Beneath the Scars

by Melanie Moreland

  I sat down, my legs too shaky to hold me up. “I get it. Your entire life was based on your face. Don’t even get me started on how fucking wrong that is.”

  He gave me a strange look. “That’s how it was. It was all I knew.”

  “Still wrong,” I seethed. “There’s so much more to you than a face.”

  Suddenly, he crossed over and cupped my face again, but this time his touch was different; gentler. He dropped a soft kiss to my mouth. “Thank you,” he breathed. Before I could react, he was gone again. My lips tingled from his kiss and the depth behind those two small words.

  I shook my head to clear it. “Okay, so you were a bad boy now.”

  “I was an adult with the mindset of a spoiled child—a very bad combination. I went from an egotistical teen star, used to getting his way, to an arrogant self-obsessed adult. It was all about me. Just like my mother had taught me. Everything I wanted I got. I used people, Megan. Unless you were of use to me you weren’t in my life, and once I was done with you: that was that. I had no one in my life that was loyal to me, and I was loyal to no one.”

  “Weren’t you lonely?”

  He shrugged, silent for a moment. “I never thought about it. I didn’t know any different—I’d been doing that all my life. Who I was, the person I had been, never changed. I was conceited—selfish. I was considered a great actor, but an awful person. My reputation preceded me on every project I worked on.” I shrugged. “And I didn’t care. All my life I had been used and now I was using people. It was a vicious cycle.

  “I enjoyed being an actor. I liked it, enjoyed the craft, and as I learned more, I got better roles, so I suppose I was happy with that part of my life. Outside of that, I filled my time with empty shit: parties, cars, stuff, women.” He paused, looking uncomfortable. “Lots of women.”

  I swallowed nervously at his tone and body language; both were tense. “And none of them meant anything to you?”

  “Never.” He inhaled deeply. “I used them and they used me right back. I was a great way to get their name in the paper—a date with Adam Dennis. Being seen on my arm would guarantee publicity.”

  “And what would you get out of it?” I asked, sliding my hands under my legs so he couldn’t see how hard they were shaking. I waited for his reply, already knowing and dreading the answer.

  “Sex. Publicity as well, but often a blow job in the limo or a fast fuck before I went home.” He stared at me. “I never stayed; ever. And…rarely, very rarely was there ever a second date. Unless it was something I wanted.”

  His matter-of-fact tone made my stomach roll, but I fought to keep my expression neutral. I knew if I got upset, he would stop talking and I needed to hear this; I needed to hear everything.

  “You didn’t form a…relationship with anyone? Ever?”

  “No. I didn’t want one. I saw how my parents used each other. How they used me. I thought that was what love did to a person. I watched people all around me use each other and walk away so easily from someone they claimed to love. I didn’t want any part of it. I refused to let it happen to me.”

  “So bitter,” I murmured.

  He shook his head. “Realistic.”

  “Not always.”

  “In my world, yes.”

  “I don’t think I like your world.”

  He barked out a bitter laugh. “My world didn’t like me either.” His eyes narrowed. “I told you it wasn’t pretty. Do you want me to stop?”

  “No.”

  His voice softened, the cold edge melting a small amount. “It’s my past, Megan. You asked me for honesty. I’m trying to give you that.”

  “I know. I’m fine.” I inhaled deeply, willing myself to remain calm. “Was there anything good in your life, Zachary? Anything good at all?”

  He turned to the mantle, his fingers drifting over his painting. “I went into rehab for substance abuse when I was twenty-two and part of the therapy was finding an outlet to express myself. I thought it was bullshit. I thought all of it was bullshit—until I picked up a paint brush.” I watched, fascinated, as his hand moved fluidly over the swirls. I could see him recreating them in his mind, the paint being layered on the canvas as he created his work. “I could paint. I mean, I always liked to draw and sketch, but I had no idea I could paint.” Abruptly, he turned. “So I guess that was good. I didn’t share it with anyone, but it was something I could do, that was mine, you know?”

  I nodded, my heart tugging in my chest. All he had was painting—and no one to share that with—no one he trusted. A small piece of himself he protected from the world.

  “What happened, Zachary?”

  He paced up and down in front of the fireplace—his steps measured and heavy as he walked. At one point he stopped and hunched down, running his hands over Elliott’s head, his face awash in deep emotions, but he remained silent.

  “I used people, Megan. Badly.”

  “So you said.”

  He looked up, the darkness in his expression causing my breath to hitch in my throat. “My last film, I was twenty-five. I was jaded and bitter. I didn’t care about anything or anybody. I was rich, arrogant, and I took what I wanted.” He sighed, standing up and dropping into the chair across from me. “I decided I wanted my co-star.”

  I started feeling ill at the mere thought of what was to come, but I still had to know. “And?”

  “My agent warned me to stay away from her; Marni was married and the rumors were that her marriage was in trouble. He told me she was vulnerable. He even used the word ‘unstable.’” His voice lowered, self-hatred coloring its tone. “I didn’t care. It was perfect for me; a warm body to fuck while on location, then I could walk away when the film was complete. No strings.”

  “But that wasn’t what happened?”

  “No. The first few days I pursued her, charmed her; that was how I worked. The chase was fun; it always was for me…and we had an affair.”

  “Did she know about your thoughts on relationships?”

  “I told her I wasn’t interested in anything permanent. I thought she was okay with that.”

  “But she wasn’t?”

  “No.”

  The room was quiet, only the cracking of the fire and the sounds of the ocean in the distance could be heard. I wanted to ask him, to demand he tell me what happened, but he was so lost inside his head, I knew he wouldn’t hear me.

  “Ryan was right. It wasn’t a good idea. She projected this bitchy, independent vibe, but she wasn’t. When I look back, I think maybe she was as lost as me. I broke it off with her a few days before we wrapped. She was getting too clingy, and I was done with it all; it was time for me to move on. She was so angry and upset. We argued, and things got rather ugly. She, ah, told me she loved me.”

  He looked at me, his expression blank. “I told her I didn’t care. She knew the rules at the start. It was her problem, not mine. I told her to go back to her husband.”

  “What happened?”

  “We argued some more and I got tired of it, so I decided to leave. She was crying, which didn’t bother me in the slightest and only made her angrier. I told her to use that anger when we filmed the final scene we had together a couple days later; that maybe, for the first time I’d see a decent performance from her.”

  “You were cruel.”

  He nodded. “She slapped me and told me I would regret my actions.” He paused. “I laughed at her. I told her I already did, and nothing she did could make me regret it more.”

  A shiver ran down my spine.

  Zachary’s haunted gaze met mine.

  “I was wrong.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  My heart pounded in my chest as I waited for Zachary to talk. I felt the damp nervous sweat at the back of my neck, and I struggled to remain calm.

  Zachary stared into the fire; silent, motionless. His long fingers were steepled together, his elbows resting on his thighs as he stared, lost to some deep memory in his head.

  He stood up agai
n, pacing, ignoring me. Back and forth he went, in constant motion. He was like a caged animal; tense and frantic. I couldn’t speak. I was afraid if I tried, all the emotion I was holding in would burst forth and he would close in on himself again.

  Finally, his pacing stopped. He braced himself against the mantle, his back to me, his voice filled with agony. The distance he fought to maintain was gone and his pain was tangible.

  “I didn’t see Marni until our final scene. She seemed fine. Distant, cold, but fine, which was okay with me. I wasn’t feeling very responsive toward her, either. Ironically, the scene was me being a big man and letting the woman I loved go, so she could have a better life. Marni’s character pleads with me, begs me to change my mind and in the final moment becomes angry. She was to throw the contents of her glass in my face, slap me and storm away.” He paused. “The final shot would be of me watching her walk away, standing in the room where we’d made love, candles flickering, all very dreamlike. My face would be tormented, knowing I had done the right thing in letting her go. It was supposed to be very climatic and emotional.”

  He stopped talking abruptly and I could see his shoulders moving with his rapid breaths. I forced myself to remain where I was and not go to him. My own breaths were coming out fast, and part of me wanted to tell him to stop, that I didn’t want to hear anymore, but I couldn’t. I was the one who begged for him to talk and no matter how much I hated it, I had to listen.

  I found my voice. “Tell me.”

  “We did a quick run through. We had already rehearsed it all thoroughly. Where we would stand, how much water was in the glass she threw, how she had to toss it, so it hit me properly. All of it. We were ready and I just wanted the scene done and over.

  “Something was wrong—off. Marni was too calm and she looked…vacant. I was on edge and jittery. I expected attitude and anger, not a passive attitude. Then—”

  “Then?” I prompted gently.

  “We got ready to roll and she did something strange. She lifted the glass with the water in it and drank it. The set director started to come toward her and she laughed, waving him off and lifted the bottle she had with her saying sorry, she’d fill it herself. She made a joke that she was thirsty and forgot; everyone sort of laughed—she was known for being a little different, eccentric, that way.” He turned to face me, not moving. I felt like the naked pain on his face was holding me in my seat. “But everything felt wrong, the hair on the back of my neck was standing up and I was jumpy. I felt as though I was on a precipice, waiting, but I didn’t know what I was waiting for.”

  “Did you say anything?”

  He shook his head. “Everyone was tense on set. They all knew what had happened between Marni and me, so no one was really comfortable that day. I told myself I was being paranoid. It was the final scene and I was anxious for it to be done. That was all.”

  “But it wasn’t your imagination, was it?”

  “No. We went through the scene up to the point of her throwing the water at me, and then we were ready to go.” Zachary let out a deep sigh. “The cameras started rolling and we both slipped into our characters. It was perfect—both of us were on our mark. The last part of the scene, Marni picked up her glass and looked at me.” Zachary’s hand lifted to his face in an unconscious gesture of defense. “Her eyes were cold and determined and so fucking filled with insanity…that I knew. I knew right then something was going to happen.”

  His words were coming faster now, his accent more pronounced, his hands clenching and unclenching. “I couldn’t stop it, I couldn’t move. It was as if I was watching it from outside my body—looking in, and powerless to stop it.” His breath started coming out in small gasps. “It was all choreographed. I was supposed to stand there and take it. Let her throw the water at me and not move; be stoic. We’d rehearsed it enough, I could watch the water come at me and not even blink. But it wasn’t right. She wasn’t right. As soon as she tossed the contents of the glass my arm came up.” His hands balled into fists, his entire body trembling now.

  “What was it?”

  “Vodka. What everyone thought was water was alcohol; she replaced the water she drank with straight vodka. It hit my face, burning my eye and soaking into my shirt.

  “Before I could react or anyone else realized what was happening, she picked up a lit candle”—he swallowed and lowered his voice—“and set me on fire.”

  My stomach lurched and I covered my mouth as I stared at him in horror. Not only had she done all that, but she’d planned it.

  Zachary’s eyes were wide, filled with the emotion of his terrible memories. He braced himself against the wall with one shaking arm.

  “It happened so fast. Chaos broke out. I fell down, screaming in pain, Marni was ranting and shouting, trying to stop people from getting to me. The accelerant was everywhere so fire was burning on the set, as well as me. All I vaguely remember is the screaming and shouting as people rushed around.” His voice became gritty with emotion. “I remember the smell of my flesh burning. The pain overtook me and I blacked out.”

  “And Marni?”

  Zachary’s head shook slightly, as if he was trying to clear his mind. His chest heaved with a large puff of air.

  “She killed herself.”

  I shook with nerves. I’d never felt so cold in my life as I huddled into the blanket, my body physically reacting as Zachary’s words kept repeating in my head—a constant unending circle. So many emotions raged within me. Grief and sorrow for Zachary’s suffering. I felt a fierce, almost primal anger toward a woman I never met, for inflicting such horror and pain onto another person, then in a cowardly act, taking her own life. I drew the blanket closer; my hands gripping the soft material so tight my knuckles were white as I struggled not to be overwhelmed. I needed to be calm for Zachary when he returned.

  After he told me Marni had killed herself, he had locked down. “I have to walk. I have to go. I need—”

  I only nodded, unable to stop him. He paused at the door. “Will you be here when I get back?”

  “Yes.”

  His shoulders lost a little of their tension and he called for both dogs, closing the door quietly behind him, leaving me alone with the deafening silence. I had no idea how long he’d be gone, but I knew this time he would be coming back. I had to wait for him and be here when he did. I had to be strong for him.

  I was surprised when the door opened again not long after. I was silent as I watched him shed his coat and join me on the sofa. Reaching out, he pulled me onto his lap, holding me tight as I gathered the blanket around us both. The tension in his body began to dissipate. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  “Why?”

  “I shouldn’t have said all that and walked away again. I know you have questions. I needed to clear my head, though.”

  “I understand.”

  A shaky sigh escaped him. “I needed to hold you. I needed to know you’re for real.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  His arms tightened and I snuggled deeper into his warmth. Minutes passed as we drew comfort from one another.

  Slowly, my shaking stopped and I drew back. He looked so drawn and weary, his eyes dull and flat. “We don’t have to talk anymore today.”

  “I want to.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I want to finish it.” His hands cupped the back of my head, restlessly stroking my skin. “Help me finish it, Megan.”

  I nodded, understanding he needed my questions again.

  “Can you tell me what happened…after?”

  Gently, he lifted me off his lap and got up, once again on edge. As if sensing the growing tension in the room, the dogs crept away, heading for the kitchen. I wasn’t sure if Zachary even noticed them leaving.

  “I only know what I was told.” He frowned. “I was out for a while. They weaned me off the drugs gradually, letting my periods of consciousness become longer, until I was lucid enough to understand what had happened. That Marni had d
one that for revenge. She had a total break from reality—Ryan told me she laughed as she watched me burn.”

  My stomach heaved as I listened. I wanted to get up and wrap him in my arms as he spoke, finally letting the memories that had festered and raged inside, out into the open. I knew, though, if I touched him right now he would shut down. I had to sit and let him talk, yell, scream…whatever it took.

  “She died that day?”

  “Yes. In the chaos she ran to her trailer and locked herself in. She, ah, shot herself. Besides the alcohol there were drugs in her system. She knew what she was going to do; she knew she was going to set me on fire, then kill herself.” His eyes were filled with guilt. “I did that to her. Ryan told me she was unstable. He warned me she had a history of nervous breakdowns and she’d even attempted suicide once. She did a few strange things that should have set off alarm bells in my head, but as usual, I blocked them out. I remember waking up one night, finding her in my room, just staring at me—she had somehow got a copy of my key. Another time I found her going through my stuff, taking little things she thought I wouldn’t miss. I chalked it up to her quirkiness instead of seeing the truth.” He shook his head. “When I told Ryan he warned me again, but in my usual selfish way, I ignored him and did what I wanted. Took what I wanted. Only this time I paid a price. We both did.”

  “She made the decision to hurt you.”

  He shook his head. “She wasn’t in her right mind. I pushed her over the edge with my cruelty.”

  Remembering his words from the other day, I cleared my throat. “You don’t think you deserved what happened, do you?”

  “No.” He sighed. “Not most of the time, but at others, I think maybe I did.”

  I shook my head furiously. “No. Nobody deserves that to happen to them. Ever.”

  “What I did—”

  “—was wrong. You were cruel. You were also only human; you made a huge error in judgment. She could have done a dozen things to show her displeasure. She was obviously sick, Zachary.”