6. Lights, Cameras, Confessions!

6

LIGHTS, CAMERAS, CONFESSIONS!

brISTOL

I pull Lila away from that half-brained piece of horse shit, yanking her onto the outskirts of the ballroom and away from the prying eyes that just witnessed my unmanly shriek. She’s lying. She has to be. For fuck’s sake, they didn’t even know each other’s names. And yet, she let this total stranger kiss her just to prove a point.

Glifford is lucky we’re in public and physical assault is frowned upon. I want to punch him in his stupid face. I want to show him what happens when he makes a move on my girl.

Lila wrests her wrist away from me, upper lip curled back in a snarl and acrylics unsheathed. “We were in the middle of something.”

“Yeah, I saw every disgusting second of it,” I bite back, needing to bleach my eyes as soon as possible before that image tattoos itself onto my brain.

“You can’t pretend like you care about me,” she snaps, sending shock waves of guilt through my body, holding my indignation hostage and transforming it into gradual acquiescence.

My voice softens, no longer ruled by an envious iron fist. “I’m not pretending,” I backtrack, ignoring just how badly her words sting.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Why’d you let him kiss you, Lila?”

“Because he’s my boyfriend.”

I never knew four words could kill me. I’m a pathetic fucking mess. How is it possible for this girl to be both my salvation and ruination?

Knowing that this will be a battle I’ll lose, I relinquish any offensive strategy and step into her, forcing her back against the wall. My hooded eyes sweep over the rise and fall of her chest, one arm bracketing her side, and one hand ghosting along the hinge of her jaw. We’re mere inches apart, too close for comfort, one bad decision away from complicating our relationship even more. I tip her chin up with my finger, relishing the way she obeys the sleight of my hand, and the subarctic blue of her eyes no longer smolder with rage—they burn with a longing I never thought I’d see again.

“No, he’s not,” I whisper, the three syllables mangling in my throat.

Lila doesn’t flinch away from me. She allows my touch to venture over her body, raising goose bumps in its wake, her nervous breath hurtling out of her in a rocky fumble.

Her gaze never lowers from mine, not even when my thumb brushes over her bottom lip. “How can you be so sure?” she asks.

“Because if he really was your boyfriend, you wouldn’t let me get this close.”

Shame mars her cheeks in rosy shades, and she finally withdraws from my touch, severing whatever hypnotic state she was just in. She’s not quick to aim for the jugular; she’s not quick to slap me for reacquainting myself with places I’ve previously marked. She’s showing me that soft underbelly of hers and retracting her fangs .

“I…”

I crave those next words out of her mouth, but as always, what I want is never a priority. There’s a blinding flash in my periphery that makes me jump apart from her, and we’re ambushed by a throng of enthusiastic press that all address us with overlapping voices.

“Bristol! Lila! How are you feeling about being the new faces of Menoulé?”

One observes our closeness and asks, “Are you two dating?”

“Lila, are you a big hockey fan? How do you feel about working with the Bristol Brenner?”

“Bristol, how are you feeling about the upcoming season? Will the Reapers make it to the playoffs?”

Everything’s an overstimulation nightmare. Everyone vies for our attention, shoving clicking shutters in our faces and expecting us to perform. I know this job means a lot to Lila, but I also know her hatred for me goes deeper than the Mariana Trench, so there’s no telling what she’s going to say.

She glares at me before composing herself, brushing her hands down the front of her dress. “We’re definitely not?—”

Together.

I don’t let her finish that sentence. One, because it won’t be true for long. Two, because shooting this campaign in the foot before it even begins is social suicide.

“We’re so excited to work together,” I cut in, slithering my arm behind her back and resting it on the curve of her hip. I’m a gentleman through and through, but I can also appreciate an incredible body, and Lila has the most perfect body I’ve ever had the privilege of touching. She looks beautiful in whatever she wears—the faded, oversized T-shirt she breaks out whenever she feels sick, the ruffled, off-the-shoulder sundress that flares out above her knees, and right now, the tantalizing bodycon dress that feeds every fantasy in my head. She has no idea what she does to me.

Her existence overwhelms me. It overwhelms me in the best possible way. It hurts to breathe when I’m not around her. I’m not even sure how I survived ending things with her in the first place.

“Not the word I’d use,” she mutters under her breath, thankfully out of the media’s earshot.

She wriggles around in my grasp, trying to put some distance between us, but I tighten my grip on her waist, earning myself an adorable—yet terrifying—scowl from her. I don’t remember the last time I touched her like this…with a possessiveness that only rears its head in her presence.

“You two are going to be the next big power couple, I can already see it,” one of the reporters squeals, completely oblivious to the tension between us.

Lila opens her mouth in protest, but she thinks better of it and lets the woman prattle on, enduring every waking second of relationship speculation with a saccharine smile.

“Lila, how are you feeling about being a part of something so incredible? Menoulé’s never partnered with any modeling agencies before.”

“I’m honored to be a part of Menoulé’s latest campaign. I’ve been a fan of theirs ever since I was a little girl. The first perfume I ever bought was Sugar Blossom Vanilla. I actually still have the original bottle in my room somewhere,” Lila says, her voice velvet soft, harboring a rare storytelling quality that makes me want to spend lazy afternoons listening to her recall her favorite childhood memories.

A few of the reporters jot her answer down on a notepad, and then one pretentious-looking older man redirects the spotlight on me like some kind of interrogation lamp. “Bristol, are you planning on leading the Reapers to victory this season? Or should fans expect another letdown?”

Fucking excuse me? Yeah, our track record with playoffs hasn’t been great, but did this bastard seriously just stand here and say that to my face?

Stay calm, man. The press are always assholes. You don’t need to make a scene. It’s just one person’s opinion. You know your team has what it takes.

But even with my inner voice of reason, I’m so riled up from Lila’s little stunt earlier that I can’t bring myself to listen to it. The muscles in my upper body ripple with repressed resentment, and judging by the harsh squeeze to my bicep, Lila’s trying to calm me down before I derail this entire night. The moment I make eye contact with her, my anger gets snuffed out like the flame of a candle, and my heart slows to a measured pace.

I take a page from Lila’s book and don a wide, voltage-bright smile. “The team’s stronger than ever this season. And we’re going to prove it to the fans. Whether you stick around to watch is your business.”

Snappier than I would’ve liked, but the shocked expression on his face was worth every second of it. Jeez. I think Lila’s rubbing off on me (and not in the way I usually like).

A woman with pin-straight hair thrusts her microphone in Lila’s direction. “What about you, Lila? You’re a newcomer to the modeling scene. What are you hoping this campaign does for your career?” she inquires.

Between the lights scorching my retinas and the lingering fumes of my almost-diva moment, I feel Lila’s small hands cling to my arm before I register the strange look of discomfort on her pale face. At first, I thought she was finally playing up the chemistry between us, but upon second glance, I notice her body’s quivering, and there’s this distant gleam in her eyes like she’s having a hard time focusing on the people in front of her .

She steels herself on me as her throat bobs, and protection mode activates instantly as panic takes the driver’s seat of this whole operation. I usher her toward a rift in the crowd, using my hand as a visor to protect her eyes from the same blinding treatment mine got. Every reporter is still on us, following, hungry, and I’m not above shoulder-checking someone if I have to.

“That’s enough questions for tonight,” I say sternly, inserting my body between her and the rowdy swarm, hoping to give her some privacy while she goes through whatever the fuck’s happening to her.

The press disperses with a few boos riding the heels of our departure, and I speed-walk Lila over to the other side of the room where the buffet table is. Once we’re free from public scrutiny, I take her by the shoulders, force her to look at me, and fail to staunch the concern bleeding into my tone.

“Lils, look at me. Breathe. What’s going on?”

I’m one second away from throwing her in the car and driving her to the emergency room. She’s swaying on her feet, blinking at me like it’s taking all the effort in the world to hone her attention, and the smallest bead of sweat dapples her temple.

She pauses, and whether that’s to come up with a convincing enough excuse or because her brain’s malfunctioning, I have no idea. “Nothing’s going on,” she murmurs weakly.

“Bullshit,” I hiss. “You’re swaying on your feet.”

Lila briefly glances down at her heels—fighting gravity like she’s goddamn seasick—and has the gall to continue lying straight to my face. “I’m fine. Just lightheaded.”

I can tell she wants to use me as an anchor, but she doesn’t reach out to balance herself. So I keep my hands on her shoulders, hoping that her knees don’t buckle underneath her. What does she mean “lightheaded”? Why would she be lightheaded? It’s not hot in here by any means. Stuffy? Yes. Musty? Unfortunately. But hot? No.

I’m a person who prides myself on how well I keep my emotions in check. Those babies are under lock and key, alright? But right now, my grip on sanity is slowly but steadily loosening.

I try to pick my next words carefully, but I can’t help the urgency behind them. “What are you talking about?”

She swallows thickly. “Just…don’t feel well.”

“Alright, I’m taking you home.” I brook no room for argument as I pull her into me, more than willing to carry her bridal-style out the door if I have to, but nothing’s ever easy with her. She squirms, slams the heels of her palms into my chest, then pushes me away.

“I can’t leave. This gala is important to me, to my career. Not that I’d expect you to understand.”

“I do understand, Lila. More than you give me credit for. But prioritizing some ridiculous ball over your health is downright stupid, even for you.”

Maybe it’s because my heart’s halfway up my throat, but I don’t realize the harshness of my words until the damage has already been done. Hitting her in the face with a sledgehammer probably would’ve been less painful. That wounded expression of hers mixed with the way she turtles in on herself has bile pooling on my tongue.

“Fuck you, Bristol,” she snarls, shoving her way past me, but she doesn’t get very far before she crashes into the side of my body without warning. I catch her before she falls, feeling a lance of pain shoot up my arm from where she grabs me. A second later and she would’ve collapsed onto the floor, and then the night would’ve really been ruined. She buries her face into my chest, and maybe it’s because of the near-disaster adrenaline rush, but I soak up the feeling of her in my arms, knowing that it’ll take a miracle for me to experience something like this again.

Feeling faint? Check. Looking like death itself? Check. Curt responses? Check, but also a Lila specialty.

I begin to connect the dots like red string on an evidence board. “Have you eaten today?” I ask her, still holding her close as I prepare myself for the verbal smackdown I’m about to get.

She looks up at me, realizes that we’re in a compromising position, and immediately recoils. “Of course I did. What kind of question is that?”

“Have you been hydrating?”

“I’m not stupid.”

“Then either you’re secretly anemic—which I doubt is true—you’re currently having a stroke, or you’ve developed vertigo from the moment we stepped onto the red carpet up until now. And I know you have half a mind not to continue lying to me.”

Lila rubs out the tension crease between her eyebrows, seeming to internally debate which answer will garner the least volatile response from me, but she doesn’t get to say anything before her stomach lets out an angry-sounding rumble. I don’t think she realizes it was loud enough for me to hear, even above all this background noise.

I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. “Alright, what did you eat today?”

She backpedals. “Huh?”

“What did you eat for lunch?”

I would’ve taken any answer—even ice cream, for fuck’s sake—but the silence that elapses between us is self-explanatory. When she finally has the gall to open her mouth, I shut her down.

“Why don’t you try eating something? It’ll make you feel better,” I suggest, reaching out to grab one of the prosciutto-wrapped asparaguses .

She forfeits an exasperated sigh, a canyon furrowed between her brows. “Look, I can’t eat right now, okay? It’ll look bad on camera, and this dress isn’t stretchy.”

I speed through worry like a California stop sign, and now anger riots inside me, heating me up in this suddenly too-tight suit. Lila’s never acted this way before—at least not around me. I know the modeling industry can be tough on a person’s self-esteem, but I always thought she was one of those girls who beat the system. Now I’m questioning how much I truly know her.

I let my arm fall away, and my admiring gaze softens when it roves over her. “You look fucking amazing, okay? Hell, the minute you stepped into this ballroom, everyone’s eyes were on you. They weren’t on me. They weren’t on any other model. They were on you . Because you’re exquisite. And it’s not because of some flashy dress you wear—it’s because you’re so goddamn captivating that people want to be near you just to get a taste of what it means to be extraordinary.”

Lila’s eyes go as wide as saucers, and the tiniest frown downturns her mouth, begging me to kiss the pain away. She lowers that guard of hers ever so slightly, allowing me a glimpse of her inner light, but each warm, vulnerable beam gets swallowed up by an indefinite darkness that I can’t dissipate.

“Then maybe you should’ve said that to me when we were still together,” she whispers, the faintest gleam of tears pebbling on her lash line. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to salvage the rest of this night and pray that the press didn’t catch my almost fall on camera.”

She’s completely numb when she walks by me—no clenched jaw, no Medusa glare, no quills poised and at the ready. And when I reach out to grab her wrist—to convince her to eat, to convince her to stay by my side for the rest of the night—she dodges me before I can make contact .

We’re nothing but two souls who have already crossed each other’s paths, now traveling on totally parallel lines.