Page 21 of Lust

"Go home, Matthias," she mumbles under her breath. "Just go home."

My voice drops, soft. "I'm trying to help you."

"I don't want you to! Stop! I don't fucking want anything from you!" This time she yells and looks up at me for a second before lowering her face again.

But it's long enough for me to see the tears streaming down her face.

Fuck.

A pressure builds in my chest.

Is she actually crying?

I was just trying to help. Something tells me that whatever is happening right now probably has less to do with me than something else going on with her.

"Clarissa," I say, the guilt now moved to my voice. "Are you okay?"

She doesn't answer, just crawls a little further away, her arms full with crumpling cans of Duvel beer and imported grape soda. A little sniffle escapes, but she swallows it down.

"Clarissa. Look at me. Please."

She doesn't.

I have no choice. I grab her arm and drag her to her feet, pushing her up against the front entrance of her club.

"What are you doing, Matthias? Are you fucking mad?" she yells, the confusion in her voice raising the volume and it momentarily sends a bolt of relief to me. The angry, fighting Clarissa is the one I know. But when I catch a glance at her face again, my stomach sinks.

Her cheeks are completely drenched with tears, her eyes still filling with more, and every time she blinks, she sends another torrent of saltwater down her face.

The pressure in my chest builds to an almost unbearable level. This girl I've known all my life, broken. "Oh, Clarissa. Tell me what's wrong."

My out of character gentleness does nothing to soften her anger. "You mean you causing my recycling bags to burst? Do you know how long it took to crush them and put them in the bag? And now I'm going to have to go back inside and grab another bag!" she yells, each word getting louder and angrier.

I wait for her to finish and say, "No. Not that."

Red tendrils creep up the skin of her chest and neck. "Well, then what? For insulting my fiancé and making him feel like an idiot and making him mad at me!"

Fucking Patrick. "Wait. What did he say?" I should've known it would have something to do with that asswipe. He'd spent all night taking turns leering at Clarissa, me and every woman who walked past. By the end, I could barely look at him, let alone be friendly.

Her face freezes, as if she's only just realized what she said from my short response. "I-It's nothing. I... didn't mean to say that."

I ask the question everyone wants to ask. "What are you doing with him, Clarissa?" Her mouth falls open, the tears seemingly freezing in their tracks. But it doesn't stop me from saying what I've been wanting to say all night. "You're too good for him, Rissie."

This time she snickers and drags the back of her hand across her face. "It's really fucking rich of you to say that."

"What?" I throw my hands into the air. This woman is unbelievable. It was a compliment.

She jabs her fingers into my chest. "You. Of all people, saying that is utter bullshit. When everyone knows you never thought I was good enough for Damien."

She isn't good enough for him. She never was. I never disputed saying or thinking that.

"We're not talking about my brother, Rissie. I'm talking about that piece of useless skin that seems to think he can hold a green card over your head to make you marry him. Youaretoo good for him. Why are you doing this?"

She pulls away from the wall and stares me down, her jaw twitching. "I'm in this position because of you. All of you fucking Baxters. So, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't fuck this engagement up for me, too." Her hands push against my chest with a force I wasn't expecting and propels me a few steps back. "So, tell me, Matthias, if I'm too good for Patrick, but not good enough for Damien, then who the fuck am I good enough for?"

I open my mouth and then clamp it shut, surprised by the answer that sprang to my lips.

Why am I even having this conversation with her? If this is the life she's chosen for herself, then what the fuck do I care? But something tugs at my brain... or somewhere in my chest. And it won't go away. And even though it might be the biggest mistake I've ever made, I rest my hand on my chest and say, "If you're really going to sell your soul just to stay in the U.S., I think I might have a better offer for you..."

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