by Anna Bloom
A flash of blood and vomit fills my memory again, but I block it, shoving it towards the swirling dark the rest of that night contains. I focus on the sticky residue of hairspray in Lara’s blonde locks.
"And what would you want to say to any young girls watching who may look at your actions and be influenced by them?"
The blood drains from my face. Even my mistakes aren’t my own. Even they belong to someone else, to the public. "I’d say always talk." I try to smile wider, but just can’t find it within me. "Always talk to someone."
That’s all I have; my throat closes and any further words I may have are stuck in my throat. Lara, seeing I’ve reached my limit delves for one more question. If she can break me, it will boost their ratings for days as it goes viral. I know this. It’s just business.
She opens her mouth but a sharp clap fills the air, and my eyes scan to the shapes lurking behind the cameras. Crew mills about, watching the interview, drinking coffee. My eyes skim across them until they land on one person. Blake’s face is set in a thunderous mask and my stomach responds by racing like a rollercoaster on the downwards bend.
Not that I’ve ever been on a rollercoaster, but I have imagination to utilise.
Davies has his arms folded across his chest, his expression unreadable. The car ride to the studio hadn’t been comfortable. I didn’t know what Erica had said to get him to come back onto the team. My parting words when I sacked him had been colourful, but judging by his expression, whatever she had promised him, tempted him with, was barely enough to put up with me again.
With the wave of his hand Davies motions to Lara to continue her questioning. My pulse stutters and my skin slicks with sweat, prickling until my body is moist under my clothes. The lights are hot, and I run my tongue along my top lip, horrified to find a beading of sweat. I don’t know what to do with myself. I pull my hands out, to play with my rings, but they are still jittering, so I push them back under my thighs. And then the unexpected happens. Blake steps in front of Davies, blocking his view and shakes his head, his arms folded across his wide chest. Lara’s eyes flick between my bodyguard and I before stuttering, "Well thank you for joining us, Sophia. We wish you every strength in your recovery." Reaching forward she shakes my hand and applies a gentle squeeze as someone shouts 'cut'. Sighing when the lights dim she wipes at her brow with the back of her hand. "Sorry, Sophia. I didn’t want to take it there."
I smile, almost a genuine stretch of my lips. "It’s okay. I understand."
Lara reaches for my arm and wraps her hand around my wrist. "I’m glad you are okay though."
"Thanks." I push from my chair, standing. My legs stumble with the effort and wobble like jelly. Not wanting to show my weakness, I turn and take one step in front of the other until a hand grips my biceps, holding me up almost like a doll.
"You okay?" Blake’s breath whispers across the skin of my throat like the flutter of a tropical breeze.
I shake my head. Deep within a dark ugly craving begins to raise its head, roaring with a shattering intensity, making me lose awareness of my surroundings as it calls out to me, begging for something to take away the sharp sting of reality. I try to push it away, but it makes my mouth go dry and body twitch. If I could just get a drink; a drink would do. It would help cool the angry burn of the beast.
"Breathe." Both of Blake’s hands wind around the tops of my arms, his fingers squeezing into the skin under my armpits.
"I can’t," I gasp, the air clawing in my lungs as I fight the cruel craving.
"Course you can, in and out," his words are sure but I can’t raise my eyes to look at him. I can’t focus on anything accept the need burning in my veins.
I shake my head, suffocating.
He presses his chest alongside mine. Firm and hard it’s as supportive as an ancient fortress. "With me, Soph. Breathe with me. One. Two. Three."
His chest rises and pushes against my body and with every movement of his, I claw at the air, begging it to enter my body and chase away my need.
"I can’t, it hurts." The irrepressible need for something, of what I don’t even know, just something to help, to ease the strain. My mouth is so dry I can barely move my tongue and my body trembles as I gain control of the cravings.
"You can." His words wash over my desperate, raw edged desire, replacing them with a need for something else, the same thing he’s always provided me with. Safety. We stand like that for a long moment and I don’t care who can see. I’m breathing. The itch to search out a fix ebbing as swiftly as it arrived.
"Okay?" he asks. Slowly, scared of what I’m going to find I looked up into his face. His lips are pulled into a tight line and a sharp-edged frown runs between his azure eyes.
"Yes."
"Good." He pulls away and I force myself to keep breathing with the absence of his touch.
"What now?" I ask.
A slow smile twitches the corner of his mouth. A spark of the man I used to know. "Come with me."
He grabs my hand, ploughing us toward the door. I ignore the woman with the clipboard who looks like she has questions, and the call of Davies my useless agent as he asks how he’s going to get home. Instead I follow Blake.
I just follow him.
Chapter Seven
Blake
I touched her. My one rule and I fucking broke it. Smashed it to pieces almost as I allowed her chest to shift against mine and we began to breathe as one.
Breathing as one? What a fucking prick. I’m an idiot. My entire being came alive at her touch. I’m a useless moron—as my erection proves.
I'd watched her sweat in that chair, fumble for her answers. The girl who once shone as brightly as the midnight stars, had disintegrated into a feeble wreck under intense, probing questioning. It’d been painful to watch. I wanted to punch Davies, hold Erica by the throat and my god did I still want her. The only her I’d ever known.
"It’s too fucking soon." I grumble to myself as I tow us through the studio and out into the fresh air. I’m furious with everyone for putting her through that, and with myself for not being able to control my thoughts and actions. I’m repulsed.
She catches my hand, and her touch is like a scorching blow to my pathetically limited self-restraint. Slowing down my agitated pace, I breathe slowly in and out until my rage begins to ebb. Her touch is painfully natural, which is ironic considering I never made a habit of holding her hand before. I push through the double doors, nodding to the flank of security in dark baseball caps who part like the sea to allow us passage. A crowd has gathered by the backdoor: girls waving pads of paper and the odd old man with a camera—I want to give the benefit of doubt to the man in a blue sports jacket with a terrible comb-over and say he’s press not a pervert, but I wouldn’t trust him within ten yards of her. When the crowd raise their voices, calling her name, clamouring to grab her attention, she cowers against my touch and I shield her with my shoulder. I’m used to this; we’ve done this together hundreds of times before. I used to be tormented by the way she’d push against me, her body gluing itself against mine as I tried to help her escape various clubs, restaurants and shops.
Turns out time and space haven’t helped that to fade. In fact it’s worse. The firm swell of her breasts press tight against my back and the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention at the gentle brush of her breath.
Turning, I whisper, "It’s okay," but her body stiffens at my closeness and she springs away, creating a rush of air to filter between our bodies. You sick fucker. I pull away, telling myself that if I’m repulsing her that’s a good thing for both of us—especially me. "Just stay behind me," I say, motioning my hand, guiding her into my shadow.
A big guy in a baseball cap leans through the door and shoots me a questioning glance. Do I want help? I shake my head and give him a curt nod.
It’s been a while since I’ve hustled a client through a crowd but it comes back surprisingly easy. "Not now, thank you." Two girls launch themselves forward but I man
age to block them while at the same time not accidentally punching anyone. If you want headlines, just let your fist fly and see where it gets you. Sophia has enough headlines to last her a lifetime.
"Miss Jennings has another appointment to get to, thank you." I repeat over and over as I steer her through. Do these people have nothing else to do? How did they know she was going to be here?
Finally, I have her in the car and have reached across and fastened her seatbelt. She’s a shaking wreck, holding trembling fingers against her mouth, her eyes wide. "That was really hard." I don’t think she means to talk to me, her hands lower to her lap, and she pays them undue attention.
"You did well," I bark—like a complete moron.
I speed around the Jeep and clamber into my seat, buckling my belt and she turns, pale blue eyes rising to meet mine. "Are you cross with me?"
I swivel to face her. "What? Why would you think that?"
"You look kinda mad." The fact she’s worried about whether I’m mad or not makes my stomach tighten.
I sigh and lean my head against the seat, my eyes briefly closing. The space is too small with her in it. Her scent clings to everything, a unique perfume combining the mellow leather upholstery with her shampoo and floral perfume. It clings to the hairs in my nostrils like a form of torture, but I keep breathing it in like a glutton for punishment. "No, I’m not mad at you. I’m frustrated, because I don’t think you are ready for this yet." Once again I note her shaking fingers until she shifts them under her thighs. She did that during the interview. "I don’t know how you are supposed to go on set tomorrow." I breathe out a sigh of air, pushing away that intoxicating scent. "It’s not good for an addict to go straight back into the situations that triggered them in the first place." I shift under the weight of her gaze and drum a beat on the steering wheel.
"What do you know about it, Blake? What do you know about addiction?" Her face pales with her question until bright pink patches illuminate her cheeks but I’m reprieved from answering as a young girl bangs on the window.
"Bloody cheek," I start, but Sophia leans across the car and places her hand on my leg with the lightest of touches. It burns and rips a searing path through my suit pants.
"It’s okay, she’s just a kid." She gives me a small smile. "Open the window."
Reluctantly, I press the button and we listen as the girl gushes and fans herself down with her hands in that weird way girls do when they know they’re about to cry; when she realises Sophia is going to talk to her. I grumble the whole time watching the tween like she could have a grenade in her flowery backpack.
"Hey," Sophia switches on her megawatt smile, the one I wasn’t sure she still had until this very moment. "What’s your name?" she asks the girl.
"Ju-Ju-Julie."
"Hey, Julie, do your friends call you Jules?" Sophia manages to make herself eye level with the girl even though she’s sitting in a monster jeep. The girl nods, her eyes so wide a ring of white shines towards us.
"Jules, I like that. You know my friends call me Soph?" Sophia’s cheeks flame when she says this and her gaze flickers in my direction.
I’m the only one to call her Soph. Well I was. Maybe everyone does now.
She fumbles for the small notepad the girl’s holding like a prayer sheet. "Here, let me." She takes it, reaching into the glove box for a Sharpie, quickly closing it again on a packet of cigarettes. "And if you wait," she undoes her seatbelt and leans around the back of her seat, scrambling to put her hand in the storage pocket, "Ah, here it is." She pulls out a glossy promotional photograph and scribbles on that with the purple Sharpie.
"Thank you, oh my god, thank you. I can't believe you spoke to me."
Sophia smiles, and it makes my chest go all warm and tight. What the fuck happens to my manhood around this woman? "No problem, you safe getting home?"
The girl nods blankly. Poor Julie, she might never recover from this.
"Lovely to meet you." Sophia clicks the switch for the window and I cruise the car away from the stunned girl. We’ve been driving about five minutes when I turn to her and grin.
"You know, Soph. I don’t know what you’ve been through, or why, but," I hold her gaze as much as the traffic will allow, "You’re still a star in all the ways that truly matter."
Her face falls blank with the impact of my compliment. "Thanks," she mutters eventually, once the appropriate time for responding has lapsed.
I can’t bear the silence between us one more moment. And I don’t want to go back to the condo so she can lock herself in her room again. "Would the star in the car like a McDonalds?"
She does the cutest little bounce on her seat. "Yes, yes she would."
I flick the indicator and switch lanes. A McDonalds with the girl won’t hurt … That's what I’m telling myself anyway.
"Just pull the hat down." I laugh and tug at the woollen edges of her out-of-season Beanie. I’ve only been back two days but already I’m making any excuse to touch her. She begged for a drive thru but I figured I could handle a McDonalds mob if the situation arose. It’s not the same level risk as a mall—now that involves two days of military style precision planning.
"You never used to let me come into the restaurant." Her lips upturn into a pout and I ignore how incredibly kissable her mouth is.
"Maybe I’ve decided you could do with a healthy slice of reality?"
Her eyes slide to the side as she assesses her surroundings before settling on me, intense in their translucent honesty. "What did she say, Blake, for you to come back? I mean I haven’t seen or heard from you in years, and then suddenly here you are as soon as I come out of recovery. I know it was Erica."
I’ve just swallowed a fry, and it lodges in my throat, sideways. I grab for my soda cup pushing the reformed potato down with a chug of my diet coke. Her eyes focus on the fry she’s dipping in strawberry milkshake but I know all her attention is fixed on my response. It hangs heavy, weighting my words before I’ve even managed to push them into the air. "She said you needed me." I wait for her to meet my gaze at my response, but she doesn’t. The chip continues to delve in and out of the vibrant pink mush at an increased rate.
"Honestly, what do you care?" Her voice fills with sharp scorn. "You left, Blake. You walked out and didn’t even look back."
I could say I’m sorry, but I don’t think that will help. What am I sorry for? For being in love with her when I shouldn’t have been? For breaking the trust in our relationship so when she made a childish mistake and tried to kiss me I couldn’t deal with it right, or at all. "Aren’t you glad I left? Wouldn’t it have been awkward having the man that broke your boyfriend’s nose lurking around in the shadows?" I chew another chip and quirk an eyebrow in her direction. "I did break it, didn’t I?" That day I hadn’t stuck around to find out. Instead I’d walked clean away once my fist had connected with Fairweather’s superstar nostrils. But my ego told me it had been a clean break—I remembered that satisfying crunch as if it were yesterday.
A chuckle shakes her shoulders. I made her laugh. This fact makes me happier than it should. "Yes," she nods, "but it was hushed up; he had it operated on straightaway."
"What a twat." I toy with my cardboard cup and straw. "Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude about your other half." This is a blatant lie. The guy is a cock, there is no other way around that fact.
Her skin pales and the shadows under her eyes spread until they sink into the hollows of her cheeks. "He’s not my boyfriend." I’m studying the chip/milkshake disgusting mishmash she’s creating and catch sight of her fingers trembling slightly once again.
My hand skims across the table, nearly reaching for hers—nearly, but not quite. "That’s not what the papers say."
"Papers talk shit, you know that, Blake." Fuck it kills to hear her saying my name. It takes me right back to that night when I could have had her. The way her murmuring my name against my mouth nearly undid every resolve I had.
Coughing, I straighten. "That’s true."
I just need to know. "So, you guys aren’t together then?"
"Not away from the cameras, no."
"But…" Am I going to go there? Can I openly discuss with my former child charge the night that got her into rehab? No. Call me a freaking pussy, but I can’t. Instead of delving into the giant cauldron of things that aren’t my business I change tactic. "Why do I have a feeling your mother had a lot to do with this public only relationship?"
Sophia’s shoulders lift high before slumping like the weight of the world is pressing them down, and she fiddles with the edge of her woollen hat. As I wait for her response my ears pick up a few whispers in the room around us but no one approaches. Hopefully the ‘Come closer and I’ll punch your lights out’ vibe I’m giving out will keep everyone at bay. "Her and others," Sophia answers eventually.
We sit in silence, with Sophia pretending to eat chips. "What are you now, Blake?" she eventually says.
"What do you mean?" I put our rubbish onto the tray. The grease of my burger swims in my stomach, all levels of dirty, but then maybe it’s just sitting with Sophia and realising I’ve fooled myself into believing I’m over my obsession that’s making me feel sick to the stomach.
The thought of Johnny Fairweather's hands on her skin makes me want to hulk out. I stand from the table in the darkest corner of the fast food restaurant and wait for her to clarify her question.
"Are you my bodyguard? My sober companion? I mean why exactly are you back and what role are you filling here?"
It’s a great question and one I’m not sure how to answer. I promised to never see her again. Yet it just took her mum turning up and showing me the threat she’s under and I was straight back here for the sick pleasure of guarding her at my own detriment. Now I’m here, those letters still sitting in the drawer containing my few items of clothing, I can no longer focus on what my reasoning was for coming back.
