Chapter 3 #2
“Amare is among the few brands in all of Sunset with an adequate plus-size selection, E-clair-a. Don’t worry about the price. We’ve got fifty grand to play with, and you told me on the drive over that the only appliance you need for baking is a dough hook for our mixer.”
A tiny excited breath fills her at the mention of her impending dough hook.
I know she loves baking. It’s precious how boldly the love saturates her. The way she was handing out pastries at the party yesterday showed she had such immaculate care for each. Her frail, shy smile while she was handling something she loved called to me, and I couldn’t help myself.
I just had to take a bite out of her.
“Fifty grand is an awful lot of money…” she whispers.
“Not really.”
“It’s half a hundred thousand dollars.”
“It’s an hour of work.”
Her eyes find me again, wide, lips parted and gaping. “Oh.”
Heh. Cutie pie.
“So…seventy dollars for a dress isn’t really…” Her attention skates across the store, toward a sheer blue off-shoulder number that will likely be my undoing. That pretty face of hers winces slightly before her eyes chart toward the undergarment selection.
I stop monitoring her gaze.
Behave, Lukas. This is nerve-racking enough for the poor girl, and you’re trying to help her, remember? If we pretend to be a good person—like we should—that’s the goal. Help. Not seduce. Not own.
It’s just…hard.
Does she have to be so pretty? So alluring? So…her?
No, knock that off, Lukas. It’s not her fault she’s a precious little angel. I’m the messed up one here. I’m the one who needs to be careful. I’m the one calling the shots. I’m the one in control.
Even though it feels like I’ve been spiraling out of it ever since my eyes met hers…
Repeating good sentiments in my head a few times over, to make sure they actually sink in, I say, “You have sixty seconds to start grabbing stuff to try on, or else I’m buying out the store.”
She squeaks.
“Sixty…” I drawl. “Fifty-nineee…”
She bolts toward the blue dress, so I chuckle and stay where I am until she’s filled her arms with clothes and headed toward the few dressing rooms visible from the main storefront. Finding my way to a seat outside the stalls, I get my phone from my pocket and check my notifications.
See? I tell myself. Your new toy stops giving you her attention for three seconds, and you’re already starving. Mind yourself, Lukas. You are the bad guy.
The thousands of comments on my Leopard and Instagram accounts fill something cracked inside me, making it seem for a precious moment that whatever I get from these cheap interactions doesn’t immediately ooze out of my broken parts.
For a boost, I reply to a particularly obsessed comment and picture the fan losing their mind. In my twisted skull, they screenshot the message thread, tell all their friends, let the fact King responded to them change their life forever.
It’s self, self, self and ego, ego, ego. All the time. Constantly.
Everything is about me. Always. Forever.
It’s painful if it’s not. And I don’t like pain.
Surviving without a constant stream of adoring focus on me at this point seems impossible.
I’m thirty-two. Whatever this poison is, it’s in my code now.
My brain’s been developed all wrong. Which means it’s reassuring to know that Clara still has time.
She’s younger than me. She can still change.
Her brain has a chance to develop without abuse for a while.
And maybe, if I can chain my wickedness up well enough to spare her from it, she won’t become just as mutilated as me.
Blue flutters before my eyes, and I forget what I’m typing to another fan the second I look up.
My all-wrong brain turns off, so it can restart and update my files to include…
this. Whatever this is. A new drug, perhaps?
A different reason to live? Something…something that isn’t me…
to focus on? A swear slips from my lips, and Clara’s shoulders bunch.
Anxious, she whispers, “I can’t get out…
” Her eyes squeeze shut, and she breathes, “I’m so sorry. I…I need help.”
I blink.
Oh.
She pulls the waterfall blonde of her hair over her shoulder and shows me her back.
Oh.
“I’m stuck.” Her breath trembles, and I swear she’s about to cry. “The zipper’s caught. I don’t want to rip the fabric. I’m so, so sorry.”
I stare. At pale skin. At beauty.
Oh…my…her.
Mouth dry, I swallow, replay her words in an effort to regain my brain. My thoughts land on that sorry.
Sorry…? For what? My eyes focus on her—her, her, her. The shape of her. The way the cloth of the dress holds her. Her.
I find the easily fixed problem she’s choked up over.
Frick. That zipper’s tiny…and it is most definitely stuck. Right below the thick band of her cream bra strap, which is peeking above the low back of this dress.
Most of my life, fans have thrown lacy little numbers at me on stage. Some have deemed it appropriate to jerk up their shirts when I look their way. I’m not a stranger to feminine wiles or pretty skin at a distance—for the most part.
Up close, I am very much a stranger to anything more than a kiss in a music video.
And I’ve kept it that way. For many good reasons.
Flirting is on brand. Flirting gets me attention.
Flirting means nothing, and I never let it go anywhere, because I’m not comfortable with the idea of where it could go.
I’m not comfortable with the idea of baring myself to anyone.
I’m not comfortable with the knowledge that I might want someone that badly…while they might not be able to satiate my beast by wanting me badly enough in return.
Looking at Clara right now feels illegal, unnerving, enticing, terrifying.
And I believe I might just be teetering on the edge of that want.
Cautious, I rise and demand the beast in me be tame for this precious woman.
Wetting my lips, I hook a finger in the fabric of her clothes and pull it away from her skin, so she won’t have to deal with the sensation of my fingers meddling against her.
“Poor cupcake,” I murmur as I fiddle. “I could have zipped you up.”
I, actually, could not have.
I would have, surely, passed out.
Her skin prickles when she shivers. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I was stupid.”
“Hey, now. Don’t talk like that.” I get the catch free and survive the hard part of gliding it down, down, down, revealing…
wow. Her. I look quite firmly anywhere else as I let go of everything having to do with anything that involves clothes coming off of Clara.
“You’re very smart,” I tell her, while telling myself no, no kisses.
None. Not even one. We’re looking at the floor, aren’t we?
That’s a very unkissable floor, isn’t it?
Except…that’s a floor that she’s walked on…
so maybe it’s the slightest bit kissable?
No. Be gone, foul thoughts.
Containing myself in a highly professional manner, I say, “Smart girls learn from mistakes, don’t they?”
I am such a hypocrite, because I know full well smart boys don’t bring angels home, assuming their will power is strong enough to hold in the face of majesty.
Shy, she turns, holding the top of her slipping dress up. “Yes?”
My heart trips on the sight, and I’m not sure when I stopped looking at the floor, but I find myself unwittingly etching all that she is into my brain.
Even though she’s struggling to answer questions without more questions again.
The poor thing is never sure of herself.
Never confident.
She’s so…
Broken.
And it makes me want to hurt whoever has broken her.
Curling a finger beneath her chin, I make her look up and revel in the sensation of her eyes on me. I murmur, “Smart girls learn from mistakes, so while you try on everything else, you’ll ask me for help if you need it, right?”
Heat warms her cheeks, and she nods.
“Good.”
When she returns to the dressing room, I sink back into my seat, fiddle with my phone, and abandon social media to rest my head against the wall instead.
Come on, Lukas. Pull yourself together.
She’s just a pretty girl.
A very, very pretty girl.
One you want to put in your pocket and carry around, but shouldn’t.
I sigh and stare at the ceiling, waiting helplessly to be summoned while my thoughts beat me up inside.
I like her. I know I like her. I liked her from the first moment I saw her, but I like her for all kinds of messed up and wrong reasons.
Which means I shouldn’t let myself like her. I should do what Viktor said and quit before I have regrets.
But, unfortunately, right now instead of regrets I have hope.
Maybe someday she’ll learn how I am, yet feel safe with me anyway. Maybe someday she’ll tell me no and yes when she means both fully. Maybe someday I’ll get over myself and do right by someone, and maybe that someone will be her.
Or maybe it won’t.
Who knows?
Who knows if I’m capable of becoming someone better…
I crave obsession, devotion, and love. But getting anything at a healthy level is far from what I deserve.
I’m a monster.
Just like my parents.