by S. L. Scott
Standing in the middle of the bar, in the middle of the revelers, I’m alone. At 12:01 a.m. I go back to my dorm. Not his. His place is his, and being there makes me feel lonelier. The smell of him and his cologne is fading and I can’t bear to find out if it’s gone. Something that had given me comfort now makes me sad.
Fortunately, my roommate is staying with her boyfriend tonight, so I have the place to myself.
The second message he leaves comes before I have a chance to catch the call. I reach for the phone, but he’s gone. I listen to the voicemail, but my heart has already turned cold on the whole celebration. By two a.m. I’ve cried enough that exhaustion sets in and sleep comes easier.
I stir before dawn and turn, right into his arms. Without opening my eyes, I snuggle closer, his scent easing the pain from my body. “You’re late.”
“I’m here now.”
* * *
MY OUTFIT IS sexy. From the second I laid eyes on it, I had to have it. I was more than willing to pay the inflated prices for the designer duds once I tried it on. I wouldn’t even need alterations, so I’d save there. It was stunning and made me feel more so last night when I wore it for the first time.
At eight thirty in the morning getting out of a cab in front of my apartment building wearing it while everyone leaving for work is wearing suits and Chanel, I don’t feel so stunning anymore. I feel cheap. I just wish it were for the reasons they’re all concocting in their heads while I walk into the lobby shamefully.
I wave to the doorman, feeling like he’s judging me all the way to the elevator when I’m sure he barely notices me among the morning crowd. The elevator door opens on my floor and I slip off the heels and walk barefoot to my apartment. As soon as it’s unlocked, I slip inside and lock it behind me. When I turn around, I scream, covering my mouth.
I don’t give Keaton a chance to speak. “Fuck! You scared me.”
He stands from the barstool and comes toward me. “Swearing is classless. You’re better than that, Reese.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came over last night.” He holds up the key I gave him back when we were happy, or I stupidly thought we were happy. I’m sure he was already fucking around on the side. “I wanted to apologize for the restaurant. I felt bad. I don’t like who I’ve become lately. I miss you. You gave me balance. You made me happy.”
“You wouldn’t know it by what you said last night.” I walk into my bedroom, knowing he’s not leaving until he says what he came here to say. I’ve learned this lesson the hard way.
“That’s what I mean,” he says, following me. “I don’t want to talk to you like that. I don’t want to treat you like that.”
I set my shoes on the shelf and unzip the dress and let it slip down. He appears in the door of my closet and I jump again. Covering myself with my hands, I warn, “Stop sneaking up on me and turn around.”
“I just loved you so much. I still love you.” He’s leaning against the wall just outside the closet, and with my robe in hand I stop to listen to what has turned into a plea. There’s something different in his voice, something more than he usually gives away. Real emotions? “I want to be with you.” As soon as I walk out bundled in my robe, he says, “I want to marry you, Reese. I’m a better man because of you.”
Besides the shock of his confession, my heart softens under his desperation, so I try to be honest, but kind. “Keaton, we’re not meant to be together. I’m sorry, but we’re not.” I go back into the living room and open the door. “I understand you’re hurting right now, but I was hurting back then. I’m proof you will heal. You will get over me.”
“I’m not getting over you. I won’t. I can’t.”
“You need to.” I open the door wider. “And you need to leave now.”
He leans against the island, not looking like he’s leaving anytime soon. “Were you with someone last night? You came home looking like you’ve been fucked. Did you let some guy treat you like that?”
“I thought swearing was classless?”
“So are you by your appearance this morning.”
And here we go. This is where it turns ugly, but I keep my voice even, knowing if I yell it will only escalate. “Then there’s nothing keeping you here.”
Standing up, he crosses his arms. “Why are you so stubborn? Fine, you had sex with someone else. I don’t care. But I want you to see how good we are together.”
“We’re not together, Keaton.”
“Then let me show you how good we can be again.”
This conversation reminds me of Danny, which I’m pretty sure wasn’t intended. “I’m too tired to have this conversation. Please. I’m exhausted. Please leave.” Holding out my hand, I add, “And leave my key.”
He walks past me. “I think I’ll hold on to it a little longer.”
“Just make this easy and don’t make me change the locks.”
“You’re going to see how good we are. We’re not just good on paper. We can be good together in life. We are a perfect match, Reese.”
I take offense to that statement though it wasn’t meant as an insult.
“We like the same things.”
“No, I never liked the ballet. You did and you only liked it for the business being conducted before the curtain went up.”
“Okay, tennis. We played that all the time.”
“Because I wanted to bond with you. But you made that impossible because of your need to belittle me in front of your so-called friends at the club.”
His shoulders slump in defeat. “I took you to see that country singer.” He points at me accusingly. “And that was just for you because I think he sucks.”
“You did. I will give you that, but it was hard to hear him sing through your constant complaining.” Worst night ever.
He doesn’t take kindly to my remark. “Look, Reese. I’ve been good to you. More than generous with my wealth—”
“I never cared about your money. I know all the women in your life circle you like sharks, but they can have it all. I’d rather have something real, like a—”
“Like a yacht? You’ve got it. I’ll buy one today and name it The Reese.”
Shaking my head, I realize… or more like remember, that speaking to him in any terms that he doesn’t understand, such as love, devotion, passion, none of it computes with him. Three of the many reasons why I think he’s still single at thirty-eight. Emotions don’t register. In his world, money talks, and when it does, he always listens. Something he never did with me. The one thing my mom always told me to look for in a partner. She’s passed and it’s as if I’ve forgotten the life lessons she left me with.
No more. Refusing to be belittled by him, to be intimidated and manipulated by his lies, I open the door wider. Hint, hint. “I’m going to sleep, so again, I’m asking nicely. Please leave.”
That desperation from earlier is back in his tone. “I’ll go, but you need to know that I will protect what’s mine.”
“I’m not yours.” I never was, I add silently, not wanting to fight with him.
His back is to me as he walks down the hall to the elevator. “I’ll see you on Monday, bright and early.”
I slam the door closed even though I know it won’t give me the same satisfaction it used to. Shoot! I didn’t get my key. Beyond being physically tired, I’m now emotionally drained. I’ll get a reference from the doorman next time I’m down there for a locksmith. Pulling my robe tighter around me, I get a large glass of water and retrieve my phone from my purse. The decision has already been made—binge-watching a cop drama series will commence as I spend the day recovering. Maybe they’ll teach me how to hide a body in Manhattan.
Two episodes in, my phone buzzes with a new text. When I pick it up, I notice I’ve missed several. All from Danny.
CHAPTER 14
~Danny~
“YOU WERE NEVER reluctant before, Danny. Kiss me.” Laylah—twenty-eight, blond, green eyes, face perfectly symmetrical with cat eyes
and best known for her killer body and walking for Victoria Secret—is pinned against the wall, my arms trapping her between and all I can think about is what Reese has been doing and hoping she’s not been doing anyone at all.
Is it too hopeful, too soon to want that?
Maybe.
Probably.
Definitely.
I kiss Laylah’s neck like the photographer has been demanding. Laylah’s breath covers my ear as the clicking of the camera is heard—quick, several per second. Her hands run down my side under the intricately-designed smoking jacket I’m wearing and I angle my shoulders so the camera gets a clear shot of the watch against the silk pajama bottoms. She pushes the jacket back to show off my abs while we try to appear intimate.
“Tilt your hips forward, Laylah,” the photographer says. “Yes, just like that. Danny, flash the face of the watch toward me.”
I turn my arm, but my shoulder remains tension filled.
She whispers, “Relax, Danny.”
The photographer suggests, “Maybe change places.”
I swirl Laylah around and try to get into her. It’s not working, so I fake it. An hour later, I’m leaning against a brick wall outside staring at my phone. Maybe I shouldn’t have texted Reese the other day…
Me: I have a question about the shoot.
Me: I lied. I don’t have any questions. I’ve just been thinking about you.
Me: The problem is I can’t stop thinking about you.
I can’t even blame alcohol for sending those during a late-night texting session. Maybe the wheatgrass was going to my head, making me see things too clearly. Sometimes it’s easier to hide behind the façade than face reality. The liquid cleanse I did for two days touted clarity. I’m seeing it as a bad side effect as regret sets in.
Reese hasn’t replied. I must have scared her. I definitely scared her. But damn, I’m not over-confident about us. She’s gotten under my skin. I imagined what would happen if we ran into each other a thousand times or more over the years. Then it happened and it didn’t play out anything like I expected. I never expected to still feel so much for her the second I saw her. I foolishly thought some anger that had lingered over the years would surface, the hurt I felt revealed in an acquired immunity to her beauty, her quick wit, and stubbornness.
Nope. That didn’t happen.
The exact opposite did.
I still have feelings for her—whether new or reminiscent of long ago, I have no idea. They’re there though because I can’t get the woman off my mind.
Her independence is sexy. The way she looks at me drawing me in, capturing my heart just like she did before.
The photographer’s assistant tosses the cigarette to the alley and grounds it in. “We should get back. One more setup to do.”
I watch him walk inside, then check my phone one more time. Nothing.
Giving my best James Dean, I hold the sports coat by the lapels to show off the $15k gold watch I’m modeling while tilting my head back to show some good jaw. The camera clicks as the shutter opens and closes in rapid succession. Laylah is watching in the distance as her makeup is removed since she’s wrapped. I avoid that direction. She’s gorgeous, just not Reese gorgeous.
I’m booked because I’m not affected. I believe in my work and let my emotions show, so I work the inner turmoil that’s building and let it show.
The photographer eats it up. “More, Danny. Yes, brooding. Dangerous. Give it to me. Just like that. Yes. That’s it. Hate the camera. Love the camera. You just fucked the camera and now want nothing to do with me. Make it about the camera. Give it to me and flash the watch.”
A pro at giving up everything during a shoot, I have no idea what he’s talking about so I do it my way and watch him practically orgasm as he watches me through the lens.
* * *
BYPASSING THE TRAY of champagne flutes, I grab a beer from the bar when we walk into the party. We fit in here. In a trendy home in the Hollywood Hills we’re just another group of models. Photographers, designers, and artists dot the landscape, immersed as deeply as we are into the fashion world.
From 2Xist to Abercrombie & Fitch male models, this party is filled with my competition. I don’t stress. I’ve got experience over youth. And I’ve never heard any complaints about my abs.
I don’t pretend people don’t recognize me, that I’m not a big deal. It may not seem like it, but our industry is small and everyone knows everyone or you’ve heard the rumors. I gave up my chosen path of my degree for one that sidetracked me. Luckily it paid off. Big time. I’m one of the exceptions. I’ve broken through beyond face recognition. I have name recognition—Fame. Being an exception, I’ve earned a level of respect.
I live with few regrets, though I often wonder how my life would be different if I had chosen to use my bachelor’s degree in Geography. I’d be married. For sure. I’d probably have a couple kids. Plural. Wow. Wonder if Reese still wants kids?
“There’s a free couch over there,” Laylah says, walking in next to me. She doesn’t mind the added attention. She never did. It doesn’t hurt the photographer to be seen with us either. I toss my jacket on the leather couch as I sit down. The Vargo photographer sits next to me, his assistant and Laylah across from us.
His assistant points to the food out by the pool. Pretending to be hungry, I excuse myself before any conversations keep me here.
The sleeve of my shirt is tugged. Laylah smiles, and for a minute I see that girl from Ontario again, the one who showed up knock-kneed and nervous eight years ago. “You’re coming back, right?”
I reassure her, “I’ll be back.”
She smiles and sits back on the couch, one long leg crossing over the next. I head outside. The view of LA is awesome from here. Lights appear to glitter, making the city magical again. Most people are inside the house and I find it strange that the view, this view in particular, is taken for granted, but I appreciate the solitude.
My phone buzzes with a text.
I pull the phone from my pocket and smile. It’s from Reese. I don’t even care what the text says. That I heard from her at all feels like a victory. That in itself is a win.
Swiping the screen, the full message appears.
Reese: I can’t stop thinking about you either.
My smile grows. Instantly, my fingers are on the keyboard ready to text back, but I stop, wondering if I should. Or should I wait? I hate games and here I am playing one. Reese is a delicate operation. One false move and we’re set back ten years when she walked away from everything we had.
In the middle of the master debate I’m having, I receive another message from her.
Reese: Looking forward to seeing you again.
We have Marfa in a few days. Seeing your ex-girlfriend in the middle of West Texas—isn’t that how all great stories… all great love stories, start?
“What are you smiling about?” Laylah sidles up to me, empty glass in hand. When I look at her, she keeps her eyes steady on me. “You’ve had something on your mind. All day.”
“Someone,” I volunteer.
Her eyes widen in surprise, but a small smile appears too. “Someone?” She turns her gaze to the distance and her mood turns melancholy. “Relationships don’t bode well in our business. Even less of a chance if you’re a model on top. We’ve both been around long enough to know this.”
Turning back to the lights of Los Angeles, I want to say I met someone who would be worth reevaluating my long-term career goals. I want to share the ridiculous details of how Reese makes me feel alive and yet, vulnerable and exposed. But I don’t because she’s not someone I just met and I don’t want to get into a past that’s better to keep to myself for a while longer.
“Danny?”
Then I think of the woman Reese has become, and no matter how I feel I might know her, I’m not sure I do, and the implications that come with that, make me hesitate answering. I shake it off and run my hand through my hair, loosening the stiffly moussed strands. �
��It’s warm tonight.”
She gets the hint that I’m not going to give up anything, but warns, “Don’t let a temporary distraction ruin the empire you’re building, the legacy you’ve built. I learned that lesson the hard way. Don’t put yourself through the heartache. I’m going to eat. I’m starving.” Laylah leaves me with that advice… or is it a warning?
I flip the phone in my palm over and over wanting to read the messages from Reese again, the ones that make me smile and give away my secret. I don’t. I tuck my phone into my pocket and go to the bar to refresh my drink.
An hour is enough to know I can’t be here. I don’t want to party; I want to sit in a dark bar and lose myself in someone else’s life for a while. Luke picks me up and we drive to a dive in Hollywood. I’ve never seen a celebrity in here, though I’ve heard rumblings about “this one time Matt Damon and Ben Affleck” shared a pitcher here.
The vinyl booths are ripped, smoke has infiltrated the red velvet wallpaper, though cigarettes were banned in bars a few years back. It’s dark, the only natural light seeping in through an octagon window carved into the front door. The bartender doesn’t greet us. That would be a waste of his time as he cleans thick pint glasses and lines them up along the bar. This is why I like it. There are absolutely no pretenses. Nobody here gives a shit about me, my problems, or anybody else’s.
Luke gets a pitcher and comes back to the booth by the jukebox we’ve taken ownership of. While he pours, I complain, “That’s too much head.”
He glares at me, so I correct my statement, realizing how I set myself up. “Learn to pour a beer. Give me that.” I take the empty glass and fill it myself.
“So, let’s go back to the fact that you left a party full of hot models to come drink with me?”
“Aren’t you lucky?”
“But why again?” This is lost on him. He thinks like everyone else: I lead a life of luxury, fast cars, and sexy women. Okay, he’s right there, but he knows me better. He knows me. Period. No one at that party does.