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Ethan
My thighs are still aching as I finish off two portions of steak.
I don’t understand what Victor did to me. I don’t understand the urges that torched my body. And I don’t understand why my cock, an emotionless, unresponsive piece of equipment I pump out once every couple of weeks, is awake and begging for the human train wreck making my life miserable.
I don’t want to understand.
Before I gave up on relationships, I dreamed of finding The One. He would be kind, sensitive, intelligent. We would hit that perfect balance of independent and supportive that leads to optimal mental health and happiness. Our fulfilling sex life would teach my body to want the things it was supposed to want, to do what it was supposed to do.
I wouldn’t feel insane every time he leaves the room and scared every time he comes back. He wouldn’t infect every single thought in my goddamn brain. He wouldn’t have me counting the seconds until his next insult because hate is the strongest emotion I’ve felt in six years. Jet lag must be making me loopy.
As I scoop up my last bite, Victor watches the meat glistening on my fork with glazed eyes. As far as I can tell, he refuses to eat and then throws a fit because he’s skinny. Trust rich people to create their own problems.
Campagna swings by our table, flashing a very white smile. “This afternoon light is to die for. The official photo shoot will be later this week, but can we get some spontaneous shots? We’ve sent some clothes to your room.” He speaks to Victor instead of me, and I remember that word he was snickering about—puttana—and the way everyone looks at Victor, like they’re eager to see him degrade himself all the ways the rumors say. It makes me feel…God, I don’t know. Petulant. Possessive. Things I wouldn’t be feeling if I weren’t sleep deprived.
“We’ll be there,” I say pointedly, and he glances at me like part of the table just talked. When Victor smiles like a shark and puts his hand on my shoulder, I remember just in time that I’m not allowed to pull away.
Campagna’s lips twist as he thanks us, and I’m pretty sure he’s starting to see through our sitcom levels of bad acting. Whether that information is profitable enough to use against the Lang family is another matter. Fuck, I’m already starting to think like them.
Victor flicks his unused napkin onto the table. “Ciao, bitches.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Gray hand him something that looks like a snack bar, which he stuffs in his pocket as we leave.
“Luxury hotel” definitely means something different than it does in the States, as I discover when we crowd into an elevator that looks like it was built by Leonardo da Vinci. It even has one of those flimsy cage doors, allowing us to see all the rusty nooks and crannies of the elevator shaft as we ascend. I could swear I see bats sleeping in the shadows.
It’s not until Victor produces a key to one of the heavy wooden doors on the top floor that it sinks in—we’re sharing a room. I open my mouth to suggest that I’d rather sleep in a hall closet, then close it again. He’d probably take me literally.
The room is strange but inviting, sun-bleached with creaky parquet floors and antique furniture that looks like it will break if I sit down too hard. A small balcony invites guests to take in the harbor from a pair of plastic chairs covered in a patina of crusty, white salt. Mom would love to sit out here with a scarf around her hair and write postcards.
When Victor slams the bathroom door hard enough to knock one of the paintings on the wall crooked, I turn around and realize there’s only one bed. A queen, at that. Sighing past my gorged stomach, I sit weakly on the edge of it and look around for a couch, a pullout, anything.
Golden dust swirls lazily through the air when I move. The quality of light in this country is like nothing I could have ever imagined, like a fairy tale. It’s not helping me stay awake. My head throbs as I pick up the phone on the bedside table and dial the front desk. “Hello?” I lower my voice to avoid goading my demonic roommate. “Do you have rollaway beds, or cots or something? Could I have one sent to room 8C?” I screw up enough courage to add “Grazie,” hoping I didn’t say something insulting.
Pulling out my cell, I double-check the time and ring Mom’s phone.
“Ethan?”
Everything tight in me melts away. “Hey. You’ll never guess where I am right now.”
“Where?”
I step back onto the balcony. It’s getting hot and sultry, and even I can feel the call of the cool water. “Naples. Overlooking the Mediterranean.”
She squeals, happier than I’ve heard her in so long. “I can’t believe it.”
“There’s this castle right outside the hotel. I need to go find out what it’s called.”
“Can you send us pictures?”
A hand wraps around mine on the phone. Victor squints irritably up at me. He must be wearing the outfit Campagna provided: a black t-shirt and white jeans, Gucci sneakers. “Hurry up. I want to get this over with.”
I push him away and mouthfuck off. “Of course I can. I’ll—”
He grabs the phone faster than a snake striking. “Going into a tunnelkshhhhhhbye.” Then he drops it off the balcony. We both watch it bounce off the grass into an oleander bush. I spread my hands wordlessly.
“If you feel half as shitty as you look right now, you’re already jet lagged as hell. The sooner we do this, the sooner you can go to sleep.”
I follow him back into the room, where his luggage has somehow exploded over everything. I pick up one of the swimsuits draped over the desk. “I see what this is about. You can’t go swimming until after the shoot.”
He yanks it out of my hand and sits on the edge of the bed with it cradled in his lap, like I just wounded one of his children. “Your clothes are by the sink.”
