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The airin the restaurant is warm and humid, but I shiver and hug myself. An icy cloak of despair wraps around me, and I’m cold all the time these days. I’m at the steakhouse where Landon took me for our first date. A server sets down a bowl of bread in front of me, and I stare at it, struggling to suppress the nausea welling up inside me. The dull chatter of the customers throbs in my ears as I sit at a table by the window, waiting for Landon. I’ve got my back to the wall, watching the door, terrified Bastien will come strolling in any minute.
It’s been three days since the gallery fiasco. I don’t know what’s worse, the waiting or the fresh wounds he opens with every visit.
I’m haunted by the memory of Pandora’s and Mr. Sinclair’s expressions as they stood in that doorway, looking down at me, flat on my back with my legs spread wide and my wet private parts exposed to them.
They saw everything.
Mr. Sinclair looked as if he wanted to vomit. Pandora was in tears, shaking. She went out on a limb for me, giving me an opportunity to make connections, and I made her look terrible. The art world is small and gossipy. I may have ruined her, which makes me want to shrivel up and die. I have to figure a way out of this. I can’t just sit back and let him tear my life to shreds like this. I can’t let him hurt my friends and family.
I’m jumping at shadows. I expect to see him at every corner. I’m exhausted. When I’m alone, I weep spontaneously, crying until I’m hoarse.
This is exactly what he wants.
Tonight, I’ll confide in Landon. I’ll probably have to warn my mother and Pandora too. I’ll tell the police, and I’ll make as much noise as I can. Bastien wouldn’t want his family dragged into this, would he? Or maybe his parents would help me if I could find a way to get ahold of them directly.
I’m desperate. I’ll try anything. This is like being diagnosed with a terminal disease, except my disease is in human form, and I’m so afraid there’s no cure.
The door opens, and I sit up straighter, but a group of people is smiling and chatting happily with each other as they approach the hostessbecause nobody’s trying to murder them.
Where is he? He should have been here fifteen minutes ago. Why is he late? He’s compulsively early for everything.
“Excusez-moi, cette place est-elle prise?” a man’s voice says, coming from my right, and I’m so exhausted and distracted that it takes me a few seconds to realize that someone just said, “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” in French.
Bastien sits down without waiting to be invited. He hands me a paper-wrapped bouquet of lavender. A cruel reminder of his family’s lavender fields, the ones we used to run through, holding hands.
“Get away from me, you sick little bastard,” I spit at him, keeping my voice low. Then it hits me. He must have done something to Landon. That’s the only explanation for Landon’s absence. “Where the hell is he?”
He doesn’t even ask who. He smiles coldly. “I’ve ordered filet mignon for you, medium rare. That’s your favorite, right? Stay in your seat and act happy, or I’ll have Landon gutted.”
My insides turn to liquid with terror, and then the waiter walks up to take our wine order, and I have to sit there with a frozen smile plastered on my face and nod politely as he speaks. “You hate me,” I say after the waiter leaves. “Why do you want to have dinner with me?”
“Why the hell not? We never had a real date. Because, you know, you fucked me over and ruined my life. So you owe me this. Sit here and pretend you’re enjoying it. You know, like you do with Landon.”
The evil bastard.
What follows is the meal from hell. He sits there acting like a lover, pouring wine for me. He feeds me bites of his gratinated scallops. He talks to me about some client that his company just landed. He reaches over and strokes my hand. The whole time, I see malice glittering in his eyes.
I’m crazed with worry. I beg and beg, but he refuses to say a word about Landon. The filet mignon is tender and melts in my mouth, but it tastes like ashes.
Is Landon bleeding to death? How much pain is he in right now?
People stare at us with envy—just like when we were back in high school together.Look at them, so pretty, so in love.Finally, we finish with dinner. But Bastien orders dessert for both of us.
I shake my head, scowling at him. “I can’t eat anything else. I’ll throw up.”
He smiles sweetly at me and takes my hand in his, stroking it with his thumb. “Won’t that be embarrassing for you.”
My face flushes red. “I get it,” I snap. “You’re making me feel the way you felt when you were fifteen. You’ve made me feel humiliated and miserable; you’ve made everyone close to me look at me with disgust. Enough, Bastien. I have said I’m sorry over and over, and I am. But this obsession with me is going to destroy you. You have to let it go.”
“Destroy me?” He looks at me quizzically. “Oh, Camille, I’ve never been happier.” I try to pull my hand away, but he holds it fast.
“Let’s talk about how much you loved it when I ate your pussy, baby. You were so turned on. God, that made you hot. And I loved doing it to you. You taste like honey. Did you know that?”
The server walks by, and I know he heard what Bastien just said. I’m mortified, but my body is responding to the caress of his words. Wetness seeps between my folds, and a flush of arousal spreads from my head to my toe.
“God, your legs were spread so wide when they walked in on us. You’re such a little slut.”
Just thinking about it makes me want to melt into the floor. I tug desperately on my wrist, and Bastien’s fingers sink into my flesh so hard that hot tears of pain spring to my eyes. “I can find you help,” I say desperately. “This hatred is a burden. It’s hurting you. I know it is. Please let me help you.”
