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“On one condition,” I quickly add.
“Name it.”
“I don’t want Helen anywhere near this. If tabloids surface, if things start coming out about the past, we will meet and decide how to handle it. The last thing I want is to put something out there that may blow back in our faces. I get what she’s saying about painting me as the victim but I don’t like it. I’m not a victim. And I sure as shit don’t want Brandy walking around thinking she had that kind of power over me. Clarke is the key to fixing my image, and this movie will be the key to getting me back into the good graces of Hollywood. We clear?”
She nods.
“I want the script today. And I reserve the right to change my mind if I don’t like it.”
“I’ll let Harold know.” She turns, making her way out of the room. “I knew you’d make the right choice,” she calls over her shoulder.
And then she’s gone. Just like that…
“Fuuuuccccck!” I belt out, my face tipped up toward the ceiling.
At what point is this not worth it anymore?
Do I love this shitthatmuch that I’m willing to put myself through all of this nonsense? Obviously, I am, or I wouldn’t have agreed to it.
Though, I’ve never been more tempted to throw it all away than I am right now.
Taking a deep breath in and blowing it slowly out, I try to calm the nagging uneasiness that has settled over me like a heavy blanket.
Allowing my body to slump to one side, I grab the throw blanket draped behind me and pull my legs up on the couch, before throwing the damn thing over my head in an effort to drown out the world.
But it doesn’t work.
Because along with thoughts of Brandy and what this movie will hold, there’s the lingering irritation of Clarke’s disappearing act this morning.
As soon as I feel like I’ve got this woman somewhat figured out, she throws me for another loop.
So instead, I try to focus on other things. Like how she looked in that dress. How she screamed my name as I fucked her from behind, her slender body draped over the back of this very couch. How beautiful she looked as she slept inmybed, and not a hotel bed or the bed in a house I don’t actually live in. But in my actual bed, somewhere no other woman has slept.
Watching her, letting my fingers play with the soft strands of her hair that were splayed out on the pillow, her soft pink lips parted slightly, as if inviting me in for a taste.
Fuck, my cock hardens just thinking of it.
What the fuck is this woman doing to me?
Last night I told her she was my kryptonite. I didn’t actually believe it in that moment, but now I’m realizing maybe the reason I said it was because it actuallyistrue. No matter how hard I try to keep her out, she keeps finding ways in.
What if I meant other things I said too? What if what I convince myself is acting, is actually what I’m feeling?
The lines between real and pretend are starting to blur, and I’m not sure what’s true and what’s not anymore. And it’s only been a couple fucking weeks. How am I going to feel in two more weeks, or hell, what about a couple of months?
Throwing back the cover, I abruptly sit up, deciding I need to do something,anythingother than sitting here thinking about Clarke fucking Hamilton–something I’ve done way too fucking much as of late.
Standing, I tug my shirt over my head and toss it onto the arm of the couch, before making my way to the far side of the house where the gym is located. Knowing full well nothing helps clear my mind better than pushing my body to its absolute limit, I decide to let the physical drown out the mental, at least for a little bit, anyway.
“Hi.” Clarke’s voice is an octave higher than normal when she answers the phone, almost like she’s surprised to hear from me.
“Hey.” I smile, even though I try like hell not to.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
I think I’m worse off than I thought.
Then again, maybe I just need to fuck her a few more times to get her through my system. I’m sure then I’d feel better.
