Текст книги "The Girl On The Half Shell"

Автор книги: Susan Ward

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

I’ve never spent four thousand dollars in a single day. Everyone around me looks like it’s no big deal. I frown. I don’t have that much cash. I’ll have to charge it. Jeez, what will Jack think when he sees this?

Linda laughs. “Are you OK, Chrissie? You have the funniest look on your face.”

“I wasn’t expecting it to be so much.”

“It’s Prada. Just give her one of Manny’s credit cards. It’s not like he can’t afford it.”

I stare at her. “I have my own credit cards. Why would you think I would have Alan’s?”

Linda studies my face, confused. “You’re living together. I just assumed.”

I can feel the color drain from my face. Is that what Linda thinks? Is that what they all think?

“We’re not living together, Linda,” I say emphatically. “Why would you think we are living together?”

Linda’s eyes round. “Because you are. He moved you in. You go to sleep there. You wake up there. Your things are there. He moved you in, Chrissie. He doesn’t do that just for fun and kicks. It’s not his thing.”

Is it possible that I’ve moved in with Alan without knowing it? Not just in a stay-for-a-while-then-go-home thing, but in a we’re living together type way? No, no, no. Alan is unpredictable and confusing, but he was very clear about my staying in his apartment only while I was in New York. Linda misunderstood.

“I’ve not moved in. I’m not living with him.”

Oh, shit. Why did that have to sound so irrational and why did it have to be so loud? The salesgirl is staring. Linda is staring. Burning color is moving down my cheeks.

Linda shakes her head and reaches for her bag. “Fine. You’re not living with him. It’s nothing to get all pissed off about, Chrissie.”

“I want to go home.”

“Fine. Except you are not living together so I don’t know where to take you.”

In the car on the way back to the apartment, Linda is sulking.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m not usually so…snappy.”

She shakes her head. “I get it. I shouldn’t have been rude.” She unbends and smiles sympathetically. “I’m just really glad he has you. I just want us to be friends and for you to know you won’t get any garbage from me.”

I’m not certain what that assurance means, but I smile.

“It’s hard for him, you know,” she adds sadly. “Out on the road, never anyone like him. You’re like him, I think.”

Like him? What does that mean? Alan and I are complete opposites, in all ways, except the one way I still am not comfortable admitting to myself.

“I think I might be in love with him,” I confess, shocking the hell out of myself. I don’t have a clue why I am telling Linda this.

Linda laughs. “It’s obvious that you’re in love with him.”

“It’s almost impossible to get a feel that you really know what’s going on with Alan. And the living together thing. Definitely not something I expected having someone say to me. I’m still trying to figure out what it is we’re doing. He’s good for me. And he’s bad for me. And I don’t know what to do.”

Linda grins. “Yeah, well, welcome to guys. He’s used to having things his own way. And all the other shit, the stuff in the papers, well that’s just what it is, Chrissie, just shit. You know everyone has it wrong about him. The only place he’s ever real is on stage. Off stage is the show. That’s where he doesn’t trust anyone enough to be himself.”

I expel a long, shuddering breath. “I feel that way sometimes when we’re together. Like he’s sometimes putting on an act.”

“No,” Linda counters, “he’s totally himself with you. I’ve known him a long time. I saw it at once. He’s never been that way with a girl, just totally himself from the start, but then what is there usually for him to meet? It’s nearly impossible for him to meet someone worth caring about, and the guy is a giver to the core.”

There is acid in Linda’s voice when she says that last part, as if she’s thinking of someone particular in Alan’s past. Was it a girl that hurt him so badly? I debate with myself whether to ask her.

I smile weakly. “So, that’s where I am. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Linda laughs and leans in to hug me. “I’ve been married five years and I don’t know what I’m doing. Keeps life interesting, though. Doesn’t it?”

We’re laughing as we take our bags from Colin and step into the garage elevator. I lean back into the mirrored walls, smiling and feeling OK. It was good to get out with Linda, to just let all the emotions rest for a while. There is no law that says I have to figure out everything today.

Linda is chattering on, probing what I would like to do tonight, when the elevator doors open. My face falls and my heart stills.

The music is blasting and there are hundreds of people in the apartment. It’s packed, packed with famous faces: the currently hot; the always freaky; the artsy; a hodgepodge of everything that is the music industry. There are bars set up everywhere and I wonder where the set-up bars and serving help came from. There is food, lots of food, floating around the room on pretty trays: sushi, dim sum, caviar, and a lot of food I can’t even identify. And the air is suffocating with laughter, talk, and smoke.

Linda studies my face. “Fuck! This is what you get when you leave them alone for more than an hour. The party is on speed dial.”

“Really! How convenient.”

We have to fight just to get through the entryway. I spot Alan on the terrace, exactly where I left him, only now he is New York Rock Star chic. He is laughing, barefooted, cross-legged on a cushioned chaise in a black flowing shirt and leather pants with tousled long hair and twinkling black eyes.

Exactly where I left him, except he’s surrounded by girls, being pulled at, claimed, kissed, fawned on and wooed. It is a surprisingly unsettling thing to see him like this, restless with adrenalin, surrounded by swarming admirers. He doesn’t even look like the same guy I left at four.

At four he was tense, aloof, almost as if he were uncomfortable with people near him, but now he is the magnet in the center of the universe, making all things twirl, holding everyone captive of him, and completely engaged and alive and dominant.

Len is reclined on a chaise across from Alan, and they are laughing and drinking as if they hadn’t nearly killed each other earlier this week. Beautiful women are all around, pressed up against them. My heart goes out to Linda. Poor, Linda. Poor, poor Linda.

“Are you OK, Chrissie?”

I can feel Linda staring at me.

“I’m just going to put my things away. Do you want me to take yours?”

I slip quickly down the hall into the bedroom and close the door. That familiar anxiety and sadness whispers through me. I’ve never liked parties. Why did Alan do this? Shouldn’t he have at least asked me if I wanted a party? I’m starting to feel chaotic inside, off balance and disoriented, and I wish I could just go out there and make everyone go away.

There is a push on the bedroom door, and I slam it shut and lock it. I sink on the bed, running my hands through my hair. That party has nothing to do with me, so there is no point in being a pissed off mess about it.

I go into the bathroom, wash my face and brush my hair. As an afterthought, I grab the phone and call the service for messages. Seven from Rene. One from Jack. The call from Jack surprises me and I wonder what’s up with that.

I cringe. Has the gossip from New York reached Santa Barbara? Santa Barbara only just feels like the edge of the earth. It isn’t really. It’s a phone call away and I was stupid not to consider that, after working a week in a studio with him, that Ian Kennedy might mention it in passing to Jack. They’re good friends.

Ring, ring, ring.

“Hello?”

I exhale. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Chrissie! I was just thinking about you.”

I try to pick out clues in Jack’s voice to figure out where this conversation might take me. Jack sounds happy. He doesn’t sound like a father who has just learned that his daughter is having a relationship with a recovering heroin addict.

I curl the phone cord around my arm until it pinches hard. “So, what’s up? You called yesterday. Sorry I didn’t call you earlier. I just got the message from the service. Everything going OK?”

“Everything is fine. I was just checking on you. It’s allowed. I am your dad.”

My cheeks burn. Even though he’s laughing, there is something in Jack’s voice I can’t read.

“Daddy, I need to tell you something.”

Silence. “OK. Why so serious?”

I’m having an affair with Alan Manzone! “It’s just…I spent four thousand dollars shopping today.”

I roll my eyes at myself. A long pause. God, that came out so lame.

“Are you worried that I’m going to be angry that you spent four grand shopping? Is that why you sound so strange?” Jack laughs almost in relief. I stare at the receiver. Do I sound strange? “It’s relative. You’re shopping in New York. I wouldn’t want you to get in the habit of it, but it’s no big deal, Chrissie.”

Jack laughs harder. I almost start to cry. He says, “Shit, you had me really worried for a while. I don’t know. Something in your voice. I thought you were going to tell me something I don’t want to hear.”

I brush at my tears. “I went shopping today with a girlfriend. I know it’s a lot of money. I just sort of got carried away and before I could stop myself it was done.”

I’m talking about shopping, but not really, not inside of me. Tears fill up my air way.

“Whoa, Chrissie. Slow down. Why are you crying? Why are you upset?”

Oh god, why did I start this? Why did I call Jack today?

“Are you OK?” he presses more insistently into the phone. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened, Daddy.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“I’m just emotional today, I guess.”

“Is that all there is, Chrissie? I sense something more. You can tell me anything. What’s wrong?”

I bite my lip. I’m in love. That’s what’s wrong.

“Is there anything you need to talk to me about, Chrissie?”

What does he know? Why does it always feel like he knows everything, but won’t ever tip his hand about anything?

“There’s nothing, Daddy.”

I expect to hear the click. Instead, “Tell me about New York, baby girl.”

I curl around the phone, and for the first time in a very long time I just talk to Jack. I can’t remember the last time we talked this way and I’m not exactly sure why we are doing it today. But it feels good. Really, really good.

* * *

I’ve just finished my call when there is a soft tap on the bedroom, and instinctively I know its Linda. I open the door to find her holding two glasses. She sinks beside me with a look of heavy dread and pushes what I think is a daiquiri into my hand.

“You OK?” she asks.

I nod. “I’m OK.”

“I want us to be great friends.”

I remind myself that Linda is a fragile girl. I take a sip of the daiquiri. I smile. “It’s good.”

Linda downs her daiquiri in a single gulp. “I really, really hate this shit.”

I nod. We both know she’s not talking about the drink.

Linda sighs. “I should have brought the whole pitcher!”

Chapter Thirteen

When we return to the party, Alan is slow dancing with Nia, and it really bothers me that he looks completely into her. His body presses against her flesh in a way that tells me they’ve been intimate before.

The sharp, burning knives cutting my insides take me completely by surprise. I never expected to feel flash jealousy over Alan, and I realize that is exactly what I’m feeling, standing here like an idiot watching him dance with another girl.

“Alan and Nia are old news, Chrissie. They’ve been over forever,” Linda informs, reading me without effort.

I shrug. “It’s no big deal. We are not exclusive or anything. He can do what he wants. I think I’m going to get another drink before I go out there.”

I decide not to follow Linda to one of the bars set up in the great room. There are people crowded several bodies deep around all of them, and I don’t have Linda’s nerve. She just pushes through, telling people to get the fuck out of her way, and they do.

I go instead into the kitchen and find it empty, when in California the kitchen is often the party room.

I rummage through the refrigerator until I find a Diet Coke.

“Hi. You hiding from that mess out there, too? An hour ago there were only about fifty of them. I ducked out at somewhere around one hundred. How many are in there now?”

I whirl around to realize that “hi” is intended for me. There’s a guy sitting alone on the counter, nursing a beer. Very attractive, blond hair, hazel eyes, light tan, good body. Why is he hiding in the kitchen?

“Nope, I’m not hiding. Just didn’t want to have to fight for a drink. It didn’t seem right to fight for a Coke. I’m shocked to find practically no one else in the kitchen. New Yorkers, very strange people. Who knew?”

He laughs. “You must be from California. I thought my brother and I were the only ones here. Sandy is a promoter. He’s the idiot who dragged me here. But I can tell you are from California.”

Now I’m intrigued and I smile. “OK, how can you tell?”

He smiles. He points at my shoes. “Beyond the nice tan and the shorts? The UGG boots. Definitely a California thing.”

“How very observant of you.”

“I’m a writer. That’s my thing. Crowds, not so much. But people watching definitely my thing.”

He says it in a silly, self-depreciating way that is kind of charming. I can tell he’s quiet and a little shy like me.

“Have you written anything I might know?”

“Maybe. I’m a reporter for the Los Angeles Times.”

I tense and have a sudden urge to flee the kitchen. He notices. “I am off the record tonight, so relax. I’m just a guest here like you.”

He extends his hand. “Jesse Harris.”

“Chrissie.”

“Good, now I’ve officially met one person and I can go home. That was the deal I had with my brother.”

I laugh and pop open the top. I don’t bother to get a glass and take a sip from the can. I ease up on the butcher block table in the center of the room, to sit on the edge with my legs dangling.

“So, who are you here with?” he asks.

“Sort of a guy.”

God, that came out stupid.

Jesse laughs.

“Just my luck. The cute ones are always with sort of a guy. So, why are you in the kitchen instead of with your sort of a guy?”

I usually hate it when people make fun of me, but there is something just plain nice about Jesse Harris. He seems too nice to be a reporter.

I shrug. “He’s dancing with an ex-girlfriend. I’m not sure what I should do.”

He takes a sip of his beer. “I’m a writer. Give me your options. I’ll give you expert advice on the right option.”

“You’re a reporter not a novelist. You’re the wrong kind of writer.”

“I’m a reporter to pay for being a novelist. So give me a shot. Let’s see if I’m going to be a good novelist.”

I laugh, and I am suddenly aware of some of the nicer changes in me since Alan. I am more confident. More comfortable in my skin.

“Well, I was debating just going out there planting a big wet one on him and locking myself to his side like a Siamese twin.”

“I can tell you right now that that one is definitely wrong.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’ll like that, and he was a jerk to leave you all alone ending up in the kitchen with me.”

“Why do you say that? Is there something wrong with you that I should be worried about?”

Those gorgeous hazel eyes lock on me. “I find you incredibly cute and I’d take you out of here in a heartbeat if I thought I had half a chance.”

Whoa, where did that come from? Shy and yet direct. Interesting.

I shake my head and push away that thought.

He smiles. “What’s the other option you were thinking to do?”

Boy, he is really good looking when he smiles. Why isn’t he out there enjoying the party?

I take another sip of my Coke and say, “Just going out there, forgetting all about him, and having a good time at the party.”

He holds up a hand, palm down and gives me the iffy wobble. “Better than option one, but not good.”

I cross my legs at my ankles and make them swing a little more. “OK, since you’re the writer, what would be better?”

Hazel eyes lock on me like a laser. “Leave with me.”

Oh my, not what I expected. I’ve gone as far in this as I should. It was fun, for some reason Jesse hitting on me was fun, even though he’s right. He doesn’t have a chance. Three weeks ago, he would have. But not today.

I pretend to give it serious thought. “Sorry, I don’t think I can do option three.”

“Why not? I sort of had the feeling I was doing this better than I usually do. Why shoot me down now?”

I start to laugh. “Because the guy I’m sort of with is Alan Manzone.”

He gives me the oh-shit-good-one face. I push off the counter and go to the freezer. “Are you hungry? They have all this fancy food out there, but you know what I’d really like is some ice cream.”

I rummage through the cartons and pull one out. “Häagen-Dazs, Swiss Vanilla Almond.”

I grab a spoon and ease up on the counter next to Jesse. I pull off the lid, take a bite, and offer him the spoon.

“Why are you really hiding in the kitchen?” I ask.

Jesse takes a spoonful and then laughs. “I’m not hiding. I’m exhausted. I flew in from Afghanistan wanting only a hot shower and sleep, but Sandy dragged me here. I’ve been covering the aftereffects of the Soviet withdrawal.”

I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. “Sounds interesting,” I say, filling my mouth with ice cream.

Jesse laughs. “No, it doesn’t. Most Americans don’t even know where Afghanistan is or what the hell the Russians did there.”

My cheeks warm, their color betrays me. “I’m not political. My father, extreme ’60s radical. It’s made me not political, but I’m sure lots of people find your work interesting.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.” Jesse laughs. “So, what are you then? A model?”

I kick him with a leg. “No, a cellist.” I frown, shake my head, and take another bite. “Well, sort of, or maybe I should say, used to be. I’m kind of confused about that part of myself right now.”

Those divine eyes lock on me. “So, tell me one thing about yourself that you are not confused about.”

“That she already has a date for the evening.”

The voice I hear is not the one in my head.

I look up, startled, to find Alan in the kitchen doorway. He crosses the kitchen, planting his hands on either side of me, and gives me a kiss that would have embarrassed me if we’d been alone in the bedroom: wide open mouth, full tongue, hard, fast and sexual.

I force my body not to respond and when he finally pulls back, his black eyes are burning and probing. “You’ve been back for two hours. Where have you been?”

So, he does know when I got back. Why didn’t he look for me? And why is he angry with me?

I shrug. “I called Jack. Had daiquiris in the bedroom with Linda. And I’ve opted to eat ice cream with my new friend, who wants to take me home with him.”

Shit, what made me say that last part? Not smart, Chrissie. Not smart to say something that might set Alan off. Ian and Vince rise as vivid warnings in my head, and on top of that, it was a really shitty thing to do to Jesse.

I shift my gaze to find Jesse watching uncomfortably from his perch beside me.

Those black eyes burn into me. “I hope you said no.”

“Nope, I said maybe. He thinks you’re a jerk for leaving me alone at a party.”

I wait.

Alan tosses a terse smile at Jesse. “Hi,” he says in a tight, clipped way. Jesse doesn’t bother to respond, he just sits there watching, and then I realize he’s trapped just like me, with Alan’s body between the counter and the door.

“You’re pissed,” Alan accuses.

I look away from him. “I’m not pissed.”

He runs a hand through his hair in a jerky, irritated way. “I’m sorry about the party. Will you leave the kitchen with me now?”

“No. I hate parties. I never go to parties. You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go to a party tonight. I come back and pouf there’s two hundred people here.”

“This has been on the calendar for weeks. I forgot about it,” he explains in heavy frustration. “This is work. Part of what I do. Everyone important is here, giving me the once-over, making sure I’m worth the investment. It’s part of the business. Seeing if I’m sound before they put up the money.”

I lift a brow. “I understand the business. You don’t have to lecture me on that. I just don’t like parties, OK?”

“Not even with me?” He gives me that smile with the slightly downturned corners of his lips; not happy, not sad, just in-between and endearing.

My eyes round. “No. Especially not with you.”

He nods and is a little more friendly when he looks at Jesse. “You’re right. I am a jerk. I’m lucky she stayed.”

“Very lucky!” Jesse says in that affable way he has.

That annoys Alan. “Very lucky,” he amends.

Alan takes my spoon and scoops out a generous bite of ice cream. “So, how is Jack?”

“I don’t want to talk about Jack.”

“OK.” Alan takes another scoop. “Are you going to stay in the kitchen all night?”

“No. At some point I’ll probably go to bed.”

Alan frowns. “You are not going to bed. There are people out there you really should meet.”

I ignore trying to figure out why he would say that. “There are too many people out there I already know,” I exclaim with heavy meaning.

His jaw clenches. “Fuck, is that it? Ian was here, Chrissie. Half of New York knows by now we’re sleeping together. There is no way to keep it private. You are going to have to deal with it. Learn to deal with the bullshit.”

My entire body burns deep red. I really hate this habit of Alan’s, of letting loose any thought in his head whether we’re alone or not. “God, you are an asshole sometimes.”

Alan rolls his eyes. “So how do we fix this?”

“I think you were right about not being able to change you. You are pretty much stuck being an asshole.”

Alan laughs. “Maybe, but I am not spending my entire night going to the kitchen if I want to see you.”

He lifts my chin, lightly brushing my cheeks with his thumbs and gazes down at me, his expression unfathomable. “Why don’t you marry me? We’ll get married tomorrow. Then it won’t matter what anyone writes, what anyone thinks, what Jack thinks, and we’ll both know exactly what the hell we’re doing.”

I shove him away. “Very funny. God, you’re obnoxious tonight. Are you loaded?”

He lifts the glass he carried in off the counter behind him and holds it beneath my nose. In surprise, I realize it’s only soda in the cocktail glass. He leans in to kiss me softly, and when he pulls back his eyes are shimmering.

“Marry me, Chrissie,” he whispers.

I let out an aggravated growl. “If I thought you were serious, my answer would be no. Since you’re not serious, my answer is: I should have warned you that Jesse is a reporter with the Los Angeles Times.”

Jesse holds up a hand in a continental gesture. “Off the record tonight. I didn’t hear a thing and I’m a foreign correspondent. Our gossip columnist is the redhead out there with my brother.”

As frustrating and awful as this has been, I start to laugh. My cute new friend is a dork, Alan is weird, and I am…oh golly, I don’t know if I want to try to put a label on myself right now.

I smile up at Alan. “Will you go away? This is how I do parties. Will you just let me do what I do?”

Alan brushes my lower lip with his thumb. Everything inside me shivers. “Come out to the party, Chrissie. Something terrible might happen. You might have fun.”

I shake my head.

“No?” He kisses my nose. “Do what you want to do, but I’ll miss you. Maybe you can leave the kitchen occasionally and pretend you’re not with me, so at least I can see you.”

I give him a small, reluctant smile. “Maybe.”

“That’ll have to do. Give us a kiss, love. I’ve got to get back. I’ve not completely charmed everyone yet.”

He eases into me, and with the lightest touch presses his lips to mine. I melt into him on contact, dissolving into his warmth and wishing he’d take me in his arms.

I watch Alan disappear through the door and I feel stupid for not having gone with him. I slap the lid on the Häagen-Dazs, grab the spoon, and slip from the counter.

I put the carton back into the freezer.

“He was serious, you know,” Jesse says quietly.

I shut the door and turn. “Excuse me?”

Jesse’s eyes bore into me gravely. “He was serious when he asked you to marry him, and you shot him down like it was a joke.”

All my nerve endings tingle from my quickly rising embarrassment. “It was a joke. That’s just Alan. He’s theatrical and it’s the way he talks to me.”

Jesse shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer.

I give a small, frustrated laugh that makes my shoulders lift. “Really. You are completely wrong about this.”

Jesse smiles. “Do you want some advice? Go out there and apologize to him. You did a really crummy thing a few minutes ago. Why are you in the kitchen with me?”

The color on my face is no longer a pleasant feeling flush, but the burn of humiliation. I look up at him, ready to be defensive, but his expression stops me.

“Do you want to go dance with me?” I ask. “Just kind of ease me into the party so I can go apologize.”

Jesse’s eyes widen.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You probably missed it, but the entire time in the kitchen he looked like he wanted to put a fist through my face.”

“Please,” I urge. “That part about me not liking parties is true. But it’s worse than that. I do parties really badly. And even though you’re wrong, he wasn’t serious, I was pretty rotten to him.”

He searches my face, then exhales heavily, and takes my hand.

The great room is a smothering cluster of people, and I try to spot Alan as we make our way through the throng to the dance floor. Beyond the glass, I see that he’s returned to the terrace and he’s got quite a circle around him of the who’s who of music. Those black eyes touch on me, empty and fleeting, and I can tell by how he tosses down his drink that there is alcohol in the cocktail glass now.

A slow song starts and I step into Jesse’s arms, silent, my hand a tense curl on his shoulder.

We dance in silence for what seems like ages. “Are you OK?” Jesse asks me quietly.

I look up at him and nod.

He shakes his head. “Why don’t you go over there? Act like everything is normal. Guys hate conflict. He’ll act like everything is normal too.”

I don’t go out onto the terrace. Instead, I curl into Jesse and continue to dance. The dance is almost over. Somehow Alan has moved without me seeing. He is standing beside me, staring down with only partially leashed anger. I can feel heavy stares from every direction in the room, the kind that warns that you’re in the midst of what will soon be a scene.

Jesse steps back from me.

“I can’t believe you fucking did that,” he says in a tight, clipped way. “It was a joke. A fucking joke. And you’ve reduced me to a fucking joke.”

Oh shit, he is pissed. Why is he pissed?

He regards me coolly for what seems like a century.

“We might as well dance since we’ve been seen together,” he says, almost inflectionless.

Alan fills the space between Jesse and me, and he drags me up against him. There is scorching anger in his body and he molds me so intimately against him that I can feel every detail of him through his clothing. His fingers are a never-ending run on my back, making every inch of my flesh grow hot. He fills his palms with me, softly kneading, then he strokes, erotic and slow, until the pattern of my heart is an uneasy, altering flow between arousal and fear.

I try to ease back from him, enough to see his face, but his hands flatten on my back and hold me in place.

“Let me go, Alan. I don’t like this,” I whisper, cautious and unsure, but my voice is thick, feverish.

“It’s working very well for me, love,” he says softly, biting my shoulder instead of kissing it. “What part isn’t working for you? I’ll change it.”

My breath quickens. “All of it. If you keep this up, they’re going to start tossing room keys at us.”

I pull back and have a vague awareness that he is letting me. I raise my eyes slowly to his face and wish I hadn’t. His eyes harden and some marginal parameter of my brain warns that I have fucked up big time here.

My heart turns into a confused, frantic pulse as he grabs my arm, steering me through the crowded apartment, mindless of the sharply fixed stares that follow his rapid trek. He pulls me into the bedroom, slams the door, and releases me.

“It was a joke, Chrissie,” he yells harshly clipping each word.

He leans against the door, running a hand through his hair, his eyes cuttingly black.

“If you don’t like my out of bedroom manner,” he starts up again through gritted teeth, “or my public manner or my work manner, deal with it. The world isn’t only about Chrissie! Fucking learn to deal with something for a change. But don’t playact with me and don’t you ever pretend I am nothing to you again. Are we clear? Do you understand?”

I stare up at him. There is no point in trying to understand him, he is just too angry, but I really don’t know what nerve I struck in him and I really never expected to be on the receiving end of anger like this. Oh no, not like this, never like this.

I cross my arms and stare at the floor. “Maybe.”

“Then get the fuck out.”

My face snaps up. I feel shaky inside. My heart stops. How did we get here, a near break-up moment, from this strange, disconnected, angry sort of night we’ve had? Is he breaking up with me and tossing me out in the middle of a party?

I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t know what to say. “Do you know where my things are? Someone put them away.” It’s the only thing I can think to say.

“So, is that it? You want to leave?”

God, why are we doing this? How did we get here?

And before I know if this is it, if we’re over, my shorts are on the floor and I am propped against the wall, and we are having sex. Really, really rough sex, standing up with me pinned against the door. I wrap myself around him, eagerly meeting the violent thrusts of his body, the aggressive joining of his flesh.

Each thrust against the wall is painful, and I am drowning in the consuming fire of his anger. It is stormy, but it subsides quickly with a ragged climax and the abrupt retreat of his flesh from mine.

My back against wall, I slip to the floor. I sit there breathing hard and staring up at him. And then I realize, when he doesn’t look at me as he jerks his pants in place and smooths his hair with an angry swipe of his hand, that he intends for this to hurt and humiliate me. What did I do to make him angry enough to hurt me?