Blake won’t answer my calls. My goddamn bodyguard won’t answer my fucking calls.
I called Magnus after Blake left me stranded at the studio, only to find out that in the half hour between Blake catching me kissing Shane and me realizing he’d left the place without me, Blake had already tendered his resignation.
“You’re kidding?” I asked. My voice wasn’t shaking, which I put down mainly to Shane’s hand rubbing soothing circles over my shoulders. I was deliberately calm through this whole thing. “He just quit? Is he allowed to do that? Didn’t he sign a contract?”
“He offered to give up this month’s paycheck to get out of it,” Magnus replied. He sounded worried. “He sounded pretty adamant about it. What happened?”
“A misunderstanding,” I said. “I’ll fix it.”
But I hadn’t fixed it. The man wouldn’t answer his fucking phone, and Shane had apologized over and over, but it wasn’t his fault, of course. There’s no fault in my best friend kissing me, and every fault in a man who left the studio after ‘catching’ me cheating without even asking me whether there was an explanation.
Blake has gone beyond the cold robot—he’s gone full ice king. Freezing me out like we’re on a high school playground, and I’ve committed some cardinal social sin.
Within a few days, I realize this might be it. And when I realize that, I want to push the thought away, because I don’t want it to be over. Not just because of the incredible sex—though I can’t go to sleep at night without thinking about the way he would run his fingers over my skin and hold me down while he fucked me into oblivion—it’s the fact we were so close to something good. I’d almost broken through. I had gotten him to smile, and in a few weeks I would have had him laughing—I’m sure of it—but all that work has been thrown down the garbage disposal by that one stupid afternoon.
So I get back to my routine. Magnus assures me he’ll find a replacement for Blake as soon as possible. I don’t want to wait to get back to my life, and try to bury the memory of Blake holding me against that tree on our run—our run I can’t go on anymore, so I end up running around the campus in the other direction so I don’t have to feel the moment and see the place where Blake finally took me. I go to classes, and Shane helps to keep the fans away from me, like a sweetheart. He’s not as bulky and burly as Blake, but he has one hell of a bitch face, and he keeps the worst of the masses away.
I find myself listening over and over again to songs that I shouldn’t, songs I know will hurt. It’s something I’ve always done—looking for music that will cut to the core of what I’m feeling. My playlist looks like something out of a RomCom.
It’s not like I’ve fallen into a depression or anything. I just can’t seem to sleep properly and find myself looking over my shoulder expecting to see my bodyguard, only to realize he’s not there. I reach for my phone to call him and end up grimacing because I know he won’t pick up, but that doesn’t stop me from reaching over in the first place.
I make my YouTube videos. I work on my tour. It’s good to force myself into that creative flow. I plan out a great little skit involving some music I wrote and some awesome dances I know Shane would love to perform.
On one Wednesday, I interview Shane on my YouTube channel. Even though the audience knows him well, this is a chance to talk up the tour, which Magnus loves.
“So, Shane, tell the audience about yourself,” I say, speaking into the handle of my hairbrush and trying out a satirical version of all of the interviewers I’ve met over the past few months.
We’re sitting on my bed together, my camera set up in front of us on a cute little tripod resting on the desk. It’s not difficult for me to summon up a cheerful smile for the camera with Shane at my side.
“Well, I’m glad you asked, Miss Summers,” he replies. Then he turns to the camera and gives an exaggerated sort of wave. “Hi, everyone! My name is Shane Heartman, and I’m easily the best thing that ever happened to your girl, Natalie.”
“Easily,” I agree.
“I remember when you were just a tiny nugget lost in the wilds of the college campus. I rescued you.”
“You screamed in my ear that you knew where a lit party was.”
“Was the party not lit? It was completely lit! I rest my case.”
I shake my head at him. “Tell the people about yourself… give them the stats.”
So Shane gives them the stats—male-identifying, homosexual, twenty-three. Loves long walks on the beach and Skittles. Prefers men with dogs. He even gives them his favorite movies and TV shows, even though I’m half convinced he’s already given them those before. But the only reason we’re filming is really to introduce him to the new community that has sprouted up around my videos since I went viral. Half of them probably never even watched the work I put up before.
The video ends up doing pretty well. Since it’s just an interview, I edit and release it in the same day, and the responses are generally positive. People love Shane. They love his energy and his enthusiasm. They love that he can talk forever about the guy he likes—thinly-veiled references to Magnus that only he and I, and possibly Magnus himself will understand—and they just love him. And I love him, too. I think that much is obvious while I’m editing. He’s been great these past few days.
I don’t regret giving him that kiss no matter how many times he’s apologized for screwing up my budding relationship with my bodyguard, because he’s my friend, it wasn’t romantic, and he killed it in his scene later.
After I post the video on my channel, I look at the clock and realize it’s well past midnight. Sighing, I run my hand over my hair and am suddenly aware of just how tired I am. My eyes are itchy with missed sleep, and my tongue feels heavy in my mouth. My roommate is once again MIA, so when I crawl into bed, I’m completely alone. Shane is on a date with Magnus. I wrap my arms around my waist in the desperate hope I can mimic the feeling of Blake’s arms around me and fall into a restless doze.
I’m woken up to the sound of pounding on my door. I look at the clock, still half-groggy and a little bit fuzzy around the edges, it’s 3:35.
“Honestly, Shane,” I mutter, fully expecting to have to smack my best friend over the head because he’s shown up at my door to regale me with his sexual conquests.
I shove the blankets down to my feet. I’m wearing an old pair of pajamas that are too tight across the chest and too baggy in the bottom, but Shane’s seen me in much worse.
Flinging open the door, I get ready to release a tirade. And then I freeze because it’s not my best friend at the door. It’s Blake.
He’s not looking as good as he usually does. He’s wearing his signature dark Henley and some slacks, but there’s also a faint tang of alcohol in the air around him, and his eyes are a little bit dim as he takes me in. I want to cross my arms over my chest the moment he begins to stare, but I resist the urge.
For a moment, we stare at each other. I’ve never really understood the idea of being ‘frozen’ by someone. I’d always thought it was an exaggeration authors used to get an idea across, but I’ve never seen someone standing in front of me and was completely unsure of what to do. Not ever. At this moment, however, it’s like I’m buffering. It’s like my brain is trying to catch up with the situation, and I can’t even move my body without waiting for it. While my head gets its shit together, Blake’s head seems to be having the same problem.
Finally, I can speak. “You quit.”
He grimaces. “Yes, I did.”
“I called you,” I say. “Not just on the phone. On that day I called for you to come back. You ignored me.”
“You were kissing another man.”
“I called you,” I repeat. “You couldn’t at least hear me out?”
Blake sighs and rubs his eyes. He’s not looking good. His face is adorned with a soft brown stubble, and he looks more tired than I’ve ever seen him. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s been having trouble sleeping these last few days.
That thought made the tiny fire of anger—it’s too early to get furious—inside of my chest dim a little bit. I step aside and wave for him to come in.
“You’re lucky you caught me at three in the morning,” I say. My voice sounds hoarse, and I wonder if I should try recording a couple of songs at this time of the night. It’s a good sound to my ears, but it would probably sound like raw sandpaper to anyone else. “If it were the afternoon, I would be throwing shit at you. Right now, I’m too tired to scream.”
“Wouldn’t have had the courage to come during the day,” he mutters.
I get the impression I wasn’t supposed to hear that. “Get a little drunk tonight, did you?”
“I saw your video,” he says. He turns to look at me, and I realize I’ve missed seeing him in my room. “He’s gay.”
It takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about. When I do, even though it is three in the morning, I step up and smack him around the temple.
“If I had a newspaper, I’d swat you on the nose.”
Blake doesn’t appear to be fazed by that, but he’s got an ex-army officer’s philosophy to tiny women hitting him. He does look pretty uneasy, though.
“It’s not… I thought you were—”
“You thought I was cheating on you,” I say, hands on my hips. “Despite the fact that we were never technically dating because I was always too scared to try and make it official, and Shane and I were in a fucking trailer in a fucking studio. Even if Shane weren’t completely uninterested in women, you couldn’t put two and two together and realize we were probably rehearsing?”
Blake opens his mouth, closes it, and then looks away. He sways a little on his feet, and I wonder just how much he has had to drink or whether he’s considering running.
“Scared?”
“Who?”
“You said you were scared?”
“I did?” I try to think back on what I just said because honestly, it’s too early for this shit. “Oh, yeah. I mean. I was, you know? You made it pretty clear you weren’t interested in dating, and at the beginning, I wasn’t either. But…” I trail off and shrug helplessly.
Blake sits on the bed and runs his hand through his hair smoothing it even more perfectly down on his head. Even looking this way, he’s still completely delectable, and it’s infuriating. Part of me wants to climb on his lap and ride him to oblivion, while another part wants him to comfort me while I sort through the emotions I wasn’t planning to have to deal with at this time in the morning.
“I wasn’t,” Blake says. “I wasn’t until I saw you with him.”
I click my tongue. “Not sure how I feel about you only wanting me if someone else has me.”
“That’s not it,” Blake says, looking up at me again. His eyes seem clearer now, as though my words have sobered him. “That’s not… I thought you were different. I thought I could trust you. I don’t care that you were with someone else, not really, I care that I trusted you and you… you weren’t… I just…”
“We weren’t even really together,” I remind him.
Blake frowns and scuffs his shoe against the carpet. I watch as his fingers lace together, and his thumbs fidget with his nails. I have half a mind to reach out and grab them, so I don’t have to watch him tearing out a cuticle.
Even after ignoring me for days and making me feel terrible, I still don’t want to see him in pain.
I remember the night of my first red carpet. I remember seeing him hurting and diving in to protect him without even thinking about it. I remember feeling unbearably protective, and I remember the way he’d taken his boots off that morning at the interview so I would feel comfortable.
How did we come to a place where we would defend each other before we even really liked each other?
It feels as though we have been working in reverse. I trusted him with my life before I even knew him, and now I know he’s willing to go MIA over a small issue like this, I’m not sure if I trust him with my heart.
But I want to. Boy, do I want to. And not just because I miss the sex. It’s because I wish we could do this properly. I wish we could do this right. I know… I know we can be something. He’s one of the few men I’d enjoyed quiet silence with, one of the few who can really understand what I do. Do I really want to let go of the potential behind this just to see where this would go if it weren’t for some stupid misunderstanding?
I sit down on the bed next to him, feeling the bed dip down so I slide slightly over and feel the warmth of his body against mine.
Boy, that’s distracting.
No, Natalie. Bad Natalie!
I take a deep breath. “Why don’t we try this again?” I ask. “And set some ground rules first, so there’s no more of this stupid drama.”
Blake breathes out. “I… I want to, I really do. I didn’t realize how bad until… but … I’m gonna be honest, Natalie, I don’t know if I’m any good in a relationship.”
“But you are,” I say. “We were doing fine before. It just wasn’t official. So let’s make it official.”
It doesn’t seem like it should be that easy, but it is. It’s as easy as leaning over and pressing my lips to his and feeling his tongue run over my lips silently asking for permission, and tasting the whiskey on his breath as though I’d spent most of the night drinking it myself. I missed the taste of him. It was only a couple of days—not even the tiniest grain of sand of time—but I had begun to miss him. Maybe that’s the easiest way to tell whether we’re supposed to give this another try.
He brings his hands up to cup my throat and dip into my hair, and I want to sing. In fact, I hum a little as he kisses me, pulling me over into his lap and reaching down to the dip between my breasts and the taut lines of my belly.
“Let’s try this,” he says against my lips. “You said… something… about… ground rules?” He breaks up each word with a kiss.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders and grind down feeling a firm bulge press into the heat between my legs and feeling him shudder beneath me.
“Later.”