Page 53 of The Muse
“We can have a drink in the bar. Please?” He bypasses the lift, instead, dragging me down the stairs.
“Please, what?” he mutters.
My wrist snaps from his hold, and I slow the ridiculous speed and come to a halt near the lobby. “Say you believe me. Understand. Say something, at least. I need to know that you understand that none of this—us—was because of our family names.” The memory of one of those girls back at the ballet crying over some guy they thought loved them conjures to mind. But I understand the desperation now. Because I feel it to my very soul. The fear and pain, knitting together and playing puppet-master with my body and mind.
He looks back at me, his fingers beckoning. “You either come with me or you don't, Seffi. I need a drink. I don't want to drink it here. If you meant nothing at all, I wouldn't be here, would I?”
My gasp is from sheer relief, and I find my fingers slip into his hold again so readily. But his mood is back, and I’m weary of it already. He's short, curt, even harsh in his tone, and now he's charging us out of the hotel and down the street towards his apartment without even glancing my way.
I look around, as we walk, searching for the guy that followed me before. There are too many faces to find any that I recognise, and my feet nearly trip over themselves trying to keep up with Scott’s pace.
“I came back, you know. I tried a couple of times," I pant as we get to the main doors of his building. "Were you ignoring me, or were you actually out?”
“I only ignored you once. And that was for your own good. I was too mad then for any form of talk.”
“And you’re not now?” I ask, following him up the stairs to his door. No matter my feelings for Scott, I wouldn’t wish to see him in that state again. Certainly, given the state of his face at present.
“I’m less mad.”
It's a start, and right now, I’ll take it.
Following him into the apartment, I hover near the door. In my head, I’d conjured another stupid fairy tale that when Scott came to his senses we’d apologise, be sorry with each other, and realise that we were both being stupid. What we had together meant more than being apart. So far, the reality is a far cry from that little daydream. It makes me wonder just how mad Scott is and if he’s really over any of it at all.
He heads for the kitchen, grabs a glass off the counter, and pours himself a couple of inches of Scotch. It's a big drink, and it isn’t even in a proper glass. Scolding myself for my internal snide comment, I take my light jacket off and drape it on a chair, trying to ignore the vast quantity of alcohol Scott wants to consume.
“Are you going to offer me one?” I pipe up, trying to lighten the mood. A couple of glasses of champagne is my limit, and Scott knows that.
“You can help yourself to anything. Apart from the hard stuff. You’re a lightweight, and as much as that might be tempting, it’s my bad mood I’m trying to get rid of.” He raises his glass in salute before taking a large gulp of the liquid.He’s finished his glass before I’ve poured myself my own small glass of wine.
The silence stretches between us, despite how close we sit. I keep hold of the glass and rub my foot against the back of my other, feeling every bit the young girl.
“Did you want to talk?” I offer, unable to stand the quiet any longer.
He gets up and fetches the bottle, putting it on the table between us, and then pours more into his glass and drains that.
“Scott?” I start, not sure he appreciates my concern over how much he’s drinking.
“Don’t. Don’t tell me what to do. Because right now, drinking is the only thing stopping me from…” he stops and looks at me, and I see the pain in his eyes.
“Stopping you from?” I prompt, wanting to know the end of that sentence.
“Stopping me from fucking you.” He chucks the drink down his throat.
“I’m not stopping you, Scott.” Maybe that will help? To connect again, to tear away the last few days. I gulp my wine and stand, offering him my hand. If I make the first move, maybe he won’t stop.
“Seffi, don’t tempt me. I’m not in the mood.” He doesn’t slur, but it’s clear the drink’s affecting him.
I take his hand in mine and pull him to standing. For a brief moment, I consider if this is the best move, but right now, I don’t care. I need to reach him—show him that I’m serious and that what we have is true. My hand runs up his forearm and cups behind his neck as I pull him down to meet my lips. For a second—the longest second in the history of time—he hesitates. Then he’s kissing me, more ferociously than ever. He tastes of whisky and heat, but I want it. I want him.
He pulls me against his body and leads me back towards the bedroom where his hands skate over my body, desperate to reach my skin. It’s hot and fast and full of need, and I let him sweep me up and away from the argument.
My clothes are unceremoniously scattered about the room, and then he dumps me on the bed. He follows after shoving his jeans down and off. But he doesn’t kiss me. With his hands, he pins my arms above my head and grips them in his hand while he lifts my leg over his hip to give him access. He shoves himself inside of me, and I gasp at the intrusion.
“Now, you’ll see how I like to fuck.”
His body slams into me; it's only painful. I try to move or adjust to find a better spot—a more pleasurable spot—but he pins me harder. My eyes search for his, to make contact, to know he’s right here with me, but he keeps his gaze away.
“Scott?”
