“Who did you buy the lingerie for?” I ask.
“You think you're the first girl I brought here?” He tries to say it with a smile, but his big, coffee colored eyes betray him. He's still hurt over another woman. It shouldn't bother me—I am engaged to Ryan—but it does.
I ask him to turn around and I change on the concrete. He's a perfect gentleman, and he doesn't turn around to catch a glimpse.
Too bad.
I slide into the pool, and, finally, he looks at me.
“It looks good on you,” he says.
“But it would look better on your floor?” I offer.
“I already told you. When I want to fuck you, I'll ask nicely.”
Does he really think I'd fuck him standing up, in some pool at his friend's house? Does he think just because he's handsome and funny and interesting that I'll betray Ryan? Does he really think he has my attention?
Does that mean he doesn't want to fuck me?
“I like you, Alyssa,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you correct my grammar.”
“Is that all it takes?”
“It helps that you have great tits.” He smirks. “And you get the cutest look when you're trying to pretend like you aren't nervous.” He moves closer to me. “You looked so lonely the other night. And I'm lonely all the time.”
“I'm engaged,” I say.
He slides his hands over his hips. Over the waist of his boxers. Is he waiting for my reaction? Is he waiting for me to untie my bikini and pull his boxers to his knees and wrap my legs around his hips like I'm some easy whore?
“I don't care,” he says. “I like you, and I'll be your friend, but I want more than friendship.”
My pulse races. My lungs empty. I can't remember the last time it was this hard to breathe.
I reach for his waist, my fingers sliding over his wet skin. Jesus, his body feels so good, and he shudders gently as my fingers slide around his waist.
The Lycra of my bikini bottom presses into his cotton boxers. We move closer, my crotch pressed into his, my stomach pressed into his, my chest pressed into his. He's taller than I am, and instead of making me raise onto my tip toes, he slides his hands under my ass and brings me towards him. Why did I ask for this stupid bikini? His hands could be on my bare skin.
My lips press into his. They're soft and wet with a hint of chlorine. He sucks on my lower lip and opens his mouth, just a bit, waiting for my move. His hands press into my ass, pulling our bodies together, pressing my crotch into his. He's hard. We could…
I slip my tongue into his mouth and my hand… Oh, God, what is my hand doing?
I jump back and say, “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be.”
“But I can't. I'm engaged.”
“You've said that a few times now,” he says.
“I'm sorry. I'm not a tease.”
“Don't be silly. Teasing is half the fun.”
“I have to go,” I say. If I don't get out of here, now, I'll be under him in five minutes flat.
I run out of the pool, throw my clothes into my purse, and rush across the concrete. I run so fast and everything is so blurry. I hear Luke call after me, wait, or Alyssa, or something like that, but I don't stop running until I am back in the condo, the door locked behind me.
Chapter 9
Ryan's hand tightens around my waist as we take our seats. He introduces me to Edward, no last name. No, they are already on a first name basis. Edward is exactly as I imagined. A dirty old man squeezed into a designer suit that hasn't fit him in years. He doesn't even bother to bring his gaze from my chest to my face when he shakes my hand.
Oh please, if it was Luke gaping at that plunging neckline you'd be gaga. Isn't that the reason why you decided not to wear a bra?
“Ryan, you undersold your fiancée’s beauty. She's even lovelier in person,” Edward says.
I struggle not to roll my eyes. It's obnoxious to play the ingénue, but this is the only role Ryan approves of.
“Smart, handsome, and good taste. That's everything I look for in a man.” I smile. I bat my eyelashes. I play my part.
The waiter stops at our table. “Are you ready for drinks?”
“Tequila. On the rocks,” I request.
“Anything for you, sir?” The waiter asks Ryan.
“Oh, no,” I step in. “Ryan's taken a vow to never have any fun.”
“You have enough fun for the both of us.”
Ryan slaps me playfully. It's part of our routine. We tease each other with our words. We tease the client with my exposed skin. No wonder Luke doesn't approve of these meetings. They're as cheap as they are tacky.
“I hope I haven't incited a lover's quarrel,” Edward says with such delight it's clear he means the opposite.
“Ryan and I have plenty of fun in our apartment. Isn't that right?”
I go to kiss Ryan's cheek, another part of our routine, but he presses his hands into my bare back and pulls me closer. Our lips collide, way too much of a PDA for a classy place like this. And it's not a sweet move. It's not a kiss that says I love you or even I want you. It doesn't even say you are mine. No, just like the flashy engagement ring, it says she is mine, you better stay away from her.
Was Ryan always this possessive?
He pulls away, and his gaze fixes on one spot: Luke, in black suit and navy tie, walking towards our table. Jesus. He looks amazing in that suit, his eyes as bright and wide as I've ever seen them. Did he see Ryan's obnoxious power play? Or did Ryan do it because he knew Luke was looking?
Luke shakes Edward's hand and kisses me on the cheek. I try to maintain my poker face, but it's a losing battle. What is he doing here?
You really think he's here to see you?
“I didn't think you were coming,” Ryan says.
“Someone has to keep your fiancée entertained,” Luke replies. He looks to Edward. “You must recognize her. She was the cheerleader on Together.”
“Yes, my soon to be ex-wife watched Together,” Edward says. “You were very—”
“Naked,” I say. “Thank God it wasn't Showtime or you'd all be familiar with my breasts.”
Edward raises his eyebrows. Ugh. I hope I didn't look so idiotic and lecherous when I was picturing Luke naked.
“Alyssa is retired,” Ryan says for me. It's true, sort of, but it doesn't look good if he says it. It doesn't fit into our flirty act.
“Nonsense,” Luke says. “Alyssa would be miserable if she gave up acting.”
“We should get back to business,” Ryan says.
“Do you really think she wants to sit in your penthouse all day? It must be as uninteresting as attempting a conversation with you.”
“I was offered a role,” I blurt it out. Ryan pulls his hand away from me. I want to catch my breath, but everyone is looking at me, waiting for more details. “On a sitcom. I'd be the star.”
“Alyssa,” Ryan says. “We'll talk later.”
“You would be wonderful on a sitcom,” Luke says, “comedians need to understand pain. And nothing could be more painful than being with Ryan.”
Ryan plays his part, laughing with Luke and Edward, but I can tell he's upset. I can tell I won't hear the end of it tonight, when it's just the two of us, when he can't ruin his reputation for being calm and collected.
Does Luke really think he's helping me? He'd help me more by keeping his mouth shut and minding his own business. He doesn't understand my relationship with Ryan. No one does. He couldn't possibly understand why I don't want to go against Ryan's word. He couldn't possibly understand everything Ryan has done for me.
“Alyssa is happy with her life. She doesn't need anything more in it. Isn't that right, sweetheart?” Ryan says.
He looks into my eyes, demanding an explanation. I know Ryan wants a public apology, but he's not getting it. It's been eight months since I got out of treatment. He needs to give me the okay to resume my life.
“It's a great opportun
ity,” I say.
“There will be other opportunities.”
“I want this one.”
“Jesus,” Luke says. “Why don't you let her make her own decisions?”
“This isn't the time or place for this conversation,” Ryan says.
But Luke ignores him. “I knew from the way you talked that your relationship with Alyssa was deplorable, but it's even worse than I imagined.”
Ryan glares at Luke, but he doesn't address him. Instead, he turns to Edward with an apology. “I'm sorry for the interruption. Alyssa and I will continue this conversation later. When we're alone. Right, sweetheart?”
I say nothing. There's nothing I can say that will help my case.
Luke pushes out of his seat, looking at Ryan with disgust. “Maybe you can boss around your girlfriend. Maybe you can trick her into marrying you. Hell, I bet she'd do it just for the money she gets in the divorce. But you can't make me a spectator.” He looks to me for a response, “Come on, Alyssa, stand up for yourself.”
“Why should I when you can do it so well for me?” I reply.
Luke looks at me like I slapped him in the face. He shakes his head and storms out. A quiet creeps over the restaurant. Thank God we're in a secluded corner.
I retreat to silence as the men talk business. It's all so dreadfully boring, I only tune in when I hear Luke's name. I make sure to finish my plate of salmon, to limit myself to two glasses of tequila, to stay at the table long enough to prove my food is staying in my stomach. Maybe, if I am good, if I show I am in control of my eating and drinking, Ryan will allow me to return to acting. Maybe, if I am good, if I play my part as the pretty, supportive fiancée, Ryan will allow me to have a life again.
Is it really as bad as Luke says? Does Ryan control me? Does Ryan trick me? Is it really possible that Ryan doesn't love me? Does it even matter? Our relationship isn't based on love, not really.
What does Luke know? He's just as happy to speak for me. He's just as happy to guess what's best for me.
***
We ride back to the apartment in silence. Ryan grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white. He is mad. I can't stand when he's mad. I try to calm him down. I try to stroke his arm, to hold his hand, but he doesn't loosen the grip until he puts the car in park.
“Ryan, can we talk?” I ask, but he is silent as we ride the elevator up to our apartment. He shifts his weight between his legs. He watches our reflections in the mirrored walls. He is perfect in his suit, calm and composed. I'm a sweaty, heaving mess, dress stuck to my skin, make up running.
Is this some kind of punishment or is he waiting until we are somewhere really private, until there is no chance anyone will see him acting like an angry asshole?
“I'm sorry,” I say. “I didn't mean to derail your meeting.”
“I know.” His hand tightens around my wrist as we walk down the hall. The air feels heavy as Ryan slips his key into the door and turns the lock. Fuck. We are almost inside and he looks like he's about to explode.
I try to stay in the hallway. “I'm sorry,” I say, again, and I hate myself for how whiny and pathetic my voice sounds.
You are so weak, Alyssa. How can you apologize to him when he's trying to keep you away from everything you care about? If you're going to fold so easily, you might as well fold now. Go ahead, get on your knees and really make it up to him.
No. Fuck that. I can't give in here, even if he's angry, even if he's upset. I can't live like this forever. I have to do something.
He slams the door behind me. “How could you air our business in public?” he asks.
“It was an accident.”
“You challenged me.”
“Luke challenged you,” I say.
“You agreed with him.”
“Because I want to go back to acting. I want to have a life.”
“I'm not going to watch you spiral out of control again.”
“You didn't watch the first time,” I say.
“But I was the one who picked up the pieces. I was the one who made sure you ate your required meals, and went to weigh-ins, and saw your shrink twice a week. I was the one who kept you from yourself.”
“No. I was the one who pulled myself together. I was the one in therapy. I was the one eating those disgusting meals and pushing aside thoughts of how revolting and fat I felt. I was the one who gave up the only control I had in my life.” I look at the floor. “Don't you want me to be happy?”
“I'd rather you be miserable and alive,” he says.
“Why should I bother trying so hard if I'm going to be trapped in the apartment?”
“Doesn't our life together mean something to you?” he asks, accusation in his voice. I am ungrateful for the life he's given me. I am ungrateful for his love. I am ungrateful for his protection.
“What life together? I sit at home all day. You go to work. You get home. You talk about work. Why don't you go back to work if you adore it so much?” I say.
“We're talking.”
“No, you're talking. And I'm done listening. I'm done hearing that I can't handle my own fucking life.”
“You can't handle it. Every time you fuck up, you call me, and I have to clean up your mess.”
“Fuck you!” I scream.
“Control yourself,” he says, as if I am a puppy who keeps pissing on the carpet.
“Isn't that your job?” I ask.
I storm into the elevator and ride it to the building lobby. I lock myself in the bathroom and cry my makeup off. I can't let Ryan see this. I can't let him know how weak I really am.
Chapter 10
I half expect Ryan to follow me. I half expect him to come downstairs, to apologize, to beg for my forgiveness. But he doesn't. I should know better. He's never once admitted he was wrong. No, whenever I get emotional, he fails at calming me down, and he gets so frustrated by his failure—Ryan Knight could never fail at anything—that he offers me a dose of Ativan.
It was like this the last time we got into a fight. Or, more accurately, I got into a fight and he calmly and coolly explained that I needed to relax. I don't even remember if it was about something stupid or something real? But when I crawled back to him, tail between my legs, he hugged me and told me he loved me and offered me those little white pills with the promise they would make me feel better. After all, he couldn't make me feel better.
He's such a fucking hypocrite. If I tried to shut off my feelings with food or alcohol, he'd accuse me of being unable to control myself.
I'm not doing this again. I am not going to slink back to Ryan and apologize for standing up for myself. So what if he's looking out for my health? It's my health. It should be my decision.
It is my decision. I can take the part, but I'll have to face the consequences. Ryan might be angry. He might scold me or lecture me or even break up with me. And, without Ryan, I might not be able to handle my health. I might not be able to handle my fuck ups.
I bite my fingernails, hoping he will come to the lounge and apologize, but I know it's hopeless. He doesn't apologize. Still, I check my phone for any kind of contact from Ryan.
Instead, I see a message from Luke. “Are you okay?”
How did his name find its way into my phone?
I reply. “How did you get this number?”
Ding. “Your phone was just sitting on the table.”
“Stalker,” I reply. I shouldn't be happy about this intrusion of privacy. But it almost seems sweet. I would have given him my number if he asked.
Oh please, you'd give him a lot more than that.
Ding. “Do you need someone to talk to?”
Is he really after talking?
“Why? Do you know someone?” I reply.
Ding. “This one guy. He can be an asshole, but he's good looking.”
How can I be smiling over this? Luke may be funny and direct, but he's as arrogant as Ryan is. He's as happy to speak for me as Ryan is.
But he's reaching out to
me. It's not an apology, but it's something.
“I have a no asshole policy,” I reply.
Ding. “I can convince him to play nice. Maybe even to apologize for his previous assholery.”
Ding. “And if I ask, he'll take his shirt off so you can gape at his abs.”
“Just talking?” I reply.
There's nothing for a minute, then a ding. “If that's what you want.”
Ding. “The north tower, on the 11th floor. Room 1113.”
Does he really think I'm such a slut I'll go to his apartment? Does he think I'll give it up in his bedroom? No, Luke doesn't twist things like that. He's not a nice guy, not exactly, but he's straightforward. What was it he said? When he wants to fuck me, he'll ask nicely.
But what if he doesn't ask nicely? What if he doesn't ask at all? What if he's not interested?
Come on, Alyssa, put on your big girl panties. You both know why he invited you to his apartment. Why don't you enjoy it for once?
I check my phone for a reply from Ryan. Nothing.
Does Ryan even deserve a second thought? No, it doesn't matter. We're just going to talk. We're not going to do anything we shouldn't.
The elevator ride feels like an eternity. I check my makeup in the mirrored ceilings as the doors slide open. It's still a little messy, but what difference does it make?
Deep breath. I walk to his apartment. I knock. The door opens and Luke whisks me inside.
“I was hoping you'd come,” he says. He presses me against the closed door, but he doesn't kiss me. He doesn't even touch me. His body hovers over mine, a few inches of air between us. Not that I care.
“Did Ryan apologize?”
“You know him as well as I do,” I say.
“Yes, but I'm not foolish enough to marry him.”
“You should watch what you say. You might accidentally offend someone by insulting her judgment.”
I take a look at the apartment. It's smaller than Ryan's. A one-bedroom probably. There's a long couch, a TV, a desk littered with papers and legal pads. The enormous windows let in the dark blue light of the ocean and the sky.
Rouse Me Page 6
