Page 90 of Dirty Rock

“I couldn’t sleep,” I grunted.

“You could have woken me up.”

“Youweresleeping.”

“That’s not stopped you before.

“Don’t start, Jules.”

“I’m not...” Her smile faded.

“Sure as shit sounds like it.” It came out snappier than I intended, and I pushed myself up to sit on the edge of the sofa, feeling cold now the alcohol had worn off and the daylight had brought a certain clarity with it. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Bad dream or something?” she whispered.

“No, my dreams are perfect.” I laughed without humour. “It’s my reality that’s shit.”

There was some fancy faux fur throw over the arm, so I grabbed it and draped it over my lap, tucking it under my bum before I reached over for a cigarette and pressed it in between my lips. I brought the lighter to my mouth, stalling before I lit it, and I turned to face her slowly.

“What?” I mumbled around my cig.

Her smile had gone, the corners of her eyes dipped down.

The ultimate sad puppy face.

It made my insides shrivel, and I pulled my smoke from my mouth, scrunched my face up, and let my arms hang limp. “Awe, Christ, Jules, don’t look at me like that.”

“How, exactly, am I looking at you?”

“Like you’re… you know…” I waved a hand in front of me, squinting hard. “Like this is business. Like you’re my fucking publicist again, and I’ve just done something to piss you off that’ll give me a load of earache I don’t need.”

“I am your publicist.” She rose to stand fully. “And you have just pissed me off.”

She turned on the heels of her white pumps, and I watched her walk away in those fucking jeans, and a black, strappy vest. The top of her toned, tanned back was on display, and all I could focus on before she disappeared around the corner was that delicate neck I liked to hold whenever I kissed her.

I glanced down at my unlit cigarette for only a few seconds before I tossed it on the coffee table and took off after her, wrapping the throw around my waist and tucking it in place like I was some kind of poor man’s fucking Tarzan.

“Jules.”

“What?” That was the thing with her. She didn’t have to shout. She didn’t have to raise her voice to scare the shit out of people. She just had to switch her tone, and I knew there and then that the tone she was using with me was that of a pissed off lover… not a pissed off publicist.

I’d upset her. That didn’t usually bother me with women. It bothered me now.

I turned the corner into the bedroom, watching as she sorted through her own clothes and plucked out a nude-coloured blazer. I stopped in the doorway, taking her in.

Fuck, she was beautiful. So petite. So strong. So fragile. A total contradiction.

“I’m sorry, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay.”

“I’mreallysorry.”

“For what?” she asked as she pushed her arms into the blazer and shrugged it into place. “For freaking out? Clamming up on me? Acting like a child? Not being able to handle your emotions? Talking to me like I’m just another one of your disposable hook-ups?”

I frowned. “That’s not what happened.”

“Come on.” She laughed sarcastically. “That’s exactly what happened. That’s why you went in there, drank yourself stupid, smoked like crazy, and then passed out on that sofa after our conversation in bed. I saw you. I saw the way your whole expression changed. I should have known this would happen.”

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