Memories of what happened in these gardens, in this house, rise up inside me. I double over, wrap my arms around my middle. Take several long, deep, calming breaths. Try my best not to give in to the despair and the terror crowding into every part of me.
It isn’t easy, but then, it never has been. But it is old hat by now, or so I tell myself as I continue to pull air in through my nose and blow it slowly, quietly, out through my mouth. I can do it one more time. Hell, I can do it a million more times.
So that’s what I do. I take several more minutes to get myself together. I bury the memories deep. Bury my fears, and these new, terrifying memory lapses, even deeper. No one ever needs to know.
Then I straighten my shoulders, blink my eyes dry, focus on the goal. Going crazy can wait until later. Right now, I have a party to throw, a mother to placate, and a man to bring to his knees.
I’ll be damned if anything as mundane as losing my mind gets in my way.
Chapter 17
It’s another stereotypical California day here in Los Angeles. The air is warm, the water is glassy and the sun is bright and high in the cloudless sky, though the shadows it’s casting are long. It’s this dichotomy that makes my early afternoon walk down Sunset Blvd. a little more interesting than it might be otherwise (and it’s plenty interesting on its own) because it’s more than a walk. It’s a journey between sun and shadow, between light and dark, between famous and infamous.
It’s a dichotomy that fits more than just this famous street. It also fits the way of life here in Hollywood—and, more specifically, the way of life of its favorite sons and daughters, more specifically famed actress Veronica Romero. It’s been four days since I had the privilege of meeting the gorgeous and talented screen icon for the first time, four days that have given me a case of whiplash so severe it’s a miracle I can still hold my head up. Four days that have convinced me that I’m absolutely crazy, but then—
Fuck. I slam a frustrated hand down on my desk as the turmoil inside of me leaks onto my computer screen for the fiftieth time in as many minutes. With a snarl, I delete the last couple of sentences for the shit that they are, then shove back from the desk so hard that I nearly do get whiplash.
It would serve me fucking right.
A knock on the door followed by a female voice calling, “housekeeping,” has me shoving my hands in my pockets and calling back, “Not today, thanks.”
I listen carefully, trying to decide if she’s heard me. And if that isn’t a perfect damn metaphor for the way I’ve spent the last four days, then I don’t know what the fuck is.
Eventually, the sound of the cart rolling slowly past my room filters through the door and my shoulders relax. I’m in a foul mood—the writing’s not going well and neither is the constant replay of the last conversation I had with Veronica—and I’m not in the mood to deal with people right now, even on the superficial level of housekeeper and hotel guest.
As I walk to the glass door that leads to the postage stamp balcony outside my room, I ignore the fact that the room really could use a little cleaning up. The bed alone looks like a war zone. Then again, considering what went on in it last night—and what went on in this room this morning—I can’t imagine it looking like anything else.
Even though I don’t have the time for it, I spend a few minutes gazing out at the crazy, congested traffic of Hollywood and Vine. It’s fascinating to watch the drivers claw their way forward, fighting for every inch of ground they gain. Throwing their hands up and swearing every time another driver gets in their way.
It seems I’m just full of metaphors today because their progress—slow and messy and almost completely without a working plan—reminds me so much of what I’ve been doing with Veronica that it’s a little like looking in a mirror. For every painstaking inch of ground I gain with her, there’s another mountain to scale, another misconception to shatter, another crazy driver to make my way around.
Even worse is the knowledge that most of it is my fault. I’ve been a dick. A total and complete dick. I’ve lied to her, pushed her too fast. Hell, I tied her to my fucking bed and spanked her ass until she could barely sit down. Then I all but ran away—from her and from what I did. From what being with her opened up inside of me.
Even worse, I hurt her. That knowledge alone is enough to have me nearly jumping out of my skin. But then add in the fact that she’s been hurt before—badly hurt—and I want to punch my fist through the wall. Or better, put my head through it. God knows I fucking deserve it.
And still I’m standing here thinking about her, still I want her, so much that the need is an open, aching wound inside of me. Even worse, though, is the knowledge that I still have more questions. That I still want to get the answers from her even after everything that’s already passed between us. I’m gutted every time I think of the look on her face when she left here. I’d do anything to keep her from looking that way again, anything but walk away from her and this goddamned book.