Breaking Her (Love is War #2)

by R. K. Lilley

  That little speech, and fear of losing the role, seemed to help. David tried harder. Became more civil with the next take, like a light had been switched on. A big heaping of humble pie had been just what the doctor ordered.

  What a spoiled brat.

  When we finished another take it was to a spattering of applause and eccentric Stu blowing kisses into the air.

  I was almost disappointed. I'd have loved to replace David with Anton or, hell, just about anyone, but if he was going to behave himself, I wouldn't be a butt about it.

  We were taking a short break while we waited for setup on the next scene when my phone started ringing.

  It was Bastian. I took a deep breath and answered.

  "I can't find Dante," he began.

  I closed my eyes, rubbing my temple with my free hand. "He's here," I told him.

  "What do you mean by here?"

  "Somewhere in town. Or at least he was a few days ago."

  Bastian cursed. "Damnit, I should have guessed. If you see him again, tell him I need him to call me. He needs to pull it together."

  "Do you really think that's a good idea?" I asked pointedly. If Dante knew I was talking to his brother, no matter the reason, I had no doubts it would send him into a jealous rage.

  "I see your point," Bastian admittedly wryly. "Well, if you see him, will you figure out what he's doing there, where he's staying, and then let me know?"

  "If I see him, yes, I will."

  I stared at my phone long after the call had ended.

  Would I see Dante again? Did I want to?

  I was able to answer the first question much sooner than I'd imagined, as the next time I went to my trailer for a break, I found Dante sprawled out on my sofa. Again.

  And he was stinking drunk. Again.

  I didn't think it was the alcohol racing through his system, though, that made it so he couldn't meet my eyes.

  He'd come here to see me, and he couldn't even look at me.

  I'm not sure how that would have made me feel a few months ago, or even weeks, but with what I now knew, it made me feel wretched.

  And angry. Confused and conflicted. Wounded and lost.

  But also, it touched me deeply.

  How long had he been living this double life, stuck in purgatory, trapped in a vicious web of lies, completely alone?

  Protecting me from everything.

  I, frankly, didn't even want to know. It is much easier to hate someone who you're certain has wronged you than it is to hate yourself.

  And I was very afraid that if I knew just how far back his lies went, my self-hatred would know no bounds.

  "Dante," I said, my voice so soft that it forced him to look at me, his entire drunken face registering a sort of endearing surprise, like he'd forgotten where he even was.

  "You look like hell." That being said, he made hell look good. His hair was messy, more scruff on his jaw than usual. I was still wearing the evidence of that scruff on my thighs from his last visit, and no, that wasn't a complaint.

  No suit for him today, instead he was wearing gray sweats and a zip-up hoodie that was open wide enough at the neck to expose his defined collarbone and the top of his muscular chest. And the cursed chain that he never took off. Also, there was enough bared skin that I suspected he wasn't wearing a shirt under. If he weren't drunk, I'd have assumed he just came from a workout. He was dressed for it, down to his running shoes.

  "How do you keep getting past security?" I was mostly curious about it. I'd had to jump through hoops to get on set the first few times, they were so strict. How did he get so lucky?

  "They think I'm your boyfriend."

  "Why would they think that?" I asked him, but I knew the answer.

  "Because I told them so. And I bribed them."

  At least he was honest. For once.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked him point blank.

  His shaking hand pushed his hair impatiently back from his face. "I'm here for the same reason I always come back to you. I've come for scraps. Anything you'll give me. I've come because I can't stay away." His voice was low and hoarse from the drink, but thick and dark with emotion. "I tried to. Don't you know that I'm always trying to stay away? It doesn't matter. It never works.

  There was a time in the not so distant past that his words would have set me off, thrown me into a temper that would have left us both bloody.

  But something had changed. Something that terrified and excited me both.

  Something that utterly destroyed me.

  Something that made me whole again.

  I did not know how far all of his betrayals ran, how deep or shallow his lies, but I was starting to realize that in one respect, at least, it didn't matter.

  Some part of my pathetic heart was going soft for him again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "'Love' is the name for our pursuit of wholeness, for our desire to be complete."

  ~Plato

  Without another word I went to make us both a cup of coffee. My hands were shaking badly, but either he didn't notice, or he was polite enough not to comment on it.

  "Are you in town long?" I asked him as I offered him his cup.

  He took it with a soft thank you, dragging a hand through his hair, eyes downcast. "I don't know. I don't know what the hell I'm doing anymore, Scarlett. That is a fact."

  I stood over him, studying him. I'd forgotten how thick his eyelashes were, double-rowed and darker than his hair. I'd forgotten how well defined his lush top lip was, how broad his shoulders were, so muscular they flexed even when he made a movement as small as taking a drink of his coffee.

  I'd forgotten that when he showed me the tiniest glimmer of vulnerability, it made me go weak as a babe.

  I'd forced myself forget so many things about him, and I wondered, hardly daring to even hope, if it could be different now.

  Was there some chance that I could turn my bitter memories sweet again? Not all of them. Of course not. But perhaps some?

  I still didn't know.

  Everything had changed, but the future was more uncertain than ever.

  I stroked a hand oh so softly over his hair, and his entire big body tensed as though bracing for a blow.

  He had good instincts. "I know, Dante." My voice was quiet, but the tremulous intensity of it reverberated through the room. "I know."

  "I don't have the faintest notion what you're talking about." Slowly and carefully, he set his coffee down on the side table to his right.

  "You're such a liar," I told him almost playfully, because for once I had the upper hand.

  Finally, that had him looking up at me, meeting my eyes without flinching.

  "Who have you been talking to?" The question came out careful, his tone measured. Deceptively harmless.

  I wasn't fooled. His face was bland, still, except for his eyes. They were telling me a different story.

  A story of rage and violence. Of his temper boiling, unchecked, just under the surface.

  If I gave him a name, told him who had clued me in . . .

  Heads would roll.

  "That's the least relevant thing you could ask," I finally answered, an evasion, but one I knew would be effective.

  "I don't agree. Who?" The bland veneer was slipping from his voice.

  "I'll answer one of your questions, but not that one." My voice was almost teasing.

  He licked his lips and it was an effort not to bend down and kiss him. "What do you mean?"

  I was in dangerous territory now. My urge to heal him was becoming as strong as my need to harm him.

  "The answer is yes," I uttered softly. It hurt my tattered heart to get the words out, but I could not seem to keep them in.

  Confusion drew his brows together, his brilliant eyes studying my face. "Yes to what?"

  "Yes. I do love you as much as I hate you."

  Something happened to his face; it fell and lifted as a shudder wracked through him. "Jesus," he whispered, again and again as he
grabbed me, burying his face in my stomach, his big arms wrapping around me.

  My voice was grating, as brittle as breaking glass, as I added, "It is a near draw, the love and the hate, but it could tip either way. I'm done with the lies, Dante. I have some questions, and you are going to answer them."

  He didn't let go of me, didn't flee this time.

  Progress.

  "What do you know?" he asked carefully, voice muffled against my belly. His face was still pressed tightly to me.

  I touched his head lightly with my fingertips.

  My nails scraped roughly against his scalp as I gripped two good fistfuls of his hair, angling his head back, face up, forcing him to look up at my face.

  He let me, blinking slowly up at me.

  I bent down and pressed my mouth to his.

  He'd been drinking beer, I could tell. The taste of it was drugging on his breath, turned impossibly sweet. It brought back memories, good ones and bad, as all things did with Dante.

  I lingered at the kiss. I was running short on time but I didn't hold back.

  When I finally tore my mouth from his, we were both panting hard, but I found the breath to say, "You will come clean about this or you will stay out of my life."

  He didn't say anything, and I thrusted myself away from him, moving a safe distance out of his reach. "I assume you're staying somewhere in town?"

  He just nodded, looking a little dazed.

  "I have to get back on set, but we're not finished here. Why don't you text me the address where you're staying? I'll come see you when I'm done working for the day."

  "I'll wait here until you're finished. We can drive together."

  I chewed on my lip as I thought it out. "Fine. As long as you've sobered up enough by then to drive."

  He grabbed his discarded cup of coffee, toasting it at me. "Got it."

  Stuart felt we were on a roll that day, and so we ended up shooting hours longer than I'd even anticipated.

  We'd worked so deep into the night that P.M. had passed into A.M. hours prior.

  I figured Dante would have given up, would have left by the time I made it back to my trailer.

  I figured wrong. He was there and awake. And hell, he was even sober.

  Our eyes clashed for a few intense beats before I moved to the small bedroom in back, changing into street clothes.

  "We talking here or at your place?" I asked him as I came back out, grabbing my things. "Or my place?" I added.

  "Mine," he answered instantly, rising from the sofa.

  "What have you been doing in here for all this time? Meditating?"

  He gave me a small smile for that. "I kept busy. Sobered up. Went for a run, made some phone calls."

  I hadn't expected a semi-straight answer. Usually he matched sarcasm with sarcasm. "Who were you calling?" I didn't really think he'd answer if it was anything besides business, but it never hurt to ask.

  "I was trying to figure out who's been talking to you."

  I rubbed my hands together, a nervous tell. I made myself stop. "And did you?"

  "No. I couldn't get anything concrete, so I've put some people on it. Unless, of course, you'd like to change your mind and tell me?"

  I shook my head dismissively. "Not likely. And it doesn't matter. Truly. You should be more worried about what I know than who told it to me."

  His mouth twisted bitterly. "Touché."

  That shut us both up for a while. I left my car in the lot, going with him.

  "How long is the drive?" I asked him.

  "Not far," was all he said.

  I didn't press the issue. I'd find out soon enough.

  And I did. Sooner than I thought. As though he'd found a place just to be close to the set, it was a scant ten-minute drive from the lot to his lodgings.

  "You're staying at a house?" I asked him as he parked. It was nice, not too huge, but heavily gated. It didn't seem like the type of place you could stay for just a few nights.

  "Temporarily."

  "If it's so temporary, why not just stay at a hotel?"

  "I needed more privacy. I require gates. And tinted windows."

  I digested that, and thought, just maybe, that I understood it.

  He parked his car in the U-shaped drive, stopping just shy of the front door.

  "You have the place all to yourself?" I asked, looking around.

  "We do, yes. Do you like it?"

  I shot him a look for that. "It doesn't matter if I like it. I just came here to talk. And then leave."

  He firmed his jaw and nodded, looking away.

  He let us into the house silently, waving me in.

  I took a few steps into the entryway and stopped. The place was bigger than I'd thought from the outside. It was also fully furnished. Well-decorated, too, with lots of grays and whites. It felt more like a private residence than a short rental.

  "Do you mind if I shower before we talk?"

  I shrugged. "Whatever."

  "Make yourself at home. The kitchen is stocked, if you're hungry."

  I realized that I was. "Just point me in the right direction."

  He showed me to the kitchen and left.

  I had just dished out omelet number two when he joined me again.

  I sent him one glance, then looked away again. He was in a fresh pair of sweatpants, these ones black, his muscular chest deliciously bare. His hair was still wet.

  I wanted to lick him, head to toe. Twice. Slowly.

  Instead, I asked, "You run out of shirts?"

  "Yes. Feel free to take yours off, too, to make it less awkward."

  I curved my lips down to keep them from curling up, which they'd naturally tried to do.

  He wasn't allowed to charm me right now. The bastard.

  I handed him his plate. I could have waited to ask if he was hungry, but I hadn't seen the point. From what I recalled, he never turned down food. Like ever.

  "Thank you," he said.

  We sat down at a round table in the breakfast nook. It was a friendly spot, surrounded by windows. If we were there when the sun rose in a few hours, we'd likely have a killer view.

  I ate my omelet without a word, not looking at him. I had been collecting my thoughts for a while now, and I had too many questions.

  I didn't even know where to start. And I was hesitant to. If he started lying or evading, or so help me God, manipulating me again, this thing would be dead in the water.

  He finished his meal before I did, rising to take his plate to the sink then came back to sit across from me.

  I felt him staring at me while I ate, but I didn't look up.

  I finished about half of my omelet before I pushed my plate toward him. I'd prepared us both the same portion size, just kind of assuming he'd finish what I didn't.

  Because he had a thousand times before. Jesus, even eating together was like walking through a field of landmines.

  Put us together to do anything, and there was a memory behind it. A dozen. A hundred.

  We had words with whole lives attached to them.

  That was the burden of falling in love so young. Of letting yourself go so deep into another person. You owned too much of each other to ever really walk away.

  And we had proven as much. Time and again.

  I waited until he finished the second plate and rose to take it to the sink.

  I got up and followed him. "Your mother's been blackmailing you." It wasn't a question.

  I watched his back as I said the words, witnessed how he braced himself and shuddered like his whole world was crashing down around him.

  Because it was.

  He turned to look at me, and I read too much in the agony of his eyes. Knew too much from what they held. So many of my questions were answered from just that look, if I was honest with myself.

  But denial is a powerful thing, and I wouldn't have minded clinging to it for just a little bit longer.

  "Yes. Yes." He said it with a sort of reverent lightness, as though some grea
t weight had been lifted from him.

  Because years of burdensome secrets had just been taken off his shoulders.

  Jesus, I was a fool.

  "Of course she has," he continued succinctly. "Of course she has."

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  "I know of only one duty, and that is to love."

  ~Albert Camus

  PRESENT

  DANTE

  I was shocked at myself, at my reaction to her words.

  I'd been avoiding this for so long, had gone through so much pain, suffered so much just to keep this from happening.

  I'd never imagined in my wildest dreams that my knee-jerk reaction to having it all come crashing down on me would be a torrential downpour of relief. I was weak with it.

  But also, of course, it was my worst nightmare. The very thing I had always dreaded.

  Because what she would do now that she knew terrified me.

  "This place doesn't feel like a temporary rental to me, Dante," she said, her voice somehow normal.

  Oh, now she was changing the subject? It was infuriating, but I answered her anyway.

  "I am considering making it a more permanent residence . . . My mother can't know about it, you understand." As I spoke, I turned fully to look at her.

  She grinned, tilting her head to study me. An expression fell across her face, one I knew she didn't intend, of almost curious affection.

  That look on her face was like a punch to the gut. So many feelings rushed at me when she studied me like that, like years had disappeared and we were back to some petty arguing that meant nothing in the long-term to us, some form of the old bickering that we used to enjoy when we still had complete faith that our bond to each other was unassailable.

  This wasn't that, of course I knew that, but it was painfully pleasurable to pretend that it could be like that, even for only an evening.

  "You plan to stay in L.A. . . . close to me . . . as long as your mother doesn't know about it." She tapped her chin as she spoke, looking thoughtful.