I shake my head, conjuring a lie. "I'm right here." And then, because I've seen movies with call girls, I put my hand flat on his chest, trying to seem seductive. He's wearing a gray T-shirt, and I can feel his heart beating beneath the planes of his muscled chest.
I read somewhere that he was getting in shape to play a superhero in an upcoming movie. And kudos to whoever's orchestrating that transformation, because this guy is rock solid.
He's still looking at me, and I fist my hand in the material of his shirt, needing an anchor against the storm of emotion I see playing out on his face. Desire. Hunger. Longing. Regret.
And pain. I see so much damn pain that I have to fight the urge to cup my palm against his cheek and tell him that whatever it is, it's going to be okay.
Instead, I simply whisper, "Lyle?"
I'm not sure if it was the wrong thing or the right thing to say, but I know that it was unexpected. And before I can apologize or cover or say anything else at all, he is on me. One hand at my throat, the other hard on my breast. I'm pinned against the wall, helpless, as he claims my mouth again. Wildly. Brutally.
I try to think what I'm supposed to do--try to respond. But I'm trapped. I'm not Sugar. I'm not Laine. I'm not anyone. This isn't about sex. It's about pain and need and that storm of horrors I saw on his face. I might as well not even be here. And as his hand squeezes tight on my breast--as his mouth clashes so hard against mine that he draws blood--my only thought is that I shouldn't have come at all. That this was stupid. Foolish. And that this night is going to leave me scarred.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to be what he wants. A warm body. An anonymous female.
But I can't do it. I can't do it at all.
All I can be is me. A woman desperate enough to have sex for money. A girl trying anything and everything to save her house. To protect her family's memory.
I can be that girl.
But I can't be nothing. I can't be no one.
And as his hand tightens in my hair--as he kisses me violently--as his body presses hard against mine and I feel the steel of his erection--I know that I've made a terrible, horrible, awful mistake.
Stop!
The word rips through me, but it's only in my head. He doesn't hear it, and he presses harder against me. His hand on my dress, yanking it up. His fingers closing on the band of the pretty La Perla panties. He starts to tug them down, and suddenly I can't stand it anymore. Being trapped. Being crushed.
One palm is on his chest, the other hand hanging limp at my side. I bring that hand up now, hard and fast, so that I knock away his hand that is clutching my breast.
I feel him flinch. The pressure of his mouth lessens against mine, and his grip on my neck relaxes as well.
I take advantage, shoving my free hand hard against his chest, then using both hands to push him away.
He stumbles back, obviously startled. His eyes go wide and his lips part as he stands in front of me. I'm still against the wall, and I cross my arms over my chest, holding tight to my shoulders.
"Oh, God," I say. "I'm sorry." I'm not sure if I'm apologizing for breaking free or for not knowing how to ease his pain. "I'm so, so sorry." I draw in a breath. "I have to go. I shouldn't have--I just have to go."
We're still in the foyer, and so I turn, then launch myself toward the door. It's happened so fast, and he hasn't really moved at all. But even when I turn away, I can feel his eyes on my back. Can feel the shock and surprise, now thick in the air between us.
I reach for the door, and that's when his hand closes over my shoulder.
I spin around, my arm now behind me and my hand clutching tight to the knob.
He steps back, as if instinctively knowing that I need space. "You're leaving?"
I can't tell if he's surprised or angry, but I nod. "I'm sorry," I say for about the billionth time. Hollow words. Useless words.
I know that I should stay. I need the money. But I feel so twisted up inside. Like I can feel his pain--and there's so damn much of it.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. "I just--you just--"
I snap my mouth shut, knowing I sound like an idiot. Knowing I'm making it worse. But then I open my mouth again, and the words just spill out. "Why are you doing this? Me? The other girls? Anybody? You don't want a date. You don't want a woman. You don't even want sex." I feel tears on my cheeks, taste the salt. "You just want a witness. Or not even that. You want a wall. Something you can rail against. Someone who'll take it because they have to. And I--I'm sorry," I say again lamely. "I'm sorry, but I just can't."
"A wall," he repeats. His voice is low, his expression hard. I'm certain that he's angry, but I'm not sure if that anger is directed at me or himself or someone else entirely.
I'm not going to hang around to find out.