（nine months ago）
Los Angeles
O n a particularly gloomy morning in November, I emerged from an audition at an office downtown to find the temperature had plummeted and rain was pouring down in sheets. Of course I was dressed as a homewrecker at eleven in the morning, wearing my most expensive four-inch stilettos and a slinky green silk cocktail dress, and my car was parked three blocks away in the cheapest lot I could find.
I had no umbrella and the building had no lobby—only a small vestibule with banks of elevators—so I stood looking out at the rain, willing it to stop. The street outside was industrial, no shops or restaurants, but a few doors down I recognized the back entrance to the flower market I’d visited a few months ago to buy Wendy sunflowers after her horse-jumping accident. Though it was in the opposite direction from my car, I figured anything was better than standing where I was, so I made a mad dash for it, holding the script from my audition over my head as a makeshift umbrella.
Ten steps outside I knew it had been a terrible idea, but I was drenched already, so I kept running. I burst through the entrance to the flower market looking like a drowned cat, my shoes and dress ruined. The polished concrete floor inside the door was so slick with rain that I immediately lost my footing in my stupidly high heels, and arms flailing, landed hard on my ass, flashing everyone in the checkout line my fuchsia panties.
Awesome.
The cashiers and patrons looked on with concern as the security guard rushed over to help me to my feet, lifting me by my elbow. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, mortified. At least I’d never see any of these people again. I looked down at my dress and noticed I’d split the hem on the left side clear up to my hip. Fantastic.
“Belle,” said a deep voice.
Oh God. Who was this going to be?
I turned to see Eric, a large bunch of pale-pink roses in his arms, his brow wrinkled with worry. Great. Exactly who I wanted to see me like this.
“Are you okay?” Eric asked. “This floor is unforgiving. You hit your tailbone pretty hard.”
“Oh, hi.” I tried to shrug it off like I was cool. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
The security guard nodded to Eric and walked away, leaving me with him. I rubbed my throbbing ass. “I live in the next building. You want to come up and dry off?” he offered. “Maybe borrow some pants?”
I cinched the side of my dress together in my fist. Considering that Summer, whose jealous streak had been particularly pronounced of late, was still living with me and seeing Eric, I knew going home with him was a terrible idea. Not to mention my hurt pride and ass. But it was still pouring rain outside, my dress was ruined, and one of my heels was broken. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
He shifted the flowers into one arm and offered me the other. I had no choice but to take it, limping along on my broken heel. “Do you want to get on my back?” he asked.
“I’m heavier than I look.”
“I’m stronger than I look. You just have to hold the flowers, and I’ll hold you.”
“Everyone will see my ass,” I protested.
“Lucky them. Come on.”
I stuffed my shoes in my bag and grabbed the flowers, then hopped up on his back. He easily carried me through the flower market, pointing out different varieties of blooms like we were just on a normal stroll as we traversed the aisles to the door on the other side of the warehouse. The rain was still coming down hard outside. He sprinted through the alley with me on his back, both of us laughing, and came to an abrupt halt at a door in the back of the building. “My keys are in my left pocket. Can you get them?”
I reached into his pocket. The fabric inside was thin and wet. I could feel the warmth of his skin through it, and something else. Oh. He didn’t seem to be wearing underwear.
The keys, Belle. Get the keys.
I extracted the keys from his pocket and handed them to him. He opened the door, and we tumbled inside, dripping wet. I hopped down from his back. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He punched the call button of the elevator.
I cast a glance up and down the hall, orienting myself. “I didn’t realize your building was so close.”
“Downtown’s confusing.”
The elevator door slid open, and he gestured for me to step into the dim interior. I hesitated, and he smiled. “I remember. You’re claustrophobic.”
I nodded. “It’s an incredibly small elevator,” I pointed out.
“I’ll cover your eyes, like last time,” he offered.
Last time. Before I knew he belonged to Summer.
Seeing no other choice, I stepped onto the elevator. He followed, his arms full of roses. The door slid shut. “I don’t want to stick you with these thorns,” he said. “Turn this way.”
I turned toward him, our faces inches apart in the confined space, my heart pounding in my chest. The sweet scent of the flowers filled the elevator.
“Close your eyes and put your face on my chest.” He moved the roses out of the way.
It wasn’t necessary. I could’ve just closed my eyes and the walls wouldn’t have seemed so close. But like a fool, I rested my forehead on his chest. And there it was again, the smell of spice and detergent, the warmth of his skin through his wet shirt. He bent his head ever so slightly toward mine.
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. We didn’t move for a fraction of a second. I ripped myself away from him and spilled into his loft, flushed.
It was just chemistry. A stupid attraction to an inappropriate man. Not the first, and I was sure not the last.
I reminded myself of all the reasons I didn’t actually want him as I looked around his light-filled loft. I’d seen his art gallery and the roof the night I met him, of course, but I’d never been in his personal living space. It felt oddly intimate to be in his home, surrounded by his things.
The loft was huge; it took up the entire floor of the building and was 180 degrees from what I was expecting from Summer’s description, which had it sounding like a dingy bachelor pad.
I could sense him watching me as I took it in.
He was Summer’s. I had no claims. He wasn’t what I wanted, and I wasn’t what he wanted. He was just a flirt, a playboy. And I wasn’t about to stab Summer in the back to become one of his conquests.
“This place is amazing,” I said.
“Thanks. I like it.”
Even on this gloomy day, light poured through floor-to-ceiling windows in every direction, reflecting off floors of brushed concrete. Brightly colored exotic rugs and midcentury modern furniture were clustered in different areas across the open floor plan—a living area featuring an impressive record and book collection, a dining area with a Sputnik chandelier dangling from the soaring ceiling, an art area, canvases in different stages of completion, and in the corner, a chef’s kitchen with Carrara marble countertops and an industrial oven. And plants. Everywhere, plants.
It was my dream home.
He was a womanizer. He was moody. He had a chip on his shoulder.
I found myself standing in his art studio, wandering among the paintings. They were all different styles—abstract, mixed media, dreamlike renderings stolen from some of his photographs—but something tied them together. Wild whimsy, controlled chaos, that same play of opposites that infused his photographs.
I heard the click of a camera and turned to see him with a film Nikon raised to his eye. He quickly fired again before I could cover my face. “Oh my God, what are you doing? I must look a mess,” I said, ducking.
“A beautiful mess,” he returned. “Angle your face toward the light.”
“No, Eric, seriously.”
“Please?”
Those sea-green eyes. I looked toward the light.
I allowed him only a few shots before I turned my back on him. “Okay. I’m freezing. How ’bout those sweats?”
He beckoned for me to follow him through a doorway into his room. It was fairly orderly for a bachelor not expecting guests, and dark with the blackout shades drawn, his platform bed unmade.
A vision of us tumbling into it, ripping the wet clothes off each other, flashed before my eyes. I blinked it away.
He rummaged in a chest of drawers and produced a black long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of women’s leggings.
I held up the navy-blue leggings. “Are these Summer’s?”
“No. You can have them, though; she won’t be coming back for them.”
I had to laugh. “Gotcha.”
“I know Summer’s your friend, and I respect that.” He found and held my gaze. “I don’t know what she’s told you, but we’re not together. I’ve been very honest with her about that.”
I bit my lip. “Why?”
He shrugged. “We’re not compatible.”
I knew it wasn’t my business and I should probably have left it there, but after months of hearing it from her side, I was interested to hear his. “What do you mean?”
“How can I put this without sounding like a total dick?” He sighed. “She’s obsessed with money. Status. I understand it: she didn’t grow up with it; she’s looking for security. But that’s not what I’m looking for. I’m the opposite—my childhood was the casualty of a horribly greedy father. I’ve spent most of my twenties thinking money is responsible for all the evil in the world. But, of course, that’s not true, either.”
“So why do you still see her?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to hurt her. And I enjoy her company. Like you do, I’m guessing. In small doses. She knows we’re never going to be serious, and she’s okay with it.”
I was shocked that he could be so perceptive about her and yet so blind. “Eric,” I laughed. “She’s not okay with it.”
“She says she is,” he protested. “I really am honest with her.”
I furrowed my brow. “Trust me,” I said, “she’s not. Summer’s used to getting what she wants. And she wants you. Once she realizes she’s not going to have you—well, you’ll know.”
He nodded slowly, but I could tell he still didn’t understand. “I’m moving to New York in a few weeks anyway, so that should put an end to it.”
I felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment. “Permanently?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll keep the place here, and I’m sure I’ll be back and forth some, but I need a change.”
He flicked on the light in the bamboo-and-slate bathroom, and I heard the water turn on. “A shower will warm you up,” he said as he left, gently shutting the door behind him. Our conversation echoed in my head while I warmed my shivering body under the hot water. How on earth could he believe that Summer was okay with their not being together? She must put on quite an act.
I emerged from his bedroom freshly showered and cozy to find him in the kitchen arranging the roses in a vase. He looked up and smiled. “Feel better?”
I nodded. “Beautiful flowers.”
“It’s my mom’s birthday,” he explained. “Tea?”
“Sure.” He filled a mug and handed it to me. “She lives here? Your mom?”
He shook his head. “She died when I was eleven.”
“Oh,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. She’s the one who got me into gardening—she loved roses, so every year on her birthday, I buy them.”
“That’s so sweet.” I wanted to ask how she died, but knew it wasn’t polite. “Did your dad raise you after she passed?”
His face clouded. “No. My grandmother.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “You know how I feel about my father.”
“He’s really horrible, huh?”
His eyes met mine, and suddenly I saw a lost little boy.
I set my mug on the counter and wrapped my arms around his waist, laying my head on his chest. “I’m so sorry.”
He hugged me tightly, burying his face in my wet hair. We stayed like that for a long time, our bodies pressed close together. I heard his heartbeat as his chest rose and fell.
When we finally separated, his eyes were wet with tears. He wiped them with his sleeve. “I’m sorry. It’s hard for me to talk about it. Especially today.”
“It’s okay.” I wanted to say more, wanted to know more. But that way lay danger. And outside, the rain had cleared. “I should go.”
“Let me get your car for you.”
While he was gone, I perused his collection of records and books. We had crossover in our taste, though his skewed darker than mine. I wanted to ask him about his thoughts on Siddhartha and Heart of Darkness , wanted to know which was his favorite Rumi poem. But I’d have to leave that to Summer.
Summer, shit.
When he returned, the first words out of my mouth were “Let’s not tell Summer I was here.”
He nodded. “I wasn’t going to. Sure you don’t want to stay for lunch?”
I’d have loved nothing more. “I can’t.”
Even if he stopped seeing Summer altogether, if she married someone else and was totally happy, I’d still never be able to go anywhere near Eric without being ready to permanently end my friendship with her.
I knew this. Yet in the elevator, we stood face-to-face. His eyes rested on mine. An electric current coursed through my body, pulling me toward him with a force I couldn’t describe. Was it just me? A reaction to his blinding beauty? Or did he feel the same current? I reminded myself once again he was a rake, a trust-fund kid with the privilege to “reject money” who was moving to New York in a few weeks.
Don’t fall for it, Belle.
And then, without warning, as though the magnetic force was too strong to resist, his lips were on mine. The heat of a thousand suns burned between us, our arms wound around each other, his pelvis pressing into mine. And there the blaze burned even brighter.
Ding! The elevator doors slid open, and light poured in. I pulled away. “Eric,” I cautioned.
“Belle.” His voice was rough with desire.
He reached for me.
“We can’t,” I said. “This didn’t happen.” And without a backward glance, I was out the elevator door and running down the hallway toward my car.
The following week I was on my bed memorizing lines when Summer arrived home from her private-airline steward training class. She flopped down on the duvet, sending pages fluttering. “Hey,” I protested. “I was using those.”
“Sorry, I’m just so tired.” She groaned. “I’ve been on my feet all day. I need a nap.” She crawled under the covers next to me. “Can you maybe do that in the other room?”
“Summer—” I pressed the palms of my hands into my eyes in frustration. She’d been living with me three months and had yet to donate a cent in rent. But we both knew I didn’t have the balls to ask her for it. I got up and started straightening the room, throwing discarded piles of clothes into the hamper.
“What’s up? You’re mad. I can tell you’re mad,” she said.
I sorted through a pile of books and magazines stacked on the bedside table. “My sister’s looking at USC Law School for next fall—”
“That’s great!”
“…so my parents are coming out with her during the holidays.”
“Nice. Where are they staying?”
“Here,” I said. “In my bed. Lauren and I’ll share the pullout couch. Paying for a hotel for a week in LA is too expensive, and I want to spend time with them. Anyway, you’ll have another apartment by then, right?”
She sat up on her elbows. “Oh. So that’s what you’re mad about.”
“I’m not mad , I just…can’t afford to support you forever.”
She sighed dramatically and flopped back on the pillow. “It’s not forever. I told you, it’s just for a few months…”
“You said a few weeks.”
She looked at me, hurt. “Are you kicking me out?”
Now I felt like an asshole. “No. I’m not kicking you out, I’m just…wondering when you might get your own place.”
“I don’t know. I mean, I’m done with training next week, but I’ve gotta get a job, and I’ll need a security deposit, a car.…It’s a lot. You’re lucky—you have parents that help you out, but I don’t.”
“You know my parents don’t help me,” I said flatly.
“Yeah, but, like, they would if you needed them to.”
I shook my head. The kind of help my parents provided was unconditional love and a hundred dollars at Christmas. They couldn’t afford anything else, and I’d never ask. Sure, I guessed I could always go home to my childhood bedroom and figure out some kind of job in Georgia if I totally couldn’t make it on my own, but I’d never seen that as an option. “I love you. You know I love you. But it’s been three months, and I’m struggling myself. If you’re gonna live here, it would really help if you could at least pay some rent.”
Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize things were so bad for you.”
I looked at her like she was crazy. “How do you possibly not know things are bad for me? Do you think I eat pasta every night because I love it?” I grabbed the scuffed-up pair of heels I broke at the flower market. “My stilettos are worn down to the nail. I busted my ass wearing these in the rain last week.” Ichucked them into the closet.
“I’m broke, too,” she said. I picked up a pair of Prada booties she came home with last week and raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t buy them,” she protested.
I sighed. “Can you just contribute something? My rent is eighteen hundred. I’m not asking you to pay half. Anything helps.”
She nodded. “Yeah, yeah, of course…Dad’s coming into town next week. I can ask him.”
It took me a minute to remember that “Dad” was Three, Rhonda’s third husband and Summer’s recent baffling choice of father figure, who now lived in a gaudy mansion in Vegas with a bride just ten years our senior. I guessed he was the best (or richest, anyway) of Rhonda’s erstwhile husbands, but he’d been sleazy ten years ago, and I couldn’t imagine that had changed. Summer had despised him when we were in high school, but now that he periodically sent her money, she’d changed her tune. These days she referred to him as “Dad” and waxed on about looking up to him for being able to “capitalize on opportunity,” whatever that meant.
“Or you could just get a job,” I suggested. But she was already shaking her head. “If you were at Heaven, you’d make at least a couple hundred a night.”
“I told you, I’m not doing that again.”
I gathered my script pages from the bed and the floor, irritated. She had no problem with me working in a club to pay for the apartment she crashed in, but she was too good to do it herself. And yet I was too freaking nice to kick her out.
“I’m gonna get some rent money. I swear!” she promised to my back as I stomped down the hallway to finish my work in the living room.
A few days later I came home early from a soul-crushing Tinder date with a handsy wannabe director to find the door to my bedroom closed, sex sounds coming from within. The blood rushed in my ears. I wanted to scream.
After the afternoon I’d shared with Eric, he had the audacity to fuck her in my bed not two weeks after? And she was yet to give me a dime of the rent she’d promised. Screw them. I had half a mind to throw open the door and kick them out. I stood with my hand poised above the doorknob, listening to the grunting as my headboard slammed against the wall. It was all male. I heard nothing coming from Summer. And it didn’t sound like Eric. Not that I knew what his sex noises sounded like.
I quietly backed away from the door, unsure what to do. I wanted to leave, but it was 10:00 p.m., and besides the fact that it felt wrong to vacate my own apartment so that Summer could soil my bed, I didn’t have anywhere to go. But I also didn’t want to be sitting in the living room when she and whomever she was screwing emerged from their tryst. Especially if it was Eric.
The porch would have to do. I’d have a clear shot of the walkway below, so I’d see him when he left and know when the coast was clear to return to my apartment and rip Summer a new asshole. I grabbed a hoodie from the hall closet and stepped onto the balcony, leaving the curtains drawn across the French doors so that I wouldn’t be visible from the living room. God, I hoped they’d finish up quickly; it was freaking freezing outside. I sat in the uncomfortable iron chair hunched over my e-reader, but I couldn’t concentrate and kept having to reread pages of the novel that had been so gripping until now.
Eventually, after what seemed like eons but according to the clock in the corner of my device was only ten minutes, I heard footsteps in the living room, then on the stairwell, and finally spied a man emerge from the building. It wasn’t Eric. This man was tall and balding, wearing a sport coat, and there was something familiar about him. I sat up and watched while he loped down the walkway with the carefree gait of a man who’d just bedded a hot blonde, toward a town car idling at the curb. As he climbed into the backseat, he cast a glance toward the building, his face illuminated by the streetlight.
It was Three.
Immediately I ducked, praying he hadn’t seen me. Summer was fucking Three. My God. What the hell?
When I heard the car pull away from the curb, I emerged from under the table and slid open the door to the apartment. I stepped through the curtains to find Summer curled on the couch, staring at me with red eyes. “Was that Three?” I asked, though I knew the answer.
She nodded, then burst into tears. I sat next to her and wrapped my arm around her shoulders. “What happened?”
“He said if he was going to be paying the rent, he wanted to come see the place.” She suppressed a sob. “So he came up, and when we got in the bedroom, he shut the door and he…he…” She broke down.
“It’s okay.” I hugged her. “Did you tell him no?”
“At first. But…” She wiped away tears. “I didn’t know what to do. I needed the money, and he…” She buried her face in her hands. “He made me call him Daddy .”
My heart plummeted. “Oh God.” I stroked her hair as she cried into my sweatshirt. “I’m so sorry. That is so fucked up. I’m so, so sorry, Summer. If I’d had any inkling this might happen, I would never have asked you for rent…”
“It’s not just you.” She pulled away. “I’m out of money, and my mom hasn’t been working. She’s staying with a guy she’s been seeing who treats her like crap…” She shot to her feet abruptly, cutting off the tears. “I need a shower.”
“Wait. You shouldn’t take a shower before we go to the police,” I said.
She emitted a short bark of a laugh. “I’m not going to the police.”
“But he raped you—”
“So? What good is going to the police gonna do except to stop him from sending me the five grand he promised?”
“But, Summer, he—”
“It’s my decision,” she snapped. “At least he paid for it. I’ve been sleeping with Eric for over a year and he won’t give me a dime.” She slowly moved down the hallway, but paused when she reached the bathroom door and turned. “I’m not gonna live my life like this.”
“No,” I said, going to her. “You deserve so much more.”
She met my gaze with steely resolve. “Let’s never talk about it again.”