The Position 3 (5 page)

“Can I ask you something?” I say, half-turning my head toward Lazarus without giving him my eyes.
 

“Of course.”
 

“Are you on some kind of medication?”

“What? What are you talking about? Why would…”
 

But I don’t wait for him to finish. Before I can even think twice, I’m on my feet and gliding toward Chance on the dance floor. He grins. With a kiss on the cheek he lets the club chick go, like a dance instructor dismissing a pupil. She frowns and gives me the stink eye. Bring it on. I don’t care about any of you. Fuck the world.
 

I put my arms around Chance’s neck and push my body against his. It’s rock solid. His hands slide around my waist and hang down over my ass. I lift my face to his and give him a sultry smile.
 

“You’ve got some smooth moves, Mr. Hollywood.”
 

He laughs. “Well, romantic lead is my profession.”
 

We move slowly together, much slower than the music. I can feel the heat rising from his body and the dewy skin beneath his clothes. I’m not even thinking about how famous he is now. All I care about is that he’s not Lazarus. I peek over his shoulder to where Lazarus is still sitting in the abandoned booth. His sculpted face is tense, his eyes volcanic with jealousy. What the fuck is his problem? He’s the one who kicked
me
to the curb. A waitress arrives and puts a bottle of whiskey and a glass in front of him.
 

“Smart chicks make me hot, you know.” Chance’s lips are practically touching my ear.
 

“Is that right?” I take in a deep breath to make my breasts crush against him. “I feel the same way about movie stars.”
 

He chuckles. I glance up. Lazarus is slamming back a whiskey without taking his eyes off us. The spastic lights flash across his face, changing his look, casting him in either light or shadow. He’s an angel. He’s a devil. He’s an angel. He’s a devil. Chance’s hand strokes my backside.
 

Chance’s voice is low, his breath hot on my ear, as he says the words a million girls have only heard him utter in fantasies.
 

“Maybe we should make this party private.”
 

Chapter Eight
 

Weirdly, I don’t want to sleep with Chance. He’s the living incarnation of hotness. He’s one of the most famous men alive. His body feels amazing pressed up against me, with all its muscular perfection. But I feel no chemistry with him. No spark. I realize I’m just putting on a big act to show Lazarus I don’t care about him. To show him that I could land a movie star. Now I’m caught up in the act and I can’t stop.

“Where to?” I ask, making my voice husky and confident.
 

He smiles down at me. It’s a surreal moment. His face is so familiar. Everyone knows that face. But it happens to be tilted toward me, taking me in. It’s bizarre.
 

“The scene of the crime, of course.”

“The scene of the crime? What crime?”
 

“Your brilliant presentation.” He rubs his nose along my neck and inhales my scent. “I’ll even get back in my work clothes for you.” He exhales loudly and, without warning, lets go of my waist and grabs my hand. Without even waiting for a response, he starts to pull me across the dance floor toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”
 

I don’t want to go, but I can’t bring myself to stop him. Instead I allow myself to be led along like a rag doll. We barrel through the VIP door and straight through the thrumming masses in the club. Several people recognize Chance as we go, but he doesn’t pause long enough to be bothered.
 

Before I know it, we’re on the street. The blast of air makes me shiver and clears what’s left of the wine buzz from my head. Chance walks at a fast clip, hardly turning to look at me. Then suddenly, he stops.
 

“Tell me about the butterflies again.”

“The butterflies? For your club?”
 

“Tell me like you did in the presentation. In my room. Say it again.” He gazes down at me, his chest rising and falling quickly, as if he’d been running fast.

I stare at him, baffled. “I…uh… Well, the color and natural flight patterns of the butterflies will create an ethereal and other-worldly atmosphere. An amalgamation of the energy of nightlife and the sublimity of nature…”
 

“Oh, Jesus.” He pulls me into a recessed doorway and puts his hands on my breasts. “You are the hottest chick… Oh, my God. Say it again.”
 

He roughly kneads at my breasts, his breaths turning into savage caveman grunts. His lips find my neck, which he begins to lick. But instead of feeling sexy, it’s just slobbery and gross. I’m in a daze, not sure how to pull out of his grasp. I’ve led him on and now I want out.
 

“The…the natural…the natural…the color of and natural flight patterns…”
 

My head is swimming and I can’t get the words straight again. Just do it, I tell myself. Bed a celebrity. It’ll be a great story. An epic notch on my bedpost. I don’t have to be in love with every guy I sleep with. But I know it’s not that simple. I’m not just sleeping with a guy. I’m giving up my virginity. This super famous, arrogant blowhard is going to be my first. The one that sets the tone for the rest of my sexual life. And amazingly, the thought makes me sick to my stomach. Chance is unbuttoning my blouse.

“Maybe we should wait until we’re…”
 

“Hold the phone…” Chance interrupts. He’s staring at one of my breasts, a mischievous grin on his face. “What’s going on
here
, little lady?”
 

I follow his gaze down to my chest. It’s the dark mark Lazarus left on my skin. Branded like cattle.
This is the property of Jude Lazarus.
The hickey from hell. I don’t know why the sight of it doesn’t make me angry. Instead it just makes me sad. It makes me want to get the hell out of here, to get away from Chance. Now.

“You’re a hot, brainy little slut, aren’t you?” His voice is both salacious and mocking. “Not the innocent little intellectual you play on TV. You’re a freaky little kitty.”

My face burns and a hot fury rises up in me. “Screw you!” I try to push away, but he’s got me in his iron grip. “Let me go.”
 

On a dime he’s gone from a romancer to a troll. He’s grinning his head off, enjoying every second. “I’m going to mark you up good. Write my name on your skin.”
 

“The hell you are!” I shout, squirming like crazy to free myself, but it’s impossible. I’m trapped between a brick wall and Chance’s ironclad body. “Get your fucking hands off me!”

In one smooth, almost indecipherable movement, he unfastens the clasp on the front of my bra. It springs open and releases my breasts. I’m mortified. I want to scream but the thought of strangers running over and seeing my boobs hanging out is too horrible to imagine. Tears burn in my eyes. How did I let myself get into this mess? How stupid could I be? I just have to get myself free.
 

“Get off of me! Get off of me!” My voice is rising higher with panic as I pound at Chance’s solid pecks. “Just get the fuck away from me.”
 

But he just presses harder against me. “Darlin’, you cannot turn me down when you give it up to everybody else. That’s not cool. Besides, I like slutty girls. We can have some serious, freaky fun.”
 

“Fuck you!”
 

The tears are streaming down my face now. Chance has hold of both my wrists and he pins them against the wall and bends to put his mouth on my breasts. Then something happens. It’s so fast I can’t make sense of it at first. Chance’s head whips back, someone’s hand tightly gripping his hair. He’s yanked clear of me. Then there’s a man repeatedly pounding a furious fist into his face. I pull my blouse closed and hug my arms to my chest. My eyes blur with tears. What’s happening? Then I realize. It’s Lazarus.
 

“Don’t touch her! Don’t touch her!” he yells over and over.
 

Chance collapses to the ground in a daze, his lip and nose bleeding, his eye swollen. I expect him to get up and fight the way every one of his characters does in the movies. But he just sits on the sidewalk moaning and spitting bloody pools of saliva onto the ground. Lazarus stands over him, wild-eyed and heaving. His hair is a disheveled mess and his knuckles are trickling red.
 

“What the fuck…?” Chase’s voice is weak and thick through his swollen, split lip. “My face… Dude, you fucked up my face…”
 

“You don’t get to do that to her, Chance,” he pants. “Not her. No way.”
 

“Jude, you fucking prick! You fucking prick! You… I’m supposed to be shooting next week. You fucked up my face and I’m supposed to be shooting! How am I supposed to… You fucking prick!”
 

Lazarus ignores him. He quickly shrugs out of his peacoat and walks over to me. He drapes it over my shoulders. I pull it tightly around me.
 

“I’m calling my manager!” Chance splutters. “I’ll sue your ass until you don’t have a dime to your fucking name, you psycho!”
 

Lazarus puts an arm around my shoulders and leads me away. Then he stops and turns around one last time.
 

“You listen to me, Chance.” His voice is low and strangely calm now. He’s wiping the blood from his fist and rubbing at his knuckles. Chance squints up at him, still half in a stupor.
 

“If you try that again with her, I will kill you.”
 

Chapter Nine

Lazarus flags a cab. His hand is on the small of my back and he stands so near I can feel the heat radiating from his body. He’s protective. What is he doing? Is he bipolar or something? I don’t know if I can handle this. After steeling myself to him, convincing myself I don’t need him, I don’t care if he doesn’t want me, he shows up and does this. It’s like he’s playing with me. For sport.
 

“Let me take you home,” he says in a low, loving voice as a free cab rolls to the curb. It’s as if we were dating or something.

“I’ll be fine.” I’ve managed to discreetly re-clasp my bra and button my blouse again. I shrug out of Lazarus’s jacket and hand it to him. “Thanks for the cab.”

I open the door and slide inside, giving the driver my address. But when I reach to close the door, Lazarus’s body is in the way. He stands there staring at me, his hair a crazy disheveled mess, still holding his swollen knuckles.
 

“Mickey, I’m going to see you home.”
 

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” He lets out a short, exasperated breath through his nose. “I’m going to make sure you get home safe, that’s why. What is wrong with you?”
 

“I’ve been getting myself home all on my own for a long time now, you know. I don’t need anyone looking out for me. I’m a big girl.”
 

“Well, it looked like you needed someone tonight. It’s no big deal, Mickey. It isn’t a sign of weakness to let someone get you out of a bind.”

My cheeks go scarlet and I fall silent. He’s obviously right. How can I play the tough, independent girl when I just let things get so out of hand with Chance. The thought of what might have happened if Lazarus hadn’t shown up flashes through my brain and I shudder. Lazarus takes advantage of my hesitation and slips into the cab. He closes the door.
 

“Go,” he says firmly to the driver.
 

The driver is staring at both of us, befuddled. He looks at me as if waiting for me to confirm. I look away and nod. The car pulls out. I’m painfully aware of Lazarus’s body so close to me. As usual, he smells amazing. I hate it. It’s like there’s something in the constitution of his skin, his taut muscle and heat that pulls magnetically at every cell in my body. Whether I want it to or not.
 

For a while we ride in silence. Lazarus rubs at his knuckles, which rest between his legs. I steal a glance at him. The street lights streak past, creating splashes of light on his face that break up the shadows. His face is tense, but beautiful. Perfection. I sigh.

“I guess I just proved you right,” I mutter, turning to look out the window.
 

I can feel him turn, his eyes on me. “Right about what?”
 

“That I’m a whore.”
 

Silence. I look over at him and meet his eyes. They’re completely mystified, as if he’s just walked into the middle of a movie and hasn’t caught up with the plot.
 

“Mickey, what are you talking about? I don’t think you’re a whore.”
 

What the fuck? I’m starting to think it’s me that’s crazy. That I dreamed up the whole freaking thing. But I fish the phone out of my purse and tap tap tap… There it is. Don’t contact me again. Whore. I hand the phone to Lazarus. Read it and weep.

Lazarus takes the phone and stares at the screen. I watch his eyes squint in disbelief. His brow furrows in confusion. His mouth opens but he doesn’t speak. Then a look comes over his face, a realization that falls over him like the shadows. Darkness shrouds his face. Fury. Suddenly, his fist slams into the door.
 

“Fuck!”

Both the driver and I jump.
 

“Hey, buddy. Cool it!” the driver shouts.
 

But Lazarus doesn’t seem to hear him. “Pull over,” he barks.
 

The driver brakes and drifts to the curb. I look around. We’re in an unfamiliar neighborhood full of ugly, shuddered strip malls and gas stations. Lazarus drops the phone on the seat and pushes himself through the door.
 

“Stay right here,” he commands the driver without turning around.
 

The driver and I watch him walk quickly across a small parking lot toward a Chinese restaurant with missing letters on its neon sign. Both hands push into his hair. He stops and his hands briefly cover his face. I get the sense he’s trying to restrain himself from shouting blue murder to the skies. What’s happening? I can’t understand anything.