite, but scrappy young woman in front of me. The eyes that were shooting poison darts at me looked so much like Desmond's that it made me ache. The hair was probably her mother. Or her father. I didn't know because I'd robbed Desmond and I of a chance at something real when I'd passed up opportunities to be honest. I wouldn't let him slip away without a hell of a fight. I couldn't.
"I'm in love with your brother," I eked out. There it was. The truth. The reason I hadn't been able to sleep since he stormed out of my life. The reason I'd walked away from the story. I wanted to blame it on my conscience, but it was so much more than that. I'd shelved the story because ther
e was another one that was so much bigger. Our story, mine and Desmond's.
Mallory hadn't put the walkie away, but I could tell that I had her attention, so I kept talking.
"You know who I am, so you know that I lied about my intentions when I went to Hush. I pretended I was in the lifestyle, but I was really working on a story about the club." Guilt sat in my throat like a rock, the jagged edges cutting like a knife when her lips curled, letting out a hiss of disgust. I wasn't sure if she was more disgusted by the purpose of the club, or that I manipulated her brother. I couldn't do anything about the first, but I could do something about my piece. "After I met your brother, the story pretty much evaporated. He was dark and mysterious and fierce but...gentle. It was completely insane that I trust him, a virtual stranger, but there was something about him, in him, that called out to something in me-"
"I'm young, but I stopped believing in Disney movies a long time ago, Sin," she growled, spitting out the nickname I used at the club. She pointed at me with the antenna of the walkie. "You expect me to believe you fell in love with my brother when you don't know anything about him outside of the bedroom? What's his favorite color? What's his favorite movie? What's his favorite band? What's his favorite dish to cook?" She fired off the questions one by one and they hit me like bullets because she had a point.
My eyes fell to the floor, my face hot with embarrassment. There was a part of me that felt like I'd done enough, that if I wasn't so selfish, so hopeful for what we could be, I'd do the right thing and leave Desmond alone. That's why he hadn't answered my slew of texts, right?
But what was the point of the right thing if it didn't feel right? I knew I hadn't imagined the chemistry between us, a connection that I knew extended beyond the bedroom. I felt it when he held me, even though I knew that wasn't something he normally did. It was in the way he'd wrapped his arms around me the second night we were together, like he was navigating some mine field that would destroy us both. But when he let go, relaxed, and even joked with me, nothing felt more right. More perfect.
And when he saw me without my mask, he didn't shy away. He wanted to see me, and he let me see him. It was the possibility of something amazing that made me raise my chin and look his sister, who was clearly no fan of mine, dead in the eye and give her the only answer that mattered.