Danny (Models On Top #1) (16 page)

Gulping down the image, I open my eyes again and watch him as tears blur my vision. Change is coming and if I try to stop it, I become the bad guy. If I accept it, what will we become?

I’ve never been patient. I didn’t get to where I am by sitting around and hoping for things to happen in life. I go after them. Everything from the university I attend to my scholarships. The only thing that came easily to me was Danny and now he’s slipping away into the unknown, and I hate the unknown.

My fingers dance over his shoulder light enough not to wake him. Leaning forward, I kiss him there. I love having him home, but I’m already wondering when he’ll leave me again.

Christmas passes and Danny doesn’t go home with me. I remain at my parents’ home until I decide to return to school on New Year’s Eve. Tired of being alone, I ring in the New Year with my friends at a local bar. Danny had left a message that he wouldn’t make it back to me in time for the traditional kiss. Who needs one anyway? I drink another shot thinking about how he was stuck in New York City, probably with a hot blonde model to help him ring in the New Year instead.

Standing in the middle of the bar, in the middle of the revelers, I’m alone. At 12:01 a.m. I go back to my dorm. Not his. His place is his, and being there makes me feel lonelier. The smell of him and his cologne is fading and I can’t bear to find out if it’s gone. Something that had given me comfort now makes me sad.

Fortunately, my roommate is staying with her boyfriend tonight, so I have the place to myself.

The second message he leaves comes before I have a chance to catch the call. I reach for the phone, but he’s gone. I listen to the voicemail, but my heart has already turned cold on the whole celebration. By two a.m. I’ve cried enough that exhaustion sets in and sleep comes easier.

I stir before dawn and turn, right into his arms. Without opening my eyes, I snuggle closer, his scent easing the pain from my body. “You’re late.”

“I’m here now.”

MY OUTFIT IS
sexy. From the second I laid eyes on it, I had to have it. I was more than willing to pay the inflated prices for the designer duds once I tried it on. I wouldn’t even need alterations, so I’d save there. It was stunning and made me feel more so last night when I wore it for the first time.

At eight thirty in the morning getting out of a cab in front of my apartment building wearing it while everyone leaving for work is wearing suits and Chanel, I don’t feel so stunning anymore. I feel cheap. I just wish it were for the reasons they’re all concocting in their heads while I walk into the lobby shamefully.

I wave to the doorman, feeling like he’s judging me all the way to the elevator when I’m sure he barely notices me among the morning crowd. The elevator door opens on my floor and I slip off the heels and walk barefoot to my apartment. As soon as it’s unlocked, I slip inside and lock it behind me. When I turn around, I scream, covering my mouth.

I don’t give Keaton a chance to speak. “Fuck! You scared me.”

He stands from the barstool and comes toward me. “Swearing is classless. You’re better than that, Reese.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came over last night.” He holds up the key I gave him back when we were happy, or I stupidly thought we were happy. I’m sure he was already fucking around on the side. “I wanted to apologize for the restaurant. I felt bad. I don’t like who I’ve become lately. I miss you. You gave me balance. You made me happy.”

“You wouldn’t know it by what you said last night.” I walk into my bedroom, knowing he’s not leaving until he says what he came here to say. I’ve learned this lesson the hard way.

“That’s what I mean,” he says, following me. “I don’t want to talk to you like that. I don’t want to treat you like that.”

I set my shoes on the shelf and unzip the dress and let it slip down. He appears in the door of my closet and I jump again. Covering myself with my hands, I warn, “Stop sneaking up on me and turn around.”

“I just loved you so much. I still love you.” He’s leaning against the wall just outside the closet, and with my robe in hand I stop to listen to what has turned into a plea. There’s something different in his voice, something more than he usually gives away.
Real emotions?
“I want to be with you.” As soon as I walk out bundled in my robe, he says, “I want to marry you, Reese. I’m a better man because of you.”

Besides the shock of his confession, my heart softens under his desperation, so I try to be honest, but kind. “Keaton, we’re not meant to be together. I’m sorry, but we’re not.” I go back into the living room and open the door. “I understand you’re hurting right now, but I was hurting back then. I’m proof you will heal. You will get over me.”

“I’m not getting over you. I won’t. I can’t.”

“You need to.” I open the door wider. “And you need to leave now.”

He leans against the island, not looking like he’s leaving anytime soon. “Were you with someone last night? You came home looking like you’ve been fucked. Did you let some guy treat you like that?”

“I thought swearing was classless?”

“So are you by your appearance this morning.”

And here we go. This is where it turns ugly, but I keep my voice even, knowing if I yell it will only escalate. “Then there’s nothing keeping you here.”

Standing up, he crosses his arms. “Why are you so stubborn? Fine, you had sex with someone else. I don’t care. But I want you to see how good we are together.”

“We’re not together, Keaton.”

“Then let me show you how good we can be again.”

This conversation reminds me of Danny, which I’m pretty sure wasn’t intended. “I’m too tired to have this conversation. Please. I’m exhausted. Please leave.” Holding out my hand, I add, “And leave my key.”

He walks past me. “I think I’ll hold on to it a little longer.”

“Just make this easy and don’t make me change the locks.”

“You’re going to see how good we are. We’re not just good on paper. We can be good together in life. We are a perfect match, Reese.”

I take offense to that statement though it wasn’t meant as an insult.

“We like the same things.”

“No, I never liked the ballet. You did and you only liked it for the business being conducted before the curtain went up.”

“Okay, tennis. We played that all the time.”

“Because I wanted to bond with you. But you made that impossible because of your need to belittle me in front of your so-called friends at the club.”

His shoulders slump in defeat. “I took you to see that country singer.” He points at me accusingly. “And that was just for you because I think he sucks.”

“You did. I will give you that, but it was hard to hear him sing through your constant complaining.”
Worst night ever.

He doesn’t take kindly to my remark. “Look, Reese. I’ve been good to you. More than generous with my wealth—”

“I never cared about your money. I know all the women in your life circle you like sharks, but they can have it all. I’d rather have something real, like a—”

“Like a yacht? You’ve got it. I’ll buy one today and name it The Reese.”

Shaking my head, I realize… or more like remember, that speaking to him in any terms that he doesn’t understand, such as love, devotion, passion, none of it computes with him. Three of the many reasons why I think he’s still single at thirty-eight. Emotions don’t register. In his world, money talks, and when it does, he always listens. Something he never did with me. The one thing my mom always told me to look for in a partner. She’s passed and it’s as if I’ve forgotten the life lessons she left me with.

No more. Refusing to be belittled by him, to be intimidated and manipulated by his lies, I open the door wider.
Hint, hint.
“I’m going to sleep, so again, I’m asking nicely. Please leave.”

That desperation from earlier is back in his tone. “I’ll go, but you need to know that I will protect what’s mine.”

“I’m not yours.” I never was, I add silently, not wanting to fight with him.

His back is to me as he walks down the hall to the elevator. “I’ll see you on Monday, bright and early.”

I slam the door closed even though I know it won’t give me the same satisfaction it used to.
Shoot!
I didn’t get my key. Beyond being physically tired, I’m now emotionally drained. I’ll get a reference from the doorman next time I’m down there for a locksmith. Pulling my robe tighter around me, I get a large glass of water and retrieve my phone from my purse. The decision has already been made—binge-watching a cop drama series will commence as I spend the day recovering. Maybe they’ll teach me how to hide a body in Manhattan.

Two episodes in, my phone buzzes with a new text. When I pick it up, I notice I’ve missed several. All from Danny.

“YOU WERE NEVER
reluctant before, Danny. Kiss me.” Laylah—twenty-eight, blond, green eyes, face perfectly symmetrical with cat eyes and best known for her killer body and walking for Victoria’s Secret—is pinned against the wall, my arms trapping her between and all I can think about is what Reese has been doing and hoping she’s not been doing anyone at all.

Is it too hopeful, too soon to want that?

Maybe.

Probably.

Definitely.

I kiss Laylah’s neck like the photographer has been demanding. Laylah’s breath covers my ear as the clicking of the camera is heard—quick, several per second. Her hands run down my side under the intricately-designed smoking jacket I’m wearing and I angle my shoulders so the camera gets a clear shot of the watch against the silk pajama bottoms. She pushes the jacket back to show off my abs while we try to appear intimate.

“Tilt your hips forward, Laylah,” the photographer says. “Yes, just like that. Danny, flash the face of the watch toward me.”

I turn my arm, but my shoulder remains tension filled.

She whispers, “Relax, Danny.”

The photographer suggests, “Maybe change places.”

I swirl Laylah around and try to get into her. It’s not working, so I fake it. An hour later, I’m leaning against a brick wall outside staring at my phone. Maybe I shouldn’t have texted Reese the other day…

Me:
I have a question about the shoot.

Me:
I lied. I don’t have any questions. I’ve just been thinking about you.

Me:
The problem is I can’t stop thinking about you.

I can’t even blame alcohol for sending those during a late-night texting session. Maybe the wheatgrass was going to my head, making me see things too clearly. Sometimes it’s easier to hide behind the façade than face reality. The liquid cleanse I did for two days touted clarity. I’m seeing it as a bad side effect as regret sets in.

Reese hasn’t replied. I must have scared her.
I definitely scared her.
But damn, I’m not over-confident about us. She’s gotten under my skin. I imagined what would happen if we ran into each other a thousand times or more over the years. Then it happened and it didn’t play out anything like I expected. I never expected to still feel so much for her the second I saw her. I foolishly thought some anger that had lingered over the years would surface, the hurt I felt revealed in an acquired immunity to her beauty, her quick wit, and stubbornness.

Nope. That didn’t happen.

The exact opposite did.

I still have feelings for her—whether new or reminiscent of long ago, I have no idea. They’re there though because I can’t get the woman off my mind.

Her independence is sexy. The way she looks at me drawing me in, capturing my heart just like she did before.

The photographer’s assistant tosses the cigarette to the alley and grounds it in. “We should get back. One more setup to do.”

I watch him walk inside, then check my phone one more time. Nothing.

Giving my best James Dean, I hold the sports coat by the lapels to show off the $15k gold watch I’m modeling while tilting my head back to show some good jaw. The camera clicks as the shutter opens and closes in rapid succession. Laylah is watching in the distance as her makeup is removed since she’s wrapped. I avoid that direction. She’s gorgeous, just not Reese gorgeous.