4. Watch Your Back

4

WATCH YOUR BACK

LILA

T he red carpet. Every young girl’s dream.

Well, it would’ve been a dream if it wasn’t for Bristol Brenner sleeping with whichever exec to keep his— very underserved —modeling job. (Did he actually do that? Probably not, but I’m obviously a terrible judge of character seeing as I thought he was a stand-up guy in the first place.) And now I have to walk alongside him in front of hundreds of paparazzi and pretend like I don’t want to strangle the life out of him.

Kitty’s Catwalk holds a gala before every major campaign to generate some hype, and with me and Bristol being the face of their latest, we’re the guests of honor. We’re pretty much destined to spend the rest of the night shaking hands with people in powerful positions and people in less-than-powerful positions that compensate for it with their stacked bank vaults of money. This debut has to go smoothly. I’m fully capable of making that happen. However, my… business associate …has the potential to ruin everything I worked so hard for.

I just have to remember what’s at stake here. This job means more to me than whatever grudge I hold against Bristol. I may have impressed Kitty’s Catwalk, but now I need to impress the rest of the world. This is the beginning of everything. Bristol may have screwed me over once, but I’m not going to let him do it again.

Aeris smudges the black, glimmery shadow over my eyelids, tapering it off into a messy wing. There were plenty of makeup artists willing to do my look for tonight, but Aeris jumped at the opportunity to doll me up. Which is probably best for nerve regulation and sensible decision-making reasons. I wanted to drag her along with me, but her fiancé, Hayes, apparently has something special planned for them tonight. And my girl deserves some winin’ and dinin’.

I’ve been sitting in her makeup chair for about two hours now, watching as she meticulously carves my cheekbones with bronze contour and replicates the perfect cat eye. She’s gone for a messy glam look.

The attention is drawn to my eyes, which are complete with thick, feathery lashes and lower liner that fades into the smoke-like cloud surrounding them. There’s shimmering highlighter sprinkled on my cheeks to catch luminescent flashes from the cameras, and my lips have been colored in the prettiest pink to accentuate their plumpness. My normally voluminous locks are slicked back, every flyaway slathered in heaps of hair gel.

My dress is a little more on the revealing side—which is a good thing for both the cameras and driving my costar insane. Do I hate Bristol? Oh, a hundred percent. With every fiber of my being. Is it obvious there’s still some leftover sexual tension between us? Undoubtedly. Will it bring me immense joy to see him drool like a dog when my boobs are one wardrobe malfunction away from flashing the entire vicinity? Abso-fucking-lutely.

The silk, nightshade fabric wraps around my neck and comes down in two separate strips that just barely cover my breasts, petering into a low V-shape that ends below my navel. The front strips mesh with the bottom of my dress, which flares out into a sinfully low-waisted skirt. There’s even a sexy little slit for my leg, and the material clings to every curve of my body, doing an excellent job of sculpting the perfect hourglass figure. And to finish the whole look off, black, glittery straps weave up my calves and descend into six-inch stilettos, complementing the diamond earrings dangling from my ears and the encrusted bangles on my wrists.

After the fifth time Aeris retouches my eyeshadow, I have to pull back from the makeup brush, failing to stifle a chuckle. “It’s perfect, Aer-Bear. Truly. I’ve never looked this hot before.”

She trades her adorable concentration face to gnaw on her bottom lip. “Does it look blended out enough? I swear the left eyelid looks worse than the right.”

Oh, Aeris. The girl with the biggest heart in the entire universe—a heart that sometimes makes life exceedingly difficult for her. Aeris means the world to me. We’ve been best friends since college, she’ll be the maid of honor at my wedding (assuming I get married—unlikely given the low IQ of men), and I’ll die happy knowing that I’ve lived the extent of my life with my platonic soulmate by my side. I honestly couldn’t imagine my life without her in it. If she wasn’t getting married to a hotshot hockey player, I’d marry her in a heartbeat.

I gently grab her hand and confiscate the brush clenched between her fingers. “They’re even, love.”

“I just…I want you to blow everyone out of the water tonight. And, I mean, you will because you’re so naturally gorgeous you could turn a straight woman gay. But I want to make sure the makeup accentuates that, you know? Are you too caked up? Should I redo it with a simpler eye look?” she rambles.

“Honestly? Makeup is the least of my worries right now,” I admit, setting the brush down and staring blankly into my vanity’s mirror. All I see is a girl who’s still scraping together the pieces of her broken heart, despite the makeup and the faux confidence she wears. No amount of foundation is enough to cover my insecurities—the ones responsible for scaring away the only man I’ve ever cared about.

I had my fair share of flings in college; it’s just how I operated. Aeris likes to refer to them as my “exes,” but I never committed to any sort of relationship with them. At most, it was a one-night stand gone right…which then turned into a ten-night stand…which then turned into months of fucking around. But with Bristol, everything was different— better . He showed me compassion, kindness, understanding. He showed me selflessness when it came to others. He showed me what it meant to be cherished and wanted. We may not have officially been together, but it was a relationship. In every twisted way.

When I’d come home late from modeling shoots and was too tired to take my makeup off, he’d do it for me. He’d draw me a bath and bring me the dinner that I hadn’t eaten yet, and he’d take care of me for the rest of the night. Whenever we slept at his place, we’d spend the next morning cuddling, talking about the future, just… relishing in each other. He constantly told me how beautiful I was, staring at me like it was the last time he’d ever see me.

During those seven beautiful days when Aunt Flow came a-knocking, there was only one thing I craved (besides relief from the god-awful cramps ripping apart my uterus). It was this maple bacon burger that was served with the crispiest caramelized onions, but the catch was that the restaurant that carried it was thirty miles away from us. I would’ve settled for a cheap, flattened cheeseburger from a fast-food chain, but Bristol would always drive those extra thirty miles to get it for me. He told me that distance never mattered to him—that he’d cross the ocean to see me smile. He didn’t view me as some burden or chore he had to take care of. He wanted to take care of me. And after my father left, that was something I always struggled with. I’d learned from him that I was always the one to blame when things went wrong.

And that way of thinking was further enhanced on the night of my twentieth birthday. It was the first time in my entire life I wasn’t going to celebrate my birthday with my mother, and I remember feeling so alone. I was a sophomore in college. I had a handful of sorority sisters who I called my friends, as well as Aeris, but I chose to spend that night solely with my fling at the time.

I had too much to drink. I was reminiscing about feeling so empty and unappreciated on every single one of my birthdays because of the love my dad stole from me. And I remember saying to this man—this man I was starting to actually fall for—that I was surprised I was willing to share any details about my father with him at all. No hookups usually got to this stage with me—you know, past the shallow, surface-level shit I always fed them.

And good ol’ Jason Whittemore saw right through me that night. I’m pretty sure his exact words were, “No offense, but I don’t really care about your life. I don’t want to know about your past. You’re…too much to handle. You’re too loud, too emotional, too high maintenance. You have all this baggage, and I’m not going to stick around long enough for you to saddle me with it. If you think any guy would be willing to put up with you, you’re crazier than I thought.”

Then he walked away from me, right after the clock turned twelve, and left me to deal with my highly anticipated twenties all by myself. That remains one of the worst nights of my life.

Not all of the guys I fucked were like that, though. Some were obsessed with me, but the ones who saw through my fa?ade…well, they’re why I don’t do relationships. I’m not strong en ough to subject myself to that kind of scrutiny again. And nobody wants to be with a girl who’s too much.

A burden who requires too much care.

A liability who is tiring to be around.

A parasite who sucks the life out of everyone around her.

Even though Bristol was the first person to look me in the eyes and say, “You’re not a burden. And it wasn’t your fault your dad failed to be a parent,” it’s still hard for me to believe him.

Bristol was my biggest supporter. He built me up on the days when I was determined to tear myself down, and he held me through the torrential storm of imposter syndrome and self-deprecation that had ravaged me for so long. He held me even when I’d scream at him to leave me alone. And maybe I was just a stupid girl who only wanted to be loved, but I foolishly thought that meant he’d never abandon me.

But as I’ve grown to realize, the blame for why Bristol abandoned me sits solely on my shoulders. And the weight has been killing me ever since. I drove him to leave because of my unwanted opinions and my insecurities and my unlovable baggage. And if my dad had stuck around to get to know me, he probably would’ve left for the same reasons.

Aeris’ face falls in tangible sympathy. “Oh, God. I didn’t even ask you how you’re doing. I’m so sorry, Li. This must be terrible for you.”

“It’s not great,” I mumble through held-back tears, feeling my heart give a few weak throbs in agreement, and all-consuming sadness bellows through me at a rate I can hardly conceive, much less slow.

Makeup abandoned, Aeris reaches out to sweep my hands into hers. Her tone is soft, comforting, harboring a maternal quality that always lends itself in dire situations. “I thought you were doing better. ”

“I was. Until I saw him again. And then it was like everything came rushing back.”

“God, I hate him. Like, I know he’s Hayes’ best friend, but I hate him. Do I have your permission to put a piece of salmon in one of his air vents and let it rot?”

Surprisingly, a chuckle suffuses the space between us. “We’re better than that, Aer-Bear. Plus, salmon’s expensive.”

“ You may be better than that, but I’m not.”

Aeris…the sweetest and simultaneously scariest person I know. Small in stature but as terrifying as a guard dog. Like a Doberman in a chihuahua’s body.

I could spend the rest of the night venting to her about how heartbroken I still am, but considering I have a red carpet to walk and don’t need my mascara running, I’d rather just end on a low note. At least it’s not rock-bottom low.

Inconspicuously changing the subject, I tap my phone awake and glance at the clock. “I think I should get going.”

Aeris shrieks, looks at the digital numbers that boast a gut-plummeting 7:40 p.m., and quickly irons out the nonexistent wrinkles in my dress. “Shit. Okay. Do you have everything? Have you eaten already?” she asks.

The thing about being in the spotlight is that every eye is constantly on you. Every camera is picking up on every tiny imperfection, and that includes imperfections that people think they’re entitled to comment on. I bloat like a whale, and considering how much of my stomach is showing, I’d rather avoid the confidence-destroying headlines.

“Yep. Ate a big lunch before you came over,” I lie, standing up to snatch my purse from my bed, and simultaneously enduring a painful stomach cramp that makes me wince.

“Okay. Good. Rich people events always have the grossest food.” She gives herself a glance in the mirror, then points finger guns at herself with a self-assured grin .

I laugh, feeling my heart inflate with enough love to scatter over a vast cosmos. Although he may be Bristol’s best friend, Hayes has helped Aeris grow to love herself and the body she’s in, and I’ll always owe him my gratitude for that.

After Aeris finishes flirting with herself in the mirror, she galvanizes my confidence with a wink. “Come on. The world’s waiting to meet their new It Girl.”

“You look gorgeous,” Bristol says, and although he’s gentlemanly enough not to ogle my tits, he’s not so gentlemanly in the length of time he spends staring at me, his gaze snaking down my body and sending a shiver through it like a potent shot of tequila.

I flash him a smug smile. “I know.”

Bursts of light sizzle like flares on the edges of my vision, accompanied by obnoxious shouting from the paparazzi lining the red carpet, and all the competing flashes imprint blots of red against the inside of my eyelids. Jesus, I’m going to go blind. And it’s surprisingly not from Bristol’s hideous and gag-inducing appearance.

In fact, I want to find his stylist and slap them across the face for making him look so… not ugly . His face is clean-shaven, and his hair is coiffed back with just the right amount of volume to it, a single will-make-all-the-women-go-crazy strand drooping over his forehead.

His cheekbones are as enviably angular as they’ve always been, and that ninety-degree jawline of his is sharp enough to probably cut through felled timber. His eyes—usually a light whiskey shade in the daytime—assume a dark color reminiscent of coffee grounds, tracking my every movement with the intensity of a stalking predator. And his pillowy lips tease me with the memory of a single taste—a taste that makes the bottom half of me throb in a way that puts women back hundreds of years. Also, don’t get me started on that fucking suit of his.

He’s dressed in a classic black suit and tie, which would ordinarily be boring on any other guy, but on him, it’s a whole different story. It hugs his broad, mile-wide shoulders, emphasizing the ridiculous amount of muscle mass he’s gained from playing hockey. Damn those hidden traps lying in wait, roiling with masculine energy that entices me like a moth to a flame. The rest of him is primed to perfection, with his juicy ass squeezed into tight-fitting pants. He’s—in nicer words— perfect . In my words, the spawn of Satan who makes me want to gargle glass.

We pause every so often to pose for the paparazzi, and a balding man down front demands that we move closer together for the picture. Right now, we’re saving room for Jesus. If we move any closer, I’ll be inhaling his cologne and touching him in places I wouldn’t poke with a ten-foot pole. But Bristol pulls me into his hard body, showcases a megawatt grin that—I’m not exaggerating—makes a few of the female paparazzi swoon, and rests his hand intimately on my exposed hip. Since my dress is backless, he’s practically got a one-way ticket to Skintopia, and he takes advantage of my forced compliance by running his thumb in circles on my bare, lower back.

I hate it.

And I hate it even more that his touch is calming. I’m like a dog wagging its tail when you scratch it behind the ear, and I couldn’t be more ashamed. I doubt the rictus smile pasted to my face reaches my eyes, but it must be convincing enough because we get ushered closer to the ornate double doors with the velvet overhang.

“I know you’re mad,” Bristol acknowledges, as if my anger hasn’t been flashing like a neon sign above my head this entire time.

“Gee, I wonder what gave you that impression.” Indignation torpedoes through me, and it dawns on me how hard it’ll be to curb my emotions around him. Not just for the night, but for the duration of this job. I’m a vessel brimming with unadulterated hatred, waiting for the tiniest ember to self-destruct and blow up everything in my path…and the kill switch is right in Bristol’s hands.

He gives a weak snort. “Your body language, for one.”

“You’ve been staring at my body?”

“Hard not to when you’re wearing a dress like that.”

Don’t blush at that, Lila! That’s a pathetic line. He’s probably used it on hundreds of girls before you…and after you. You’re better than this. Fight off the freaky Bristol hormones trying to infect you!

Unamused, I gesture to him. “Just FYI, this whole nice guy act isn’t going to work on me. Just because we’re stuck working together doesn’t mean I’ll forgive you.”

Even with my hand acting as a makeshift barricade between us, he inches the tiniest bit closer, spiting me, staring down at me from his six-foot-two vantage point. With my heels, we’re close enough in height that I barely have to tip my head up to look at him, and I challenge him with a glare colder than ice.

Instead of the blood-boiling laugh I was expecting, Bristol’s expression sobers. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness, Lila,” he confesses, his arm twitching momentarily by his side, like he’s refraining from reaching out and cupping my face. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop fighting for it. I’m going to make things right, and if it takes this entire campaign, then so be it.”

“Oh, you can work as hard as you want, but some empty apologies and elaborate gestures aren’t going to sway me. You made your choice. Deal with the consequences.”

I go to turn and march triumphantly into the gala without some dead weight hanging off my arm, but his hand seeks my wrist and halts me.

His bravado is hauntingly low, thick with a rasp that’s programmed to make the hairs on my neck stand up. “I am dealing with them. Fuck, Lila. I deal with them every time I look at you. Every time I hear your laugh and remember that I’m not the reason for it. Every time I see you smile and wish it was directed at me.”

For a moment, my heart squeezes in agony. Regret lingers in the coal pits of his eyes, felt so strongly that it reverberates through my own body and nearly buckles my knees. I don’t rip my arm away from him, which should’ve been my first instinct. He almost bypasses my password-encrypted walls and garners sympathy from the darkest, deepest depths of my belly. But as fast rising as that sympathy is, it’s smothered when rationale kicks in and instructs me to break contact.

I wrench free from his grasp, our private argument sidelined as more models arrive. Even though the fresh air is frigid, it feels suffocating, sitting heavily on my chest like a twenty-pound dumbbell. I can’t shake it either—this fear that leeches to the curve of my spine. It takes me back to the night he broke my heart. Not just broke but obliterated . Blew a hole right through it and dispersed every fragment to the ends of the fucking earth.

“Good,” I snap, and maybe it’s the hunger making me extra bitchy tonight, but I fire off another rage-fueled cannon in Bristol’s direction. “Live with knowing that another man’s making me laugh and making me smile and making me scream his name when I come.”

The sad reality is that there’s no other man in my life. I just said it to piss him off. And did it work?

He freezes, and it’s not because of the coincidental breeze that just so happens to slink in a figure-eight around us.

You bet it fucking did .

“You’re seeing someone?” he asks in equal parts shock and jealousy, a muscle in his jaw flexing.

“Sure am,” I lie, digging my grave even deeper by tacking on a demure smile. A part of me fears the repercussions, but the other part of me basks in joy at the anger written all over his face.

Something in him changes, as easily flipped as a light switch. The conversational tone of his voice descends into a rumble in his throat, and suddenly, regret simmers to the surface.

Shit. Should I have said that?

Of course you should’ve! Give him a taste of his own medicine.

The muscles in his upper body seem to writhe as he searches for a weak spot in my fabrication, prodding with those now-dead eyes that are intent on unearthing the truth. But I stand my ground, stare at him with the same soulless look, and practically get off on the mental pain I’m causing this man.

I can tell he’s holding back, trying to approach with caution, but said caution’s been blown off the door hinges.

“Where is he then?” he interrogates, the closeness of his body growing more irresistible by the minute, his cologne unfortunately having some kind of aphrodisiac effect on my psyche. It’s this intoxicating scent of sensual leather—not entirely overwhelming to be dizzying, but strong enough to coddle me in the faintest woodsy undertone. And it makes my stupid, apparently non-Bristol-proof hormones go haywire.

Uh. Um. I flounder for a second—hoping it’s not long enough to give myself away—then I make eye contact with the two-story building waiting for us.

“He’s waiting for me. Inside,” I say.

Ugh. Great going, Lila! He’s obviously going to want to ? —

Bristol’s eyes flick nonchalantly behind me, then back to me. “I want to meet him.”

“Why? ”

“Because I want to make sure he’s treating you right.”

“Oh, he’s treating me right.”

If he was a battery-operated device named Melvin that I’ve started to grow attachment issues to.

“Plus, you lost all boyfriend-y privileges the moment you dumped me. Why on earth would I let you ruin this night and interrogate him just because you’re jealous?” I retaliate, haunches raised, the anxiousness in my stomach quickly replaced with prickling annoyance.

Bristol contemplates me, pauses, then has the gall to call my bluff. “You’re lying.”

My nose scrunches—an unfortunate tell I’ve always had. “I’m not.”

We finally start to inch our way toward the entrance, each fate-sealing step making my pulse burst out the side of my neck. I clutch my purse to my body, bear the nightly chill due to the laughable coverage of my dress, and walk my gelatin-like legs to my social execution.

Bristol not so discreetly rolls his eyes, a small scoff catching at the back of his throat. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Fine then. Be prepared to eat your words.”