SUTTON

 

Carmichael Condominiums

Los Angeles, CA

 

 

I miss New York. There are days when I feel like I’m okay in L.A., but most of the time I miss the East Coast so bad I can taste the sour sorrow in the back of my throat. It rises like bile, choking me. Suffocating me. I feel like crying but I can’t because that will give me puffy eyes and I can’t look tired. My mom taught me that. She taught me how to do my hair. My makeup. She taught me how to sing and how to dance. She taught me how to eat right, then eat less, then how to eat next to nothing at all without fainting. It’s a science. An artform known only to the few dedicated enough to their craft to manage it.

And I am dedication personified.

It’s probably my own fault that I’m so small. My diet has never given much to my body for growing. It was in my genetic code to be bigger than I am. My dad is tall. Over six foot. My mom is only a few inches shorter, and my grandparents on her side were large, round people with full, smiling cheeks. They’re the reason Mom doesn’t like to eat. They’re also the reason she doesn’t smile too much. It gives you lines, she says. Emotions age you; good or bad. Worry, anger, frustration, happiness, sadness, hate, love. If you don’t feel them, you don’t write them on your skin. You can’t wear them on your sleeve, and that means you’ll always be pretty and you’ll never get hurt, and that’s the trick. That’s the magic my mother taught me.

The art of nothing.

Feeling it. Being it.

Knock, knock, knock.

Attracting it.

Three rapid, decisive knocks. I know who it is on the other side of my door before I open it, and that knowledge gives me pause. It should give me power, but it makes me feel weak. He has that effect on me. On everyone.

I open the door with a carefully blank expression. “Eric.”

He smiles and my insides are melted butter that boils until it nearly burns. I can’t name this feeling inside me; the feeling I get whenever I look at him. I feel excited and afraid. Angry and anxious. Aroused and revolted. How does he do it? More to the point, why does he do it? Because, make no mistake, everything that Eric Croft does is intentional.

His smile is casual, like he doesn’t know about the mess I am inside. “I came to apologize.”

I eye the emerald green bottle in his hand. I can’t read the label but I can tell by the thickness of the gold foil over the cork that it’s expensive. Eric will want me to notice that. Spending money is how he shows he cares.

“What are you apologizing for?” I ask. “Forcing Shane Lowry on me? Telling me I’m expendable?”

“Which would make you the happiest?”

“Both of them, and more.”

“Everything, Sutton. I’m here to apologize for everything.”

It’s bullshit but it sounds pretty, so I let him in. I open the door wide enough for him to pass by me into my nearly empty apartment, but the space won’t feel any fuller with him in it. That’s not why he’s here. In fact, he’s not here at all. He’s a ghost who will float through my world and leave without a trace.

Eric’s smile widens as he walks through the door. He pauses to kiss my left temple softly, making the scarcest of sounds against my skin.

It makes me flinch.

It’s late. He should be at the office or at home. He shouldn’t be here. He should never be here, but suddenly there he stands in my small kitchen. An unwelcome intruder that I invited in. He opens and closes cupboards rapidly, rummaging through the unfamiliarity until he finds my glassware. There are no champagne flutes. He lets his disappointment show in the set of his shoulders before reaching for two wine glasses instead.

I follow him with my eyes, carefully putting the small island between us.

“You seem nervous, Sutton,” he comments without looking at me.

I shrug, smoothing my warm palms over the cold granite countertop. “I’m worried about the show.”

“You’re going to be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Would I ever let anything bad happen to you?”

I laugh at how ridiculous that question is.

He lets himself happen to me. He is the baddest of bad things.

Eric doesn’t acknowledge it. “I got him.”

“Colt Avery?”

He turns, smiling as he expertly spins the cage around the cork. “Shane Lowry agreed. He’s flying back from Washington tonight.”

My body sags with disappointment. “I don’t want him.”

“You’re not honestly afraid of him.”

“What if I am? Will you get rid of him?”

“No, because I don’t believe it. You’re not afraid of anything. You’re definitely not afraid of this guy.”

“I’m afraid of losing.”

“So is everyone else on that stage. It doesn’t make you any different or special.”

“What an incredibly sweet thing to say,” I reply sarcastically.

“Do you need your ego rubbed? Is that the problem?”

“The problem is I don’t want to work with him.”

“I heard you, but you know you can’t always get what you want, Sutton. Sometimes you have to be satisfied with what you have.”

A quick maneuver of his hands and the cork pops free. He doesn’t spill a drop. The effervescent gold spills into one wine glass, then the next. He’s generous. Too generous. I don’t plan on drinking half of what he’s giving me. He hasn’t even asked if I want it, and that is so deeply Eric that I can barely stand it.

He watches me closely as he slides my glass across the island. He’s respecting the boundary I’ve put between us. He knows what I’m doing, and I know what he’s doing, and seeing as we’re working at odds with each other, I’m curious to see how the night plays out. There’s not much of it left. Whatever is going to happen, it will happen quickly. It always does with us.

“Are you angry with me?” he asks, his voice subdued.

“No,” I lie, but it’s alright. Neither of us believes me.

“I know he’s not what you were hoping for.”

“Not even close.”

“Shane will be a good partner and you’re still the favorite. You have a good chance of winning again this year. You’ll rise to the occasion. You always do.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes. I do. Because I know you.”

I shake my head defiantly. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know more than most,” he argues gently. Deeply.

I wish he wouldn’t talk like that; like we’re so familiar with each other. I wish we didn’t know each other at all. I wish a lot of things weren’t what they are, but wishing is like loving. It’s idiotic.

“When do I meet him?” I ask briskly.

Eric takes a slow drink of his champagne, tempting me to do the same. “Tomorrow morning. Sanderson Park.”

“Why not his stadium?”

“We couldn’t get clearance to film there in time. The team has new owners this year. They’re instituting new rules with a lot of red tape. You’ll meet him at Sanderson where the team practices during the offseason. The cameras will be there. He’ll show you how to throw a football, you’ll show him how to Foxtrot, and we’ll be back on track before you know it.”

“What time?”

“Eight. On the dot.”

I glance at the clock on the stove behind him. It’s eleven now. “It’s late. You should go.”

He laughs quietly into his glass in reply. I watch a strand of dark hair wrestle loose from the gel trying to contain it. It slips glossy and black over his brow in the most impossibly tantalizing way. I want to brush it aside. I want to feel it slip cold between my fingers as his skin burns against mine. I want to feel that breathless excitement I get when he looks me dead in the eyes with all the seriousness in the world and stirs something devilish inside of me.

I want what I should not, will not, have.

Temptation; that’s what this visit is. He came here tonight because he wants me and he’s tempting me. I can taste it in the air buzzing with champagne bubbles and the rich, heady scent of Eric’s cologne.

This is Eric being sweet. Smiling and giving gifts. Waiting patiently. But there’s another side to him. A greedy side that takes what it wants without thought or apology. I’m afraid of that side of him, but the sick thing – the part that makes me hate myself every single time – is that I’m attracted to it too. I never tell him to leave. I never ask him to go slower or softer. I want him but I hate him. I hate me when I’m with him. Still, I never tell him no because I’m lonely. It’s pathetic but it’s true. That’s my fault. It’s my failing.

And Eric knows it.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks me.

I take a thin breath. “You.”

“Good thoughts or bad thoughts?”

“Both.”

He grins. He puts down his glass. “Tell me a good thought.”

“I’m glad you apologized.”

“Good.” He steps around the side of the island. “Tell me a bad thought.”

My hand tightens on the stem of my glass. “You’re an asshole.”

“You always say that.”

“You always live up to the title.”

“I’m trying to make up for that.”

“Why tonight?”

“Why not tonight?”

I don’t have an answer for that, but the fact that he answered my question with a question tells me that he does. He knows why he’s here. Something sent him here. Something I said or did or didn’t say. Didn’t do. Something in the way his coffee smelled this morning or the sound his change made when hitting the top of his desk when he emptied his pockets for the night. Something, nothing, everything brought us here to this moment, and there was no stopping it. No telling what would set us off.

“Tell me another good thought,” he commands.

I lick my lips, watching his. He has perfect teeth hiding behind them. Straight and pearl white against the pink of his tongue that tastes like lemon drops. “I don’t have one.”

“That’s cruel.”

“So are you.”

He steps in close to me. Only inches separate us but they feel too far to cross. “We’re perfect for each other.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“But I am. Because you want me to be.”

He’s right. I was hoping and dreading that he’d come here. I wanted his dead eyes and his hard body wrapped in a cashmere sweater that I can peel off him like paper from a present under the Christmas tree. I’ll hate us both in an hour, but for now, this is what I need. It’s what I want in the sickest, ugliest part of myself that my mother made for me. She did it to keep me safe, to distance me from a life that is designed to kill young women from the inside out, but she went too far. She poisoned me too deeply trying to inoculate me and now I’m just a husk. A shell of a person with base desires that fly in the face of good and decent society.

Eric leans in until he’s hovering over me, his lips nearly touching mine as he whispers, “Tell me a very bad thing. Tell me one dirty, dark, wicked thing.”

I lean my head back, trying to find air. He follows me. He chases me, and suddenly I’m dizzy with anticipation of what we both know is coming. The hard stone of the island digs into my back as he leans me over it, trapping me. Caging me with the push of his body until I’m desperate and panting. Wanting.

“I fucking hate you,” I breathe against his mouth.

“I know you do.” He kisses me once, chastely. “But I fucking love you, Roe.”

How can you love something you hate? How can you want someone you despise?

It’s easier than you’d think.

Eric crashes his mouth on mine, his tongue diving inside to taste my own, and it’s as easy as air. It feels as right as it is wrong, but the ugly won’t come until later. We’re both beasts fully capable of compartmentalizing our lives. This feels good, so this is good. When it feels bad, when the guilt hits afterward, then it will be bad. But in the moment, all we know is that it’s what we want and neither of us is any good at denying ourselves.

Eric’s hands take hold of my waist, hoisting me up onto the island like I weigh nothing. Like I’m a doll he’s playing with because, in his mind, that’s probably exactly what I am. A plaything. The action makes me anxious. My hands go to cover his as though I’ll keep them still and patient, but I can’t. He shakes me off and takes hold of what he wants without apology or permission.

I tangle my hands in his hair. I thread my fingers through the stiff locks that taunted me all day and I breathe a small sigh of relief at the feeling. It’s only a matter of seconds before my top is off. My bra is gone. He strips me down to nearly nothing, inside and out, but he is left whole. Wholly dressed. Wholly in control.

Eric pulls a condom from his pocket. It’s not in his wallet. He doesn’t fumble for it as though he’s unsure he has one. He probably put it there while he was out in his car getting ready to come up here because he knew he’d need it. He’ll take it with him when he leaves along with the empty champagne bottle and my goddamn dignity. All he’ll leave behind is the wetness between my thighs, the faint smell of his cologne, and the self-loathing I’ll suffer for days after. Because, make no mistake, I hate this. I hate him. But most of all, I hate myself, so when he slides the condom on and roughly pushes my panties aside, I don’t complain. I don’t care. I let him do what he wants to me because that’s the only way I know. I open my legs wide and I take him into the most hallowed part of me, aching in the hollow empty of my chest even as I gasp in delight.

He takes hold of the back of my head, forcing my mouth against his. His hips thrust hard against mine, driving him deeper inside me where it almost hurts. Eric isn’t a big man, but I’m a small woman. His body pushes me to my limits and a little further, merging pain with pleasure in a way that leaves me breathless.

I’m mewling against his mouth, struggling to breathe through my nose that’s pressed against his face. I’m not getting enough air. I’m desperate for a deep, solid breath, but he won’t let me have it. He keeps his lips sealed over mine as he pushes me to the edge, dragging me with him, and then, just as I feel like I’ll faint or scream or kill him to get air, his forehead falls against mine, and I’m free.

“Ahhh!” I gasp and scream, inhaling sharply only to exhale almost immediately on a wave of pleasure that roars through me like an ocean in a storm. I’m clawing at him but my fingers can’t find purchase. I only get soft cashmere and frustration. Agony and ecstasy.

Eric grunts mutedly, thrusting into me twice more before going rigid. He shudders once, softly, before sighing.

Then he’s gone. He’s withdrawing and I’m left cold and shattered in the semi-darkness of my empty little apartment.

I close my legs slowly, cupping my hand over my throbbing core as I ride out the last of my pleasure. It already feels like it’s gone. As though trying to hold onto it is like trying to capture sunlight in your hand.

Eric rips a paper towel off the roll behind me. He gingerly takes the condom off and wraps it inside, stuffing the small parcel in his pocket. When he’s done, when his dick is back in his pants and his hair is perfectly mussed again, he looks at me with a wolfish grin.

“I missed you.”

I shake my head, my eyes already starting to sting. “I hate you.”

“So you keep saying.” He kisses me without fear. Without regret. “But this is where we always end up. This is where we’ll always be, Sutton. Right here, like this. Together.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell your wife,” I spit bitterly.

Eric doesn’t flinch. I’ve made that threat before but I’ve never followed through, no matter how badly I wanted to. “We both know that’s a lie.”

“This is a lie,” I choke out, feeling angry and so frustrated I can’t see straight. “We’re a lie. I don’t want you and you don’t love me.”

“I do love you. More than you know.”

“Then leave me alone.”

Eric shakes his head sadly. He grabs the half-empty bottle of champagne off the counter, letting it hang heavily at his side, as though the meager weight is too much for him to carry.

“I can’t,” he vows, his eyes holding mine steadily. “And you don’t want me to.”

“I want this to stop,” I protest weakly.

“If that were true, it wouldn’t keep happening.”

“This was the last time.”

“I know, baby.” He kisses my cheek softly. “Every time is the last time.”