She adjusted the shower as hot as she could handle, careful it wouldn’t burn her. Harming herself was too tempting tonight, and she had to be sure she didn’t further sabotage her intention to stay safe. In the shower, she scrubbed her body clean several times over until her skin shone pink.
From bathroom to bed, she crossed quickly and fell into it, wrapping the sheet and blanket into a cocoon around her. She couldn’t be trusted, that’s what it came down to. Determined to protect herself, she could think of only one way to accomplish that. She couldn’t be alone with him, not anymore. A whole room of people had barely held them back tonight.
If she didn’t do something, she’d break her vow to herself and get her heart busted up, all at the same time. Her heart might already be in for a beating, but she could at least not sleep with him. It was the only way she might be able to come back from this.
Sleep came upon her grudgingly, and she tossed through the night. She woke over and over, only to find tears on her cheeks, sweat on her brow, and once, her hands clutching desperately at her throat. The late morning sun filled her room by the time she managed to slip free of the covers and pull on a shirt with missing buttons and a pair of cotton pajama bottoms with green stripes.
Mrs. C. pounded on her door moments later while Layla sat in the corner, trying to decide if she could manage to walk up the little hill to the main house for coffee. “Come on in.”
“You’re wanted on the phone, gattina. Oh goodness.” She looked Layla over. “What did you do last night?”
“Nothing like I wanted. Who is it on the phone?”
“The boy, the one you’re seeing or not seeing. I can’t keep up. He said yours is busy…” Mrs. C. looked pointedly at the phone on the floor near the bed. The receiver lay beside it, off the hook. Layla had no idea if she’d done it in her sleep by accident or became annoyed with it in one of her half-awake moments.
“Not big on hints, is he?” Layla followed Mrs. C. up to the house in bare feet. It didn’t occur to her until she walked through the door that she’d leave sandy footprints through the house without her shoes. Those she could have taken those off and left by the door.
Mrs. C. waved her to the wall phone in the kitchen. “If he’s still on there, it will be a wonder.”
Layla growled a hello.
“How do you feel this morning?” Jace asked, his voice light. He’d apparently not experienced the same feverish worries she had. Figured.
“I’m perfect.”
The silence dragged on for a moment, then Jace said, “I thought I could take you out again tonight. How possible is that?”
“Hold on.” Layla put the receiver on the counter. “Would you hang this up for me when I pick up in the other room?”
Mrs. C. nodded, and Layla headed quickly for her father’s study, gulping her nerves back out of her throat. This was just how it had to be—mercilessly swift and ruthless. Behind locked doors, Layla spoke softly. “I have it, Zia.”
For a moment the phone line rustled, and then it clicked as Mrs. C. hung up the receiver. “What did you have in mind?”
“What does Zia mean?”
“Um, it’s a close family member, in the way I mean it. She’s family.” He shouldn’t care about these things. He needed his negatives, and besides a tumble in bed, that’s all he wanted from her. She would remind herself of that, every moment if needed. “So, tonight?”
“Layla, are you all right?”
“Oh my God. I’m fine. Last night was…” She cleared her throat. Did he care if she’d had a difficult night? Not really. Focus, she had to focus. “I just want to know your plans tonight.”
He spoke slowly, clearly puzzled by her brusqueness. “There’s a club here, at the casino. I thought we could go there.”
“As long as there are people to see us. We’re not dating. This is not a flirtation. It’s smoke and mirrors. It serves no purpose for us to be alone. Do you get what I’m saying?” Layla forced herself to unclench her fists because her nails cut into her palm painfully. God, that had been awful, lying to him. Of course it meant something—that’s why she had to push him away. If he’d just get mad at her, this would be so much easier. If he asked if she was okay one more time, she’d hang up. No one should have to deal with this.
“Absolutely.” His turn to be gruff, thankfully. “There will be a hundred people in the club. Twenty in VIP. So, yeah, we can put on a show.”
“Good. Tell me when; I’ll be ready.”
“I have to work. Eight.”
“See you then.” Layla dropped the phone in the cradle. If she didn’t push him away—hard—she’d tell him all the sordid reasons she couldn’t be with him. He’d never look at her again like he had last night.
Layla bolted from the study, letting the door bang the wall, and into the powder room. She heaved up what little she still had in her system, then wet a rag with cool water to clean her face. Draping it over the back of her neck, she opened the door and found Mrs. C. squinting at her. Layla yelped in surprise, her hand flying to her racing heart. “You scared the life from me!”
“Are you pregnant?”
“Of course not.” Layla pushed past Mrs. C., heading for the back door. She needed to avoid all people today. She needed to build up her defenses. “I don’t…do the thing that knocks girls up.”
“Good. A nice boy doesn’t marry a bad girl.”
Layla laughed. She’d never be considered a good girl, in anyone’s book, ever again. She couldn’t give up hope someone would love her anyway, someday. “I don’t need this lecture today, Zia.”
“He seems like a nice boy, calling to check on you.”
“Yes, he does. But he doesn’t want to get married. Ever.” Layla handed the rag to Mrs. C. and edged toward the door. “So he’s not the boy for me.”
“People change their minds.”
“That sounds like a good way to get hurt. He’s not for me. Don’t think on it anymore.”
Mrs. C. called out to Layla as she slipped through the back door. “Your mother is awake. She wants to see you.”
Layla froze, looking down at the clothes she’d thrown on when she awoke, hand automatically smoothing her hopelessly messy hair. “I can’t see her like this. She’ll rip me apart without my armor. Tell her I’ll come for drinks this evening. Happy hour starts at what? Three here?”
“Drinks at four. Armor?”
“Not literal armor. I’ll be here at four.” Layla darted on out, shutting the door behind her. She jogged down the hill to climb back under the covers and snuggle into the warmth.
She wanted so badly to be angry with Jace. The dance. Her heart had been floating, hammering away, while he’d held her. He’d known her. No other way to describe it, except like they’d been dancing for years. Then, to realize everyone was watching them. They must’ve seen it too.
She’d been mortified. And he’d dragged her to a bedroom, like a man claiming his prize. She could guarantee that’s what her mother would lead off with, would make sure Papà knew too.
Still, it was working. She could be grateful for that. Maybe she should let Jace off the hook now. Just give him the negatives tonight and walk away, before things got too complicated.
She’d lain in the bed for hours, tossing, never comfortable, dreading seeing her mother. Layla reluctantly climbed out of the bed. She needed to get ready to visit her mother. She teased her hair and pulled the sides and front back, securing it so her hair sat high at the crown then flowed over her shoulders.
God, that kiss. She sighed, remembering the way his lips felt. The way his hand had claimed her hip and then tantalized her by not moving, just clutching her tighter. She’d never been kissed with such passion. Why did he have to be so down on love? He wanted her, but he didn’t want her heart.
Well, she had learned enough to know that if a man didn’t care for her heart, it would only end up trampled. It didn’t matter that she’d only known him for a few days. She was halfway to in love
now. Which brought her round to her resolve not to be alone with him. The situation left her with no other options. She’d almost told him about her most humiliating experiences last night when he asked why. If they’d been somewhere less public, it would’ve all come flooding out of her.
She’d rather be the one that got away, maybe bang his heart up a little, too. It beat being some pitiful crazy woman. Or a bullet he dodged.
Layla brushed lint from her white blouse while she waited for her mother to come downstairs for their drinks. She’d already done her hair and make-up for her not-really-a-date tonight, but felt silly putting on a cocktail dress at three thirty in the afternoon. Drinks with her mother made every choice seem wrong. That dress was too much; this shirt wasn’t enough.
Didn’t make any sense to worry, either way. Vivian would always have something to say about her appearance. It was her mother’s way of keeping Layla as broken as possible. And Layla felt awfully breakable today already.
Her mother’s heels clicked, warning of her approach long before she reached the entrance. Vivian already had a glass in her hand, which was unsurprising, and took a sip while she appraised Layla. “Your hair and makeup are a bit much with that.”
“Here she is, fashion slave driver.” Layla crossed to the bar that dominated a corner of the room. Her parents took entertaining seriously. Well, her father took it seriously because he often conducted business while entertaining. Her mother just took drinking in general quite seriously. Drinks at four, and who knew how many she’d already had.
When her mother continued to eyeball her clothes, she answered the critical shot. “I have a date tonight.”
“With this boy who just appeared from nowhere?”
“He comes from a very well-known family, Mother. We wanted to keep things private until we knew it was going somewhere.” Where it was going was straight to hell, but those were details no one else needed to know.
“Private, hm? I know what that means. Layla has been giving away her affection, again.”
“I’m right here. And no one else is. Why refer to me as if you’re carrying on a conversation with someone else?”
“I suppose it’s better than those men you—”
“Mother! What do you want?” Layla’s hand tightened involuntarily on the glass she was preparing for herself, and she put it down deliberately. “Why am I here?”
“For a drink.”
“Then you’ll excuse me since I’m sure you intend to have enough for both of us.” Her knees were wobbly, but she didn’t get far before her mother spat out her name, anyway.
“Your father wants him over for dinner.”
Her stomach clenched into a tight ball of dread. “Who?”
“Your young man, of course.” Vivian tipped her drink up, draining the last of it.
“He’s very busy.”
“He will be here tomorrow for dinner. Your father heard about the spectacle the two of you made last night.”
“From you. He heard it from you.”
Examining her crimson nails, Vivian went on with a smile. “Motherly duty. It’s your father’s job to guard your virtue, though why he insists on pretending you still have any is beyond me.”
Layla laughed at that. Her mother was definitely the pot in this scenario. “Very classy, Mother. That’s most certainly the daughter of a… What do you call Grandmother when you’re drunk out of your mind? Illiterate servant. The daughter of an illiterate servant talking, who hasn’t known much about virtue for many years. I suppose your roots must show sometimes.”
The picture of patience, Vivian sighed, but she also got up to refill her glass. “My favorite part of all this is if you’re playing a game, your beloved Papà is going to call your bluff, and I don’t have to do a thing.”
“You’ve done more than enough. Innocence looks ridiculous on you. Try on another mask.”
“You will show me the respect I am due.” Her mother slammed down her glass, and vodka splashed out. “I’m not listening to your accusations. Go play somewhere else, while you still have the freedom to do it.”
With a shrug, Layla crossed the room. The urge to slice into her own flesh, see the fiery flash of red and know instant relief, screamed so loudly in her, she almost didn’t stop when her mother called out to her.
She gripped the handle on the door, desperate to escape. “Yes?” she asked, without turning.
“The doctor is holding a bed for you, my girl.”
Growing up, whenever someone would call her beautiful, or even a pretty girl, Vivian would always end up lashing out at her before the day ended. It got so Layla’s stomach would clench when someone complimented her. She didn’t understand her mother’s obsession with Layla’s appearance, or her anger about it.
Layla ran. She ran from the house, from her mother, while tears streamed down her face in hot streaks. She couldn’t give Jace the negatives, not yet. He had to come to dinner. And his performance had to be perfect. Unlike her mother, Papà was very smart. And very suspicious, by nature.
He would want to know Jace’s intentions toward her, especially considering Layla’s past. He might even feel he should tell Jace himself, to be sure he wouldn’t back out on a future with her.
She could warn Jace about her past, but that brought its own wave of anxiety. She’d have to hope the negatives were enough to keep him cooperative, regardless of her father’s erratic behavior.
9
Jace stalked around to the pool house. He’d steamed all day about the way Layla had brushed him off. After the intense kiss they’d shared last night, he wanted her to come to him, to let him make love to her. Maybe he should’ve expected her to push him away. Either way, there was something more she wasn’t telling him—she’d admitted as much.
If she wanted to stick to the letter of their arrangement and keep him at arm’s distance, he’d go along. But from now on, he’d be in charge. He wanted this deal finished as soon as possible because he couldn’t stay in this hell of wanting her and not being able to have her.
With that resolve, he banged on her door. He knocked again. She still didn’t answer, and it wasn’t like she could not have heard. “Layla! Answer the goddamn door!”
Finally, the door opened, spilling a sliver of light, and Layla peeked out at him. Water dripped from her hair, soaking her shoulders in huge wet splotches, and… and, well, he didn’t know. He couldn’t see anything except a mass of wet hair and raccoon eyes. “Is it eight already? I lost track of time.”
“Yeah?” She looked vulnerable. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her it would all be okay, but he wasn’t done being annoyed at her. How could his fate rest in such irresponsible hands? “Open up the door, then. I’m not standing on your doorstep while you take your time getting ready.”
“I don’t think I can go.” She did as he demanded though, stepping back to allow him inside. Once he crossed into the oddly lit room, he surveyed the damage. A bare lamp, on its side, cast eerie shadows.
“What in the hell happened here? Are you all right?” It looked like she’d been robbed. Pictures that had hung on the wall now littered the floor. Glass glinted at him from all four corners and everything in between. Under that, every piece of clothing in Vegas carpeted the floor.
That’s when he really looked at her, past the mascara streaks and limp hair. At first, he thought she’d spilled wine in splotches on the charcoal silk robe she’d wrapped around her slender form. But the color was off—too dark, too vivid for wine. Then he saw her hands. Cuts slashed her palms and fingers. Some still oozed blood.
Jace turned around, walked out the door, and threw up in the bush beside her house. God, he hated blood. When he was a kid, his best friend had stuck his finger too close to a metal fan on a dare and sliced the tip clean off. The blood had been instant and massive. Swallowing back more nausea, he returned to her, took her by the shoulders, and asked the only thing that mattered. “Are you hurt? I see you’re hurt. But…”
&n
bsp; She looked down at her hands and shook her head. “These aren’t bad.” She sounded almost disconnected from the blood, the mess; it was like she wasn’t quite experiencing the drastic nature of the situation.
“Who did this to you?”
“It wasn’t intentional. It was me. I did this.” She wiped her hands on her robe, and he realized where the stains had come from. How much had she bled before she decided to shower?
“Tell me what happened.”
“I was so angry. I didn’t think about it; it just happened. Like I saw it happening. I didn’t decide to do it. I hate those pictures.”
He’d considered the talent behind those photos brilliant, but they had been a peek into the ugly underside of people.
Jace let go of her, stepping over broken glass, splintered frames, and more blood splotches. His stomach twisted up in his gut. Finally, he spotted the phone, tossed aside on the floor. Thankfully, the receiver was off the hook but still attached.
When he pushed the button to hang up the line then dialed in the house number, Layla tried to take the receiver but gave up after a couple of weak attempts. “No! My parents can’t see any of this. Please.”
“I’ll make sure,” he said, his concern for her growing. If she’d fought him for the phone any other time, she’d have been a hellcat. Mrs. Crespo answered, as he’d expected. “Ma’am, this is Jace Russell, Layla’s…gentleman friend. Please don’t raise any alarms with her parents, but she needs you. There’s a situation here in the pool house. Could you come down?”
She hung up the phone without a reply, and he could only assume that meant she was on her way. Which was good. He had to wrap his head around what had happened so he could figure out what to do about it.
Jace gave Layla a worried glance. She didn’t seem to be hurt anywhere else, although the robe swept down to her ankles. She didn’t have any shoes on. “Great,” he mumbled.
It was a miracle she hadn’t cut her feet up as well. If she didn’t come around, become more responsive, what would he do? He could find someone to deal with the cuts, but what about her emotional state?
My Fake Vegas Boyfriend Page 7