“Do you ever get tired of the—” I begin to ask him a question, but I promptly lose my train of thought when I feel the warmth of his palm on my left thigh.
This is unexpected.
Robert glances my way, his fingers inching up, his hand sliding beneath the hem of my dress with bold casualness as the city lights flash and flicker across his face, almost contorting it.
Funny how beautiful those lights were a mere moment ago.
My heart hammers and my stomach knots. I’m paralyzed, contemplating how I’m going to handle this, but the seconds feel as if they’re moving twice as fast and my mind isn’t able to function at that speed with his hand on my inner thigh.
“What are you doing?” I manage to ask, my eyes dragging from my lap to his narrowed regard. Gone is his charming smile, and in its place is a determined leer.
I jerk my leg out from under his disgusting mitt but it’s not like I have much room to move. The inside of the car is tight and narrow and aerodynamic. Space between us isn’t exactly a thing.
“Come on.” He doesn’t care that I’m leaning away, that I’m making it clear that I’m not okay with this. His hand slides deeper between my thighs, but I dig my nails into his arm, peeling it off me, and then squeeze my knees together.
My eyes burn before watering, but I blink it all away. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s upset me. That would imply he’s got some kind of power over me, and bastards like him get off on that shit.
He reaches across the console yet again, but this time I slap his hand away.
“I want out. Let me out.” I reach for the door handle but we’re moving and the door is locked.
Robert’s car slams to a stop at the next light, and he almost rear-ends a red BMW. The seatbelt locks across my chest and I look to the door handle again. Scanning the outside, I envision what would happen if I bolted out of here, but the three lanes of bumper to bumper traffic separating us from the nearest sidewalk might make this difficult.
“You’re insanely gorgeous.” He reaches for my hand, peeling it off my lap and slipping his fingers through mine. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you, Melrose.”
And the way he says my name sends bile rising up the back of my throat.
“I told you,” he says, looking at me. Every time his eyes land on me, I feel cheaper than I did the time before. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you all night. You’re a work of art, Melrose, and you’re going places. But I’d like to see more of you.”
Pulling my hand across the center console, he places it on the outside of his suit pants, rubbing it along his stiff cock. The scratchy fabric covering his thick bulge is a feeling I’m never going to forget as long as I live.
I’m not a violent person but if ever there were a time …
I don’t think twice. I just do it. I squeeze. Hard.
The disgusting bulge of his package fills my palm and I clamp down, nails and all, crushing it as much as possible through his thick suit fabric.
Robert swerves, almost hitting a neon yellow Corvette. “You fucking bitch!”
“Pull over.” I stare ahead, though from the corner of my eye, I can tell he’s wincing and red-faced. His fingers grip the steering wheel until his knuckles glow white in the dark.
He laughs, like he doesn’t take me seriously. “What?”
“Pull over,” I say, teeth gritted. “I want out.”
This isn’t the greatest section of L.A., but there’s a twenty-four-hour CVS on the corner and I can wait there while I order an Uber.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs. The CVS comes into view and then vanishes into the distance as he continues to drive. “I was just trying to show you how sexy you are. It’s a good thing. No need to get all sensitive about it.”
“Sensitive?” My jaw falls. “You were trying to slip your hand up my dress and then you forced me to touch your cock. Let me out, Robert. Now.”
His mouth presses into a flat line and he exhales before checking his rear-view mirror and pulling closer to the right side of the road.
I’ve gone on dates with plenty of older men before, but none of them have been as presumptive as this jackass. I should’ve known as thick as he was laying on the praise that this was his intention. Instead I was seduced by the hope he was feeding me, clinging to his every word like an idiot.
I hate, hate that Sutter was right about Robert.
“You know how this works, don’t you?” he asks when he pulls into a parking spot next to an Irish pub. “You’ve been around long enough now.”
“I’ve never slept with anyone for a part.”
“Maybe not yet … but you will someday.” His face is twisted, forehead wrinkled like he’s looking at a drowned rat and not a twenty-something blonde in a form-fitting black dress. “I could’ve changed your life, sweetheart…”
I roll my eyes at the thick condescension and blatant arrogance that certainly wasn’t in his tone earlier tonight.
“Good news is, there’s a lot more where you came from,” Robert says with a chuff. He unlocks the doors and I lunge for the handle, stepping out and breathing a sigh of relief when my heels land against hard concrete like anchors to dry land.
Slamming his car door, I tuck my clutch under my arm and walk as fast as I can to the pub and lose myself in the crowded darkness inside. For some insane reason, I feel safer in here, with all these strangers, than I do out there. They’re like a wall of protection, a barrier from what just happened. He can’t and he won’t follow me in here, not to a place like this. Men like Robert don't set foot in places with sticky floors and stale cigarette smoke polluting the air.
I find a corner and take a moment to breathe and collect my composure. Pulling my phone from my purse, I order a ride home with trembling fingers as my mind attempts to blank out the last ten minutes of my life.
* * *
The house is dark when we pull up, but Sutter’s truck is parked out front. I’m surprised he’s not out painting the town on a Saturday evening or hosting a few of his buddies like he did the other night, but I’m relieved.
I don’t want to see anyone—and I don’t want anyone to see shame painted all over me. In one night, I’ve eaten crow, put my foot in my mouth, and bruised my ego.
Grabbing my key, I make my way up the cracked and pitted sidewalk toward the front porch. The flicker of the TV against the living room window tells me I’m going to see him the second I walk inside, but if I’m lucky, the house will be dark enough that he won’t see the way I look and won’t ask why I look like I’ve been fighting off tears for the past hour.
I check the door to find it isn’t locked, so I slide my key back in my purse and head inside. Kicking off my heels as soon as I step in, I swoop down and gather them in my arms, only when I rise, I steal a peek toward the living room and nearly choke on my spit when I see a topless girl grinding on Sutter’s lap, her hands in his hair and her breasts pressed against him.
She tries to kiss him, not realizing they’re not alone anymore, but he’s looking at me.
My mind is telling me to get the hell out of there, but my feet refuse to move.
The girl in his lap cups her hands on his cheek and giggles before whispering something into his ear, but his dead stare is laser focused in my direction—like he’s studying me. Frozen. Paralyzed.
“Oh my god!” The girl shrieks when she follows his stare and sees me standing by the front door.
“I’m … I’m sorry.” I shield my eyes and tuck my shoes and clutch beneath my arm before taking the stairs two at a time until I get to my room.
Dropping my things on the edge of the bed, I go to Murphy’s kennel and lower myself to my knees. He licks my hand through the cage door and I let him out. He paws at my chest until I scoop him up.
Screw the dog hair. I’m never wearing this thing again.
It’s tainted. Bad juju, as my mother would say.
Murphy whimpers, like he needs to go outsi
de, but the only way to the backyard is through the living room.
“I’ll take you in a second, I promise,” I tell him, peeling out of the dress. On the way to the dresser to grab some pajamas, I steal a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Red cheeks. Mascara streaks. Puffy eyelids from all the pressure behind my eyes.
All that and I didn’t even cry that hard—I mostly fought the tears, refusing to let eighty percent of them fall. That’s the thing about being an actress—most of the time you’re in complete control of your emotions, but every once in a while, when they’re real and strong and you’ve had a couple of glasses of wine … you’re powerless against them.
Sliding on a pair of cotton shorts and a white tank top, I grab my phone and text Nick.
I need someone to make me smile, to take my mind off of what took place earlier, to remind me there are still good people in this world.
12
Sutter
“Who was that?” Tiffanie asks, breathless and chest rising and falling. She brushes the messy hair from her face.
“My roommate,” I say. My hands slide away from her thighs and I breathe in a lungful of her overzealous perfume. The plan was to kick things off down here and then carry her up to my room and have my way with her, but she pounced on me the second she stepped through the door.
It all happened so fast, and I’m not even hard anymore.
One look at Melrose’s tear-stained face and my little party-for-two was ruined.
Crying girls is my Kryptonite. It’s the one thing I can’t handle, the one thing that reminds me I do, indeed, have a heart and the ability to feel as much as I like to believe I’m immune to that shit.
Mom left when I was in high school and I spent the majority of my formative teenage years under the roof of an authoritarian dictator who solved all his problems with a nightly bottle of Ten High from the liquor outlet on Harvester Road and a two-liter of store-brand cherry cola.
Emotions weren’t a thing in our house.
Didn’t make the cut for the team? So what. Stop being a crybaby and find another sport.
Girlfriend dumped you? Screw her. Women are nothing but trouble anyway.
There was never sympathy, never any pats on the back or words of encouragement, and I grew up thinking that was normal, that men were wired not to feel a damn thing. Turns out when I got to my twenties and had a string of failed relationships, I realized being stone cold was not normal.
And I also learned I had no clue what the hell to do or think or say when someone else is visibly upset … but I can’t sit back and do nothing.
I can’t screw Tiffanie tonight while Melrose is upstairs crying.
“Sutter.” Tiff rakes her nails through my hair, pressing her tits against me before nuzzling her nose against my ear.
My hands rest on her hips and I release a hard breath. “I’m sorry.”
She sits up, chin angled to the side as she studies me. “You’re sorry? What are you talking about?”
I glance at her smooth, O.C. tits and feel … nothing. They might as well be non-sexual grapefruits at this point. All I keep picturing is the look on Melrose’s swollen, makeup-stained face when she walked in, and all I keep thinking about is that squeeze in my chest when I knew something was wrong.
“You should go.” I reach to my left, grabbing Tiff’s top and bra and handing them over before sliding her off of my lap.
“You serious?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I straighten my jeans and glance toward the stairs. I need to go up and check on her, but I have no idea what the hell to even say.
We’re not even friends and she’s done nothing but annoy the ever-loving shit out of me since she got here, but something compels me to go to her.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asks, clasping her bra.
“No.”
She tugs her top over her hair before fluffing her hair over her shoulders. “I don’t understand …”
“I’m … not in the mood anymore.” I swipe her purse off the back of an arm chair and hand it over before escorting her to the front door. “I’m sorry. Another time?”
“I cancelled a Bumble date tonight to come over here.” She steps into her heels, speaking through clenched teeth as she eyes the staircase. “Don’t call me. Don’t text me. And go fuck yourself.”
With that, she yanks my door open and slams it behind her, and I head to the kitchen to grab a couple of beers.
By the looks of things, she’s going to need one, and if I’m going to be putting my assholery aside, I’m going to need one too.
A moment later, I’m standing outside Melrose’s door, two sweaty beer bottles under one arm as I knock.
“Go away, Sutter,” she calls, voice stuffy.
I knock again.
“Go. Away,” she says.
A third knock should do it. A fourth if I must. I’m not going anywhere tonight.
Seconds later, the door swings open with a hard pull and Melrose’s frown neutralizes when she sees the drinks in my hand.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“You look like you had a rough night.” I hand hers over, but she doesn't accept it right away.
Her tired stare rests on my outstretched hand. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Weirding you out too, huh?”
I manage to get the smallest smile out of her. I think. It’s gone before I can be sure.
Finally taking my generous gift, Melrose raises her brows and takes a swig. “Guess not.”
“You want to talk about it?” I ask, hooking my hand behind my neck. I’m terrible at these kinds of things and I don’t like to talk for the sake of talking, but I’ve come this far.
“Is your girlfriend gone?” She ignores my question.
“Acquaintance. And yeah. I sent her home.”
“You did?” Her forehead crinkles, like she doesn’t believe it.
I nod. And I don’t believe it myself. I’ve never put sex on the back burner so I could comfort some crying chick.
“I need to let Murphy out.” Melrose scoops the wrinkly beast into her arms and treks downstairs, cutting through the living room and kitchen to get to the backyard.
I follow, stepping out to the patio and sliding the door closed behind me. Murphy trots off, disappearing somewhere in the dark yard, and Melrose takes a seat on one of the steps. The moonlight makes her shine almost, painting a glow onto her bronzed skin and silky hair.
“So … you’re okay then?” I ask, picking at the label on my bottle. It occurs to me that I still haven't thanked her for folding my shirts the other day, but this doesn't feel like the right time.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says.
“Do what?”
“Feel sorry for me,” she says, turning and glancing up. “I don’t need your pity.”
“I don’t feel sorry for you. I don’t even know what happened,” I say. “But judging by the way you were dressed when you came home … I’m thinking it had to do with some douche.”
“You were right, Sutter.” She picks at the label on her bottle. “I went out with Robert McCauley tonight.”
My chest tightens. I already know where this is going.
“He took what could’ve been a memorable evening and turned it into a Hollywood cliché ripped straight from last year's headlines.” She draws her knees against her chest and clasps her hands around them. “All my years trying to make it and all the dates I’ve been on, I’ve never felt so cheap and used.”
I take the spot on the stairs beside her, catching a whiff of her fragrant perfume as it’s carried by a breeze. This one’s different from the one she wore on moving day. It’s subtle and pretty, unassuming. Like clementines and apricots or some shit.
Melrose takes a drink, tapping her painted nails on the green bottle and squinting like she’s lost in thought.
“What guy thinks that making you touch his hard-on is a good precursor to sex?” she asks. “Is that supposed to turn me on
? Grabbing my hand and forcefully making me touch it?”
“Did he hurt you?” I glance down at her wrists, but it’s too dark out here to tell if there are any marks.
“Not physically, no,” she says. “I was a little shaken up afterwards.” Melrose lifts a hand, which is still trembling. “Guess I still am.”
“You need to report this.” My chest tightens and I realize I’m holding my breath. I could kill him. I could fucking kill him.
For the briefest moment, I picture body slamming the fat bastard against the back of his Ferrari.
Melrose shakes her hand. “I kind of just want to forget it happened.”
Placing my bottle aside, I shake my head. “I’m sure you’re not the only one. Guy’s probably done it to dozens of other girls. And he probably keeps doing it because it probably works for him. I’m glad you were wrong and all and stood up to him, but you can’t let him get away with this.”
“What are they going to do? It’s my word against his,” she says. “They’ll probably think I’m making it up.”
“Who gives a flying fuck what they think? This needs to be reported.”
Melrose turns toward the yard, watching Murphy sniff a magnolia bush.
Rising, I motion for her to join me. “Come on. Let’s go. I’ll drive you.”
Melrose angles her face toward me, resting her cheek against the top of her knee. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Does it matter?”
“No. I guess not,” she says, standing. “It’s just … I don’t know if you’re trolling me or if this is real.”
“I’m not trolling you, Melrose. I don’t joke about this shit.” I have to admit, it’s kind of nice being civil with her for once. “I might be a dick sometimes, but I’m not heartless.”
Her full lips part, like she’s about to respond, but the buzz of her phone hijacks her train of thought.
Swiping her thumb across her screen, she taps on a message. A quick glance shows it’s from Nick. Her swollen eyes scan the words before a smile claims her mouth, and she taps out a quick response.
The Complete P.S. Series Page 28