Page 62 of Beautiful Deceit
He watches me, not saying anything. I grab creamer from the fridge and my mug a bit forcefully, causing a bit of coffee to spill over the side. I hiss as the coffee splashes on my hand. Beau moves forward, but I wave him off and fill the mug to the tip top with French vanilla creamer. I grab a spoon and stir it gently, careful not to spill it again. When I'm done, I look up at Beau. I raise my brows as I take a sip to let him know I'm waiting on him to explain. He disappoints.
"Why didn't you answer my messages or the door?" He questions, his voice gravely like he hasn't used it in a while or has been yelling. The second possibility worries me.
I follow a drip of coffee with my thumb stopping it before it can land on the counter, "I—was—sleeping." I enunciate every word slowly. I’m annoyed and beyond caring if I sound patronizing.
He scowls and curses under his breath, then says, "When did you get home?" It's a demand more than it is a question.
I set my cup down, "Are you freaking kidding me?" I bark, "I got home a little after eleven. Not that it's your concern or business.” I glare at him, folding my arms around my chest, “What the fuck? You wake me up at almost three o'clock in the morning, buzzing at my door, lighting up my phone with messages, and when I do let you in, hoping you will explain to me why a trip to get a change of clothes ended with a naked women in your arms, you’re the one interrogating me, giving me the third degree." I scoff.
Unbothered by my outburst, he asks, "What took you so long to get home? Where'd you go?"
My eyes get big because he's seriously asking me this shit, "I gave you my night run through, now I want a fucking explanation." I throw my hands in the air at his absurdity, his face darkens and his hands fist. I step back, "I went for a walk." I reply quietly, hesitant and trying to predict his response. This angers me. I am acting the same way I did when I was a teen. I have every right to feel safe in my own studio.
"Unfuckingbelieveable!" I say, bewildered. It comes out on a long exhale. I’m exhausted.
I walk around him and open the door to show him out. It doesn't matter. I want him gone, even if there is no way I'm falling back asleep after this conversation.
"Fuck," he spits, slamming his hands on the counter and drops his head down in defeat. "It's Tasha's apartment. She said I could stay as long as I wanted.”
“Now you want to explain?” I roll my eyes but close the door as there is little sense in bringing in a draft with him obviously staying put where he is. I still keep my distance.
He turns to me, tilting his head back to look up to the ceiling. He explains, “She’s usually in California this time of year." He pauses and inhales deeply, "We had a relationship on and off over the past couple years." Beau shuffles around looking everywhere but at me, ashamed. "She's the reason I came to New York."
My stomach drops and the few sips of coffee I managed feel like lead in my gut.
I shake my head in confusion, “Didn’t you just say she’s usually in California?”
Beaus shoves his hands down in his pockets, "Lauren hated her. She knew about our relationship, if you can really call it that.” He places a hand over his eyes and rubs his temples with his thumb and pointer finger, "After everything with Lauren, Tasha was the first person I called. I knew it would piss Lauren off, so that's what I did." His eyes open, and they’re a little wide, his brows slightly raised. I don't know how to feel about what he just told me.
"I thought you were happy to end things?" I ask confused and shocked he'd stoop so low as to use a woman to get back at an another.
He must read it on my face because he says, “It was incredibly petty, but I wanted to hurt Lauren. They protected her after she killed Ella. Everyone in L.A. sided with her. Tasha believed me, and I knew if Lauren learned about her arm candy straying, she would be pissed.”
"That woman,Tasha, probably has feelings for you, and you used her." I can’t believe I am standing up for the feelings of a woman that just treated me like dirt.
Beau’s hand slaps down on the counter, more loudly this time. I jump.
"I know it doesn't make sense to you. I just wanted to hurt her. I was pissed, I was fucking relieved but, I… I was still pissed.” He seems to be struggling with the right words. “I was a possession to Lauren, even in some ways to Tasha. My feelings never mattered, and neither did my loved ones or Ella. They were tools to manipulate me or punish me with. Why is it so wrong to use myself to punish Lauren?” He sighs, “I asked to stay with Tasha, but I didn’t ask to start up a relationship or sex. I just wanted a place to hide for a bit.” He staggers a bit, holding onto the counter as he finishes.
I struggleto gauge his mood. What I observe is all too familiar: the outbursts of anger, the stumbling about, the alcohol earlier today. I know this, and it terrifies me. I can't know for certain if he's had anything to drink, but the possibility of it makes me nervous.
I keep my phone in my hand and move across the studio, putting more space between us. Beau now falls in the category of men who've hurt me. My instincts tell me he's capable of more.
I fight to not let my fears take over and try not to compare Beau’s anger to Darryl’s delirious rage. I'm overly tired and stressed, and I am unable to separate the two.
"Okay, Beau. I get it," I try to stay calm and hope my words placate him.
He turns, and seeing me on the other side of my studio he questions, "Huh?" He takes a few steps closer to me. I counter his movements to maintain the distance. I have my phone clutched in my hand. "What are you doing?" He asks me.
"Nothing," I answer immediately. "It’s late. We can talk about this another time." I add, hoping he'll just go. He doesn’t move, and I begin shivering. I look down to see shudders run through me. It’s all too much to process. The alcohol, the memory it triggered, then Tasha, and now him here aggravated and intruding on my safe space. I begin to panic. I don’t know how to respond to all the stress. I want to leave, but this is my place and where else can I go?
My breathing picks up,and I can’t slow it. If I don’t get control I will find myself having a panic attack. I need him to leave. My movements feel jerky and slow. I motion for him to leave. My hands are sweaty. I feel cold. I feel the color draining from my face, and Beau responds to it.
"Sammy, are you okay?" He reaches out to me even though we are separated with my living room between us. He keeps his feet grounded but leans towards me. His brows furrowed in concern.
"I'm. Fine." I pant. I can't breathe. I feel a pressure on my chest. Why can my mind process what's happening to me yet do nothing to prevent it? "You need to go," I stammer around the words. I run my hand over my chest to soothe the tightening feeling. With the other I hold on to the back of the sofa. I bend over. My heart is skipping beats, and I’m not breathing. I’m going to die. Time slows to a crawl and every inhale feels like it lasts an eternity.
The dimly lit room softens around the edges, and I think I might pass out. I'm scared of everything. Dying, living, fainting; there are too many things to even comprehend. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this with him here.
