Lust (5 page)

Oh Christ... No...Please...
I try to say, but nothing comes out. I feel sick, a wave of nausea rises inside me.

I can't bear it. Any of it. I want everything to go away. To rewind this horror; to be back there in the party, standing at Jase's side. Before all this started.

The other guy turns to run and Sean trips him up and kicks him hard in the ribs, several times. The guy groans in agony.

Then he pulls him off the floor and throws him down the alley along with his bloodied friend.

“You'd better get out of of my sight,
before I kill you...YOU FUCKERS...
” he shouts after them

I'm shaking in shock. My sobs are hysterical. I'm gasping for air.

“Oh my God,” his voice is choked. He tries to help me up but I push his hands away, whimpering. I don't want him to touch me.

He brushes off my reaction and firmly puts his hands under my armpits and hoists me to my feet.   Then he hugs me close. I struggle to get away, I can't bear to be touched, by any guy, not even him.

He speaks softly in my ear, smoothing his hand over my hair again and again.

“You're safe with me. You understand. I wouldn't ever hurt you. I'm taking you to my place for some privacy, okay?”

I can't even speak or nod my agreement, I'm not even sure what he said apart from the word 'safe'. That rings loudly and positively in my mind. Safe is good. I need safety so badly. I'm in a state of shock as he scoops me up. I wrap my arms tightly around his neck, as he carries me at a near run along the alleyway to the end of the block. We turn, into the side street, cross the road and we're inside his door. My wild heaving sobs are getting worse and worse, as I enter a state of trauma, my mind raging war with the whole goddamn world and goddamn fucking everything. I howl and heave and shake uncontrollably.

I'm aware of him sitting down, holding me on his lap and placing something soft and velvety...a cushion...on my chest, to cover me up. Then he hugs me, rubbing my back, smoothing my hair and shushing me.

“Shh, shh, take some deep breaths, Lissa, try to calm down.”

“I c..c..can't,” I splutter through my tears. But he carries on soothing and shushing, and it starts to filter through my distress.

I don't know how long we sit there like that. Time has no meaning. I hang around his neck, I don't want to move, to leave his safety and his warmth. It's so much more than just comforting. It's everything.

He's my hero.

“You... saved me...” I say, in between shaking gulps of air and sobs.

“Don't try to talk.”

He rocks me gently.

My shaking is subsiding, my crying fading out to a slow snivel. I feel weak and tired. I close my eyes, desperate to sleep and I drift away for a while. My mind shutting down and blotting out the whole event.

He wakes me with a gentle rub of my arm.

“Can I take a look at your shoulder. Is that alright?

“
No
,” I snap.  I don't want him looking at me.

“I'll go get a towel. You can cover yourself up.”

I'm lifted and placed on the sofa. I put the cushion down and try to gather my dress around me. I can't find the armholes, they're lost somewhere in the chiffon and I'm too weak and confused to look for them. But he's back immediately with a large towel. Covering myself quickly, I wrap it around my bra gratefully. When I'm done, he sits at my side and looks me over.

“I'll just clean you up and then I'll sort your dress out,” he says calmly and matter-of-factly.

He leaves me again and returns with a bowl of water, a towel, a sponge and a first aid kit tucked under his arm. He puts everything on the sofa beside me and then gets a chair, placing it opposite. He sits down.

“I'll be really careful.”

I'm so touched as he washes me with the warm water. He gently sponges the bite mark, the long angry scratches on the rise of my breasts, my ripped and bleeding finger nail, and the grazes on my elbows, where I'd scraped them on the wall. His mouth is set in a tight line. I know he's so angry at what he's seeing, and it makes me start crying again, as it all comes crashing back in my memory.

“Sshhh, let's try and keep it together now. Come on... slow, deep, breaths.”

I puff a few, slow, deep breaths, as instructed. My hands are shaking violently. He takes them in his and his eyes meet mine.

A sharp ache swells within my chest, and through my tears, my breathing is ragged and uneven.

He huffs out a long sigh.

“I need some more water.”

He disappears again. I close my eyes trying to find some comfort in the darkness. I sit quietly, regaining some measure of calm. Then, feeling a little better, I open my eyes and for the first time I take a look around his studio.

Besides the sofa I'm sitting on, there's a bed, lighting equipment, a table and chairs, racks and racks of clothes. The walls are covered with large poster style images of him. I'm interrupted from scrutinizing his images any further, as he returns with a bowl of clean water which smells strongly of antiseptic and a mug of something, steaming hot.

“It's Maxine's. Sweet lemon tea. Drink it.” He places the mug in my hands. I sip at it gratefully. Nothing could taste better or be more welcome than this lovely, lemony liquid in my mouth. He puts two tablets at my side.

“Ibuprofen. You might want them.”

I pop them in my mouth and swallow with a little of the hot tea.

“Thank you.”

His cell phone rings, and I start, the noise is loud and shrill to my ears. He takes it out of his breast pocket and looks at the caller. Then he switches off his cell without answering it.

I'm guessing who it is.

“Jase?”

“Yes, but he can wait a while, you're far more important.”

He starts to dab at my cuts with the hot water. It stings like hell and I wince.

“Sorry, but I've gotta do it, those animals might have rabies...” He smiles, trying to make me smile too. But I'm not in the mood for smiling.

“Call Jase back, make something up. What will he think? The both of us gone?”

He stops his dabbing and looks at me.

“Does it matter to you, what he thinks?”

I open my mouth to reply and then shut it again. Sean continues his gentle, stinging, disinfecting of my skin. I don't want to answer his question, because actually, I realize, I don't care, and that makes me sound cold.

“Are you up to talking?” he asks, and his eyes flick up to mine.

“I guess so.”

“I'm hurt you ran away from me.”

“Did I? I can't remember.” Of course I do remember. Everything. But I don't want to. The whole damn party can just evaporate from my memory as far as I'm concerned.

“I'm feeling partly to blame for what happened to you, because I was the one who forced you out there, wasn't I?”

“No, it's not your fault.” My eyes fill at his suggestion of feeling guilt over what happened to me. “It was a random event—just one of those awful things. If anyone was to blame, it was me, for going out the back, instead of the front, and putting myself in a potentially dangerous situation.”

“God...no...look, I'm sorry...forget I said that. I don't want to upset you even more. You've had enough hassle for one night.”

“I'm just so tired.” I hang my head in exhaustion.

“You've every right to be,” he says, as he puffs out a noisy breath.

He dabs me dry with the fluffy towel and carefully smears a little soothing, pleasantly scented cream on my injuries. I'm mesmerized as he wraps the end of my finger, so neatly, with some little bandages.

I look at him in a daze. I really could kiss him, simply for being so goddamn wonderful, for saving me from certain rape and looking after me so well.

“How's your hand?” I ask, looking at the tinge of redness across his knuckles. That punch must have hurt him like hell.

“He flexes his fingers. “A little sore, I guess. It's nothing.”

He clears away the water and towel and then returns to my side.

“Can I take a look at your dress, I can probably fix it.”

“You can fix my dress?” I say in disbelief.

“I'm a real handy guy. You'd be amazed at some of my domestic talents.”

He leaves the room again, and I slip my dress off my bottom half to my feet. I sit there decently covered with my big towel.

He returns with some scissors, and a sewing kit.

He sits on the chair in front of me, threads the needle and snips the thread off the reel with a dramatic snap of the scissors and a hot look.

“See, I know about sewing.” He picks up my dress and starts to repair the ripped button holes first. His head is bowed and he's concentrating on what he's doing.“

I watch him carefully. He seems unaware of my scrutiny, preoccupied with the rhythmic stabbing of the needle in and out of the fabric of my dress.

I look around the room at his photos, and the movement of my head breaks his concentration.

He looks up, following my gaze.

“You like them?” he asks, casually.

I study the walls of his studio, the mass of photographs of Sean Tyler, in various states of dress and undress. His perfect body is lying, sitting and standing, in a multitude of artistic and very sensual poses. There's no doubt that they're stunning photographs. No one could fail to be impressed by them. I can see his attraction from the professional point of view.

I know he appears to be superficial, and shallow, with image at the forefront of his mind. It's his profession. He's selling his body to the world. He must think about his looks all the time, they're his main asset after all.

But as I switch my attention to the real life, flesh and blood Sean, sitting in front of me, mending my dress, in his blood splattered shirt, I know better. The photos take on so much more meaning for me. I see a lot more in them, than a two dimensional, handsome man, who knows how to sell things with his body.

He's not just another hot guy anymore.

He could so easily have passed me over to Charlotte and washed his hands of all this, but he didn't. He cared enough to do this for me. And he knew not to put me through the wringer any further, by taking me into a room full of people in the state I was in, which would have meant ruining the evening for Charlotte and everyone else. He's thoughtful, caring and kind natured.

And now I like him so much more than just physically.

I turn my thoughts back to his photos, as he's waiting expectantly for my answer. “They're exciting, beautiful, sexy and really grab my attention. They're more than lovely. And very you." My voice is little more than a whisper, as I reach up and brush the skin of his cheek with my finger.

I lower my hand, placing it back on my lap. He covers it with his and gives it a reassuring squeeze. My stomach does an amazing flip of joy. It's such a contrast to how I was feeling a few minutes ago, it almost takes my breath away.

“You got a favorite?”

“The black sports car. You look so happy in that one.”

“Yeah, I was...that shot was taken at the Ferrari Challenge
race being run at Watkins Glen, just after I moved here. That's a special edition Ferrari Scuderia. Fuck, that was such a cool car.”

“Did you drive it?”

“Sadly not. It was part of an assignment, a Gillette Fusion Proglide ad.”

“Ra
zors?”

“Oh no, no, you can't call them razors...that's sacrilege. These are something else...they're five blades of precisely sharpened finest facial engineering. And not only that, they have two strips, one with aloe and the other one actually lathers.”

I can't help but giggle. I know he's trying to distract my mind, and it's working.

“Five blades and lather, how about that!”

“Oh yeah, shaving with anything less than five blades is like scraping your beard off with a dull hatchet. And these are the thinnest, sharpest blades. And the flex-ball head gets in those difficult angles, so you catch virtually every hair. Eve
n the little bastard ones right here,” he says touching the underside of his nose with his finger, “
leaving the face and neck smoother than a baby's ass.”

“You don't seem to use Gillette's very often, do you?” I note, staring at his very heavy stubble. I'm trying to keep my hands to myself, because I'm absolutely dying to feel it, very thoroughly.

“No, I can't stand shaving, but it was a great job and I got to sit in a shit-hot limited edition Ferrari. I'd happily shave non stop for a whole week to do that again.”

We both laugh together, and it's a sweet feeling. Especially sweet after the big sour.

“Sean, can I ask why you moved to New York? Isn't L.A. a better place to be for your line of work?”

“To be honest it is, but I had various reasons for leaving. Business, family, personal. At that point in my life, I really needed to break away from L.A. Things weren't so great.”

I wondered what had caused such a need, that forced him to move from the Pacific to the Atlantic coast.