Page 64 of Inked Beasts

I sit on the opposite end of the sofa from him. My brain’s had time to add two and two, so instead of letting him launch a spiel at me, I take the initiative. “You’re the producer. For the reality show.”

His smile is wide, his teeth perfectly white. It’s disturbing. “That’s right. The network has got big plans, which is why I wanted to talk to you. You see, Lexy—” he leans forward, his tone confidential “—there’s an exciting new concept for this show.”

“Oh?”

“That’s right. It’s going to be more than the tattoos—it’ll be a dating show also. Sort of aTattooed Bachelor, if you get my drift.”

My stomach threatens to deposit my dinner all over his fancy threads. “I see.”

“It can’t work if the guys aren’t single.” He hasn’t lost the smile, though at least his unnatural teeth aren’t visible anymore. “Oh, I meant to say we’re bringing Thorn in, too. We’ll have some shows that include him and his cooking, with an eye to giving him his own show next season.”

Message received.Hands off all of them. Of course, he doesn’t know that I could never date just one of them, any more than I could pick just one molecule of air to breathe.

I want to punch Art Gilchrist right in his perfect mouth, but he’s done me one favor: I know now that I can’t go back to Las Vegas, not even for a little while.

All the men’s plans, their dreams of expanding their business, of Kai opening his gallery, of them doing more to benefit the community—the money from this new show will finance all of it. It will be so good for them, and enable them to do so much good for others.

How can I stand in the way of that?

The thought of them dating other women, marrying them, makes me want to scream and break things. But they deserve that, if they want it. They deserve their stardom, their success, and they’ll use it for good, because that’s the kind of men they are.

The best thing I can do for them is stay far away.

My heart feels like a heap of jagged shards in my chest. It’s shattered, and will never be whole again. Huge pieces of it are on the other side of the country, irretrievable.

I tried so hard to keep everything light and casual, and failed completely. In this moment, forced to confront the reality of never seeing them again, I can’t lie to myself anymore.

I’m not just in love with them, like an intense but temporary infatuation fueled by all the great sex; I love them, all three of them, now and forever, with all of my heart.

But that’s my problem, not the men’s. “Don’t worry,” I tell Gilchrist. “I’m not going back to Las Vegas.”

The smile gets wider; the teeth appear again. “The network will be very happy to hear that. We’ll have to send you a nice New Year’s gift.”

“No need.” I can’t wait for him to leave so I can go to my room and cry in peace. Fortunately, he’s as eager to get away as I am to be rid of him, and a minute later I close the door behind him.

“What was that about?” Mom asks as I pass the kitchen.

“Nothing,” I say quietly. “Nothing at all.”

LEXY

Clare Hoffman should be considered for sainthood. When I wrote a very apologetic email to explain that I wouldn’t be returning to Las Vegas for personal reasons, she was unbelievably gracious, even offering to provide a recommendation, should I need one.

That is the one positive thing that’s happened during the past week.

Outside of that, I’ve been mopey at the best of times, and at the worst, I’ve curled into a ball in my bed and soaked my pillow with tears. Or maybe the worst is when the tears won’t even come, when I’m just numb.

My mom’s been pretty understanding. She’s never been the type to sayI told you so,and she hasn’t even asked me about my career plans yet. Or any other plans.

Which is good, because my superpower has deserted me. I’m incapable of planning what I want for lunch, let alone anything more complicated. I alternate between tears and apathy, with brief transition periods from one state to the other when I hate myself for being so pathetic.

My only consolation is knowing I did the right thing for my men. And they’ll always bemy men,even though I know they aren’t and they never really were. It was all just a fantasy, and the trip back to reality has been awfully rough.

My mom had a few days off during the holidays, but she had to go back to work yesterday. She’ll be off again tomorrow for New Year’s Day, and I don’t know what’s worse—being alone to wallow in my grief, or trying to hide my feelings when she’s home, so she won’t be too concerned about me.

I oscillate between having no appetite and wanting to find comfort in food, and I’m looking through the pantry to see what kinds of Christmas cookies are left when the doorbell rings.

The next door neighbor has visited a couple of times since I’ve been here, and Mom likes to shop for online bargains, so I’m expecting one or the other when I answer the door.

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