I’m a block away before the tears start, and I pull over, my hands tight around the steering wheel as my body shakes with the violent onslaught of my sobs.
I was a fool to think I could do this—that I could display myself like that. That I could be so free, so open, with any man, much less Wyatt. A man who has always broken through my defenses.
A man who used to treasure me, but now cares nothing for me.
Less than nothing, actually. He reviles me, and why shouldn’t he? I’m the one who left, after all. I’m the one who walked away and never looked back. And even though I may have fantasized that he would find me and call me and rescue me, I’ve always known that was a wish that could never come true.
For one thing, why would he try after what I did?
For another, how would he have managed to find me?
I know that we were kids back then, but that doesn’t change the fact that I hurt him anymore than it changes the fact that I loved him. I did.
But love didn’t make a difference. I screwed up, and I destroyed everything.
I’d thought I could handle tonight. That the fact that I needed the money would give me the strength to make it okay. But it’s not okay. Because when he touched me, everything rushed back to me. Infatuation. Desire. Need.
I wanted him.
But more than that, I wanted him to want me. Maybe I was shy. Maybe I was awkward. But I wasn’t scared. I was turned on.
He barely touched me, and yet I craved so much more. His hands on me. His lips hot against my skin.
With each infinitesimal change in the position of that sheet, I fantasized about his hands moving intimately over my body, not simply to set up the shot, but for his pleasure. And for mine.
He was a man I couldn’t have—a man who rightfully despised me—and yet I would have willingly slept with him tonight, then slinked away in the morning hating myself.
He’d tempted me on purpose, of course. But not because he felt anything for me. He’d already told me as much, hadn’t he? This was my punishment, and he was an expert at inflicting it.
Or maybe he wasn’t.
Because instead of being something to endure, the night was something to treasure. Yes, I was scared. But I was excited, too. Not just because of how he touched me, but because I was pushing myself. I was breaking out of that shell. Going a little wild in ways I hadn’t let myself go in years. Or ever, really, except for that one time twelve years ago.
That felt good. Bold. Like I was a butterfly pushing out of my cocoon.
But then he took me to the monitor, and when I peered down at the digital image, the reality of what I was doing struck me. This was just like twelve years ago. A bad choice. A dangerous choice.
And as I gazed at the monitor and the stunning, vibrant image of a confident, sexual woman who had my face and body, all I could do was stand there as my father’s voice rang through my head. Everything I’ve done for you, and you still turn out to be a whore. Just like your mother. And you’ll get the same as she did, too. You keep acting like this, and you just see what you get.
I couldn’t do it.
I hate myself for letting him down—for letting myself and Griffin down, too—but I just couldn’t do it.
And I know—I know—that my father is wrong. That it doesn’t really work that way. That the bad things that I do don’t punish other people. That my mother’s affair wasn’t the reason that she and her boyfriend died in a car wreck.
I know that.
I even know that posing for Wyatt’s pictures doesn’t make me bad or wicked or any of the things my father would shout at me.
It doesn’t, and I get that.
But knowing and believing aren’t always the same thing. And maybe it’s better sometimes to just avoid walking that line.
Besides, I’ve never had the best judgment where Wyatt is concerned. He’s like a hurricane dropped in the middle of my neat, orderly life.
Too much stress. Too much mess.
I’m better off without him. And I can still figure out some way to get the money.
The money.
I wince as I think of Griffin. I need to see him. At the very least, I should tell him that I’m going to have to sell the Mustang. Except he’ll try to talk me out of it, so maybe it’s better to just stay quiet. If I tell him after the fact, at least it will be a done deal.
I wipe my tears, then start the car back up. Now that Griff’s in my head, I want him near, and so instead of going home, I head for his apartment in Silver Lake. I know I’m being silly, but the truth is, I don’t want to be alone.
Since he’s surely asleep by now, I let myself in, then drop my purse on the coffee table. Like my place, it’s small. Just your basic layout, with a living area that flows into the dining area that flows into a hall with a closet-sized bathroom at the end. Griffin’s bedroom’s on one side of the hall, an almost perfectly square room with minimal closet space, and there’s an identical, mirror-image bedroom across from it that Griffin uses as a sound studio.
The kitchen is across from the little dining area, and I go there next, then grab one of the cans of cold brew coffee that my brother is addicted to. I’m about to pop the top when I realize how stupid that will be. With Wyatt on my mind, I’m going to have a hard enough time sleeping. Add caffeine to the mix, and I’ll be staring at the walls all night.
Fine.
Alcohol it is.
I’m not a big drinker. The one time in my life I drank bourbon was the one time in my life I messed up royally. Which is why I swore off hard liquor when I was fifteen, even before I was legally allowed to drink the stuff.
Now my drink of choice is white wine, and I’m certain there’s a bottle in the fridge, because Griff always keeps a bottle chilled for me.
I open the fridge, then blink at the bright light in contrast to the darkened room. I squint as I peer in, then find not only a lovely Chardonnay, but also a box of cupcakes from Love Bites, which is my absolute favorite bakery. It’s also inconvenient, since it’s all the way in Beverly Hills. Griff must have had a meeting. Usually, he avoids Beverly Hills like the plague, and when he does go, he treats himself. And me, by default.
I debate, decide Griffin won’t care, and grab one with yellow frosting and decorative fondant flowers.
“Cupcake thief.”
I yelp as the kitchen light snaps on, then turn to face my brother. He’s wearing grey sweatpants that hang loose around his hips and a jersey Tee with a mock turtleneck. He’s worn his midnight black hair long for years, and now it’s hanging loose around his face in what I like to call his sexy, rocker style, with most of it combed to one side so that it forms a curtain over most of the right half of his face, accenting the vivid green of his uncovered, right eye.
Looking at him, I can almost imagine that I never ruined anything for him.
“Up, Kels?”
I shake my head, realizing I’ve been standing in front of the open fridge, just staring at him like an idiot.
“Sorry. It’s late. I was spacing out.” I grimace. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”