“You don’t need his name. You know everything you need to know about him. You know where to show up for the dates, and you obviously know what makes him happy.” He was silent a moment, then he asked, “Are you falling for him? Is that what this is all about?”
“No, I’m not falling for him,” I said, and I sounded like a whiny, needy liar.
“Because if you are, you need to remove yourself from the situation. You know that’s not how this works, and you know…” I could practically see him shaking his head. “You know any love for him wouldn’t be returned. So if you’re falling for him—”
“I’m not!”
“Then why are you calling me at four-thirty in the morning? What do you need?”
His name. His number. Anything about him. “Nothing,” I said. “I don’t need anything. I’m sorry. Go back to sleep.”
I hung up on Henry. He called back a moment later, but I let it go to voicemail. Fuck him and his accusations. I got up, took off the shoes from hell, and started down the street. Eventually a cab would pick me up, and if one didn’t, then I’d just walk the fuck home, fueled by my frustrated anger.
Even if I was falling in love with W, it wouldn’t matter, because I’d lost faith in love. Love lies. Love flies.
Love dies.
Why the hell would I want to start that cycle all over again?
The Mandarin Oriental Session
Simon and I had a huge fight Tuesday night, when he finally came down from the art opening high. I made the mistake of reminding him of his promises, his plans to go to rehab. His reply was a furious rampage that left his studio—and several of his works—in shambles.
“Is this what you want?” he screamed. “You want me to destroy my career? Give up everything I’ve worked for?”
It was no use reminding him that we’d planned this all along, that he’d promised to take a break after the show to get better. Addicts had no memory, and no reasoning abilities.
His raging turned to shouting, and we engaged in the usual melee, where I called him an addict and he called me a whore, and told me that I was just jealous. “You won’t leave,” he said, when I threatened to break up with him. “You’re too fucking weak to leave.”
I drifted through the Mandarin Oriental’s lobby, still numb from the things Simon and I had said to each other, from the vast emptiness that opened between us each time we tried to communicate. It probably wasn’t the best time to show up for a date with W, but we’d made arrangements, so I wore my black maxi dress for mourning, a pair of black patent pumps, and nothing else. The last thing I needed was a pair of panties setting off my temperamental client.
He opened the door and my heart gave its usual flip as he fixed me in his leonine gaze. He was already shirtless, and his pants were undone. No underwear. That made two of us.
“Hello,” I said.
I couldn’t meet his gaze; it was too intense. I fixed my eyes on his chin, staring at a couple days’ worth of stubble. He had an amazing, stubborn chin.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?” His growl drew my gaze to his lips as he yanked me through the door.
He shoved me down with one hand and pushed his pants down to his hips with the other. He was hard in an instant, and buried in my throat. His fingers wrapped around the back of my neck when I tried to jerk away. The maxi dress pooled around my knees, and I kicked off the shoes so the patent finish wouldn’t be ruined by the carpet. I was so numb, so outside myself that those were the things I thought about: whether my skirt was arranged prettily, whether my shoes would get scuffed.
It didn’t take him very long to realize I wasn’t present in that face he violently ravaged. I looked up at him when he smacked my cheek, and I wasn’t there either. I was back in Simon’s studio, watching him rip up a canvas and call me a freak and a whore, and blame me for all his problems.
W pulled out of my mouth and yanked me up by my hair. That finally got through to me, that sharp, screaming pain. He knew the top of my scalp was more sensitive than the sides. He knew all the best ways to hurt me by now. I tried to squirm away and found myself thrown back against the wall.
“Don’t fight me today, damn you. Just let me have you.”
He pinned my legs open with his knee and yanked my dress straps down. Something ripped, a ragged sound to harmonize with my ragged breath. He grabbed my arms, slapped my breasts and pinched my nipples. He shoved his thigh up against my pussy and I cringed from the pressure, but I didn’t pull away.