Page 70 of Sweet as Sin (Bad Habit 1)
He watched me, waiting, his shoulders rising and falling with his uneven breath.
“I know because my father was a musician, too.”
Nico stood from the bed, moving toward me, but I was already gone.
I went to Grace’s.
I walked down the long hill, tears streaming down my face. At the end of the hill I called a cab and waited under the shade of a flowering jacaranda. It was only once I was seated in the back of the cab and had given the driver Grace’s address that I realized I wasn’t wearing shoes.
The soles of my feet were raw, blistered, and bleeding. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
Grace lived in a high-rise condominium building in Century City that catered to wealthy older people, celebrities, and women recuperating from plastic surgery. The security was top-notch. There would be no paparazzi, and no uninvited visitors.
She opened the door, took one look at me, and said, “Oh, honey.”
I fell into her arms.
Without another word, she led me to the guest bedroom, where she used an antiseptic wash on my soles and applied bandages, then covered my feet in a pair of ankle socks. She made me a cup of chamomile tea, and made me drink it, along with a Valium. Then she put me under the fluffy duvet on the queen bed and rubbed my back until I fell asleep.
Girlfriends are sometimes the only thing that make life bearable.
I slept deeply, without dreams. When I opened my eyes in the muted twilight of early evening, it might have been the same day, or a thousand years later. I used the toilet, avoided my reflection in the mirror, then shuffled into the living room to find Grace working on her laptop at the dining table.
“Rocky Horror Picture Show is on at the ArcLight,” she said, not looking away from the screen. “You up for it?”
It’s an incredible blessing, when someone who knows you well understands you’re in pain, yet allows you to take a breath before expecting you to talk about it. Grace had long ago mastered the art of the gentle handling of wounded souls. It was comforting to know that if I didn’t want to, I’d never have to talk about what had happened between me and Nico at all.
Even more of a blessing: there would never be an “I told you so.” From Grace, anyway. My own conscience was already kicking and screaming about it.
“Sounds good.” I went directly to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and poured myself a glass of wine from the corked bottle in the door. I sat across from her again. Grace didn’t bat an eyelash at the size of the highball glass I’d poured the wine into.
“It goes on at nine. I was going to order from Electric Karma first.” Her level gray eyes met mine above the lid of the computer. “Can your stomach handle it?”
Indian food might not have been the best idea under the circumstances, but, surprisingly, I was hungry. “Only one way to find out.”
A smile lifted her lips. “Atta girl.”
She phoned the order in. The food arrived thirty minutes later. In the meantime, I drank another highball of wine. I did a serviceable job with the naan bread and tandoori chicken, but the smell of the curry from the lamb tikka turned my stomach sour before I even had a bite.
Throughout dinner, I struggled to fight back tears. When they spilled over, Grace would just hand me a napkin and continue munching on her kebab.
“Don’t you have that work thing in Santa Barbara this week?” she asked around a mouthful of marinated beef.
I’d been booked for a fashion shoot at the uber-swanky Bacara Resort, for the fall collection of the couture wedding dress designer Reem Acra. It was scheduled to be shot over the course of four days. I, along with a small army of models and support staff, were scheduled to arrive midweek and stay through the weekend. I’d been so excited about it—the trip was all expenses paid—but now I was grateful merely for the fact that I could escape LA for a few days.
I nodded, pushing my plate away. “Perfect timing.”
Grace didn’t have to ask to know what I meant. Better than anyone, she knew that burying yourself in work is one of the best ways to avoid real life.
Real, shitty, painful life.
“You can stay here as long as you want, kiddo. You know that, right?”
The tears began to spill over my lower lids again. I stared at my plate, watching the remains of my meal swim. “I hate men,” I whispered.
Grace reached over, took my hand, and squeezed it. “Hey.”
I looked at her.
