51. David #3
He devours the distance fast, walking me back with his chest. “Calm the fuck down,” he seethes. “Course I didn’t know.”
I shove him back.
“Reverse the decision.”
He laughs as he falls back a step.
“Doesn’t work like that.”
I spin away from him,
my brain fogging,
my fingers trembling.
“You’re all over the place,” he says. “When’s the last time you had a release?”
A cruel flash of Andrew’s cheek against my thigh eclipses the office.
The craving slides down inside again,
like a swallowed stone,
heavy and impossible to pass.
Then the room's hot, stuffy.
My fingers twitch with a phantom rhythm, searching for him, for skin, my clit.
Only an hour.
It’s only been an hour.
And all I can see is the sex tape.
But instead of Bianca, it’s me—mascara raining down flushed cheeks as a cock pumps into my mouth, hair yanked back before getting railed from behind.
The dam didn’t only break. It’s weeping.
And the scary part is that I know in this moment, as much as I only crave Andrew, I’d cave to just about anyone to make this feeling stop. And I hate myself for it. I’m nothing if not one more person in his life who’s choosing addiction over him.
Raymond steps up behind me, pressing his chest into my back. “Hell, when’s the last time you slept, Baby?”
“I want to get help,” I blurt out,
and the words break me open,
words I’ve never said before.
They rip out of me so fast they take my spine with them. “I can’t—I can’t live like this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore. I need help.”
I turn fast,
staring up at him,
tears waiting in my eyes.
“Please.
“I’ve never asked you for anything.
I hate that I'm begging.
But I don't care.
“I’m serious.
“Take me to rehab.
“Whatever.
“Get me out of here.
“Far, far away.
“Where Hunter can’t find me.
“I want to be better. Right now.”
I need you.
I want normal.
I want to be normal.
“I want to be right in the fucking head,
“Raymond, PLEASE!”
I’m vibrating,
waiting for him to grab his phone,
to call a driver,
to say ‘Okay, Allison, let’s go.’
But he doesn’t grab his phone.
“Look, sweetheart, you know I fuckin' care about you. But I go pullin’ out six figures for rehab, people are gonna ask questions.” He cocks his head.
“Do you understand how close you are? One year.
That's it.” He lifts his finger. “One scandal, one allegation, one pattern of unstable judgment is all it takes to rip it all away.
Now, I can hide your addiction. I can't hide rehab.”
He doesn't care about me.
All he cares about is the transition bonus. The twenty-five million waiting for him in a year, but only if the board appoints me CEO—Dad's insurance policy.
I shake my head. “Ray—” I try. “I—”
He steps in close, cutting me off,
slipping a hand between my thighs,
creeping up. “But I can do this for you.”
His fingers sink into pussy,
finding my panties are already gone.
He tilts his smirk,
one finger pausing on my clit,
watching the panic dissolve on my face.
“Yeah, lemme do this for you,” he says, tracing lazy circles as he walks me backward. “Sit. Let me take the edge off, alright? I’ll take care of Hunter… You… All of it.” He guides me up on his desk.
Then he sits in his chair, rolls closer.
And my brain is screaming no,
my heart’s hysterically crying,
but my body’s opening for him
as it always does
as he folds my skirt over my hips.
“There you go.
“Layin’ back, spreadin’ your thighs.
“This is what you really came here for.”
I’m staring at the ceiling, at the expensive crown molding, still feeling the sting of Ben’s hand as Raymond grips my thighs to hold me open.
My eyes don’t leave that place,
even when his head dips down.
He knows what to do
and how to get me there fast.
And I lay there, numb—
a body on a desk.
Even when it’s over.
I just lay there,
frozen in the after-twitches,
my soul waiting ‘til its safe to slide back inside again.
“Allison!” Callista breaks my trance as I leave Raymond’s office, spinning me back around in the hallway.
In a studded leather jacket and a graphic tee, her angelic smile sits white under her dark, striking eyes.
She’s something beautiful after what’d just happened. I don’t even feel right standing in front of her.
I feel dirty. She shouldn’t touch me.
I step back, letting her hand slip away.
Her eyes fall to the plant in my arms.
“They shoved my board meeting to the twentieth,” she says, a meeting I’d forgotten about. All the pieces are breaking into smaller pieces and falling too fast around me. I can’t keep up, and I’m trying to hang on as she says, “I need you to come through for me.”
Callista’s another powerhouse star born from tragedy. It was Harlow Saint James’s story that inspired her to break out into the industry, her music becoming an anthem against addiction for those who feel lost, a rallying cry in the dark of depression and drugs.
“I’ll—I’ll be there,” I assure her.
Declan, her manager, appears behind her. He’s early thirties. Rugged. The kind of manager who stands close to make sure the fire's flames don’t reach his star.
He starts to speak—
“No,” I cut in.
“You gotta sit this one out.”
He glances nervously from Callista
to me.
“Someone needs to advocate for her.”
“I advocate for her,” I rush to say.
His chin tips,
confirming he’s lost all faith in me.
I sink back on my heel.
“I advocate for her,” I repeat, quieter.
I know how important this meeting is.
Callista doesn’t want this deal to go through. Raymond does, blinded by the dollar signs. If I pull this off for her, it’s a chance to redeem myself, earn the artists’ trust back and gain a level of respect with the board.
“Callie, I need you to trust me,” I tell her, a slight plea. We’ve done midnights in the studio together, bared our souls at three in the morning, built songs out of pain, left pieces of ourselves between the bars.
Drugs and depression stole her boyfriend.
The silence tried to take her, too—
But she sang back.
She fuckin’ sang back.
And now she’s scared.
Even though she’s nodding,
still trusting me.
“I have a plan,” I insist.
(I absolutely do not have a plan.
But I will.)
I hug her to hide the truth.
“I’m working on a song that’s perfect for you,” I add, pulling away. “I want to get a live session set up. You down?”
Declan slides out his phone.
“Yeah, I’ll get it on the calendar.”
That numb follows me home.
Behind the windshield, I’m a ghost as a long, red streak of brake lights stretches in front of me.
I drive on muscle memory, two hands on the steering wheel, the sad plant back in the passenger seat.
My head’s a Ferris wheel of Hell Week:
Honor breaking for a stripper,
Ben breaking my skin open,
Andrew breaking Ben’s face,
Bianca breaking the internet.
They all broke.
And so did I.
We’re all a collection of fractured things now.
I hit the call button on the steering wheel.
Bianca picks up after the second ring.
“Allison? Got a lot of nerve callin’ me.”
“Bianca, listen—”
“No, you listen. You think you’re so different from them? You’re just like every other money-hungry bastard looking to take advantage of the next big thing. You make me fuckin’ sick.”
That makes two of us.
I keep my eyes on the traffic ahead, forcing back emotion as I take the beating. ‘Cause I deserve it, and there’s nothing I can do to fix it.
“You told me I was safe. You said you were the one person in this industry who actually gave a damn about me. So don’t you dare call me to ask if I’m ‘okay’ to make yourself feel better—” then the cold in her voice breaks into a cry.
I slam my eyes closed, the sound of her pain knifing through me.
She keeps going, “It’s never gonna end, is it?
I’m always gonna be my past.” The heartbreak muffles the words.
“I’ve worked my ass off for this. I wanted this so bad, and it was right there,” she cries.
“And now… now I’m another fame-starved whore.
They have no idea what I’ve been through to get here. ”
My own tears blur my vision.
I can hardly see the road now.
But I'm too stuck inside myself
to clear them away.
The line goes silent for a heartbeat, when her shaky voice bleeds through again, “The abuser wins, and the entire world’s on his side.”
“I’m on your side, Bianca,” I insist. “Please, let me be there for you. “Just tell me where you are. You at home?”
“You want to help?” she asks. “Then stay the hell away from me. You’ve only made my life worse.”
Click.