by K. M. Scott
When she looks up at me with those big blue eyes so full of innocence and just a touch of bad girl, I almost come before she even slides her lips down my cock. Some women have that effect on a man, and Kristina is that woman for me.
Without another word, she wraps her hand around the base of my cock and sucks the head into her mouth with a whispersoft touch that makes my knees go weak. Her hand grips me as she strokes over my skin, sending the purest pleasure racing through my body.
It’s even better than I’d imagined hours earlier. It’s heaven.
I watch her move her mouth and hand up and down me and for possibly the first time in my life, it’s not just about how I physically feel. I know how tentative she still feels with this particular sex act, and still she willingly dropped to her knees to please me.
The memory of that night hurts more now that I know whatever I was feeling was one-sided. It was all an act. She’s moved on and all I’m left with is memories and missing her. I can’t handle either of them.
I need something to make me forget, and scotch isn’t doing it.
The cabbie loves to chat to his fares, and for one of the few times in my life, I’m thankful for the distraction. Being back in New York brings all the memories of my time with Ian back with a vengeance, making me want to cry at how much I still miss him. I thought all the weeks apart while he was in Rome would help, but the loss of him in my life only gets worse every day I don’t see him or hear him say one of those things that always sounded so perfect coming out of his mouth.
“The weather has been nightmarish, even for this city,” the cabbie says as he weaves his way through Upper West Side traffic.
Considering it’s rush hour, we’re making great time, but I’m in no hurry to be back in my apartment. Too many memories there. I’ll only be home for four days, and something tells me that will be too long knowing he’s just a few blocks away.
“It’s still better than Vancouver weather,” I say as the cabbie continues to chatter on about the wind and rain the city has been getting pummeled with.
I cradle my signed copy of Caligula’s Dream in my lap. Flipping to the page where Ian wrote that I was his greatest fan, I trace my fingertip over his handwriting, so strong and so masculine with its sharp angles and total lack of roundness.
I can’t help but remember that first night at my apartment. He didn’t know about any of the gossip that I was sure would make him not like me. Nothing about what had happened with John or all the awful things the tabloids had printed about me being so pathetic after he’d left me for that hotel slut.
None of it had mattered to Ian.
My cell phone rings as the cabbie begins to explain what he read in the Farmer’s Almanac about how this winter is predicted to be a bad one for the northeast, but even my talking to someone else doesn’t stop him from reporting what some groundhog or caterpillar thinks will happen over the next few months.
I answer it and see it’s Cilla. “Hey you! Are you back in the Big Apple yet?”
“Hi Cilla. Yeah, I’m home for a few days. Are you here or in LA?”
She clucks her tongue like she’s disgusted about what she’s going to say next. “LA. But I should be back there in about a week.”
“I’ll be gone back to Vancouver by then.”
In truth, I’m not really that disappointed I won’t be able to see Cilla this week. She’s never been very good at empathy, and with how I’m feeling about being back in New York, she’d just give me a hard time about being down. Even worse, she’d push and push to find out what’s making me sad, which is something I definitely don’t want to discuss with her.
Being upset about men isn’t Cilla’s style. She’s more a buck-up-and-move-on type of girl.
“Aren’t we just jet setters? Well, next trip then. Or I could come up to Vancouver to see you. Is it a nice city? Any good action going on up there?”
I think about what I know of the city of Vancouver. Not much. When I’m not on the set, I’m in my hotel room. Other than a few dinners out with my co-star Gavin, I haven’t exactly been painting the town red.
“It’s very nice there. Very hip. You might like it.”
“That sounds like a pretty tepid endorsement, Kristina. Haven’t you checked out the scene up there yet? You’ve been in the damn city for weeks.”
Typical Cilla. Nothing, not even work, gets in the way of a good time for her.
“I’ve been a little busy. You know. With work.”
I don’t try to mask the sarcasm in my voice. Not that it would matter. Tone of voice isn’t something she pays much attention to anyway.
“Work schmerk. You’re in a major North American city, Kristina, and you’re single. You should be getting out and enjoying life while you’re there.”
Her reminder that I’m not with Ian anymore makes my chest hurt for a moment. Taking a deep breath in, I lie, “Cilla, I’m just getting to my apartment now. Let me call you back, okay?”
“Sure! Talk to you later, hon!”
As I end the call and stuff my phone back into my purse, I look up to see the cabbie looking back at me in the rearview mirror. “We’re a good five blocks from your place, miss.”
I can’t help but laugh. My cabbie is both weatherman and paternal figure condemning my lying to Cilla. “I know. I guess I just wanted to get off the phone.”
We don’t say anything more as he takes me to my place, but as I’m about to pay him the fare, he spies Ian’s book in the crook of my elbow. Pointing to it, he says excitedly, “I love his books! I didn’t know a thing about ancient Rome, but once I began to read him, I actually went to the library for the first time in like twenty years and got myself some books on that time period. Great stuff!”
I look down and see Ian’s picture on the back cover, his face so serious as he looks at the camera. He’s not like that, though. Not with me. That man is flat and somber. Ian isn’t that man at all.
The urge to explain just how wonderful he is—how full of passion for his writing and for me he truly is—bubbles up inside me as the cabbie explains his favorite parts of Caligula’s Dream, but I stop myself.
“He writes great books,” I say, once again sounding tepid in my praise for something else. When did I become so bland?
“Have a good night.”
Nodding, I grab my bag and head up the stairs to my building’s front door, stopping for a moment as I unlock it to look around at the little patch of grass and trees across the street. I strain my eyes to scan the area for any sign of him. I’d so hoped beyond hope that he’d be waiting for me.
Waiting to see me.
But there’s nothing but rain soaked, leafless trees and soon-to-be dead grass there.
I barely set my bag down inside my apartment and I can’t stand being there. Everything reminds me of how much I miss him, so I quickly leave, unsure of where I should go but desperate to find somewhere in this city that doesn’t make me think of him.
The newsstand a block away is closing up as I approach it, but the man knows me from back before I ever made any hit movies, so he waves to me. He’s holding something in his hand, and as I walk closer to him I see it’s a magazine.
I don’t remember Joanne mentioning any magazine covers coming out this month.
“Kristina Richards! How is my favorite famous movie star?”
Mr. Jacobs is a man in his sixties, I guess, with perfectly silver hair. He likes to tell stories of when his hair was black and the women fell at his feet back when he was young and before he married his wife. She’s been dead for as long as I’ve known him, but he speaks about her like she’s still at home waiting for him to return every night from his stand in my neighborhood.
“I’m fine. How are you, Mr. Jacobs?”
A huge grin spreads across his face as he holds up the magazine. On the cover is a picture of me looking pretty good considering I think it may have been taken after a long day of shooting. Above my head in bold capital letters are the words ACTRES
S KRISTINA RICHARDS IN TORRID LOVE AFFAIR.
Instantly, I’m sick to my stomach as the thought of Ian seeing this races through my mind. Mr. Jacobs asks me who the lucky guy is, so I try to explain The Enquirer has it all wrong. There’s no torrid anything in my life and no lucky guy. He arches his brow and gives me a skeptical look, saying, “You just don’t want to tell an old man. I see.”
Shaking my head, I say, “No, it’s not that at all. How long has this been out?”
“About two days.”
Now I’m sure Ian’s seen it. I know he has. And I can only imagine how much it hurt when he did.
I have to go to him. I hurry off from the newsstand to his building, and as always, his doorman is happy to let me in. Worried how he may have reacted to seeing the headline, I ask, “Have you seen Mr. Anwell this evening?”
His usual jovial look fades a bit as he says, “He went up a few hours ago, miss.”
I want to ask more about how he looked and how he seemed, but the doorman won’t tell me. As I ride up in the elevator alone, my heart races at the thought of what I’ll say when I finally see him. He’s never texted or called after telling me goodbye, so would I find him with a new woman like last time trying to forget me again?
Barely able to keep myself from crying at the thought of finding him with someone else, I walk down his hallway to his door. Taking a deep breath, I knock and pray to God he’ll answer and not have someone with him.
I knock three times, but nothing. Pressing my cheek to his door, I listen for any sounds inside, my heart slamming against my chest as the fear that he isn’t alone settles into my mind. I hear nothing, though, so I knock again and say, “Ian, are you in there? Please open the door. It’s Kristina.”
What I get in response is silence. I put my mouth right up to the door and hope if he’s inside he’s listening. “Ian, I’m here. Please let me in.”
Again, silence, but then I hear the door being unlocked. It doesn’t open, but I turn the doorknob and see he’s at least letting me in. The lights are out and the place is dark except for the light of the TV on the far wall. This doesn’t feel like his apartment at all. It’s like a pall hangs over the place.
Softly, I ask, “Ian, where are you?”
He says nothing, but as I scan the room for him, I see something on the floor near the couch. Making my way in the dim light, I’m finally able to see now that my eyes have adjusted to the light. It’s him.
Sprawled out with a bottle next to him, he looks so different than I’ve ever seen him. His shirt is half unbuttoned and the shirt sleeves are rolled up past his elbows. In the dim light, I see him staring up at me with a hollow look in his eyes.
I crouch down in front of him and look closer. I’ve never seen him like this. He looks lost. Reaching out, I caress his cheek with my palm and feel the softness of his skin and the roughness of his beard just coming in.
“Oh, Ian...”
He doesn’t move, but I feel his head press against my hand. Then he speaks, and I know he’s seen the cover. “Why are you here? Don’t you have some torrid love affair to attend to?”
Shaking my head, I try to put a happy face on while my heart is breaking to see him like this. “I missed you.”
His words seem to get stuck when he tries to speak, but finally he says in a low voice full of pain, “Five weeks is all it took to forget me, I guess.”
I can’t stop the tears from welling in my eyes. He’s done this to himself because I didn’t go with him. No amount of explaining about my job or how important this role is to me will make up for lying and then letting him go. Even now, I realize for as much as this role means to my career, he means more to me than anything.
“Oh, Ian, that’s not true.” I hang my head and whisper, “I missed you so much. Please don’t think I didn’t.”
In a strangled tone, he asks the question I don’t want to answer. “Then why didn’t you come to Rome?”
I fall to the floor in a crumbled heap. Unable to hold the tears back, I give him the only answer I can. “I never meant to hurt you. I swear I didn’t.”
“Well, you did.”
He sounds so lonely and sad. I can’t stand to hear him like this. I want to make things better, but it’s like I can’t reach him, even though he’s sitting right next to me. It’s like there’s an invisible barrier between us.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders and pull him into me. He doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t hug me back either. In his ear, I plead, “Ian, don’t shut me out. I’m here. Let me in.”
“It’s too late.”
Leaning back away from him, I shake my head in disbelief. “No, it’s not! Put your arms around me. I know you still care. If you don’t still love me, then say the words. I won’t believe it unless you say the words.”
Ian says nothing, but I see something in his expression that tells me it isn’t too late for us. I lift his hands to my mouth and kiss them, hoping for any real sign the man I love is still inside him.
“Kristina, you need to leave. I don’t want you to see me like this.”
Leaning my cheek against his palm, I’m confused by his words. “What do you mean like this? Like what?”
He yanks his hands away from me and shakes his head violently. “Go away. Go back to your new boyfriend and be happy.”
“There is no new boyfriend, Ian,” I say as I try to pull him back toward me. I need to touch him, but he won’t let me now. “I swear there’s no one but you. Why won’t you believe me?”
“Because you fucking let me go to Rome.”
“Well, I’m not going anywhere now, so you’re stuck with me.”
I can’t stand the distance between us even as I sit next to him. Climbing onto his lap, I fight against him pushing me away until he stops and stares up at me with so much hurt in his eyes that I almost need to turn away.
“You don’t want me, Kristina. Not like this.”
His head droops until his forehead presses against my shoulder. With a deep sigh, he finally wraps his arms around me and I feel his overwhelming sadness as he pulls me to him.
“Why wouldn’t I want you, Ian? I love you. I wanted to go to Rome. I should have. I know that now. I’m sorry I lied. Please don’t tell me to leave.”
Ian lifts his head, and I see the misery in his eyes. I cradle his face and kiss him, letting all the weeks of missing him come out finally. When he kisses me back, I know how much we’ve both suffered. His kiss is filled with desperation as much as mine is, and for the first time since that night I met him at that bar, I feel like he truly needs me like I need him.
Closing his eyes, he leans his head back against the wall. “I don’t want you to see me like this. You don’t want this Ian.”
“I want you. It doesn’t matter who you are.”
“No, you don’t. I couldn’t stand the pain and missing you, so I went back to it. To heroin. I just wanted to be able to forget.”
His words come out practically as sobs that break my heart to hear. He’s doing heroin again, and everything I said to him that night he told me about his addiction rings in my ears. But now as I sit here watching him in so much pain, I can’t imagine leaving him.
I press my forehead to his. “I won’t leave you. I promise.”
“Why would you stay when you told me if I ever went back to using again you’d leave me?” he asks quietly.
“Because I love you.”
“You won’t love me like this, Kristina. You won’t.”
For three days, Kristina’s been here with me, but even that can’t make me stop needing the shit I stick up my nose. I don’t know why she stays. She shouldn’t. She should stick by what she said to me that night I told her what I really am.
The problem is that last night I ran out, which leads to an entirely different problem. The heroin is bad enough. Withdrawal is so much fucking worse.
I lied to her and told her I’m done with the junk. The look of pure happiness she had when I said it made me wi
sh more than anything else in this world that I could give it up.
But I can’t. Not yet. Not now.
So this morning, I had my editor send one of his lackeys over with what looks like work but is really just a bag of poison. He’s happy to hear I’m off the wagon again, so to speak, since misery always loves company.
And for a little while I’m okay, but like always, it’s never enough. By the time Kristina realizes what I am, it will be too late. She’ll already hate me so much she won’t ever want to see me again. I know all this and still here I am hiding out in the bathroom snorting heroin while she takes a shower in the bathroom down the hall.
I sit back on the tile floor to wait for that feeling to come over me. It doesn’t take a half hour like it used to. Maybe that’s because I’ve been clean for nearly a year, but this time it hits me almost immediately. Or maybe I’ve lost track of time.
I don’t know. All I know is that when it hits me and that feeling of euphoria comes over me, I can’t think of anything but how much I love feeling like this. No pain. No worries. Nothing but pure bliss.
Only being with Kristina comes close to this, but now that I’ve got heroin again, even she can’t equal this feeling of happiness and contentment. I wish I could feel bad about that, but in this state, no way.
When I’m like this, nothing can bother me.
“Ian, I’m out of the shower. Are you in there?”
I clean up as quickly as possible and stuff the baggie into my back pocket as I open the bathroom door to see Kristina standing there looking so fresh and sweet. God, I love her.
“Have a good one?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t recognize how fucked up I am at the moment.
She giggles. “A shower? I guess. You could have come in if you needed to go to the bathroom. I don’t want to monopolize it.”
Shaking my head, I smile. “That’s what I have two for.”
We stand there in silence for a moment as she seems to study me. She’s not stupid. After she found me sitting on the floor high, she naturally suspects that even though I say I’m not doing it anymore, I likely am. What she probably can’t figure out is how I got it.
