"What?" he demands. "What could you possibly need from me?"
The harshness in his voice slices through me, and I cringe. I want to explain myself, but when I feel the tears well in my eyes, I know that there's no way I can hold myself together. "I'm sorry," I whisper as I turn to flee. "I should never have come here at all."
3
I slam through the door to the alley just as my tears start to flow in earnest. And as the steel door clangs shut, I lean against the brick wall and force myself to simply breathe while my blood pounds in my veins, and images of those photographs-and the man who took them-fill my head.
Honestly, this is my own fault. What was I thinking? I should have turned around the moment I realized the audition was for Wyatt. I should have run far and fast and not even thought twice.
Instead, I lingered, craving recognition from a man who clearly wants nothing to do with me.
Which should be just fine with me. After all, if anyone can throw my carefully constructed life out of whack, it's Wyatt. He's temptation personified, and when I'm around him, my self-control vanishes.
And nothing good ever comes from that.
Nothing that lasts, anyway. He made me feel good, that's for sure. So much so that the memory of his touch still fuels my fantasies, as potent now as it was more than a decade ago.
But those touches were forbidden, our moments together stolen. I knew I was breaking the rules, but I didn't care. What good was the threat of punishment against the reality of his kisses? His soft caresses?
He eviscerated my control. Made me forget my objections. Turned my willpower to mush. And though I want to blame him, I know that in reality, it was all on me.
I wanted to be bad-more specifically, I wanted to be bad with Wyatt.
Even then, I knew I'd have to pay. Of course, I would. There's always a price when you break the rules. Hadn't I been raised on that mantra? Hadn't it been drilled deep into my soul?
But until Wyatt, I never really tested it.
Maybe I didn't believe it.
Maybe I thought I could outwit fate.
But Karma is a nosy, invasive bookie, and when you try to cheat her, she takes what she's owed.
I've been scrambling for years to pay that debt. And fifteen thousand will go a long way to repairing the biggest mistake of my life.
Or it could have. But I bolted, and in the process I destroyed my only chance to get that much money in so short a time.
My stomach churns and bile rises in my throat as that simple reality settles over me. I bolted.
I didn't just walk away from the chance to earn that money, I sprinted.
Am I really so lame? So fragile that I'll shatter under the chill in his voice or the ice in his eyes?
After all, what did I expect? That we'd both look at each other with wide-eyed surprise and then leap across a daisy-strewn studio into each other's arms while orchestral music played in the background?
That our past would be magically erased, and bluebirds of happiness would ring our heads while tweeting a chipper melody?
Not hardly.
I should have stayed. I should have looked him in the eye, told him I'd come about the job, and steadfastly repeated that the past didn't matter. Over and over and over for as long as it took for him to ignore everything that happened before and simply hire me.
Because I hadn't come to Santa Monica to see Wyatt Segel or W. Royce or whatever name he wanted to go by. I hadn't come because I have some deep hidden desire to strip my clothes off in front of a camera. And I most certainly hadn't come for the fizzle and pop that fills me every time Wyatt is near.
I came solely for the money. For Griffin.
And there is no way I'm letting Wyatt's Arctic glare send me scurrying away.
I need this job, and he needs a model. So I'm doing this. I can, and I will.
With my pep talk still ringing in my ears, I turn and pull open the heavy steel door. It creaks, and as I step over the threshold, Wyatt turns once again to face me.
He's standing like a sentry in front of a wall decorated with dozens and dozens of white-draped photographs. I know what's hidden behind the drapes-images of women just like me, their bare bodies posed provocatively. And for one tiny moment, I breathe easier. Soon, those women will be on display for anyone in the world to see, but until then, Wyatt's covered them. He's protecting them. Guarding their honor.
And surely a man who does that will protect me, too.
I clear my throat and flash a tentative smile. "I shouldn't have run."
Immediately, the guarded expression in his eyes fades, replaced by something that looks almost like hope.
Encouraged, I rush on. "It's just that I really need this job, and you made it so clear you didn't want to see me, and-"
"I see." He'd been walking toward me, but now he stops, his hands sliding into his pockets. His posture stiffens. He's no longer hopeful; if anything, he's hostile.