CHAPTER 10

The glass clanked on the counter as I placed it down. The vodka settled into a warm ball in my lower stomach. Shit, shit, shit. Fucking shit!

I kicked the cupboard shut and looked at the clock for the first time since leaving the studio. At least I lasted most of the shoot. That was 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 poured another drink and drunk 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 stormed into the bathroom. I turned the shower on—full heat and full power—and stripped off. I stepped beneath the burning flow of water and let it wash over me as it almost scalded my skin.

Like it could wash away what I felt inside, on the outside.

Like the red-hot sting could seep into my skin and burn through the clusterfuck of emotion I didn’t want to feel.

Because, god fuckin’ dammit, I didn’t want to fall in love with him. I dodn’t want to feel the way I did because of real emotion. Unmanageable feelings.

But I did. I wanted this sickening feeling in my stomach to be because I was falling for my twat, as he calls himself. I wanted it to be because my heart and soul were in agreement and there was nothing they wanted more than him.

Just him.

Mostly, I wished I didn’t feel a thing.

Love or addiction, it didn’t matter. It still fucking hurt.

I killed the water without washing my hair or soaping my body and wrapped myself in a towel. Feeling no calmer than before, I walked into my room and pulled on some underwear and some shorts. Then I roughly tugged a tank over my head.

My temples were throbbing. Pounding. It was almost painful, and I rubbed the towel across it. I grabbed my brush and yanked it through my hair. Every movement showed the unending conflict and pain inside me.

I threw the towel to the floor and walked out into the front room. Angus was whining at the door, so I opened it and let him out. He’ll just jump out the open window in the lobby.

The door slammed too harshly, but no sooner had I closed it than it opened again.

I spinned 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 Ivan’s shirt curled beneath my hands as I fisted it. I pulled him closer. His tongue swept through my mouth, battling against mine. His teeth nipped my bottom lip and he gently sucked after each bite, soothing the sting, but I didn’t care.

I wanted the sting. I wanted the physical to overpower the mental. I wanted him to tear off my clothes, pin me against this wall, and fuck me so hard that I couldn’t feel anything but him moving inside me.

He dived his hand into my hair and tugged. Hard. I whimpered into his mouth as the jolt of pain registered through my nerves. And despite what my body was screaming for, my mind was yelling that it was 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 released his shirt, flattened my hands against his shoulders, and shoved hard. He stepped back, letting me go. I shook my head and moved around him. Away from him.

“What the fucking hell was that, Brenda?” he said between clenched teeth.

I ran 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 echoed around my apartment.

He took a deep breath. His nostrils flared, his chest heaved, and his eyes pinned mine with an intensity I felt blood rushing through every single one of my veins.

“Explain. Now.” Not a question. A demand. A harsh, final demand.

I stormed past him and stopped in the middle of the room. “That. Her. I couldn’t watch it! The way she was throwing herself at you. She wasn’t even playing the camera. She was playing you!” My gut wrenched with the thought.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m a model. I know how it works. She wasn’t interested in anything except what’s in your fucking pants!” I wrapped my arms around me like a safety net, turning. “I couldn’t fucking watch her sitting there drooling over you and shoving what are probably fake tits toward you, knowing you were looking at her. Knowing you were watching her every goddamn move!”

“I’m not interested in her!” He stepped forward. “Fuck. All I see is you, Brenda. Every time, it’s you!”

“That doesn’t matter!” Tears really did burn my eyes. “You were watching her. Her…” My voice trailed off on the last word.

Ivan walked towards me, and I backed up until I hit the wall. With nowhere for me to run, he laid a hand on either side of my face. Leaning in, breathing harshly, each one seemingly pained, he consumed me.

“Stop,” he whispered. “Please, baby girl. Stop. Stop these stupid, irrational thoughts.”

“I’m not irrational. My addiction is irrational. My need for you, my crazy, overwhelming need for you, is irrational. But I am not.”

“You don’t think I feel the same? You don’t think I don’t bloody well need you either?” He wiped his thumbs beneath my eyes.

I looked at him. Shook my head. How can he need me the way I need him?

“I do.” He stepped closer, his body flat against mine. “It took everything I had to not follow you out that damn door. To stay and take pictures of that woman.”

“I would have gone,” I whispered. “If it were the other way around, I wouldn’t have been able to stay.”

“I stayed because I was made to.” He finished his words with a firm kiss. The warmth from his mouth seeped through me from my lips to my toes. Every part of my body felt it.

“You don’t get it, do you?” I looked up, my eyes wet. I could feel the sting every time I blinked.

“Yes, I do. I get it.”

I wrapped my arms around his wrists and pulled them down. “No, you don’t. What if I get like this every time you shoot another woman? That happens, what, four times a week, at least? It’s been five days and I’m already falling apart over it. This isn’t normal.”

“And when you go for the Balfour shoot in two weeks? Then what, Brenda? I know the guy shooting it. How do you think I’ll feel knowing you, my bitch, my girlfriend, my Brenda, is on a beach in front of some other knobhead while he takes her picture?”