The Revolution (3 page)

“I ate earlier.”

“Without me?” He looks hurt just from the thought.

“You weren’t around earlier when I called.”

“Coach started two-a-days today. I needed the extra cage time so I stayed later.” He lifts my chin and the gesture is so caring that I almost forget why I’m here. “You okay? You look troubled.”

This
.

This is the Mark who charmed me into bed that first night. This is the Mark who had waffles and crispy bacon ready for me when I woke the next morning. This is the man I fell for never thinking twice that it was a side I’d rarely see. Seeing this man before me now, I feel sentimental as I forget the bad and warm from the good we have had.

SOMETIMES I SABOTAGE
myself. I’ve been working on it for a while, and when I gave in after he guilted me into staying, I realize I’ll be working on it a lot longer. To his dismay, we didn’t have sex. He wanted to break our streak, but I didn’t. Sex isn’t only physical for me. It’s in my head and my body. Hence no orgasms in longer than I care to think about.

I’m having trouble sleeping. Again. Being awake in the middle of the night is no joyride, so I pick up my phone from the nightstand, careful not to wake Mark, and scroll through Instagram. As a decorator who’s established a name and reputation in this town, I have many celebrity clients who have become friends. Their posts are exactly what people expect from them—parties, schmoozing, exotic vacations, and everything else most consider glamorous. Although I’m not rich, I have lived among the uber-wealthy long enough that I’m used to seeing the most amazing photos of incredible adventures. I used to get envious, but I see beyond the bright selfie lights. Their lives are, for the most part, superficial and highly coordinated. They don’t order takeout without their manager’s approval and their publicist’s press release. It’s suffocating, even to me as an outsider looking in on their lives.

As I scroll, I come across a photo posted by Mark. It’s a pic of him working out with no shirt on. His body is amazing. He works hard for it and it shows. I just wish he didn’t have to show it all the time. He has over three-thousand likes on the photo and at least one hundred comments, most from women—some vulgar, some flattering. All annoying.

Scrolling past Mark’s, I don’t bother liking it. I don’t want to encourage more shirtless shots. His ego is big enough already, and he wouldn’t notice my like anyway. Next is a photo of Rochelle’s boys and I smile. Then I spy a photo of Kaz. It’s a photo Rochelle posted. By the look of their clothes and the background, it was taken backstage earlier today. Their arms are around each other and their smiles are genuine. The lighting sparks in their eyes, revealing their happiness. I understand why Rochelle posted it. It’s real. They’re real. So different from the world I’m engulfed in right now.

“Turn off your phone and go to sleep,” Mark snaps. His voice is gruff, short-tempered. He’s warned me before about it, so I deserve it since I woke him.

I set the phone on the nightstand and slide down under the covers. “Sorry,” I whisper, sad to see the sweet Mark gone so quickly.

He turns his back to me and within minutes he’s snoring loudly. Half a year into our relationship and I don’t feel the love I should for him. The spark was gone too soon for my liking. I was supposed to come over and break up, but I hate hurting people.
Even if it means hurting me in the process.

I’ll have to do it tomorrow.

“I’VE GOT A
crazy day today, so I’m gonna head out,” I say with the shower curtain between us.

“Okay,” he says from the other side before burying his face under the spray. “I’ll see you tonight.”

I pause. “I’m not sure about tonight. I have the concert with Rochelle.”

Just as I turn to leave my wrist is grabbed. “Hey, what’s up?” His hand is wet, the tendons in his forearms bulging from his grip.

I turn my arm and try to wiggle free. Fear doesn’t enter my psyche from the way he’s holding on to me until his eyes narrow and his grip tightens. My mind wars with itself as I struggle internally to decide if it’s fear I’m feeling or something else. I can’t pinpoint the other emotions running rampant so I settle on fear and say, “Nothing. I have a long day ahead with a job in Malibu.”

“I want to have dinner with you. Come by the gym.” His fingers loosen around my wrist.

“I can’t. I have the concert afterward. I’m already going to be late for it.”

“Come over after.”

“Maybe. I’ll text you.”

Bunched eyebrows. A disdainful snort.
He’s irritated.
“Don’t make this a habit.”

My hair rises from his authoritarian tone. “Don’t make what a habit?”

“This. Last night. This morning. Tonight. I barely see you these days and you haven’t blown me in months.”

My head jolts back from the slap of his words. “Blown you? I’m sorry. I must’ve been under the impression that I was more than a mouth for your pleasure.”

“God, Lara. Don’t be such a bitch all the time. You know I’ll fuck you if you want me to, but you don’t seem to want that. Maybe we should be talking about that.”

Checking my watch, I say, “I’ve tried.” Looking back at him, he stands naked before me, half in the shower, half out. “You had no interest in talking to me and last night I wasn’t in the mood.”

“Is this what last night was about? You’re so uptight lately, I’m afraid you’ll bite my head off if I touch you.”

“I highly doubt you’re afraid of much, much less me.”

“Fine, let’s do it. I wanted to last night.”

Offended, I say, “I don’t want to
do it
. I want you to realize I’m more than this hole or this one.” My hand goes from my mouth and then points below my belly. “You used to—”

“Fuck
used to
. I don’t want to hear it.” He ducks back into the shower stall and allows the water to drown me out. He shouts over the water, “Go be a cunt with your friends.”

What the hell?

There are times in our lives that someone pushes you too far. There’s an imaginary line that’s been drawn in the sand of your mind that you’re not even aware of until you’re pushed over it. I just discovered my line.

With my fists balled at my sides, I yell, “We’re done.” I turn quickly, fear and excitement coursing through me, and escape the house. I finally did it. Not the way I planned, but the only way he would hear it. I mentally blur the line, hoping never to return to the other side again.

I’m done with him.

We’re done.

The deed is done, and as I watch the gate close behind me, I release a long-held breath. My hands begin to shake in disbelief. I finally did it. It’s done. A smile filters its way onto my face as I drive away.

I’m finally free.

“GUESS WHAT I
just found out?”

I don’t even have time to say hello when I answer, so I take the opportunity now. “Good morning, Ro. And how are you?”

“Fabulous. Good Morning,” she says, laughing. “And how are you?”

“Excellent. Thank you for asking.” I laugh too, life feeling lighter by the minute. “So, what did you find out?”

“A mutual friend of ours just bought a house. You know what that means.”

“I do know what that means. They might need a decorator.”

“Ding. Ding. Ding.”

“Who’s the mutual friend?”

“Kaz Fabian.”

An involuntary smile sneaks onto my face. “Oh really? Are we supposed to know about the house yet or is it still a secret?”

“I read about it online. I knew he was looking and had bids in on two properties. I guess the deal was finalized between the lawyers last night at Spago. A blogger overheard and leaked it overnight.”

“That sucks on the leak. I know he was sharing a house in West Hollywood with Derrick and wanted his own space, so it’s good news on buying.”

“Want me to ask about the house and see what he plans to do with it?”

Rochelle is someone I’ve always been able to rely on, a friend of a friend who became my friend. We just clicked and two years later, here she is thinking of job opportunities for me. “That would be awesome. Thanks.”

“No worries. Where are you going this morning?”

“I just left Mark’s. I’m driving home. I have a job in Malibu today.”

Her voice lowers, the subject calling for it. “Did you do it?”

“We’ll talk about it tonight. I need to get my head out of that space or I’ll be crying and I just don’t want to cry over that asshole.”

Her silence is telling, so I let it stay, speaking for us.

She finally asks, “New client in Malibu? And anyone I’ve heard of?”

“You might have. Calliope Mathers.”

“Wow. Hot actress of the moment. That’s a good job to have. Maybe you’ll get some press out of it. We all know how much she loves the attention.”

“She’s not that bad once you get past the fur-lined robes and teased bleach-blond hair. She’s actually sweet sometimes.”

CALLIOPE STAMPS HER
high heel on the marble flooring, the tantrum proving her point. “See? There’s an echo. I don’t like that.”

“But you’ll get that with any flooring other than carpet and you said you thought carpet was, and I quote, ‘Gross.’”

“I never said that,” she protests with a toss of her highly hair-sprayed hair. It doesn’t move though her hand continues the motion.