Very Twisted Things
Page 57
I swallowed. “Something happened. Her boobs are on your chest.”
He kneeled down. “V, I had no clue she was even in my bed until I woke up. You were the only thing I could think about that night. You and Geoff.”
I turned my head away from him and clutched my glass as if it were a lifeline, realizing the magnitude. The Mystery Girl and Sebastian Tate would finally be splayed out for millions to post, share, tweet, and crucify. Someone would probably write a song about it. It would definitely be fodder for the comedians on SNL.
I looked down at the pictures. “Remind me to pass on the makeup next time. And to not have sex outdoors. Obviously,” I said, forcing my shoulders to move in a nonchalant shrug like I didn’t care, but he knew the truth. I was devastated by these.
“If I can talk to her, maybe I can convince her not to go through with it. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I was barely listening.
She’d won. At everything. Because even if she didn’t have him, she’d have public sympathy and a career. I had nothing. Not even him. Not really.
He was willing to toss us away just because I suggested I might want to go back to New York. Of course, I’d never leave him if he wanted me with him. I could do music anywhere.
If he could tell me he loved me.
He said my name in that husky voice of his, the one that sounded like sex, the one that made me want to rip his clothes off. “Violet—”
“Stop,” I said, clenching my fists. I stood and faced him, tossing back the last of my shot. “First off, I wish we’d never met.” I held my hand up. “No. Wait. I don’t wish that because then I wouldn’t know Spider or Mila. I—I wish I’d never fallen for you. Loving means losing, just like my parents.” I sucked in a breath.
He closed his eyes, a dazed expression on his face as if my words crushed him.
“You make me wish for things that will never be,” I whispered. “You want to be a star, and all I want is you.”
He scrubbed his face. “V, I’m sorry I got you involved with her. I’m going to do what I can to keep it out of the papers.”
“What? Go running back to her? Just to save me from public humiliation? What about your own reputation? How will Nora and Leo react to seeing their baby brother all over the media in the nude?”
More panic settled in me. Stares. Whispers. People who wanted to delve into my box of grief. “She couldn’t have timed this better. I’ll have to cancel the benefit. I can’t face those people. I can’t.”
I wasn’t strong enough.
He’d stopped his pacing, a muscle jerking in his cheek as he leaned down until his nose was level with mine. “Then this is goodbye, Violet? You’re giving up on us already?”
Did I hear a break in his voice? Impossible.
“If I don’t say goodbye, then you will.” I walked past him, enjoying the hiss of breath when I let my hand drift over his crotch. “This moment is begging for a soundtrack, don’t you think?” I said, coming to a stop by the stereo system and cranking up Kurt Cobain’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Holding my hands up in the “horns rocking out” signal, I bobbed my head to the beat while he watched, anger flickering across his face. I danced and twirled around, closing my eyes, the music vibrating through my body, my fingers itching for my violin.
My eyes flew open. He’d strode over to me and clicked the stereo off, chest still heaving. He shoved his hands in my hair and dragged my face to his, and I groaned at the fire that blazed in my body. I felt the warm heat of his skin, and I pressed closer and inhaled. He smelled like bourbon and sex—a rock star’s diet—and I panted with need, cursing myself at the same time.
How would I ever get over him?
He pressed his thumbs across my mouth. Gentle. But his voice was angry. “You can’t wait to high-tail it back to your lawyer boyfriend, can you?”
“I plead the fifth,” I ground out, staring at his full lips. I licked my own.
We stared at each other until he exhaled heavily and put his back to me, his muscles as taut as the guitar strings he played. He verged on breaking.
Yeah, well, welcome to my world. For two years I’d been a prisoner of pain, and I’d be damned before I let him put me back there.
Yet at the same time, I reached my hand out to him. Stupid hand.
But of course, he didn’t see it.
“So long, V,” he said soft as a whisper, staring at the ground as if I was breaking his heart, when all along it was the other way around.
My lungs seized and words failed me.
Just look at me! I wanted to scream as his broad shoulders faced his house as if ready to leave. In truth, it wasn’t me who was giving up, but him. I was merely pushing him toward the choice I already knew he wanted.
It happened. He took a step from me, then another and another until he was nothing but a speck as he crossed the grass between our houses.
I clutched my chest and wanted to fall to the ground and rail on it. Alone. Again.
THE REST OF the morning passed in a blur. I drank more tequila and ended up on the couch. My phone buzzed on and off. I didn’t care, my head replaying pictures of me nude, pictures of Blair and Sebastian.
I refused to cry over him.
Mila came and banged on my door. I ignored her.
Wilson called and left me several voicemails.
Geoff called again, but I never picked up. Nothing mattered.
Mrs. Smythe called, and I immediately felt sick. How could I tell her that me as the public figure of the orphanage was in danger.
He kneeled down. “V, I had no clue she was even in my bed until I woke up. You were the only thing I could think about that night. You and Geoff.”
I turned my head away from him and clutched my glass as if it were a lifeline, realizing the magnitude. The Mystery Girl and Sebastian Tate would finally be splayed out for millions to post, share, tweet, and crucify. Someone would probably write a song about it. It would definitely be fodder for the comedians on SNL.
I looked down at the pictures. “Remind me to pass on the makeup next time. And to not have sex outdoors. Obviously,” I said, forcing my shoulders to move in a nonchalant shrug like I didn’t care, but he knew the truth. I was devastated by these.
“If I can talk to her, maybe I can convince her not to go through with it. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I was barely listening.
She’d won. At everything. Because even if she didn’t have him, she’d have public sympathy and a career. I had nothing. Not even him. Not really.
He was willing to toss us away just because I suggested I might want to go back to New York. Of course, I’d never leave him if he wanted me with him. I could do music anywhere.
If he could tell me he loved me.
He said my name in that husky voice of his, the one that sounded like sex, the one that made me want to rip his clothes off. “Violet—”
“Stop,” I said, clenching my fists. I stood and faced him, tossing back the last of my shot. “First off, I wish we’d never met.” I held my hand up. “No. Wait. I don’t wish that because then I wouldn’t know Spider or Mila. I—I wish I’d never fallen for you. Loving means losing, just like my parents.” I sucked in a breath.
He closed his eyes, a dazed expression on his face as if my words crushed him.
“You make me wish for things that will never be,” I whispered. “You want to be a star, and all I want is you.”
He scrubbed his face. “V, I’m sorry I got you involved with her. I’m going to do what I can to keep it out of the papers.”
“What? Go running back to her? Just to save me from public humiliation? What about your own reputation? How will Nora and Leo react to seeing their baby brother all over the media in the nude?”
More panic settled in me. Stares. Whispers. People who wanted to delve into my box of grief. “She couldn’t have timed this better. I’ll have to cancel the benefit. I can’t face those people. I can’t.”
I wasn’t strong enough.
He’d stopped his pacing, a muscle jerking in his cheek as he leaned down until his nose was level with mine. “Then this is goodbye, Violet? You’re giving up on us already?”
Did I hear a break in his voice? Impossible.
“If I don’t say goodbye, then you will.” I walked past him, enjoying the hiss of breath when I let my hand drift over his crotch. “This moment is begging for a soundtrack, don’t you think?” I said, coming to a stop by the stereo system and cranking up Kurt Cobain’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Holding my hands up in the “horns rocking out” signal, I bobbed my head to the beat while he watched, anger flickering across his face. I danced and twirled around, closing my eyes, the music vibrating through my body, my fingers itching for my violin.
My eyes flew open. He’d strode over to me and clicked the stereo off, chest still heaving. He shoved his hands in my hair and dragged my face to his, and I groaned at the fire that blazed in my body. I felt the warm heat of his skin, and I pressed closer and inhaled. He smelled like bourbon and sex—a rock star’s diet—and I panted with need, cursing myself at the same time.
How would I ever get over him?
He pressed his thumbs across my mouth. Gentle. But his voice was angry. “You can’t wait to high-tail it back to your lawyer boyfriend, can you?”
“I plead the fifth,” I ground out, staring at his full lips. I licked my own.
We stared at each other until he exhaled heavily and put his back to me, his muscles as taut as the guitar strings he played. He verged on breaking.
Yeah, well, welcome to my world. For two years I’d been a prisoner of pain, and I’d be damned before I let him put me back there.
Yet at the same time, I reached my hand out to him. Stupid hand.
But of course, he didn’t see it.
“So long, V,” he said soft as a whisper, staring at the ground as if I was breaking his heart, when all along it was the other way around.
My lungs seized and words failed me.
Just look at me! I wanted to scream as his broad shoulders faced his house as if ready to leave. In truth, it wasn’t me who was giving up, but him. I was merely pushing him toward the choice I already knew he wanted.
It happened. He took a step from me, then another and another until he was nothing but a speck as he crossed the grass between our houses.
I clutched my chest and wanted to fall to the ground and rail on it. Alone. Again.
THE REST OF the morning passed in a blur. I drank more tequila and ended up on the couch. My phone buzzed on and off. I didn’t care, my head replaying pictures of me nude, pictures of Blair and Sebastian.
I refused to cry over him.
Mila came and banged on my door. I ignored her.
Wilson called and left me several voicemails.
Geoff called again, but I never picked up. Nothing mattered.
Mrs. Smythe called, and I immediately felt sick. How could I tell her that me as the public figure of the orphanage was in danger.
