Chapter 7
SEVEN
T he words on the page blur together in a tangled mess of black and leave me with a hangover-bad headache.
Squinting doesn’t help. Neither does scrubbing my face until stars and dark spots dance behind my closed eyelids. It feels like forever since the last time I read through the script, and as I go over the lines now, nothing pricks at my memory. Whether I actually saw the scenes before this or not is lost to me.
I don’t remember any of the lines.
Groaning, I let the pages drop between my crossed legs and flop onto my back, staring at the ceiling again and tracing familiar patterns along the design. I saw them all last night when I couldn’t sleep. Those, weirdly, I remember. Every crevice.
But not Alicia’s lines. Not the scenes with Mr. Patterson.
The only thing I remember about those was acting them out with Marcus, and then my attention had narrowed to the hardness of his cock and what his hands were doing to me. Even the memory is enough to make my pussy tingle.
Focusing on the script today is impossible.
I force myself to push back up to a seated position. The bed is probably not the best place to go over lines. It’s too soft, too comfortable, and it reminds me of the sleep I didn’t get last night being so close to him.
Holding the script in one hand, I scramble for the edge of the mattress and switch positions, leaning into the hard chair back at the table instead.
The words are still a blur, only this time the press pictures of Mom and Dad fill my mind, too.
Olivia and Bennett Stone were full of life and much more comfortable with the overly bright lights and probing fingers of Hollywood than I’ll ever be. Nepotism works for some people. For me? I wanna hide.
I wanna make sense of their deaths and what it means and how it’s tied in with Marcus.
It all circles back to him.
Once affectionately called an uncle and, now I know, the reason my parents died in that plane crash. He’s been a fixture in my life for too many years to count, and apparently, through it all, he’d had these ties. These absolutely terrible, ridiculous ties to an underground that most of Los Angeles knows nothing about.
The door to the room slams open the second the beep sounds from the keycard sliding into the lock. I blink wide eyes at a harried Marcus, who barely spares me a glance before grabbing my bag.
“Come on.” He holds out a hand, baring his teeth at me when I don’t move fast enough. “We’re getting out of here.”
“What do you mean?” I clench the script against my chest. “You said we were safe.” He said I had time to get myself together.
He shakes his head, and a stray lock of black hair falls over his rutted forehead. “I’ll explain everything in the car. Now hurry your ass up. We’re checking out.”
I don’t want to go with him. Not when he looks so out of control. His hair is mussed, the dark strands standing at attention, and his eyes overly wide and round. His chest heaves with every breath, and his palms are clammy when I finally slap mine against him.
He grabs hold of me hard enough to bruise and pulls me through the door with both our shit over his shoulder. Rather than explain the attitude in desperate need of adjustment, he pulls me underneath his arm and growls at the cleaning woman who passes by pushing a full cart ahead of her.
“What the hell is your problem?”
Marcus hisses out a warning to be quiet.
I catch a glance at our reflection in the elevator’s spotless metal wall, and we both look unhinged. My hair is thrown up in a messy bun on top of my head, and my normal tan is nowhere to be seen. This time of year, I should be out on the beaches living my life, not holed up in a hotel room scared to read.
I’m pale, a little wan, and those are…dark circles under my eyes.
Fuck .
I lose my breath when Marcus throws me from the elevator into the lobby, keeping a step in front of me. And true to his word, he doesn’t say anything until he’s dragging the seat belt across my chest. It clicks home, and he guns the engine, peeling away from the curb and startling the valet.
“You have some serious issues,” I yell above the blast of the AC and the radio.
He presses the button to silence the radio, but the cold air is still pulsing out through the vents, cooling the interior to normal human temperatures, and goose bumps rise on my forearms.
“There’s no fucking sense in staying in a safe space that isn’t safe anymore,” he says, lifting his voice to be heard. “Our time is up, anyway.”
“What happened to change things?” My breath catches. “And what do you mean, our time is up?”
The entire point of leaving my parents’ bungalow was to keep a low profile and figure out our next move.
“I mean that I went to my office today and arrived to a reminder of our new position. Our leash doesn’t extend far, Em.”
The sound of my nickname on his lips is a shock to my system. Especially when he’s pointedly not looking at me.
He screeches to a stop at a red light, and his jaw clenches.
“Then I caught sight of a new acquaintance in the hallways, someone who works for Stanic. Don’t worry,” Marcus rushes to say. His hard gaze is trained on the line of traffic in front of us, and he slams his foot down on the gas when the light turns green. “We’re going to my place.”
I jump. “Your place? Why?”
The one place I want to avoid is his apartment, where every detail, down to the carpets, is going to remind me of him. Too much Marcus when I’m already overwhelmed by his presence.
“At least I have security at my place that I can control. I know the exits, and there are strategies in place,” he bites out. “Trust me. We’re going to be fine.”
Shit, who is he? Really? Strategies in place?
It sounds like some cheesy line from an action flick, except this is my life.
But, of course, even if I try to argue, there’s no way to change his mind. Marcus is iron, immovable and hard. Especially right now. His muscles are tense enough to shatter as he maneuvers away from the downtown hotel and toward his apartment.
We’ve been staying at my house since the funeral.
“What about my things? I’m going to need more than what I’ve got in the purse.”
“I’ll go by the house and pick up what you need.”
Yup, iron. He’s not backing down.
There’s no introduction to this new life, either. No grand tour of the apartment with modern furnishings and no soul. It’s like being thrown into the deep end of a pool when you don’t know how to swim.
“Stay here. I’ll be back in a few hours. I’ve got to get Parker’s paperwork.” It’s another barked order before Marcus bolts off. Back to work.
Back to…
Wherever he wants as long as I heel.
This place might as well be Fort Knox, and despite the attendant in the lobby and the other people in apartments below us, no one is coming to help me. No one who can erase the situation and how everything circles back to Marcus.
How can I be here, in his apartment, when this is all his fault?
I scream, lifting my face to the ceiling.
Having money makes you think you can do whatever you want. It’s a kind of power.
Except I’m helpless, and I’ve never been reminded of it more than now.
On my way from one cage to another, Marcus didn’t need to throw me over his shoulder this time. Only this cage is his to control and he’s the only one with a key. There’s no way for me to leave without him knowing.
I could call a driving service, pay for it with my credit card, but what then? He’ll only come find me and shove the script down my throat.
My chest tightens, everything curling in on itself, and I glance sharply at the windows to the patio. He’s got them locked tight, mechanical blinds ready to fall at the press of a button.
There’s no going out.
There’s no escape.
I swallow, my throat constricting, and search the room for something, anything, to make the emotions more bearable.
Breakfast at the hotel feels like another lifetime.
My gaze snags on the liquor cabinet. Instead of keeping the precious amber bottles under lock and key, Marcus has them displayed in a clear line where the glass might reflect the tones of the sun through the windows.
I’m in my prime party-girl era, and I’m not going out. I’m not doing anything. I’m not even sleeping around, no matter what the tabloids say.
What am I doing?
Panicking, I think to myself with my first shaky step.
I’m on the constant verge of a panic attack and doing nothing to help myself or my career.
Why can’t I make it all disappear?
The first sip of liquor burns like acid down my throat. Gross. I don’t know how anyone drinks this on the reg because it’s peaty and tastes like I’ve licked the bottom of a tire.
Every sip after the first one goes down smoother than the last, until the heat is a comfort rather than something scalding.
Soon enough, the thoughts start to go quiet. The inside of my head is silent and warm, those thoughts far away.
Why did I even worry? I drop to the edge of the couch with the bottle between my knees and my hands wrapped around the head.
“You’ve seriously been in my fucking scotch?” Marcus gets back around dinnertime and stares me down.
He grabs the bottle like it’s me and he wants to strangle the life out of me.
“It’s older than you and more expensive than your outfit.”
I scowl up at him with my chin jutted forward. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have left it out in the open like it’s a party favor for guests.” I’m slurring, and my lips are three sizes too big, but at least I feel better.
More prepared to take him on.
“You’re not a guest. This is—”
I hold up a hand to stop him and blink when it divides into two, then four, in front of me. “Please don’t tell me I’m family or some other kind of fucked-up sentimental shit,” I say, the words all connected.
I’m going to scream in his face.
No… I’m going to cry.
I’m going to puke .
One of those three things is certainly bound to happen soon, and I’m not sure which one. A queasy sensation travels like a plague through my body, and my arms go hot and cold at the same time.
“What do you expect me to do when I’m here? You fucking left me.”
“To go to work. To do my job.” He’s playing it cool, but I know him. A little more pressure, and he’ll lose it. The little vein is already starting to throb on the side of his neck. “To keep you safe and to make sure we know exactly what we’re up against.”
I slouch back against the cushions, and the movement only adds to my queasiness. “Which is why you brought me here. Yeah, thanks. I got it. I know the pressure I’m under.”
“ We’re under.”
I hate the way he corrects me. And right now he’s staring me down and categorizing me as another stressor, another block added to the line of them, all weighing him down.
Or worse. I’m a pawn for him to move around the board. Like my life doesn’t really matter.
Like who I am as a person doesn’t matter, only what I can do for him. Or what I can provide when he has an itch he needs to scratch.
But not go too far. Oh, no. He’ll never go too far. Hot Daddy Marcus can only get so hot before he comes to his senses and realizes it’s me.
“This script”—I hold it up in front of him and wave it, fluttering the pages—“is garbage. This movie is garbage, and I’m garbage in it. You need to cut me out of it and find someone else who can handle the part because it’s not me.”
There, I’ve finally said it in a way he’ll get.
Marcus sets the bottle down and rolls his eyes. “We’ve been over this. There’s no backing out. And now, our timeline is pushed up. So, get fucking sober, stop screaming in my face, and learn your lines.”
I’m screaming? Things do seem overly loud. My ears are ringing.
He grabs me by the wrist when I go to slap the damn script across his smug smile and wipe the floor with him.
“You can’t hold your liquor for shit.”
Maybe not, but he’s touching me, and a different sort of heat climbs into my stomach. “You lost the right to lecture me when you signed those papers dissolving your guardianship.”
Once again, the words slur and the world is a little fuzzy, tilting on its axis. But there’s Marcus, and he feels like the only real and solid thing here even though he’s furious.
“You lost the right to lecture me when my parents died instead of you.”
His face goes white.
The realization penetrates the fog in my mind, but I can’t stop. Not once I’ve gotten started. And him squeezing my wrist harder only spurs me on. He hauls me off the couch, and I sway, balance iffy, my arm out to my side.
“You lie to me, you treat me like garbage, and you say it’s all because you want me to stay safe, but you know what? I don’t believe you anymore. You’re full of shit.”
“I never said I wasn’t,” Marcus replies, gnashing his teeth.
“I hate you.”
He stares at my outstretched arm with narrowed eyes and drags me against his chest, clamping his arms around me, the script fluttering to the floor. “I’m not going to let you fucking slap me.”
Is that what he thinks I’m going to do? He deserves it. It’s a great idea.
Except now my arms are banded to my sides, and I’m sweating in places I don’t need to sweat. Tears drip free, winding down my cheeks.
“Come on.” He shakes me, hauling me closer and practically flinging me down the hall.
“Let me go.” Just like the rant, once the tears start, they keep coming. My chest hitches, air refusing to get to the bottom of my lungs.
I’m hyperventilating, crying, ridiculously uncomfortable. Every step he takes jostles my insides, and he’s warm and powerful, and I want to crack. I want to break apart in his arms and fall to pieces, even though I have no idea if he’s going to collect them or not. He might just leave me there in a pile of tears and regret.
This nightmare is never going to end.
“Snap out of it, Empire. You’re fine. You can breathe.”
I can’t. Breathing is impossible. Not with the tightness in my chest like there’s a car parked on top of me. Not when my veins are sluggish, my head light, and every part of me aches.
I’ve got no clue where Marcus is going until one of his arms leaves my waist, and the distinctive sound of water joins the pounding of my pulse in my ears. He shakes me once, my gasp cut off on a hiccup.
“Wake up, Em. You’ve got to wake up. You’re going to end up hurting yourself.”
He’s angry. So am I. He’s also much calmer than I am because any shred of logic left my brain the further into the bottle of scotch I went. What did I find on my way to the bottom?
A whole lot of nothing.
He steps into the shower with both of us fully clothed.
I gasp when he sets me on my feet directly beneath the pulse of warm water. Warm, not hot, thankfully. I’d have puked for sure with hot water on my face.
There’s still a possibility of it, if only to make myself feel better, and I swallow as my gorge rises higher into my throat.
“Come on.” Marcus grabs my cheeks and lifts my face toward the spray, waiting until I sputter before he turns me away and wipes the strands of sopping hair away. “I can’t let you go on like this.”
I want him to stop touching me. I want him to touch me everywhere.
Amid my coughing, the world blurs together into a single spiral of movement and light, and there’s Marcus through it all. I catch glimpses of his shower through the haze of tears, but it isn’t what I expect.
The shower isn’t clinical or neat. Trays are lined with products he hasn’t used since coming to live with me in my parents’ house. Shelves are stocked with an assortment of body gels and shampoos.
He grabs one and squeezes a dollop into his hand, working it into a lather and running it through my hair. A sweet, spicy fragrance adds to the steam, something like pepper and pear. It’s impossible to tell when my nose has started to clog.
“Getting hysterical or drunk might feel good in the moment, but look where we are now,” he continues gently.
Look at where we are now… The same place we were an hour ago or two days ago. The same place we were when I found out he filed those papers and when social media exploited our relationship.
What a joke.
It’s nothing but a joke because we’ve done everything except have sex.
Marcus won’t allow it.
He maneuvers me under the spray again and physically ducks my head to wash away the shampoo. The movements soothe the ragged edges inside me. I’m not a child, but it’s so nice to have someone take care of me this way.
I wonder if it’s the same for him.
The motions aren’t necessary as he strips me down to my bra and underwear, keeping his own clothing on. The physical act of cleaning me is a release for both of us, and under the pulsing stream of water, my buzz slowly evaporates.
A fire lights inside me, and I turn around in his arms, swallowing over my next hiccup. There’s only him, his hair dripping wet and his eyes dull and dark. They heat when he finds me staring at him, and he brushes another piece of hair away.
It’s my turn to grab him. Like something has come over me, another person is working my limbs as I reach up to his face and loop my arms around his neck to pull him down to me.
“I need you,” I whisper, the pulsing water carrying the sound away. “Please. I need you.”
So badly. Even though I hate this side of me, I hate wanting him because it’s him, and no one impacts me the way he does. He’s the center of the damn universe, and I’m orbiting around without hope of it ever ending.
Marcus pulls away. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Please.” It hurts to beg, and I can’t stop that, either. “I need you. So badly.” What’s it going to take to make him understand?
I lift on my tippy-toes to press my lips to his, absorbing his frustrated exhalation.
“You need to stop,” he mutters through kisses.
I grip his shoulders. “Why?”
Why do we always stop? Why is it never the right moment for us to actually go and cross the finish line?
I’m frantic, pressing my mouth to his, massaging our lips together, and groaning when he sweeps his tongue inside my mouth.
“Empire.” He gently pulls away and turns his face to resist my next kiss.
My stomach drops. Then he has hold of my hands again, physically turning me away from him like he’s too chickenshit to look me in the face. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
My head spins, the world tilting again as he brushes a hand down my spine. Bubbles trail his next swipe, and I’m about to turn around and go for his belt when he gently massages a knot in my shoulder with firm, rhythmic circles.
He resists me, every time.
Once he cuts off the water, he dries me off with an oversized towel.
I’m so small next to him. And weak. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this weak before, but there are a lot of things money can’t buy, and one of them is control in love. His name is past my teeth, but Marcus keeps his gaze averted as he carries me into his bed.
“This isn’t the right time,” he tells me softly.
His mattress is a cloud brought down to earth, and the sheets smell like him. I can’t even get a good look at the room before the world narrows. There’s only Marcus.
“It’s never the right time.” It’s the same argument repeated time and again.
The hatred is back when he bends down to kiss my forehead. The wax seal on top of this rejection, only I’m not sure if the hatred is stronger for him or for myself.