by K. M. Scott
Not that I’m some huge star or anything like that. I’m no Stephen King or James Patterson, for Christ’s sake. It’s true I’m a New York Times bestseller, but that doesn’t translate into instant notoriety, especially for someone who writes historical fiction. Well, maybe Dan Brown can’t walk the streets where he lives without a mob attacking him to take a picture or sign something. My handful of literary successes have allowed me to still be somewhat invisible to most people, however.
I walk the blocks toward her brownstone building slowly and deliberately, mainly because I’m loaded. Every time I take a deep breath and let it out, the smoke from the cold nearly knocks me over from the vodka smell.
The sidewalk is surprisingly uneven now that I’m walking it without her. She always wrapped her arm in mine as we walked. Or maybe it’s the effect of the vodka. I don’t know. I just know where I’m going.
Her building faces a small patch of grass with a few trees on it. Not really a park, it’s more like a front yard of some planned building that never came to fruition. It sits there as a testament to someone’s hopes and dreams that never came true. I position myself under one of the trees in the shadows and look up toward the second floor to see her windows darkened.
She isn’t there.
Where is she? Why is she out on a Wednesday at just after ten at night?
Before I can stop myself, my mind begins to spiral out of control with scenarios of her out having a good time with someone else. I’ve spent the entire week since losing her a total fucking mess, and she’s out enjoying life. She’s probably with someone. Another man. A man who wants her like I do.
No. He can’t want her like I do. No one wants her like I do. They merely want to fuck her or watch her act out their stupid parts. I want to watch her sleep next to me. I want to see her smile when I read her the story of us. I want to feel her come apart from my touch. I want her to know I love her more than I can say.
A surge of rage and hate pushes through my body making me want to hit something. My fists ball up at my side as my mind spins with ideas, but then the sinking feeling in my stomach from the reality that she’s gone makes me weak. Stumbling back against the hard trunk of one of the trees, I try to get my emotions under control.
And then I see her. But not just her. I see her step out of a cab with someone. A man. He escorts her up the stairs to the front door while I stand there and watch, my heart in my throat as I wait to see if she kisses him. She’s wearing the pink shirt she wore the night we first met at Jax’s and a pair of jeans she never wore the entire time we were together. Her long brown hair falls over her shoulders making her even sexier than she could ever know because she has no idea how incredible she looks.
She’s smiling at something he must have said. Hate rushes through me again. Not for her, though. If only I could hate her, then this would all be so much simpler.
I don’t hate her. I wish it were that easy.
He leans down to kiss her, and it takes every ounce of my willpower to stop me from running across the street to tackle him to the ground and never let him touch her again. Pressing my lips together, I want to close my eyes so I don’t see her kiss him, but I can’t. It’s as if some sadistic force is forcing them open so I must watch.
I know what he’s feeling as her lips touch his. He wants more. That’s the effect she has. One taste won’t be enough. He’s thinking he wants her to invite him up to her apartment so he can have more of her. More of those lips on his lips. On his cock.
She pulls away and smiles, but I watch in shock as she enters her building and he walks back down the stairs to the cab I hadn’t even noticed was still there. She didn’t invite him in.
What does it matter? She’s moved on.
By the time I arrive home, my mind’s a mixture of loathing and jealousy that threatens to eat me up. I hate her. I love her. I want to wrap my arms around her and never let her go. I miss her. I crave her touch on my skin so bad I ache.
I fall onto the couch and close my eyes, trying to remember anything other than the sight of her kissing that man. My mind begins to race through every moment with her. I struggle to focus on any one time, desperate for one memory that doesn’t seem tainted by what I just saw.
My heart slams against my chest and cold sweat pours down over my face. I miss her so much. But then slowly, the images in my mind begin to fade away until one memory comes into focus.
Kristina smiles at me as she takes my finger in her mouth to taste the sugar left on my fingertip. She looks adorable sucking the sweetness from my skin.
“Taste good?” I ask as I slide my finger from her mouth.
Her answer is to kiss me gently on the lips before she runs her tongue over her bottom lip and whispers, “I’d rather have something else to suck on.”
I know that might not be entirely true. She’s only sucked me off twice before, and while each time she seemed enthusiastic, I know she’s never finished anyone else off but me.
“First we taste this martini I made you. Then we can figure out what you should do with that pretty mouth of yours.”
Handing her the sugar-rimmed glass, I watch her take a sip of the caramel appletini we’ve spent the last half hour concocting. The drink only took about ten minutes. The rest of the time would be considered more foreplay than drink making.
That’s how it is with her. I know she might be considered needy by some men, but I adore that neediness that would turn others off. I understand it. When I look into her blue eyes and see what can only be described as a craving to be touched or kissed, I know how she feels.
I feel it too.
“It’s very sweet, Ian,” she says, smacking her lips.
“Then it’s perfect for you.”
Kristina places her drink on the counter and nuzzles my neck, sending strings of excitement racing through my body. “Maybe I want something less sweet.”
“I can do less sweet too,” I say and tug hard on her hair, pulling her head back so she has to look at me. I look down into those cornflower blue eyes staring up at me with such need. “I can definitely do less sweet.”
Biting her lip, she moans softly. “Yes. Please.”
What she wants is to be dominated. Not with whips, chains, or any of that other bullshit that’s more props than anything else. No, what she wants is me to make her body surrender like no other man has.
I pull her hair harder into my grip, and she doesn’t wince in pain so much as in pleasure. A tiny moan escapes from her lips, making my cock swell. I want to conquer her, to make her mine and only mine.
My hand roughly slides down to between her legs and I thrust two fingers into her already dripping pussy. Her eyes grow wide at the invasion, and I ask, “Whose is this?”
“Yours,” she says in the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard.
“Say my name,” I order. “Whose is this?”
“Ian’s.”
I slowly slide my fingers out of her only to ram them back into her warm and willing body. She wants it rougher, but not yet. Eventually.
“Fucking right.” I unzip my pants and take out my rock hard cock. She glances down toward it and bites her lip again. “And whose cock is the only one you want?”
Tentatively, she reaches out to touch me, stroking me from base to head. “Yours. I mean, Ian’s.”
I tighten my hold in her hair. “If you can’t remember my name, I think it’s time for you to learn it.”
Her eyes widen because she knows what’s coming next. I tear off her skirt and blouse, sending buttons flying everywhere around my kitchen, before I push her up against the wall. Her face wild with excitement, she whimpers as I lift her and command her to wrap her legs around my waist, and then I slam into that wet cunt that’s only mine and fuck her harder than I ever imagined she could handle.
She takes every pound, every slam into her body and begs for more. I sink my teeth into her shoulder, and she cries out but doesn’t plead for me to stop. I know her legs ache from clutchi
ng me. I know she must want to stop, but she doesn’t. Not until she gives me what I want. Not until I give her what she wants.
I feel her body begin to contract around my cock, surrendering to all the pain and pleasure I’ve given her. She whimpers, “Ian, don’t stop…harder…harder…”
I thrust my hips forward once more and bury myself in her as deep as I can as she clings to me more with every moment. Her release rushes through her and sends me over the edge, and I flood her body with all I have. I have no idea how long we stay there like that, our bodies trembling against one another and our breathing heavy and sated.
She’s small and broken afterward, but she’s mine to cradle and whisper tender words to. I carry her to the bed and hold her until all the pain eases away and all that’s left are the most exquisite moments between two people who need each other. My hands, which had inflicted so much on her as we fucked, now gently stroke her skin in love. She entwines her fingers in mine and curls our hands together under her chin as I tell her how much I adore her and mean every word as if my life depended on their truth. I listen to her breathing as she drifts off to sleep, and just before I close my eyes, I hear her sigh contentedly.
I’ve never been happier with another soul in my life.
I open my eyes as the reality of my lonely rooms bears down on me. I don’t know how to go on feeling like this. I don’t want to go on feeling like this. I need something to help me not feel at all.
CHAPTER TWO
Kristina
I sit in front of my makeup mirror hating what stares back at me. Lines and wrinkles already and I’m only in my twenties. I use the finest creams and lotions. Why don’t they work on me? My skin looks ruddy and uncared for.
My eyes, all red-rimmed and watery looking, tell the story of who I’ve become in the past week. I cry all the time when I’m alone, which is far too often. I cry when I read those texts I sent him. I cry when I see the texts he’s sent me. I cry that he hasn’t sent me any more.
I’m a mess. A stereotypical Hollywood mess, complete with bad skin and red eyes.
I think back to my lunch with Cilla that day when all she could talk about was how I glowed. Now that’s gone and all I am is the miserable wretch that stares back at me as I try to cover her up with makeup.
Magazines I’ve appeared in sit stacked on a table next to me, but no matter how many times I thumb through their glossy pages, the compliments don’t feel real. Gorgeous eyes. Beautiful smile. Healthy skin. They all rave about my look, but it’s all lies.
I’m all lies.
I ran away from Ian because he scared me, but I’ve been miserable without him since. I thought I saw him last night, but the more I think about it, the more I know that was all in my mind. It seemed so real, though. I was on my front stairs with Gavin, a fellow actor I hope to work with in that film I screen tested for, and as he leaned in to kiss me goodnight, I thought I caught a glimpse of Ian standing in the trees across the street.
Stop doing this! You’re a Hollywood star, Kristina Richards! You can meet another man—hundreds of them, if you want, anytime you want.
I say this every time I feel down and want to go back to Ian, and it works. For a few minutes anyway. Sometimes if I’m busy during the day or I go out and see lots of men looking at me, it works for a few hours. But eventually, the truth comes back and I’m alone in my apartment missing him so much it hurts.
There’s not enough concealer to hide my dark circles and bags now. I put more on, but that only makes it worse. Frustrated, I throw it aside and move on to creating the face the world expects. Foundation for even, glowing skin that’s having a hard time finding its glow lately. Grey eyeliner and jet black mascara for smoky eyes that cry more than seduce these days. Grey eye shadow to complete that look.
I throw the shadow brush down onto my makeup table and bury my face in my hands. No matter how much I apply, it can’t change the truth. My miserable inside shows all over my outside. Tears flow down my cheeks, and I don’t stop them. I can’t. It’s like I have an inexhaustible supply of them.
All I can think of is him. What’s he doing now? Is he finished with our book? Is it even our book to him anymore? I can’t help but cry harder at the thought that it’s not our book anymore. I was his muse. He adored me and wanted to write because of me.
And what did I do? I ran away.
But he scared me. I know that scene he wrote with his character was actually about him. He was watching me.
As soon as the words form in my head, my brain discounts them as nonsense.
He adored you, and you ran away like a child who couldn’t handle being watched. Millions of people watch you every day. Do you run away from being an actress to become a sheep herder hidden away on some farm? No! So why did you run away from him?
Shaking my head, I answer my own question as I try to push those thoughts away. I don’t know why. I was scared. Now all I feel is lonely without him.
But if he loved me so much, why hasn’t he come back? Why hasn’t he tried to contact me since that night? There have been no flowers, no calls, no texts. No anything.
I lower my hands to see the mess my face has become from my tears and makeup mixing together. This is why you’re alone. You’re not beautiful, no matter how many magazines say so. They lie. Everyone lies when they say you’re beautiful and gorgeous because if you were, Ian would have come by now.
No! I can’t let those demons in me do this every time I look in the mirror. I grab a tissue and clean the mascara from under my eyes, but it’s no use. I can’t do this. No matter how much makeup I put on my face, it will never hide how unhappy I am.
* * *
A hand waves from the back of the very dark bar, and I squint my eyes to see whose it is. My friend Sienna stands from her seat and calls my name, so I begin to make my way through the crowds of smiling and laughing people who all look happier than I feel. I reach her and see she’s found us a table far enough away from the front of the bar that we’ll have at least a little privacy.
She’s in a black dress that makes her long blond hair stand out more than usual, and I see by the number of men around her that it will be the usual when we’re out. A line of potential second husbands stretching out the door to meet her. Not that I blame them. Between a knockout body and a gorgeous face, she physically has it all going for her. Add to those intelligence and a wickedly sharp sense of humor, and Sienna’s the whole package.
“Kristina, I thought we said nine. It’s quarter to ten. I’m already half in the bag from waiting here, not to mention the half dozen or so men I’ve had to brush off because it’s a girls’ night out.”
“I’m sorry,” I say as I sit down with my back to the crowd. “It took me longer than usual to get my makeup right.”
She narrows her eyes to a judgmental squint and studies my face. “Have you been drinking already?”
I shake my head. “No. Why?”
“Your eyes are all glassy looking. What are you doing?”
Instantly more self-conscious than when I walked in the door, I lower my head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Did your makeup artist friend give you something again? I told you not to trust her. That woman is bad news.”
“No. Nothing.”
Sadie, the woman who’s been the makeup artist on my last two films, isn’t the type of person Sienna would ever spend any real time with. She’s not the right class, in her mind. It also doesn’t help that she gave me some pills one time to help me with insomnia that was crippling me and making it impossible to work. They made me a little crazy for a few days, but in Sienna’s eyes, it was intentional.
“Then what’s up with you? Cilla gave me chapter and verse about whatever regimen you’ve begun using and how you were glowing like a goddamned nuclear reactor. No offense, but either she’s blind or the effects have worn off.”
I rub my fingertips over my cheek as if to feel if the evidence of my misery is written all over my face. “You know
how she is. It’s always something to rave about with her.”
The waiter arrives just in time to save me from more of this interrogation, and I order a merlot. Tonight’s definitely a merlot night. No sweet and fruity red wines for me. If I’m going to look like shit, I might as well get shitfaced.
Sienna gives my wrist a squeeze and launches back into her questioning. “So who is this mystery man you’ve begun to see lately? Cilla couldn’t talk about much of anything else, except your glowing, of course. I want details.”
“Wouldn’t you rather tell me all about your new movie? I mean, this is looking like it’s going to be the one,” I say, hoping to use her inherent actor’s ego to my advantage, but she isn’t having any of it. Unlike Cilla, Sienna knows when bullshit is being thrown her way. It’s one of the reasons I consider her such a dear friend.
“Kristina, what’s going on here? You look like shit, show up nearly an hour late, and now you don’t want to tell me about this guy. You can tell me. This is Sienna you’re talking to, not some stranger. We’ve talked each other through all the ups and downs. Well, talked and drank, which is perfect since we’re in a bar. I promise to keep the alcohol flowing if you promise to talk. You look like you need it.”
I want so much to tell someone about Ian and how much I miss him. I’m not even afraid of turning into a sobbing mess in public. At least I’d be able to unburden myself of my misery. But I can’t because I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone about us and I keep my promises.
Even if there isn’t an us anymore.
“We aren’t seeing each other now. It’s over.”
Sienna’s expression tells me how awful I must look. Her deep brown eyes fill with pity, and she gives my wrist another squeeze, this time one of those empathetic “I’m here for you” squeezes. “What happened?”
