by Knight, JJ
Gasping, I finally beg him to let me rest.
I lay back on the damp sheets, catching my breath and letting the waves of pleasure rush over me.
Dylan straddles me, looking confused about what to do next.
I grab him with one hand, and he closes his eyes. He’s still a bit slick, but I lick my palm to make it more slippery. I lovingly stroke him until he hunches forward. He opens his eyes, smiling as he comes, the hot drops landing on my eager skin.
* * *
I finish showering and quickly towel off. I wrap a smaller towel around my head to keep my hair up while I put on some light makeup. Because Dylan is here, I sent a message to Chet saying I wouldn’t be in to work today.
He asked me if I had a calendar, because today is Saturday, and I had the day off anyway.
That made both me and Dylan laugh. Neither of us knew what day it was. He thought it was Wednesday, of all things.
We’re planning to do some sightseeing today, if I can get him out of the hotel room. We need to get out, because I’m worried someone’s going to break something at the rate we’ve been having sex.
As I put on my lipstick, I remember how Antonio kissed me. I was wearing this same lipstick, and when I got back to the hotel, I saw that it was smeared all down my chin. That was only a few nights ago. I wish the memory was more distant, like years in the past.
That night in the club, if I’d had much more champagne, would I have let Antonio really kiss me? There’d been a moment on the dance floor where I’d enjoyed his eyes on me.
I have to tell Dylan about what happened. Just in case any of those photos get put online, he needs to be warned. Maybe if we start talking about things on the internet, he’ll have an explanation for the video of him kissing the blonde at his show. I know for sure that didn’t come from my own phone.
I finish patting most of the water from my hair and tie it back in a loose ponytail.
The robe isn’t in the bathroom, so I wrap my bath towel around my body and open the door.
Dylan is sitting on the bed, completely dressed for the day. His body looks tense and rigid.
“Dylan, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“I bet there is.” His voice is cold like ice. His eyes are burning with anger.
My heart jumps up in my throat. After we made love this morning, he had a shower first, then got dressed while I had mine. What happened while I was in the bathroom? I can tell something is wrong. Very wrong.
Is he upset about the story with the Italian girl at the restaurant? He seemed to enjoy it at the time.
“Dylan, everything I said about the waitress… it was just talk. You know that, right? It’s one thing to have a silly fantasy. I’d never act on something like that. Not with a woman.”
“Not with a woman?” His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t move from his tense pose at the foot of the bed. “You promised you’d never betray me again.”
I gasp, “Betray you?” My legs are shaking now.
“You were with another man,” he says, almost growling.
He must have seen a photo from the Italian nightclub. Or someone else did and told him. “It was nothing, I swear. We were at a club, and he kissed me.”
He turns away, but not before I catch the unmistakable expression of disgust on his face.
For an instant, we’re not in Rome anymore. We’re back in L.A., and it’s that awful day where he found out I’d been lying to him. That night, he drove me to a bad part of town and kicked me out of his car. He humiliated me.
The memory sears through me. All our happy times since then mean nothing. The old pain is still here, in my heart, and in Dylan’s eyes. He won’t forgive me for what I did back then, and he hasn’t forgotten.
I’m worthless to him.
My heart can’t take it anymore, and I drop to my knees on the carpet.
“I’m sorry,” I croak. “You weren’t here, and I missed you.”
My voice sounds guilty. Like I did something wrong.
Did I? Everything’s happening so fast. When he gets angry at me, I can’t even think straight. I feel like I’m running through the wilderness, even though we’re standing still.
He glares at me with anger in his dark eyes, and I’m terrified.
I’m helpless.
Chapter Eleven
Dylan doesn’t say anything. He just lifts up his phone and shows me an image from the night at the club, with Antonio’s mouth on mine.
“This must have showed up a while ago,” Dylan says coldly. “I had my phone off during the flights. You’ve been busy here. I guess now I can see why it was so hard to get in touch with you by phone.”
I press my palms against my face. I’m not even crying, I’m just in shock. He hates me.
“We were only dancing,” I tell him. “That guy is Antonio.”
“I don’t want to know his name.”
“But it was nothing, Dylan. I was listening to the music at the club. My eyes were closed, and he kissed me. I swear, I didn’t want him to.”
“This is what you do when you miss me?” he asks.
I can’t even meet his eyes. I keep my head nodded, my gaze on the cream-colored carpet.
I start muttering, “This is crazy. This can’t be happening. I didn’t do anything wrong. Why do I feel so guilty? Dylan, I swear nothing happened with Antonio.” I look up into his eyes. My voice is pleading. “I pushed him away as soon as he kissed me. And I slapped him. That’s all. You can ask Chet.”
Dylan turns and points to the room’s laundry basket, which is now overturned. My dirty clothes are in one pile, and Chet’s boxer shorts and shirts are in another pile.
My mouth goes completely dry. Now I understand why he’s so upset. “I ca-can explain,” I stammer.
“Really?” His voice is full of sarcasm. “How many nights did Antonio spend in this room? How many times did he take you on this bed? Or am I reading the clues wrong? Those clothes are American brands. So, what is it, Jess? Did you and Chet finally consummate your relationship? Did you finally give him what he’s been after for the last year?”
Something inside me shifts, and my emotions change direction. Except for his anger, this isn’t at all like that night he dumped me out of his car. I haven’t lied to him. I haven’t betrayed him.
I reach for the dresser and use it to get to my feet. My legs are still shaking.
“You’re wrong,” I say.
“I know what I see.”
“You can’t believe what you see. I thought you were sending nude photos to girls, but you weren’t. Remember that?”
“This isn’t like that, Jess.”
The way he says my name makes me hurt.
Slowly, and carefully, I say, “Nothing happened with Antonio. Do you believe me, or not?”
His eyes flash with anger. He looks down at the phone in his hand, then looks away, not meeting my eyes.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know if I can trust anyone.”
“You can trust me.”
“Not anymore. You lost that privilege when you started sleeping with your boss.”
Now I’m not just hurt. I can handle him being angry at me, but I feel more protective of Chet than of myself.
“Chet is just my friend, and that’s the end of it.”
“You see him more than you see me.”
I look over at the pile of laundry, then I notice more things out of place around the room. The drawers have been dug through, and my stuff is everywhere. While I was in the shower, Dylan must have ransacked the place, looking for evidence of my betrayal.
Suddenly, it hits me. This is absurd. This isn’t how sane people behave.
“You’re crazy,” I tell him. “I see Chet because I work with him. We go to meetings together. And you’re one to talk.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, Dylan. You’re always flirting with your fans. You let them hug you for photos, and you ask them all sorts of questions about their liv
es, like you care.”
“Of course I care.”
I shake my head. “You don’t need to be so friendly. You’re going to sell the same number of records, no matter what you do. I think you enjoy the attention from those sluts. I think you get off on it.”
“Is that what you really think?”
The video keeps playing in my head. It’s time for me to ask him about that night at the Avalon. I take a deep breath, then say, “I saw you in that video, kissing that blonde.”
He answers without hesitation, “So? I’m in a lot of videos.”
“That’s your explanation? Is there more than one of you kissing random skanks? This one’s new. You finished playing a song, then you stepped down into the crowd and you went right toward this blonde slut… and you kissed her. I saw you, Dylan.”
He shrugs. “Sometimes things get intense at shows. You know that. People are drinking, there’s a fun atmosphere. It’s just fun.”
“Fun?” I look around the ransacked hotel room. My head is reeling, being blasted by emotions.
Something takes hold of me, and I spit my words at him. “You’re right. Kissing is fun. I was at this nightclub here in Rome, without you, and I was just having fun. A guy kissed me.” I do an exaggerated shrug, mimicking his body language. “You know how it is. Just fun.”
He frowns, but doesn’t say anything. This isn’t how I normally behave around him, and he’s confused by it.
I feel like a shaken-up bottle with the cork popped out.
Laughing crazily, I look up at the ceiling and say, “It feels good to be honest. I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you and your hair-trigger moods.”
His voice is calm and level. “My hair-trigger moods?”
I point around the chaotic hotel room. “Dylan, you saw one photo of me and you ransacked my hotel room.”
He frowns. “I just looked around. You forced me to. I had no choice.”
“Me?” I shake my head in disbelief. “Oh, that’s right. Nothing’s ever your fault.”
He glowers at me, his dark eyes burning with barely-controlled anger. “I never said I was perfect.”
“No. Of course not. But every time you’re late for something, you blame it on the fans. It’s always because of them, or your publicist, or whatever. But why don’t you try saying no once in a while? Sometimes I feel like your life with me is just…”
I can’t say it.
“Just what? Spit it out, Jess. Hit me with your best shot and cut me down. That’s what you’re good at.”
I look down at my bare feet. He hasn’t even heard what I’m going to say, and he already sounds ready to argue with it.
“Dylan, I feel like your life with me is just the thing you do to kill time between the events in your real life, which is your career. I’m holding you back from what you really want. I’m boring. I’m the place you go to unwind.”
He takes a moment, and I can’t tell if he’s thinking about what I said, or thinking up the perfect way to hurt me.
I can’t believe I just said what I did. I didn’t even know I felt that way until the words were coming from my mouth.
He’s quiet, and he looks hurt.
Now I feel awful. I didn’t mean for it to sound so bad.
There’s a knock at the door. I reach down and fix the towel I have wrapped around me.
“Hello?” comes a voice from the other side of the door. “It’s me, Chet. Is everything okay in there?”
Dylan lets out a disgusted sound. “Great. Your boyfriend’s here.”
I glare at him. “He’s here because the walls are really thin. I told you that.”
Dylan shakes his head. “I need some air.” He gets up from the bed and goes to the door. He yanks the door open while I’m still looking around for something to throw on over my towel.
“Dylan, you’re here!” Chet says. He looks happy, but it’s a fake expression. He knows exactly what he’s walking into.
Dylan looks over his shoulder at me. “I’ll see you in L.A.,” he says coldly. “We both have a lot to think about.” He pushes past Chet and disappears down the hall.
I start to run after him, but stop halfway down the hallway.
I’m barefoot, with wet hair, wearing nothing but a towel.
“Dylan!”
He doesn’t wait for the elevator. He keeps walking and bangs open the door for the stairwell.
I stand in the hall, in my towel.
By the time I get some clothes on, he’s probably going to be long gone.
He’s in the stairwell now, and I can hear his shoes on the stairs in the seconds it takes for the fire door to swing shut.
Now the hallway is quiet.
And I’m alone.
It’s finally happened, just like I feared.
I told Dylan the truth, and he abandoned me.
Chapter Twelve
For the last year, I’ve been holding my breath, waiting for this to happen.
Along the hotel hallway, people are opening doors and peering out to see what’s happening.
I’m standing here in a towel, crying. I think it’s pretty obvious what happened. I finally told my fiancé how I really feel, and he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
I turn around and start walking back to my room. I don’t know what I’m going to do next, but I do know one thing. I’m not going to get dressed and go running after Dylan.
I didn’t do anything wrong.
He’s the one who completely flipped out and overreacted, accusing me of sleeping with some Italian creep, and my boss. Dylan should know I only want him. Even when we were broken up, I wasn’t with anyone else.
He, on the other hand, probably used our time apart to have his fun with fans, night after night. I know at least some of the stories floating around must be true. Some of the things those girls claim he did… a lot of it does sound like Dylan.
He probably wants his rock star lifestyle back, but he doesn’t want to look like the bad guy, so he’s trying to make our breakup seem like it’s my fault.
But this is not my fault. I didn’t do anything wrong, except fall in love too hard.
I use the corner of my towel to wipe my cheeks dry before I get back to my room.
My boss looks really uncomfortable. He’s standing inside the room, holding the door open for me.
Chet gives me a sad look with his emerald green eyes, then looks down sheepishly. “Jess, I actually did hear your whole fight with Dylan. These walls are so thin. I’ll give you some privacy. I’m only here because I didn’t want the door to slam shut and lock you out.”
“Thank you.” I walk through the room, toward the pile of clothes Dylan tore through in his quest to find evidence against me.
“Can I do anything?” he asks.
“You’ve done enough. It’s nice to be around a gentleman who knows how to be thoughtful.” My voice is so full of acrimony, I can taste the bitterness on my tongue.
“I’ll go now,” he says.
“You shouldn’t have to.” I walk toward the bed and stare at the rumpled sheets. “But you’d better go, because you won’t want to be here when Dylan comes back.”
“Are you sure he’s coming back?”
I pause and force some cheerfulness into my voice. “He has to.”
“Okay,” he says. “Have a good night.”
He closes the hotel room door behind him. I let myself fall forward, onto the bed.
Dylan has another flight booked soon. That leaves us less than forty-eight hours to get over this fight and get back together.
I have an awful feeling that if we don’t make up here in Italy, I’ll return to L.A. to find all my stuff packed in boxes.
* * *
All day, I keep calling Dylan’s cell phone and leaving messages.
I can’t believe he hasn’t come back to the hotel room yet. I wait all day, and then it’s night. I check with the hotel staff, with Chet, even with our friends back home. Nobody has heard from Dyla
n.
He could be lying dead in an alley somewhere, and I wouldn’t know.
Now I’m really worried. I get dinner sent up to the room and stay up late with the TV on. The shows with the Italian dubbing make no sense, but I keep watching. Nothing makes sense now, so it’s perfect.
I turn the TV’s volume down and try to sleep. The light from the TV screen flickers around the room.
I barely sleep. Every movement in the hallway jerks me out of my slumber. I keep hoping Dylan’s coming back. I actually wish he didn’t have money, and that getting a hotel room somewhere else would be too expensive, and he’d be forced to come back to me.
Every minute, I listen for his return, but with each hour passing, I have less hope.
The sun comes up, and it’s Sunday morning.
We don’t have any meetings today. It was supposed to be a fun day, full of shopping and museums.
I don’t want to see anyone or anything.
I try calling Dylan on his cell phone for the millionth time, but he won’t pick up. I keep trying, but it goes through to voicemail every time. I left so many messages already, the recording says his voicemail is full.
I can’t even remember what I said on the messages yesterday. I kept switching between calm and hysterical.
Whatever I said, it didn’t work, because he didn’t call me back.
I’m so hurt, but I’m grateful that I’m also angry. My anger might be the only thing keeping me from throwing myself off the balcony. That, and the tiniest flicker of hope he’ll come back.
* * *
I stay in the hotel room all day Sunday, and all night. I don’t dare set one foot outside. The room is my prison. If he comes back, I want to be here.
On Monday, there’s still no sign of Dylan. His publicist back in L.A. finally admits she’s heard from him, and he’s not dead. She won’t give me any more details. I barely know this woman, but I hate her guts.
And I hate Dylan for humiliating me like this and making me call his publicist to find out if he’s alive.
But I would forgive him in a heartbeat if he would just walk through that door.
I stare at the door, but nothing happens. I crawl back into bed and pull the covers over me.
Chet has already gone to work, without me. He saw me last night, so he knew better than to ask.