Breaking Him

by R. K. Lilley

  But if I were being honest with myself there was a good chance I’d be happy for them. I might even be thrilled for them. Because I’d come to care for them and wanted great things for them. Because they were my friends.

  What the hell had these damn girls done to me? When had I gone soft?

  I’d surrounded myself with nice people. Apparently the condition was contagious.

  Fuck me. I’d always been taught that kindness was a close cousin to weakness, so it didn’t settle easy on me. I doubted I’d ever let it.

  I told myself they were the exception. I was otherwise still hard as nails.

  Leona went out with her new ‘boyfriend’ for the day. I tried not to roll my eyes when she referred to him as such. They’d been dating a very short time, and she didn’t know him well enough to give him that title, and also he was a pilot, and therefore untrustworthy, but I kept that to myself. She seemed happy, and I did enough of my own bubble bursting. I didn’t need to do the same to her. Not everyone had to be as miserable as I was. Maybe she’d found herself the one faithful pilot on the planet. My cynical mind couldn’t fathom it, but I hoped for her sake that I was wrong and she was right.

  Demi decided to crash for the day, and Farrah took off shopping with some friends.

  Normally I was down to shop in a big way, but my mood was too dark even for retail therapy. I was not fit company for anyone today, let alone someone I actually liked. I might inflict this extra sharp version of myself on my worst enemy if I were forced to, but certainly not a friend.

  I did the only thing post-therapy me could do when fuming with impotent rage.

  There was no real way to vent it. No way to make it actually go away.

  The best I could do was try to push it somewhere to the back of my mind, or at least not at the forefront.

  So I baked. And drank. A lot of both.

  Baking cupcakes and drinking scotch. Ardently courting comfort and oblivion.

  Oblivion was particularly elusive when I was at this level of keyed up, so I settled for getting buzzed and keeping busy with mindless chores.

  I don’t bake often, but I do it well, even out of practice. Sweet carbs rarely find their way into the apartment of four actresses, but I knew no one could resist my cupcakes, even if they’d all be cursing me for it later.

  I told myself, to appease the sharper half of my personality, that if I made my competition gain a few pounds it was an added bonus, but it rang hollow, more like a humorless joke than anything else.

  Our hideous dog, Amos, kept me company, nudging my legs and licking my toes as I worked, the damned mutt.

  He was the ugliest dog in the world. His fur was half kinky curly, half sticking straight up in the air and the color was a mix of different shades of poo brown. He had one light blue eye, one dark one, and his muzzle was long and homely, his teeth sticking out of his mouth at odd angles. He was hideous. Some kind of a mix that apparently nobody but me had wanted.

  Well, I wouldn’t say I’d wanted him.

  So why did I have a dog I’d never wanted?

  Ten months ago I’d found him in a dumpster down the street. Someone had thrown him away.

  I sympathized with the poor guy.

  I tolerated him. He was a sweet thing. Slobbery and ugly as hell. And affectionate to a fault.

  But I didn’t even like dogs. I was a cat person.

  I loved cats. Everything about them. I loved that they could be vicious and adorable in equal parts. The way they loved you more if you ignored them. How they did whatever the hell they wanted and with outright defiance. They soothed me with their sleek bodies, soft fur, loud purrs, contrary ways and bad attitudes.

  I loved cats, but I had a dog.

  Story of my life. I was a conflicted person. Never at peace with myself. Hard to please. A malcontent.

  I refused to be happy about any part of it, even something as simple as having a pet.

  I collected eccentric and funny cat T-shirts. I liked to wear them around the house, sigh at Amos, and occasionally lecture him about how how disappointing he was to me.

  He’d always just wag his tail, gaze at me with absolute adoration, and wait for any affection I might have to give him.

  Damn dogs, with their unconditional love and unfalteringly bad breath. Who could deal with either of those things?

  I knew I should have just gotten a cat, but it seemed wrong somehow, to get a frivolous thing like a second pet when we all traveled as much as we did. Our neighbor took in Amos when we were out of town, but we could hardly ask him to take in still another pet part-time.

  Also, some part of me had a really big problem with openly seeking out something that might bring me joy. Like, with all the things I’d done that were actually sins, looking for a bit of happiness in my life was the real transgression.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  “Give a girl the right shoes, and she can conquer the world.”

  ~Marilyn Monroe

  For all intents and purposes, I had the apartment to myself for the majority of the day.

  It was for the best. I had a lot of baking and drinking to do before I was even close to fit for company.

  I was frosting my fifth batch of cupcakes (these red velvet) when the doorbell rang.

  My eyes narrowed, and my first instinct was to ignore it. I just had a bad feeling. Nothing I could put into words, just a need to avoid that could be for any number of reasons, not the least of which that I was working on getting stupid, sloppy drunk, and the condition was eluding me.

  Nope, I decided. Not answering.

  The doorbell rang again, and this time a sleepy Demi came out of her room, gave me a good morning/afternoon wave, and went to open it herself before I could stop her.

  I went back to frosting and didn’t look up again until she plopped a large red box on the kitchen counter scant inches from my growing horde of cupcakes. I’d made three flavors—German chocolate, vanilla cream, and red velvet.

  “Oh my God,” she said slowly, her big blue eyes wide. “What are all these cupcakes for?”

  I looked at her. She was a gorgeous little thing with big, bright blue eyes, masses of dark hair, pale skin, and a rosebud mouth. She was petite but curvy in all the right places. She basically looked and was the Hollywood version of Snow White. “You. Help yourself.”

  “You bitch!” she shot back, making me smile for the first time all day. Her calling me a bitch to my face was 100% my influence on her, and I loved it. “You know I have an audition in two days! And red velvet is my absolute favorite!”

  I had known that. The whole point of my baking was never to make something for myself. I despised cupcakes. I had the opposite of a sweet tooth. I had a bitter one.

  I nodded at the red box. “What’s that?”

  “Something for you. Some sort of special delivery from a guy in a suit.”

  I froze, my insides coiling up tight. “Not . . . Dante, right?”

  “No, not him. I’d have recognized him. It was some guy I’ve never seen before, but he insisted I give the box directly to you and said it should be opened immediately.”

  I felt no better. This reeked of Dante, even it that hadn’t been him at the door, though I was still thanking God for that.

  “That’s odd,” I noted, my tone deceptively casual.

  “The whole thing was bizarre,” she agreed.

  I finished frosting the cupcakes, taking my time, smiling when Demi gave in and started eating one, then moaned and raved about how divine it was, but all the while, my mind was on the damned package.

  “Is there a return address on that thing?” I finally asked her, avoiding it myself, like that would somehow help.

  “Nope. There’s nothing. I checked. No postage. That guy just brought it here. You got a new stalker or something?”

  My mouth twisted. “Not a new one.”

  “Are you going to open it or you want me to?”

  I almost told her to do it, but that felt to
o cowardly, and realizing that I wanted to be a coward was what finally spurred me into action. I had many, many bad qualities, but I’d be damned before I’d let cowardice become one of them.

  With a curse, I reached for the box, tearing it open.

  Inside were red shoes in exactly the same style as the ones I’d been wearing yesterday.

  But these were Louboutins.

  I read the note tucked in beside the shoes before I could think better of it, and immediately wished I hadn’t.

  Scarlett,

  I know you have a weakness for expensive shoe porn.

  And you know I love to exploit your weaknesses.

  Enjoy.

  Thanks for everything,

  D, aka the love of your life

  P.S. We still need to talk.

  I nearly threw the shoes out of the closest window. I had them free of the box, had moved from the kitchen and across the living room, opened a window, but as I stared at them I just couldn’t do it.

  They were so gorgeous. How could I throw away something so perfect?

  Shoe porn, indeed.

  I hated that I loved it. The note. The shoes. Everything about it tailored perfectly to appeal to my senses and tear out pieces of me in precisely equal measures.

  We were over, had been for years, but it didn’t matter. If he had his way, he’d keep me tied to him forever. He was cruel like that.

  The shoes, and particularly the note, was an attack disguised as a white flag, and it worked, did exactly what he intended—got to me. Enraged and weakened me both.

  He knew me that fucking well.

  No one on earth should know a person that well.

  Lovers should have secrets.

  In fact, they need them.

  Some part of you should stay a mystery in every relationship. Enough mystery to keep some distance and a bit of perspective.

  Dante and I had gotten together too young for any of that. I’d given him everything, been too smitten and naive to hold back even one selfish part of myself.

  Even one essential part of myself.

  Never relinquish the keys to your soul to someone else. It gives them too much power.

  That kind of power in the hands of a ruthless man like Dante, well, needless to say, it’d taken its toll on me.

  I was standing, hands clenched at my sides, glaring at the shoes when my phone started chiming a text at me from the kitchen.

  I set the shoes down carefully on the coffee table and stalked to check it.

  The text was from an unfamiliar number and read:

  Wear them and think of me.

  Predictably, it set me off.

  And even so, I couldn’t throw away the shoes.

  I settled for spending a ridiculous amount of time making it look like I had.

  Demi was still the only one home, but she was game to assist me in setting it up. She was a sweet young thing. It constantly surprised me how much she liked to help out with any random plot I was hatching on a daily basis just for the sake of sisterhood, just because her first inclination was to be nice, even after I’d made her cupcakes that I knew weren’t on her diet.

  I’d never been sweet, but ironically some of my closest friends these days were. I was finding that my particular flavor of bitter was sometimes best complemented with a bit of saccharine. Go figure.

  I recorded a short video on my phone that showed me tossing the shoes out of my bedroom window, one by one with two short flicks of my wrist.

  Our place was on the first floor, so it was fairly simple. Demi was outside, crouched low to the ground, out of the shot, a pillow in her arms.

  “Are they okay?” I called out as soon as I stopped recording.

  “Caught them both with the pillow!” she called back cheerily. “Your ungodly expensive shoes are unharmed!”

  I grinned and sent the video off to my new contact, which I’d named: Bastard/Stalker/Liar/Cheater/Ex/TheDevil.

  Me: I thought of you while I was doing this. Lose my number.

  The smile died on my face at his near immediate response.

  Bastard/Stalker/Liar/Cheater/Ex/TheDevil: No worries. I’m almost to your place. I’ll rescue them for you.

  I was so caught off guard, not sure if he was messing with me but rattled with even the possibility of having to face him again, that I wasn’t sure how to respond.

  I focused on the most immediate concern—hiding the Louboutins.

  I intercepted Demi right as she was bringing the shoes back to the front door. I grabbed them from her, throwing out a, “Thank you,” as I hurried back to my bedroom. I stuffed them in the corner of my closet, threw some clothes on top, and rushed into the bathroom.

  I glared at my reflection. Why today of all days had I made no effort at all? I’d showered and scrubbed my face clean of makeup the second we’d gotten home from our trip. I’d washed my hair, but then let it dry as is, which meant it was basically a slightly damp rat’s nest at this point.

  And my outfit could only be described as quirky. In reality, quirky was kind. I was wearing yoga pants and an oversized cat T-shirt.

  At least it was a somewhat combative cat shirt. The cat was sweet looking enough, a big, fluffy white thing surrounded by pink and blue flowers but at the bottom it read in clear black print: I WILL END YOU.

  It was really kind of perfect if I thought about it, so I kept the shirt on, switched the pants out for some tiny shorts that showed off my legs, and focused on my hair, dragging a brush through it and doing a quick blow dry, just enough to make it look tousled instead of messy.

  I’d just applied the bare minimum of makeup when the doorbell rang again.

  I knew it was him. I could feel it in my flesh, just like I could feel my temper bubbling up under my skin, ready for any excuse to ignite.

  I was irate that he had the nerve to clash with me again so soon. He’d lost the last round. It had been a clear knockout win for me.

  He should have the decency to stay down.

  I waited in my room, wondering if he’d go away if I just didn’t answer.

  But I wasn’t so lucky, and Demi had the blasted habit of answering the front door.

  It was her tentative knock outside my bedroom that jarred me into action. That and her kind voice calling through, “Um, Scarlett, I’m sorry, but, uh, Dante, I mean, The Bastard, is at the front door and refuses to leave. Should I call the cops on him or something?”

  “Sic Amos on him,” I called back. It was a lovely thought, but unfortunately, our mutt was incapable of violence. He thought every creature in the world was his friend.

  Stupid dog. He should have been a bitter ball of hate. He had, after all, been thrown in a dumpster by some neglectful son of a bitch. Didn’t he know that the world was out to get him?

  “I doubt that will work,” she countered through the door. “You know Amos isn’t likely to cooperate. We could just ignore him until he leaves.”

  I sighed. It was tempting, but I was not in the habit of taking the coward’s way. Also, Dante was a stubborn son of a bitch. I doubted he’d just go away after coming all the way here.

  I’d face him, if only to rub my win from last night in his lying, manipulative, evil, shoe-buying face.

  I opened my bedroom door and met Demi’s worried eyes. “I’ll handle him. Don’t worry about it. And eat as many cupcakes as you want. All of the red velvet ones are for you.”

  She cursed me for that (even her curses came across sweet, and dammit, even cute) and left me to it.

  I didn’t rush to meet him. I didn’t have a problem making him wait. In all our time together, I rarely had.

  Of course, I didn’t much dawdle, either. Wasting his time was one thing, but it wouldn’t do to give him the impression that I dreaded seeing him as much as I actually did.

  I applied one last precise bit of nude lip-gloss like it was war paint and went to answer the door.

  I braced myself for the sight of him, taking one deep breath before I faced him again
.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked the moment our gazes clashed.

  He looked like hell, wearing the same suit he had the previous day, his golden hair unkempt, his normally precise, perpetual stubble turned to outright scruff.

  He looked exhausted and hungover, but also, good enough to eat.

  His eyes were taking in the front of my shirt, a smirk forming on his lips as he read it when he replied, “Love the shirt, tiger. Very appropriate. Would you believe me if I said I was in the neighborhood?”

  “No. You hate L.A. with a passion. Why are you here?”

  “To see you, of course. Can I come in?”

  “I’m surprised you recovered and made it here this quick. Must be nice to have a private jet.”

  His smirk died and his jaw set. “Do you know how wasteful it is for one man to use a private jet to get around? I’m not my dad. I flew commercial. The only thing wasted was my money on a last minute airline ticket.”

  I rolled my eyes. Oh Lord. If I had a private jet, I wouldn’t fly commercial on a bet, in fact, I’d probably fly to New York for pizza on a whim, but then Dante had always seen his wealth as a sort of a hindrance, something to feel guilty about, a bigger weight on his shoulders than it was worth.

  Again, that had always pissed me the hell off. As a twenty-seven year old that still lived paycheck to paycheck, it was more infuriating than ever. “If I see you driving around in a Prius, I’m seriously going to barf. Right before I key the hell out of it.”

  He grinned. “Can I come in?” he repeated, tone polite, conciliatory even.

  “What do you want?” My tone was rude. I was determined that his charm was not going to make me any less hostile. On the contrary.