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I coiled in on myself. "A doctor to examine me?" It sounded awful.
"You were hurt. Badly. A doctor examined you while you were still out. We thought that would be less traumatic . . . after everything." He nearly choked on the word everything. "A close family friend did a house call for Gram; someone she swears can be trusted."
He sat up and grabbed a little cup from the nightstand. "He left you some pills to take. He said the sooner you take them the better."
I looked in the little cup. There were a lot of pills. I didn't even ask what they were. I just downed them, then took a long drink of water from the glass Dante handed me.
We lay back down.
"Is Gram upset with us?" I asked him in a very small voice. She must have been so disappointed. Here she'd taken me in and now she had to deal with this mess.
He went stiff around me. "Of course not. You thought she'd be upset with you?"
I shrugged a shoulder. "I killed a cop. I made you, I don't even know what, get rid of the body? I'm nothing but trouble."
"Stop it. None of this was you. She's sad about it, very sad." The way he said, the way his voice cracked on the words, made it clear she wasn't the only one that was sad. "But of course she doesn't blame you."
"Do you think they'll ever find the body?" I asked him.
He was silent for a long time then, "I don't, and I don't think you need to know anything else about it. It's taken care of, okay? You trust me, right?"
I did. Completely and utterly.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
"Love doesn't make the world go round. Love is what makes the ride worthwhile."
~Franklin P. Jones
PRESENT
SCARLETT
I was wearing nothing but some pasties up top and a bare strip down south, simulating sex with a guy I wouldn't have let so much as kiss my feet if a camera wasn't rolling. Meanwhile somewhere deep down I was questioning my career choices.
I tried to get lost in the role, to put just the right touch of vulnerable passion into my expression.
I was always the epitome of nonchalant about the racy scenes, the nudity, all of it.
Because I was determined to be a professional, particularly about this.
Some of it was pure brassy nerve, the part of me always making up for the fact that I had been a victim once. Overcompensation as I tried to convince myself that I never would be again.
Deep seated and hidden just as well was how this elicited something ugly in me, how letting someone I hadn't chosen and did not want put their hands on me made me feel unclean. Sticky with an old filth that would not wash off.
There was even a physical pain that it triggered, a sharp stab, almost like a menstrual cramp but more acute and lower, that only came up when I kicked this particular internal hornet's nest. I'd never, never say it, though, or show it. I was determined to be a pro to the end, especially about this.
And I'd been good. Great. Compared to my co-star, I'd been a hell of a professional, but it was too much. Currently he was poised over me, grinding his relentless erection into my hip for about the thousandth time.
Suddenly I couldn't take it. Couldn't be tough and nonchalant about it for one more second.
I shoved at David, pushing him off me. "There's seriously nothing we can do about the erection he keeps grinding on me?" I addressed Stu.
"You know, most women would love this," David told me, tone deeply offended, like that would somehow change my mind.
I rolled my eyes. Those women didn't know this douchebag in real life. It was amazing how unattractive a mind could be even it fit was wrapped in a sexy as hell shell.
