7. Count Your Days, Bristol Brenner

7

COUNT YOUR DAYS, brISTOL brENNER

LILA

I f I can’t even get through a fucking gala with Bristol, how am I supposed to work with him for three months? This night was supposed to be amazing. This night was supposed to be my fresh-faced debut into the modeling world, and instead, all the reporters have managed to capture is my dry mouth and my two left feet. I’m screwing everything up. And as easy as it would be to blame Bristol, it’s my fault too. All I had to do was act professionally for two hours, but I let him strike that tinderbox of hatred inside me, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to go up in skyscraping flames.

I shoulder open the door to the women’s restroom—the only place Bristol can’t follow me—and I stagger over to the counter of polished marble cradling a row of porcelain sinks. The mirror is large—framed by fragments of crushed diamond—and it picks up on every little insecurity broadcasted across my face. The slight redness in my eyes, the sorrowful crease between my eyebrows, the startling lack of color in my complexion. Vanilla-scented candles flicker and illuminate the space, perfuming it with what should be an intoxicating ambrosia but only adds to the headache caving in my skull. Rolls of steaming, warm towels sit wrapped in stems of wildflowers, and strokes of luminescent gold intermingle with the candle-made shadows, dousing everything in a warm haze.

Everything’s quiet and peaceful, and the restroom is surprisingly unoccupied despite the overflowing multitude of people outside. The silence is uncharacteristically welcoming, and I lose myself in it for who knows how long, relishing my first Bristol-free moment of the night. Since splashing water on my face is a no-go, I practice a few breathing techniques in an attempt to get my heart rate under control.

Hands splayed on the marble, head hanging, it feels like I can almost hear the organ in my chest fighting to be free, simultaneously deafening my ears with a rush of blood. I pause for a few minutes, making sure I’m not going to pass out, and my apparently talkative stomach chooses the most inopportune moment to emit a deep, hollow roar that echoes off the tiled walls.

“Ugh, shut up!” I hiss, placing a hand against my belly as I glare down at the culprit. “You made your point, alright?”

Get yourself together, Lila. You’re a mess. You’re never going to impress anyone when you’re like this. This may be your only shot at fame, and you’re seriously jeopardizing it because of some guy? He’s a guy. There’s a sea full of them. He’s not special. Your mom didn’t work this hard just so you could throw this opportunity away.

I don’t want to let my mom down. I don’t want to let myself down.

I must’ve been too entangled in my depressing spiral of self-doom to hear the door to one of the stalls creak open, because all of a sudden, a girl with fiery, bouncy curls appears by my side, washing her hands in the sink next to me.

I try not to stare at her, but it seems like all my manners have flown out the goddamn window tonight. She’s absolutely stunning. So stunning I can’t look away .

She’s fashioning a navy-blue dress that melds to her curves like it was sculpted just for her, complete with a high slit that shows her entire thigh—one adorned by a glittery garter strung together by tiny jewels. The strapless neckline flares into extravagant azure flames, bolstered by the breadth of her chest and giving her the most enviable dip of cleavage. And the trailing bottom of her dress drags on the floor, partially concealing silver heels that bring her to match my own towering height. Everything is cinched in at the waist, highlighting an athletic figure that’s equal measures feminine and strong, and don’t even get me started on her arms. Hell, she’s got buffer arms than I’ve seen on some guys.

I stare at her unashamedly for the entire time she washes her hands, and she has the decency to pretend like I’m not being an absolute creep. She reaches for a towel—crossing my line of sight—and chuckles to herself before drying her hands.

“Do I have something in my teeth?” she asks, shocking me out of my mindless trance.

I scramble for something to say, but all my thoughts have been jammed into a blender and churned into little pieces. “Huh? Oh, no! No. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m staring at you. You’re just, uh, you’re really beautiful,” I blurt out, feeling embarrassment sting my cheeks.

A smile graces her lips, emphasizing the tiniest of dimples. “I can say the same about you.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“You hiding in here because this gala is a whole shitshow?”

“Something like that, I guess.”

“Yeah, I’m here because my boyfriend’s friend got us tickets. It’s a really sweet gesture, but these kinds of things aren’t my scene. I’ve listened to enough problematic pitches from old, misogynistic men for the night.” She fishes around for something in her purse, her tongue poking against her cheek in concentration, and she eventually starts emptying her bag out. A pack of gum, a hair tie, a travel-sized hand sanitizer, a pill container, and an unopened granola bar all tumble out.

Maybe it’s because I’m lightheaded, but I feel unbearably hot, and I hope that she can’t see the way my arms shake against the countertop. My mouth waters at the crumbly goodness in front of me, and the howling pit in my gut begs me for a single bite, a taste to silence the hunger pangs.

She eventually locates a tube of pink lip gloss, unsuctioning the wand with a smack and applying a new layer onto her lips. She eyes me in the mirror while I’m probably drooling like a dog, and she scoots the bar over to me with her free hand.

“Have it,” she says.

I must’ve zoned out because I don’t realize she’s addressing me until it’s a second too late, and I absently wipe the back of my hand over my mouth. “I couldn’t possibly?—”

Her voice curls with resounding adamancy. “I insist. I already filled up at the buffet table.”

I’m about to protest, but this intimidating girl stares me down, looking like she’ll do some real damage if I have the gall to reject her offer. So, I think about the well-being of my body before eventually relenting.

“Thank you.” I try—and fail—to hurriedly unwrap it, scarfing down the first bite and letting out a quiet moan when the sustenance hits my tongue.

She scoops her belongings back into her purse, sympathy reflected in the magnetizing ocean-blue of her eyes. “Not a fan of fancy people food?” she quips, turning around to rest her back against the edge of the counter.

Since my mouth is disgustingly full of food, I force myself to swallow. “Oh, no. I, um, I just haven’t really had time to eat,” I lie.

“I know it’s none of my business, but you seem”—she searches for the right word, carefully stepping on the eggshells strewn around my feet—“upset.”

Shit. Am I really that easy to read?

I attempt to erase the kicked-dog-look from my face, forcing an unnaturally wide smile that makes my teeth ache. “I’m okay. Just…overwhelmed.” Not entirely a lie, alright?

She scrutinizes me under her metaphorical microscope, shadows undulating over the soft planes of her face, and then the smallest of smiles climbs onto her lips. “I’m honestly right there with you. I’m more of a stay-at-home-and-stuff-my-face-with-ice-cream kind of gal,” she chuckles, unleashing a warmth that thaws the unease from my chest.

Maybe it’s because I’m running on one measly chunk of granola bar—or because Bristol’s still poisoning my brain tissue—but I come clean without resistance. “I’m actually avoiding someone,” I admit, pacing my next bite. I’d like to save my stomach from further Bristol-related upset.

“Whoever it is must be the biggest idiot on the planet to get on your bad side.”

I feel a blush sprawl over my face like a kaleidoscopic sunset, and I’m blundering for a response yet again.

“Guy or girl?” she asks.

“Guy.”

“Cute?”

“Unfortunately.”

Ugh, I can’t believe I just said that. I think I’m gonna throw up.

She groans, but the deadpan look on her face tells me that she’s familiar with the territory. “What did he do?”

What didn’t he do?

I stare down at the half-eaten bar in my hand—now looking about as appetizing as those soggy, overcooked tomatoes I saw at the buffet—and bile backwashes my throat .

I hate thinking about Bristol. I hate thinking about when we were together. I hate knowing that I’ll never have that again…that I’ll never have the stability and security and unconditional love I thought I had with him. I hate carrying this pain around; I hate refusing to sanitize this open, bloody, festering wound.

“Led me on,” I whisper under my breath.

The redhead sucks her teeth. “Led you on? Seriously? What kind of Viagra-inflated dickwad does this guy think he is?” she full-on growls, looking about a second away from hunting Bristol down and ripping him limb from limb.

I wish he had to take Viagra. No, his dick is as big and thick as a horse’s cock. Not that I’ve…seen one before. I’ve just heard things, okay?

Then, everything comes out—every ill feeling, every bothersome grudge, every cell hell-bent on exacting revenge. “And now I have to work with him, or I’ll lose my modeling job. And I’ve worked so hard for this job, you know? I deserve this job. He doesn’t deserve this job. But I can’t get him fired because my employers are smitten with him. How am I supposed to play nice with the man who broke my heart? How am I supposed to put on a brave face every time I’m reminded of the way he shattered every promise he made to me? How am I supposed to act like I’m not dying inside while he’s living his best fucking life?”

I’m huffing for air by the time I finish my tangent, and I’m ninety-nine percent certain I’ve just scared away this poor stranger with my hysterics.

She looks at me, wide-eyed, and thankfully doesn’t toss me a pity look—no, instead, her foxlike eyes narrow in a cunning manner, shimmering with a trace of devilry that would make Satan himself proud. “You wanna get back at him?”

I’m not sure what I expected her to say, but it certainly wasn’t that. Am I really plotting Bristol’s downfall in the bathroom with a random stranger? Does he seriously expect me to just forgive and forget? Fuck that. I’ll make him regret ever treating me like a second thought. Apologies are empty words—real change comes from actions. And until he gets off his ass and does something to fix all of this, I’m not trusting any poorly constructed excuse that slithers off his forked tongue.

My indignation, no longer bridled by so-called “professionalism,” blooms in the center of my chest, stoked by the mere thought of having Bristol at my mercy, suffering to the same extent I did after he decimated the heart I’d given to him so easily.

“What do you have in mind?” I conspire, the darkest of thoughts percolating in my head—thoughts that, if my brain was a computer, would have to undergo a serious search history wipe.

The redhead winks at me as she saunters toward the exit. “Show him what he’s missing.”

Show him what he’s missing.

I catch her before she leaves, needing to know the name of this angel that’s been sent down from heaven to guide me. “Wait, I didn’t get your name!”

“Calista,” she tells me, pulling the door open. She looks back at me over her shoulder, blasting me with so much confidence that I can feel it whet my malicious appetite, which is no longer satiated by the crumbling granola pinched between my fingernails.

“Lila,” I say back.

“Well, Lila , I hope I’m hearing about this assclown’s name when he’s headlining the tabloids for fumbling America’s next top model.”

The minute I leave that bathroom, I march across the dance floor, spot Glifford mingling with a group of people, and tap him on the shoulder before I can stop myself. He whips around to face me, brandishing a half-cocked grin that actually makes butterflies erupt in my belly—more so from giddy anticipation than attraction.

“Do you want to dance?” I ask, walking my fingers up the length of his arm, making sure to really play it up for the cameras…and for Bristol’s wandering gaze. When Glifford’s eyes lower to a half-mast—scaling the revealing dips and accentuated curves of my body—desire from his waxing flame lights my own fuse, scorching so close to bone that I practically burn alive.

“Fuck yeah,” he says.

I immediately drag him to the center of the ballroom just in time for the music to pick up in pace, now trumpeting a sultry, lyric-less soundtrack that gives me the perfect opportunity to heat things up. I guide Glifford’s hands to my waist and press my back flush against his front, giving me a clear view of Bristol staring at me from across the room. There’s a raven-haired girl talking his ear off, but his eyes never leave my face, and a don’t-even-think-about-it look flares in those unnervingly dark irises.

Oh, I’ll think about it alright. In fact, I’ll do it because I have nothing left to lose.

With each catchy beat, I roll my body accordingly, grinding my ass against Glifford’s crotch. His grip on my hips tightens—fingers rucking the fabric of my dress—and his flimsily contained cock digs into the split of my cheeks. He notches his nose into my neck, his lips one dangerous pucker away from making contact with my skin, and the adrenaline rush from this very bad decision stirs an unruly pulse between my thighs.

Bristol’s furious. He’s shooting laser beams out of his eyes, steam’s hissing from his ears, and the cut of his jaw is clenched so tightly I can clock the tension from thirty feet away. That stupidly gorgeous girl is too close to his body for my liking, and Bristol and I deadlock gazes with one another, both clearly unhappy with the situation but too stubborn to do anything about it.

Glifford’s all over me, running his hand over my stomach, then dragging his fingers upwards over my skin until he gets to my generous underboob. I know I should be leaking from his touch, but the only hands I can think about right now are the ones on another fucking girl.

Bristol’s muscular upper body strains against the confines of his suit, and the smallest modicum of fear awakens in my stomach, sending a direct line of distress to the very hub of my heart. I’m staring down a predator twice my size, and I have nowhere to run.

Bristol’s hand rests on the girl’s hip, but he doesn’t move it. He upholds his gentleman act, keeping her at a safe distance rather than playing with the matches that I carelessly chuck to the gasoline-drenched ground. Glifford, on the other hand, doesn’t have a gentlemanly bone in his body while he ravishes me in front of the press, probably validating some unsubstantiated rumors about being my boyfriend. I throw my head back, push my chest out, and feel my nipples pebble from the tightrope of tension between me and Bristol. Every jealous look, every unrestrained, compacted coil of muscle—it all adds to the arousal seeping into the narrow gusset of my thong.

I know it’s wrong using poor, innocent Glifford like this, but I can’t stop. My cunt tightens around the phantom fullness of Bristol’s dick, almost instinctively, as if I can still remember the exact way he felt when he was pounding into me. His eight inches of punishing thickness, bruising my cervix with every thrust, so deep inside me that I could feel him in my stomach.

Fuck. I need to feel that again.

Sweat dampens my forehead and forms a thin layer over my heaving breasts, and a gasp crackles in my throat, my pussy gushing even more shameful liquid into my underwear. I hate that Bristol turns me on. I hate that just thinking about him gets me off.

His arm candy has yet to release him from her claws, and she’s too occupied with draping herself across his body, unknowingly given me a perfect peephole of Bristol’s groin—which is so incredibly erect it looks painful. I doubt he’s relishing this as much as I am, but he’s definitely enjoying the show.

I thought for sure he would’ve folded by now, but as always, Bristol just loves to blindside me. And I don’t need to initiate Operation Make Bristol Beg because Glifford’s one step ahead when his hand inches closer to my cleavage.

He’s barely brushing second base when Bristol makes it over to us within seconds, disrupting the ambience of the ballroom with a shout that rumbles the goddamn floor.

“I’d remove your hand right now if you don’t want me to break every one of your fucking fingers,” he growls, bleached knuckles curling and uncurling at his sides. Although he’s not a violent guy, I’ve seen him throw a few well-formed punches on the ice—enough to split lips and knock out teeth. An outburst like that will definitely ruin the night.

Glifford jumps back from me, removing his hands in an instant, blathering out a wholehearted apology. I pick up on a few choice words like “didn’t know she was yours” and “no hard feelings,” and I roll my eyes so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if they got stuck in my head. The clamorous volume of our altercation has amassed some scandalous whispers already, and I’m not about to let this testosterone bomb detonate and take me with it.

I grab Bristol’s arm and forcefully drag him toward the exit, leaving behind a ring of shocked and disgusted faces. Among them being my agent, Venetia, who dons a look of disapproval which compromises my job’s security.

The second we abandon the building, he rips free from my grasp. The air’s so cold that goose bumps pepper my arms, and realization pops the sex-blurred bubble of my subconscious, leaving me with the painfully raw consequences of my actions. The ribbons of moonlight shaping the edges of his face do nothing to temper his wrath, and our close proximity allows me a glimpse of something I never would’ve caught from across the ballroom—it lifts his tough-guy veil and reveals a hurt that can only stem from the deepest parts of his heart.

His breath is clipped, fogging into the air in wisps of white. “What the fuck, Lila?”

I…I don’t know what to say. Did I take it too far? I never meant to cause a scene. And I wish I could say I never meant to hurt him, but that’s all I’ve been trying to do since I landed this job. The job! Ugh. I’m blowing it before the campaign has even started. Kitty’s Catwalk still has time to replace me if they choose. I’m not untouchable.

Maybe they should replace me. I’m clearly not ready to be a professional model. I’m not even ready to have a grownup conversation with my ex-situationship.

The rumble of an engine loudens as a car turns into the lip of the parking lot and pulls up next to us. It’s a dark BMW with black-tinted windows, and Bristol opens the door for me before saying, “Just go home.”

He got me an Uber?

I don’t want to go. I want to salvage the night and spend it dancing with him instead, but I’ve done enough damage. I did what I set out to do, and now I’m lying in the bed I made. So, for once, I don’t argue with him. I climb into the back seat, watch as he shuts the door, and stare at the ripple of his disproportionate reflection through the window .

An unspoken goodbye. An unspoken goodbye that bludgeons my barely beating heart. An unspoken goodbye that inundates my eyes with regretful tears.

The long, awkward, silent drive is terrible, and not because the driver isn’t very talkative. It’s because Bristol never leaves my mind during the seventeen minutes it takes for me to get escorted to my apartment. Those last three words to leave his mouth have been eroding my confidence ever since, reminding me how terrible of a person I am, reminding me of my inherent selfishness and tasteless behavior—behavior no modeling agency is going to put up with. Aside from the depressing recap of the night, that half-eaten granola bar barely tided me over, and I have to keep apologizing for the constant gurgling noises coming from my stomach.

The minute the Uber pulls up to my quaint little apartment, I jump out of the vehicle, give my thanks, and hope to sleep this terrible night off, but apparently that’s a luxury I’m not afforded. There’s a random deliveryman standing at my door, holding a plastic takeout bag in his hands.

I approach with caution, readying my purse in case this, in fact, isn’t a deliveryman and is instead a convincingly dressed kidnapper, but all he does is proffer the bag to me.

“Are you Lila Perkins?” he asks in the most bored tone imaginable.

I have no idea what’s in this little bag, but it smells like greasy heaven with a hint of smoked bacon, so I’m inclined to say yes. I swallow the excess saliva in my mouth, refraining from snatching the food out of his grasp like some mannerless heathen.

“That’s me. ”

I accept the stained bag—surprised at the weight of it—and I peek inside to see three large takeout boxes.

“One maple bacon burger, one three-cheese mac, a side of parmesan roasted zucchini, a side of large fries, and one slice of black forest cake,” he recites, looking at his copy of the receipt.

Oh my God. My favorite burger. From Hot Cross Buns.

Bristol still remembered.

I was expecting to eat cold pasta out of a serving dish, but this is so much better. And so not anything I ordered. My hunger’s ratcheted to a don’t-talk-to-me-or-I’ll-rip-your-head-off level, and I can practically taste the melted layer of Velveeta cheese searing my taste buds. But as my mystery deliveryman starts to walk away, I fess up, bearing an immediate clench of pain from my stomach walls.

“I didn’t order this!” I call out to him.

All he does is shrug his shoulders nonchalantly. “Says here it was ordered by a Mr. Brenner,” he informs me, resuming his trek down the sidewalk before disappearing into the adjoining parking lot.

I stare down at the fast-food order, trying to wrap my head around the fact that Bristol ordered me dinner to make sure I ate, and I’ve never hated myself more than I do right now.