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The glass clanks on the counter as I put it down. The vodka settles into a warm ball in my lower stomach. Shit, shit, shit. Fucking shit!
I kick the cupboard shut and look at the clock for the first time since leaving the studio. At least I lasted most of the shoot. That’s better than running at the first glance.
Ha. Running. I’m good at running. So much so that I should live in my fucking sneakers.
I pour another drink and drink it as quickly as the last. Shit. What if I am falling in love? What kind of fucked-up bullshit would that make our relationship? It certainly wouldn’t be a fairytale.
It would be nothing close to a fairytale. Not even good ol’ Walt could spin it into a Disney-esque happy ending.
Another clank of the glass against the side and I storm into the bathroom. I turn the shower on—full heat and full power—and strip off. I step beneath the burning flow of water and let it wash over me as it almost scalds my skin.
Like it can wash away what I feel inside, on the outside.
Like the red-hot sting can seep into my skin and burn through the clusterfuck of emotion I don’t want to feel.
Because, god fuckin’ dammit, I don’t want to fall in love with him. I don’t want to feel the way I do because of real emotion. Unmanageable feelings.
But I do. I want this sickening feeling in my stomach to be because I’m falling for my twat, as he calls himself. I want it to be because my heart and soul are in agreement and there’s nothing they want more than him.
Just him.
Mostly, I wish I didn’t feel a thing.
Love or addiction, it doesn’t matter. It still fucking hurts.
I kill the water without washing my hair or soaping my body and wrap myself in a towel. Feeling no calmer than before, I walk into my room and pull on some underwear and some shorts. Then I roughly tug a tank over my head.
My temples are throbbing. Pounding. It’s almost painful, and I rub the towel across it. I grab my brush and yank it through my hair. Every movement shows the unending conflict and pain inside me.
I throw the towel to the floor and walk out into the front room. Angus is whining at the door, so I open it and let him out. He’ll just jump out the open window in the lobby.
The door slams too harshly, but no sooner have I closed it than it opens again.
I spin at the same time that I’m grabbed and slammed into the door. Lips cover mine harshly, the feel of fingers digging into my biceps painful and sweet at the same time.
The material of Tyler’s shirt curls beneath my hands as I fist it. I pull him closer. His tongue sweeps through my mouth, battling against mine. His teeth nip my bottom lip and he gently sucks after each bite, soothing the sting, but right now, I don’t care.
I want the sting. I want the physical to overpower the mental. I want him to tear off my clothes, pin me against this wall, and fuck me so hard that I can’t feel anything but him moving inside me.
He dives his hand into my hair and tugs. Hard. I whimper into his mouth as the jolt of pain registers through my nerves. And despite what my body is screaming for, my mind is yelling that this is the worst thing I should be doing.
I shouldn’t be surrendering to him this way. I should be fighting him.
I should be pushing him away from me because sex won’t solve it.
With one final deep kiss, I release his shirt, flatten my hands against his shoulders, and shove hard. He steps back, letting me go. I shake my head and move around him. Away from him.
“What the fucking hell was that, Liv?” he says between clenched teeth.
I run my fingers through my wet hair to untangle it. “I used the door. Just like you told me to, remember?”
“I didn’t mean use it halfway through the bloody shoot and fuck me up for the rest of it!”
“Oh, well, I’m sorry if needing to get the hell out of there before I murdered your model was a burden to you!” My voice echoes around my apartment.
He takes a deep breath. His nostrils flare, his chest heaves, and his eyes pin mine with an intensity I feel rushing through every single one of my veins.
“Explain. Now.” Not a question. A demand. A harsh, final demand.
