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“I wanted to fuck you,” he says.
He cups my breasts, his thumb rubbing against my nipples. Jesus. I try not to react, but a soft moan escapes my lips. He pulls his hands away for a moment. Then, his fingertips are back on my skin, so soft and light I can barely feel them.
“Luke,” I moan…
“Is that a promise?” His fingertips slide over my nipples. I groan and he lightens his touch again, hitting every nerve ending I have.
I arch my back and press my crotch into his. He's hard. I rub him through his slacks.
“You know,” I say. “Two can play this game.” And I kiss him. Hard. He parts his lips as he slides his fingertips over me, and I slip my tongue into his mouth. I feel my sex clench. This is a silly game of chicken. There's no way either of us could turn away now.
I unzip his pants and slide my hand against his hard cock.
“Promise,” he demands. I firm my grasp and stroke him until he groans.
His teeth sink into my neck. He slides my panties to my knees, his fingertips trailing up my thighs ever so slowly. I grab his hand and press it against my sex.
“Jesus,” he says. “You're so wet.”
“Fuck me,” I say. “Make me come.”
He slips a finger into my sex and I gasp, my nails sinking into his skin.
“I promise,” I say, “no one but you.”
And he makes do with his side of the bargain.
Chapter 23
I avoid Ryan all weekend, claiming a need to memorize my lines. He is so much more aggressive than usual. Almost like he knows the promise I made to Luke. I feed him lame excuses about being too tired, even in the middle of the afternoon. He suggests we kiss or cuddle, no expectations of more, and, when I can't think of an appropriate explanation for why I don't want to kiss him, I claim a headache. Look at what a cliché I've become—claiming a headache to get out of sex.
Still, I force myself to stay home all weekend. I force myself to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner with Ryan, to watch TV on the couch with Ryan, to go to the gym with Ryan. But why? Will this really convince Ryan I'm faithful? Do I even need to convince him I'm faithful? Won't I be better off if I tell him the truth, and let him decide what to do with me? Won't I be better off if I break up with Ryan now, before I hurt him? Maybe I don't need him as much as I think I do. Maybe it isn't worth all this agony.
Maybe I can survive without him.
But I can't take that risk, not yet, not when I am about to step back into the world that made me fall apart.
It hurts to spend the entire day without word from Luke, but I force myself to stay quiet until bedtime. I lock myself in the spare room, and spend the night at my phone, tapping messages back and forth. I try to outlast him, but he never sleeps. I wake up every morning with my phone pressed into my chest, fresh messages waiting for me. It is never anything important—we pretend our conversation in the hotel never happened. He doesn't ask me if I've made my choice. He doesn't ask if I've reneged on my promise.
Monday is a relief. Less time to sit next to Ryan, pretending as if things are normal. I wake, bright and early, after only a few hours of sleep and drive to the set without stopping for breakfast or coffee. I know better. I shouldn't ignore my recovery diet. But, does it really matter if the coffee and oatmeal in my stomach comes from our kitchen or from Starbucks? I can practically hear Ryan lecturing me, warning me about what happens when I deviate from my routine.
Really, sweetheart, do you want a repeat of what happened two weeks ago?
I sit in my dressing room, avoiding my reflection in the soft, yellow vanity mirror. My makeup artist is a nice girl, about my age, with tattoos and a bad-ass asymmetrical haircut. I trust her not to make me into a porcelain Barbie doll.
An assistant does a Starbucks run, but I'm too nervous to eat much of my breakfast. This is the first time I've volunteered to step in front of a camera in forever, and everyone else knows the material so much better than I do.
Deep breath. Nerves mean lack of preparation. I need to practice more, to run my lines a dozen more times, to rope one of my old acting friends into reading lines with me. But I've barely spoken to anyone but Ryan for the past year. My friends lost interest in me a long time ago. Probably wrote me off as a stuck up bitch.
An assistant calls me to the set. I wait as our director, a middle aged man in a straw fedora, orders around the crew and perfects the placement of the lights. He's one of those directors who wants to feel important. Those are always the worst.
When he deems the set ready, we take our places for the first scene. It's easy. Marie Jane and her sister, Patricia, fight over living together. Marie Jane wants things her way and she
's completely unwilling to see from another person's perspective.
It's just like rehearsal. The assistant director counts us down. Three, two, one, and he slams the slate. The camera is on me. It's my line first. But I'm frozen. I call scene, ask to take it from the top, but it doesn't help. I can't look away from the lights. They are so fucking bright. Were they always this bright? Were they always this hot?
“Hon',” the director says, “I respect the process. Take the time you need to start the scene, but do it in under 30 seconds.”
