by Marie Garner
Two hours later, they slowly made their way home. What had started as such a great day had ended in a pile of shit. First, he had to speak to his agent, his lawyer, his PR rep, Disney security, and his mother, who happened to be the person he was on the phone with earlier. Yeah, this date was fun, she thought, up until my date went psycho and risked legal action being taken against him. Go me. Maybe she should go on a dating moratorium because the last two were horrible. Lance had shown such promise; even earlier in the day she felt like she could really see herself dating him.
“Do you want to talk about what happened?” he asked quietly.
“Do you want to tell me why you freaked out?”
He ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. “Look, Brea, it’s a long story, and I really don’t want to get into it right now.”
She crossed her legs. “Then no, I don’t want to talk about what happened. Your reaction was over the top, and you scared the shit out of me for a minute. Unless you’re willing to tell me why…”
“I’m not.”
“Okay. Then I suggest you just take me home and we’ll chalk it up to a science experiment gone badly.”
“But…” he tried to argue his point.
She was adamant. “No. Unless you’re willing to communicate to me about the real issue, then all I am forced to see is the bad-boy image you portray to the world. Because that’s what I saw, and I don’t know if I want to spend my time around you.”
“Well, if you can’t look past all this, then I guess we’re at an impasse.”
“Guess so.” She stared out the window, biting down on her lip to prevent the tears which threatened to fall.
His theatrics ended up on YouTube, and they got over a million hits in the first two days. Having to watch the guy you thought could mean something to you make a complete ass of himself over and over again was always fun. And that was just YouTube; it didn’t count the segment on the major morning shows, TMZ, Entertainment Tonight, and all the other shows which played it on a loop. She fielded phone calls for interviews and comments, sick of it all after the first day. Raquel and Clare were concerned, her agent was worried, her PR person claimed this was a nightmare, and the producers were stuck somewhere on the fence because of all the new viewers they thought the buzz would generate. As for Brea, she was just hurting.
It was hard to ignore Lance, especially because she had to see him on the set. One of the unexpected benefits was she was no longer scared of working with him, and they were able to get through all the lines with no problems. The chemistry was still there, however. She felt it whenever he touched her like a pulse going through her body, but she batted it back. She refused to fall victim to his spell again, especially since he still wouldn’t tell her why he reacted so violently. He didn’t try to call either, so if she thought she meant anything to him at all she was clearly mistaken.
A week passed and nothing, no contact except for their continuous interaction in the studio. She was going mad. She missed the carefree banter they briefly shared, but she was unwilling to compromise, and two stubborn people couldn’t work it out because neither wanted to budge. She was lamenting her current situation when Raquel and Clare cornered her in her dressing room.
“Okay, we’re done,” Raquel said. “The pity party is over.” Clare elbowed her, showing this probably wasn’t their plan of action when they came in here, but Raquel clearly had other plans. She ignored Clare. “I’m serious; we’ve all seen the YouTube video.”
“Raquel!” Clare admonished.
“Well, we have, Clare. There’s no reason to pretend as if you were too good to watch it. You called me about it.” Clare stepped in, clearly done with Raquel.
“What she means—” Clare jerked her thumb at Raquel “—is we have watched you two pussyfoot around each other for the last week, and you’re both so damn miserable there has to be something you can do.”
“I tried,” Brea said, wiping away the couple of tears which had fallen when they laid into her. “But he doesn’t want to talk about it, and I’m not going to force him. He overreacted, but he doesn’t want to tell me why.”
“We all know this level of fame comes with the territory, so while I agree he was over the top,” Raquel admitted, “you need to admit there are certain things you don’t want to talk about either and give the guy a break.” She had a point, maybe Brea should give him a second chance. But she refused to have a relationship with a man who was unwilling to discuss something as simple as why he hated the paparazzi with a passion.
“While I’m not saying you’re right, I’m not saying you’re wrong, either,” Brea conceded. “I just need to think about this because it’s a lot to take in.”
“Well, while you’re taking it in, think about this. The two people who I saw this week have looked miserable, casting longing looks at each other when they think the other isn’t looking. And the video showed a couple who was clearly enjoying each other and their time together. He may have overreacted, but a lot of that was to protect you and your privacy.” Raquel got up to leave, having made her point.
Brea nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Clare and Raquel both hugged her on the way out, telling her to call if she needed anything, but they both knew she wouldn’t. This was something Brea was going to have to work through on her own, to figure out whether their fledgling relationship was worth trying to save. Figuring she could decide later, Brea just wanted to go home and sleep on it. Hearing a noise, Brea fiddled with her purse to find the ringing phone, pleasantly surprised to see Derrick’s smiling face across her screen. She had talked to him briefly last week. When the video emerged, he had called to lend his support, but that was it.
“Hey, Uncle Derrick,” she greeted cheerfully.
“Hey, kiddo. How’re you doing?”
She sighed. “I’ve been better. But you already know that because I talked to you guys last week.”
“Yeah, well, you know how Silvia worries.”
She chuckled. “I know, but something tells me you aren’t calling about Silvia.” There was silence on the other end of the phone so Brea assumed they had lost their connection, but then Derrick started speaking again.
“I’m not. You were the last person I wanted to call, but Silvia and I talked about it last night and we figured you should know.” It was something with her mother; she was sure of it. It was always something with her mother whenever they called out of the blue.
“What is it? Is it something with Mom?”
“No, Brea, it’s not your mom.” That left only one person: Alex.
“What the hell happened with Alex?” More silence, as though he was debating whether he should tell her. “I deserve to know, Derrick.”
“That’s why I’m calling, because you deserve to know,” he agreed. “Are you sitting down? Or is there someone we can call, because this won’t be easy to hear.” She briefly thought about everyone she knew, even thinking about calling Lance, but she quickly dismissed that idea.
“No, there’s no one. Just tell me.”
Brea tapped her finger on the bar, signaling the bartender for another shot. She had been sitting here for hours since she got the call, in some hole in the wall bar which didn’t ask questions, even if they did recognize her. She stared at the shot glasses around her. Were there really four? And what was going on with the empty beer glasses? She remembered the bartender saying something about pacing herself, but Brea didn’t want to pace shit. She wanted to get drunk, like down-and-dirty drunk; hung-over so badly tomorrow, she wouldn’t want to drink again.
“Is there somebody you want me to call?” the bartender asked politely. Brea glanced up from the scarred wood bar top she had been admiring, looking at the middle-aged brunette with kind eyes. Brea bit her lip, the sympathy in her eyes too much to bear, and shook her head no so she didn’t have to speak. If she did, she would start crying hysterically. At what, who knew; there were so many reasons to pick from, each one as equally horrific as the other. She could cry at the inj
ustice of it all. She could cry at her own hopelessness, at the cruel bitch known as fate who continued to play jokes on Brea’s family, or at her brother, who had crawled so deeply into an addiction (one which destroyed their mother) he felt like he had nowhere to go. Her phone was laying there, the screen blessedly silent, because she wasn’t in the mood to speak to anyone. Not even Derrick, who had broken the news in the nicest way possible, but she would be lying if she said she didn’t want to shoot the messenger.
The bartender was wiping down the bar top beside her, looking up when the door opened, eyes widening at whoever walked through the door. Brea just slammed the shot back, feeling the cool burn of tequila. She saw the man’s hand land beside her left elbow, the heat from his body crowding her. She glanced to the right, noting the empty bar, wondering why in the hell he decided to sit beside her. He must have signaled for the bartender because she came over holding a draft, handing it to him, and Brea felt him sit beside her.
Enough, she thought, pissed. He needs to find somewhere else to sit.
“Can I help you?” she asked snidely, examining the man for the first time. Either she was really drunk, or she was staring into the same green eyes of the man she had been fighting with for the last week.
Lance smirked. “That depends on you. What are you doing here drinking like you want to kill your liver?”
She faced the bar, staring at the alcohol bottles lining it, signaling for another beer from the bartender. “None of your damn business.” She did NOT need him here tonight, not when she wanted to forget everything. “And what the hell are you doing here?”
He took a long pull of his beer, staring at her as though she were joking. “You’re kidding, right? How many drinks have you had anyway? Because you’re drunk ass definitely called me.”
“I did not!” She pulled back, offended he would think she called him. Or had she? She didn’t remember.
“Seven.” Both turned to the bartender, who was standing there wiping the same damn spot on the bar she was before. There weren’t a lot of people in here, only about twenty, so the bar couldn’t be dirty enough to require constant wiping. She pointed at Lance. “To answer your earlier question, she’s had four shots and three beers.”
Brea hunched her shoulders. “Who the hell asked you? Go wipe the other side of the bar.” She pointed weakly at the other end, but she couldn’t seem to hold her hand steady. Maybe she had had more to drink than she thought.
“Brea…” Lance put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing it in warning. Like she gave a shit. He was a crazy person the other day, and it was her turn now. At least she had a good reason.
“It’s okay.” The bartender held her hand up to stop whatever he was going to say to her. “She’s not the first drunk I’ve had to deal with, and she won’t be the last.” When the bartender got in her face, Brea shrunk back instinctively; which put her up against Lance, who had taken it upon himself to start running his hand in her hair. “And something tells me she doesn’t get like this much, so whatever brought her in here tonight must have been some bad shit.”
Brea lost it, lunging for the bartender before Lance had a chance to stop her. Thankfully, he grabbed her as she was trying to climb over the bar and pulled her back with his arm across her waist. “You don’t know shit!” she railed at the bartender, clawing at the hands which held her back. “Get the fuck off me, Lance!”
His response was to jerk her even tighter while she bucked and kicked wildly. “Okay, we’re done here. I’m sorry for all this; she’s normally not like this.” One arm gripped around her waist, he reached in his pocket and pulled out three hundred dollars. He handed it to the bartender, who readily accepted it. “This should cover the hassle of her behavior.”
The bartender nodded, sympathetic instead of angry, and waved at Lance while he carried a kicking and screaming Brea out of the bar. Brea heard him grunt in pain when she connected with his shin, but she was still too worked up to enjoy it. He reached down, putting her in the fireman’s hold and smacked her ass. She punched his back, wanting to get rid of the rage, anger, and helplessness of her current situation, and he was the one closest to her. If he didn’t want her abuse, he shouldn’t have come to get her.
“Are you fucking crazy?” Lance asked as he sat her on top of the trunk of his car. He spread his legs, putting his arms on either side of her to box her in, leaning down so he was in her face. “What the hell is your problem?”
“Nothing!” she screamed, rubbing her hands through her hair to get it out of her face.
He pointed to the bar. “That shit back there wasn’t nothing! Don’t feed me that bullshit!”
“I should have called someone else!” She didn’t want to answer his questions or his probing gaze.
“No, you shouldn’t have called someone else; you should answer my damn question!”
“I don’t want to fucking talk about it!” She tried to move off the car, but he held her in place. “LET. ME. GO!” She tried to shove past him but he stood firm.
“No!” he said, grabbing her purse, batting away her hands when she tried to grab it back. He pulled her off the car, making her stumble while he pulled her to the front and practically shoved her in the passenger seat. He ran across the front, probably figuring he had a limited amount of time before she ran, but she was so damn tired she didn’t have it in her to fight.
“Just take me home.” She curled to the side, pulling her knees up to her chest and staring out the window.
Brea jerked awake when she felt Lance pick her up. She must have fallen asleep on the way, the alcohol and the ride lulling her to sleep.
“Lance,” she asked groggily.
“Shh…” he whispered, kissing her on the forehead while he walked up her driveway. He must have thought of everything, because the door was already open so all he had to do was walk through. He sat on the couch with Brea on his lap, rubbing the back of her hair as she wrapped herself around him.
“What’s wrong, honey?” He kissed her forehead, the care and consideration he showed her making her weepy. She shook her head, tucking it into his neck, breathing in his familiar, woodsy scent.
“I want to forget.” She leaned back, putting her hands on the side of his face. “Make me forget,” she murmured, kissing the side of his lips before latching onto them. He continued to rub her back, returning the kiss as she opened her mouth to give his tongue entry. She attacked him, moving her leg so she could straddle his lap. She felt his erection pressing into her stomach, and she rubbed against him trying to get closer. He jerked his lips from her, moving his hands to the side. “Brea…” he said, trying to pull her away from where she had latched her lips onto his neck. He put his hands on her head to move her back, but she simply shook her head no and slid her hands down his shirt, latching onto the button of his fly.
“Oh, Lord.” He jerked up when she opened his pants, freeing his cock and pumping it a couple times with her hand. She got off his lap, kneeling in front of him, licking her lips in appreciation. “Brea, stop…” He tried again to push her back, but when she leaned down and circled the tip with her tongue, he was lost. He fisted his hand in her hair, letting her suck for a minute before he thought better of it.
“I said stop!” He jerked her back, wincing when her teeth grazed him. He reached under her arms and pulled her on the couch, ignoring the look of hurt as she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. He looked ridiculous with his dick hanging out of his pants, and this was not a conversation to have with his thing out in the open. He tucked his dick back in his jeans and zipped them, turning to face the girl with tears in her eyes. She was so damn beautiful, hurting like crazy, and she refused to let him in.
“I thought you wanted me,” she whispered, wiping the tear which fell.
“Honey, I do.”
“But you made me stop,” she continued, as though that explained everything.
“Because I don’t want you like this.” She flinched as t
hough he hit her. “I’m fucking this up. Get this through your head— I want you. Today, tomorrow, every day, I want you. Got that?” She nodded, still wiping the tears from her eyes.
“And we will have sex, sooner rather than later. But when we do, I want you to remember it. I didn’t take you home to have sex with you. I took you home to help sober you up and figure out what the hell is wrong with you. You were so upset tonight, you went and got drunk, and now you are rubbing on me and telling me to help you forget. Well, you know what? When I’m inside you, you won’t want to forget. You will want to feel every damn bit of it. So no, I don’t want to have sex with you to make you forget. Or some fucked up version of ‘make me feel better because I’m hurting.’ I want you to TALK to me about what the hell is wrong with you. Because when we do have sex, you’ll be screaming my name because you will want to remember every damn thing.” Brea sat there during his tirade, wiping the stray tear every now and then.
“Well, if you don’t want to have sex with me, then I guess we’re done here.” His face fell comically before his eyes flashed anger.
“Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Uh, yeah. See yourself out.” She stumbled when she tried to get up from the couch, but he caught her and pulled her back down beside him.
“Tell me what the fuck is wrong!” He got in her face again.
“No! And you’re one to talk, you haven’t said shit about what the fuck was wrong with you the other day!” She didn’t want to talk about it, but he wouldn’t let it go. He gripped her shoulders, shaking her. “I also didn’t get shit-faced in a bar afterward! Now tell me what’s wrong so I can help you!”
“I said no!” Brea jerked away, propping her elbows on her knees and gripping her head in her hands. She tried to keep it together, but she was so damn tired of fighting. The sobs racked her body as she broke down. Lance tried to grab her but she pulled away, not wanting his comfort. He tried a different approach. He tucked her head to his chest. She clutched the front of his shirt with her fists, trying to crawl on his lap. He helped her, pulling her legs to the other side of him, and rubbed her hair.