“T.S. Barnes?” is all I can manage.
He wears an expression of bored distance, like this isn’t even the craziest thing a woman has ever tried to do to get close to him—and I doubt it is. It makes me feel silly and stupid, like some kind of lunatic stalker fan. If my stupid mouth could just catch up with my brain, I could explain what’s going on here more coherently, but every time I try to talk it feels like someone stuffed an entire package of cotton balls down my throat.
I've seen pictures of Chris online, but I assumed no one could actually look so perfect in real life. He looks even taller in person. His hair is cut short and he wears his beard at a length that I just decided is the length all men should wear their beards. It's a little bit past a few days scruff. And his eyes… Even in the weak moonlight, I can see what a perfect brown they are, deep and rich in a way that makes me feel warm despite the chill in the air. The only thing I see now that didn't translate in the pictures online, is the pain in his face. It's not evident at first glance, but there's something haunted in his expression that makes me suddenly more curious about why he came out here. What are you running from?
He steps closer to me, ignoring my question about T.S. Barnes and reaching to pluck at my shredded clothes. It’s only when I look down that I realize my blouse tore so badly that half of my bra is showing. I make a mostly futile effort to cover myself, but I feel silly when I look up and see that he doesn’t appear to even be thinking of sneaking a look. Of course not. I’m just an average girl in a below average situation who writes book reviews on a blog for a few thousand readers. He’s had the most beautiful women in the world throw themselves at his feet. I’m like dollar store mac and cheese to him.
“Let me make something clear,” he says roughly. “I don’t give a shit how you found where I am or why you’re here. I don’t give a shit about you. But I don’t need the dead body of a drunken stalker on my property, so you can come inside and clean the dirt out of those cuts before they get infected.”
"I'm not drunk," I say indignantly as if that is the most offensive thing he just said. “And I really doubt I’m going to die from a few cuts.”
He presses a forefinger to my chest with barely any force, but the slight loss of balance sends my arms cartwheeling. I reach desperately for something to stop my fall but he takes a step back, watching with dead eyes as I crash down on my ass.
“Drunk,” he says.
I blow out an annoyed breath, getting to my feet and mentally willing the last of the alcohol to get out of my system. “Yeah, well maybe you need to get over yourself. I didn’t come here to see you. I wanted to see T.S. Barnes. She’s an author I…” I lose steam mid-sentence as I realize the reason I came to see Barnes wasn’t really that far from drunken stalker fan either.
Chris makes a face I can't read but quickly smoothes his expression back to what appears to be his resting state, something between bedroom eyes and a look like he's so bored with the world he could fall asleep at a moment's notice.
He walks toward his cabin like he expects me to follow without question. His assumption irritates me enough that I cross my arms and stand where I am for a few stubborn seconds until I realize he’s not even going to look back to see if I’m following. I swallow my pride and half-jog to catch up with him. Every step makes my clothes rustle against my cuts.
I would've expected a superstar like Chris Savage to live in some kind of sprawling mansion cabin with huge windows and maybe a helicopter pad, but it's small and rustic. Somehow that makes me like him--just a little, though. The idea of celebrities who wouldn't survive a week without all their money and fancy houses always seems sad to me, so Chris living here at least proves he isn't all about his money.
“So,” I say, letting my nerves do the talking instead of my brain. “The whole cabin in the woods thing. Are you trying to channel your inner tortured artist to write the next masterpiece on the art of screwing?” I ask. I start to regret my own words half-way through, but I push on anyway because he may look gorgeous, but his personality is clearly poisonous. That, and despite my best efforts, I'm still a good way closer to drunk than sober. Either way, I don't need to pamper this man's ego. If anything, I'll be doing the world a favor if I can knock him down a notch or two, better yet—a few hundred notches.
He gives me a look that could ignite rain-soaked wood. “Maybe I’m channeling my serial killer thing, and you just made my night easier by wandering into my lair.”
I can’t tell if he’s trying to make a joke because he shows no sign of smiling. He just rips the door open and stalks inside, heading straight for the kitchen where he digs beneath the sink for a few seconds, and then comes up with a bottle of whiskey.
“Uh,” I say, completely confused. Wasn’t he just giving me shit for being drunk?
“Get in the bathtub and pour this on your cuts. I don’t have any peroxide.”
“Oh,” I say. “And the bathtub is…”
He sighs as if I should know the layout of his house already. My eyes wander across his living room, taking in the mess. He has clothes, probably dirty, hanging on the edge of the couch and some discarded on the floor. There's a small stack of empty beer bottles beside his couch, and I'm surprised to see there's no TV anywhere I can spot. What does he do? Stare at the wall, get drunk, and then throw his clothes on the ground?
“Bathtub,” he says,” Pointing to a door. He roughly hands me the whiskey and then turns his back on me to head for the fridge.
I take the bottle and go into his bathroom, which thankfully seems to be the one place he doesn't trash. The sink is actually clean, and the toilet seems to be too. Just fifty strikes against you, and one or two strikes for you so far.
I pull back the shower curtain and glance back toward the door. I double check that I have the door locked before carefully stripping out of my clothes and underwear. I wince in the mirror at the sight. There are dozens of cuts that are too shallow to ooze blood, but it doesn't stop them from burning like a collection of the world's worst paper cuts.
I plant my hands on the sides of the sink, leaning forward and looking myself in the eyes. This is why you don’t drink half a box of wine, Lindsey. In fact, this is probably why you shouldn’t even drink boxed wine in any quantity. I sigh, splashing some water on my face. I wonder what the great and illustrious Chris Savage must’ve thought when he saw this face. My mascara is a mess and there are pieces of dead leaves all tangled in my hair, which looks like a tumbleweed. I decide to take a quick shower because even if Chris was the most hideous man on the planet, I wouldn't want him to see me like this.
I try pouring a little bit of the whiskey on a cut across my forearm and let out a very undignified squeal of pain. I’m so caught off-guard by the intensity of the pain that the bottle slips from my hand, falling to the ground and exploding in a shower of glass.
"Shit," I whisper. I look down at the mess by my feet and then almost make the mistake of jumping onto the glass in my bare feet when some of the spilled whiskey drips down my legs and into the cuts there. I squeeze my hands tight on the sink, completely naked and entirely in disbelief at how I managed to get myself into this.
“You breaking my shit?” asks a hard voice outside the door.
“Don’t you mean, ‘are you okay in there?’” I ask, not even trying to hide the irritation in my voice.
"No," he says, shaking the doorknob as he tries to get in. "I mean, ‘is the crazy stalker I let into my house breaking shit.' Open the door."
"Don't," I say. I slide my feet like I'm trying to ice skate for the first time in my life to the door, so I don't risk stepping on the glass shards. I put both hands against the door. "I'm not—" I look at the ceiling, searching for the right way to put it. "I'm not decent.”
There’s a scraping sound above the door and then a metallic clink inside the door handle. He has a key. Shit! I throw my shoulder into the door, finally finding the words I was looking for. “I’m naked!” I shout. “Don’t open the
door!” My heart is thundering in my chest. My mind runs with all the possible ways this could turn bad. I came inside Chris Savage’s private cabin in the woods. I went into his bathroom and took off all my clothes. How stupid am I? “I just—I dropped the bottle. It’s okay.”
I hear his footsteps move away from the door and breathe a small sigh of relief until he returns just a few seconds later. He shoves the door open enough to stick his arm through with a broom and dustpan. I spin my head to the mirror in a panic, knowing from his angle, he could probably get an eye-full if he was looking, but I’m surprised to see he’s looking down at the ground, not even trying to gawk at me.
Make that two or three marks in his favor, then.
I snatch the broom and dustpan from his hand and then shove the door closed. I look at my own reflection in the mirror and think it’s not really so surprising that he wouldn’t want to look, but it doesn’t make me hate him any less for making me feel so inferior without even trying. Some crazy part of me wanted him to try and sneak a look when he found out I’m naked. I mean, maybe I’m not a ten out of ten, but wouldn’t most guys at least be curious enough to peek?
I kneel down, scooping up glass with the small broom and pouring it into the trash can. Guys like him have some kind of unfair power to turn rational, ordinary women into idiots, I decide. I also decide I'm not going to let it work on me anymore. I got caught off guard when he came bursting through the bushes, but that's all he gets. He's just a guy. A guy who appears to be a first-class jerk. I'm not going to worship the ground he walks on and I'm not going to fall all over myself in front of him. Get your shit together, Lindsey.
Yes. My shit is very much in need of being put together, and step one is taking a shower, whether he likes it or not.
The warm water feels fantastic, unlike the whiskey Chris tried to make me pour on my cuts. I watch a surprising amount of leaves and debris flow down the drain from my hair and skin. The only bottle in the shower is his body wash, which I suppose will have to do. I start scrubbing down, wondering what Brook and Amelia are going to think when I come home from a drunken walk in the woods, scared sober and freshly showered, smelling like a man's body wash. The thought makes me grin while simultaneously reminding me just how far out of left field my little mission has taken me. Why the hell is T.S. Barnes using this address anyway?
I spend the rest of my shower trying to figure that out, and eventually decide she must’ve lived here at some point and neglected to change her address. I form some other theories, but that is the simplest, and generally the simplest possibility is the right one, so it’s the one I stick with.
I wrap a towel around myself and step out, looking at my tattered clothes with disgust. I could ask him to borrow a shirt or something, but I don’t trust myself to ask that. I already resolved to be like a steel trap until I’ve navigated my way out of this nightmare with Chris Savage. The last thing I need is some irritatingly arousing man-scent from his clothes following me around and messing with my willpower.
I slip my clothes back on, frowning at the way my blouse is torn but forcing myself to get over it. Chris apparently didn’t care to look when he had a chance, so why should I be self-conscious?
I find him in the living room with a bottle of beer in his hand. He rolls his head to the side and arches an eyebrow at me.
It’s not sexy, I remind myself as I take in the way his brown eyes seem to sparkle while they follow me across the room.
“I’ve done my good deed. You can figure how to let yourself out on your own, can’t you?” he asks.
I give him a look of disbelief, making a noise between a sigh and a groan as I turn, getting ready to show him how hard I can slam a door when I want to. I stop in my tracks when I see a book on his shelf. Regret by T.S. Barnes.
“T.S. Barnes…” I say slowly, turning to face him as I lift up the book and show him. “Big fan, are you?”
For the first time, I see his disinterested expression slip toward something approaching panic. “Put that down,” he says. He’s standing now, arm outstretched like I’m holding a live grenade with the pin pulled.
“It’s a pen name,” I say. The realization washes over me like an unpleasantly cold blanket. “You’re T.S. Barnes. That’s what you’ve been doing since you disappeared.” The words haven’t even finished leaving my lips before I also make the connection that I actually sent my embarrassing fangasm email to Chris Savage.
“And you better not tell a fucking soul,” he growls.
“That sounds a lot like a favor you’re asking for.” My voice is colder and harder than ever before, but this man’s particular flavor of arrogance is rubbing me the wrong way and I’m on the wrong side of drunk for dealing with it.
“You can call it whatever makes you feel better. If you tell anyone—”
“Then maybe you’ll think twice next time you treat someone like shit,” I snap, taking his copy of the book and slamming the door behind me. Forget the fact that I can barely believe such a heartfelt book came from a man like that. Forget how good he looks or anything else. I’ve been through too much to let someone treat me like an annoying gnat. I’ve—
There’s a deafening metallic clatter as I slam into his trash can in my hurry to get away from his cabin. I go spinning to the ground in a glorious blur of clumsy and pathetic, landing face first on a stack of white printed pages. When I get back to my knees, I realize what I’m looking at.
It’s a manuscript by T.S. Barnes, a manuscript he threw away. I don’t even hesitate before scooping it up and tucking it under my arm. Why did you want to throw this away, Chris? What secrets are in here?
4
Chris
I rake a hand through my hair and pick the axe back up again. I'm covered in sweat and it's hotter than two squirrels fucking in a wool sock outside, but for some reason, I'm chopping wood. I've chopped half a forest worth of firewood in the last few hours if the ridiculous pile of wood leaning against the cabin is any indication. It's only when I hear a car pull up out front that I take a step back and wonder what the hell I'm doing.
I won’t need firewood for months. But ever since that psycho fan came by a couple days ago, I’ve felt a different kind of restlessness. Before, it was a kind of slow molasses kind of depression, like my brain was running on low fuel and all I could do was coast on the fumes. Psycho fan—because I refuse to call her by her name, even in my own damn head—poured enough fuel in my brain to make me feel like I’m running on overdrive. Except all the manic energy just makes me want to break shit and hit things. Thanks for that, Psycho Fan.
A car door slams and I hear the crunch of footsteps coming around to where I am at the side of the cabin. I'm not entirely surprised when I see my little sister, Lydia. She's wearing workout clothes, as usual. She got into the whole Crossfit thing a few years ago, and at some point along the way, my frail little sister who loved to read and draw pictures became… Well, okay, she's still emotionally a little frail, and I’m pretty sure she still reads like a maniac and draws, it’s just that she could probably snap most guys in half with her bare hands now. She runs her own gym and eats, breathes, and sleeps working out.
“That looks like fun,” she says, eyeing the axe in my hand.
I toss it aside dejectedly. “Yeah. It’s a fucking blast.”
“Want to guess why I’m here, or should I just tell you.”
I use my shirt to mop the sweat from my forehead, plopping down on the tree stump I was using to hold the wood I cut. I stare off into the trees and decide to watch the way they sway with the wind and listen to the rustling of the branches instead of responding. The sights and sounds out here have become my drug since I walked away from it all. A lame ass drug, but it’s all I’ve got besides the alcohol.
She knows me well enough not to pester me though, which is one of the reasons she's on the extremely short list of people I actually give a shit about in the world—for now. She sits down against a tree a few feet away from me, follo
wing my eyes and looking at the same trees. After our parents died, Lydia started reaching out to me. It wasn't immediate, but she managed to work her way back into my life for the first time since we were kids.
It’s a long time before either of us speaks, and it’s me who breaks the silence. “I don’t want to write the book they want me to,” I say. “Alec came by a couple days ago trying to force it on me, but I won’t do it.”
“Won’t or can’t?” Lydia asks. It’s not a dig. My sister, despite the years I spent trying to mentally lump her and my parents into some kind of oppressive force, is kind. She doesn’t use her words to hurt people, not like me.
“Won’t,” I say. More words want to come out, but I can’t make them. I want to soften my voice for her. I want to stop being so cold to the only person who really gives a shit about me anymore, but every time I try I just close up.
I felt this kind of emptiness getting bigger and more potent inside me for the past few years. It was always there, but somehow the fame fed it. Every fangirl, every paycheck, every average person's "dream come true" moment just made the emptiness bigger and bigger until it felt like everything I did was putting me closer and closer to the edge of losing it. Then my parents went and died on me. I'd spent my whole life convincing myself I was justified in being an asshole because of them, but without them around, I don't have any lies to hide behind.
“I could cook you dinner tonight, if you want,” she says. “I’ve got some groceries in the car and I could make you something that’ll put some meat back on your bones. I think you’re losing a little mass out here, Chris. Your biceps—”
I toss a small stick at her and she swats it away with a grin. “I’m serious though,” she says, expression more serious. “Let me make you dinner or something. I keep thinking about you here all by yourself and it turns my stomach, Chris. I know us being civil with each other is still pretty new, but it doesn’t have to be weird, I can—”
Baby for the Brute_A Fake Boyfriend Romance Page 22
