“Is that a yes?” Ducking my head slightly so I can meet her gaze, I offer her an encouraging smile. “I know this isn’t real, Sloane. But I don’t think anyone in the press will suspect a thing. Not if we kiss like that every time.”
A flicker of…something…ignites in her eyes. Passion, if I’m not mistaken. But why? Does she feel this—whatever this is—between us as strongly as I do?
Her fingers are warm on my prosthetic hand, and she squeezes gently. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”
Chapter Sixteen
Sloane
Alone, I brush my fingers over my tingling lips. Oh, my God. That was so much more than just a kiss. It was myfirstkiss. Something Griff canneverfind out. He wouldn’t believe me. And then he’d ask questions. Questions I don’t want to answer.
All the men who used me? They showed no tenderness. I was nothing to them. Sometimes, one would slobber over my neck, but there was no true intimacy. No tenderness.
With Griff, I felt both.
“I know this isn’t real, Sloane.”
So do I. But that doesn’t stop me from wishing it were. He believes he’s too damaged, but all I see is a man who survived. Who’s stronger than he knows, and more understanding than I deserve.
The rest of my beauty routine passes in a blur. Memories of that kiss—that perfect, all-consuming kiss—distract me, and when I’m done, I have no idea how much serum, moisturizer, or eye cream actually made it onto my face.
At least I’d finished drying my hair before he’d knocked, determination in the set of his jaw and the intensity of his gaze.
Shit. Contacts! I almost forgot them. Popping open the case, I stare down at the blue monstrosities. I hate them. Despise them, even. They’re the one materialthingthat represents every sacrifice I made, every bad decision that brought me to this moment.
My vision blurs, and I blink hard until the lenses settle, my memories carrying me back to the moment I signed fifteen years of my life away.
“We have to change as much of you as possible,” Max says. “Lighten your hair, give you a new nose, a smaller chin, higher cheekbones. And your eyes. What do you think about blue?”
“I like blue.” I’m so out of it. Shaking, my t-shirt and fleece pants drenched with sweat, throwing up every few hours. It’s been a week since my last fix. A week since Max checked me into this expensive rehab facility. A week since I feared for my life. But it’s also been a week since I’ve been outside. A week since I made any of my own decisions. A week since I gave up my name. A week of wondering if I did the right thing.
“Stop it,” I tell my reflection in the mirror over the marble sink. “You made your choices, and now you have to live with them.”
Wishing my life were different? It’s no use. So often, I wonder what I’d look like now if I’d turned Max down. Would I still be alive?
Doubtful. Heroin doesn’t promise it will grow old with you. It just takes away the pain until it sucks out every ounce of your life that’s left.
Would Max still be alive?
Yes. Most definitely.
My eyes start to burn, and I paw through the bag of toiletries until I find my eye drops.
You cannot cry, Sloane. The press will eat you alive if they suspect you’re on the edge.
Desperate for a distraction, I lick my lips, tasting Griff. The only question running through my mind now?
Did he enjoy that kiss as much as I did?
Every moment I spend with him, I want more. He hasn’t pushed me to tell him everything, even though I think he wants to. He’s smart. He’s probably figured it all out anyway. But if he’s put all the puzzle pieces of my past together, he hasn’t let it show. Not once.
The doctors at rehab? They knew. And though they were all nice, I could see the pity in their eyes every time they looked at me.
Finding a pair of luxurious slippers in the closet, I let the cushioned memory foam soles carry me to the main room. Marina pushed the desk in front of the balcony doors, set up her makeup mirror, and spread out her tools—brushes, sponges, tissues, and Q-tips—in precise order. She’s tapping her foot, waiting for me.
“I was about ready to come get you,” she says, glancing at her phone. “You arealwaysmy priority sweetie, but I have three other models to take care of for this presser.”
“I’m sorry. Really. I had problems with my contact lenses.” With a sigh, I perch on the edge of the chair and let Marina snap a hairdresser’s drape around my neck, then tuck oil-absorbing tissue paper between the collar and my skin.
