Page 53 of Selling Innocence

He was angry, now. Angry and lost and fearful. These were things I’d never expected to see from Vance.

He twisted, grasped the edge of the dresser to haul himself up. Any questions I had about if he’d polished off the entire bottle tonight went away when his hand slipped and he came crashing back down.

I crossed the short distance between us, trying to help, but as it turned out, catching a man that large was a stupid idea.

I wasn’t all that large and I sure didn’t work out enough to even hope to keep him upright. None of that stopped me from trying, though.

And as a reward for the effort, he took me down along with him. The breath knocked out of my lungs when I hit the floor beneath his weight.

He really was more solidly built than I’d realized. He wasn’t the type to show it off, usually wore clothing that covered his body, but being up against him like this made it so much more obvious.

I groaned as I stared up to find his face above me, our positions so close that if I didn’t know better, it would feel like lovers.

Is this how it would feel? I didn’t have any experience, had no idea how that would really feel, but with his liquor-tinged breath spilling over my lips, I felt drunk on him.

A red mark on his cheek told me he’d struck the dresser on his way down—it would probably darken into a bruise come tomorrow.

“You hurt yourself,” I whispered as I lifted my fingers to brush over the spot. “You should be more careful.”

“What does it matter? Sometimes I wonder if I destroyed this face, this name, would I be free?”

I frowned at the hopelessness in his words. I hadn’t ever seen him like this. “You’re too hard on yourself.”

He sighed and leaned in. My eyes slid closed on their own and I expected the press of his lips to mine, just like before. All that anger I’d felt, when I’d raged at him over stealing my first kiss, it all disappeared.

Why?

Out of pity? Because he seemed so damned sad that I couldn’t even imagine rejecting him? Or maybe it was just plain old hormones that made me think a kiss might just be worth it.

Except, something warm pressed to my forehead instead of my lips. When I cracked my lids, I saw he’d rested his head against mine.

“You don’t know me,” he said in a voice so breathy, I nearly couldn’t make out the words. “No one does, not really. They see who I am on camera, who I am when I’m doing interviews, but they don’t know me. Hell, do I even know anymore? What was the point of any of it? The public, they just want the pretty version of me that they’ve seen on cover magazines and my art, but no one sees me.”

I reached my other hand up, to cup his cheeks on both sides, forcing his face far enough away for me to see him clearly. He didn’t open his eyes, though. It was for the best, since I’d bet if he had, it would have broken this rare, honest moment between us.

“I know you,” I assured him. “I know you’re arrogant, and you think you’re God’s gift to women, and that you enjoy people talking about you and making a scene. I also know that you’re kinder than you let on, that you’re serious about your art, that you’re sensitive even if you like to hide it. I don’t know everything about you, but I know you’re not nearly as bad as you think.”

His weight grew heavier on me, as if some of the tension inside him had released and he sagged against me.

Had my words meant that much to him?

That pulled me in even more.

“Come on, let’s get you into bed,” I said and pushed at his shoulder.

He grumbled, but rolled off me. The process was slow, a constant two steps forward, one backward. I’d get him up, then he’d stumble, even with me under his arm, and he’d catch himself on the wall.

Eventually, though, we made it. He collapsed on the bed, not trying to break his fall in the least.

“You shouldn’t drink this much,” I scolded him as I kneeled and unlaced his shoes. The leather was nice, the craftmanship undeniable. I didn’t know much about men’s fashion, but I had no doubt he’d paid a lot for them. I removed them, then pulled off the no-show socks he wore beneath.

When I rose, he tried to undo the buttons of his shirt, but was having little luck.

He was like a large toddler. Was this what it was like to have children?

If so, I understood child-free folks much better.

Part of me wanted to tell him to just get under the covers, to go to sleep fully dressed. Drunk people did it all the time. He’d drank enough to pass out, so what he wore didn’t matter. Come tomorrow, he could shower off the sweat of liquor and wash his sheets.

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