Breaking Her (Love is War #2) (4 page)

"
CUNT
!" I brought out the very worst curse word, which I'd only ever heard from my dad when I was eavesdropping on my parents fighting.
 
"CUNT!
 
CUNT!
 
FUCK!"

I won that round.
 
She couldn't stand the thought of anyone thinking her perfect son might be disturbed, mentally challenged, or worse, ill bred.

I thought I'd won the war with that silly display.
 
I thought it was enough to keep her in check, to make her leave me alone to live my life, to pick my own friends, to make my own choices and take my own path.
   

I was so foolish.
   

CHAPTER THREE

"Every girl should use what Mother Nature gave her before Father Time takes it away."

~Laurence J. Peter

PRESENT

SCARLETT

We were having a beach day.
 
All of my roommates had conspired to drag my cheerless ass out into the cheerful light of day.
 

Fun in the sun.
 
Yay.
 

I actually did try to be a good sport about it.
 
I put on a tiny bikini with a sexy gold sequined cover up, piled my hair on top of my head in a thick, messy bun, and put on my best knock-off designer shades.

And, of course, my game face.
 

We all brought a guy along, though it wasn't planned.
 

I took Anton.
 
He had a break in filming from his show, and he loved the beach.
 
And the company.
 

Leona brought her still-boyfriend pilot, Ed.
 
I still didn't like him, but I kept my mouth shut about it.
 
There's a point when your girlfriend has fallen too far for a guy to be turned back with any sage advice, and that was the point when I stopped giving it.
 
I wouldn't alienate her.
 
We were put on this earth to support one another, not tear each other down, and so I was resigned to watch, worry, and wait.
 
There was nothing I could do but be there to pick her up off the ground if she fell too hard.
 

Demi brought her friend, Harry.
 
He was an adorable college kid with messy brown hair and thick, black hipster glasses.
 
I kind of loved him.
 
He was sweet and shy, and innocent enough to be just perfect for a bright and shiny young soul like Demi.
 

Farrah brought along Mitch, a guy she'd been dating on and off for at least a year.
 

He wasn't her boyfriend, per se, but he was certainly a regular, and all of the roommates liked him.
 

Even me.
 
He was a cop—LAPD—so I'd just avoided him at first, aggressively so.
 

As I've said, I have a very healthy fear of the police.
 

But over time, Mitch had just sort of grown on me.
 
He was nice, and he seemed fair.
 
Honest.
 
Sincere and straightforward, particularly so when he talked about his work.
 
He was one of the good guys.
 
It was as refreshing as it was baffling to run into one.

Still, I'd never get over being paranoid around law enforcement, and I knew that he would always make me nervous.
 

Of course I could never let that show.
 

We took two cars, and Anton and I ended up in the car with Mitch and Farrah.
 
Which is how I found out that Anton did not share my opinion about Harry.
 

"What a smarmy little punk," he muttered as we parted ways with the other group, climbing into cars to head to the beach.
 
His eyes were on Harry, who was opening the door for Demi, so I didn't have to ask whom he meant.
   

Mitch was driving, Farrah in the passenger seat, and I was sharing the backseat with Anton, so I had an unimpeded view as I shot him a look.
 
"What is your problem?
 
Harry is a doll."
 
I hadn't been aware there was any animosity between them, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out where it came from.

"I guess.
 
If you like pretentious little mamas' boys."

I blinked at him slowly, letting him see how crazy I thought he was.
 
"What the hell, beardo?
 
Leave the poor kid alone.
 
What'd he ever do to you?"

His arms were crossed over his chest, biceps bulging in a way that would have been very distracting if I wasn't starting to see him as a brother, and his face was set in what I would have called a pout if he weren't a huge dude with a man-bun and amazing facial hair.
 

Nope, I decided.
 
It was still a pout.
 

"He didn't do anything," Anton finally answered, "but there's no way he's good enough for Demi.
 
She's out of his league."
 

I don't know why, but I still didn't connect the dots.
 
I was preoccupied, had too much going on in my head, and yes, I was being self-absorbed, were the only excuses I could come up with later.

At the time, though, I only said, "She's out of everyone's league.
 
She's a perfect fucking angel, but a girl's still gotta date."
 

Anton just curled his lip.
 
"I bet he doesn't even need to wear those glasses.
 
And the douchebag called me his fucking bruh."
 
He snorted.
 
"Bruh.
 
I bet he uses the word hella."
 

That made me laugh, because I'm a little bit evil (on a good day), but I quickly stifled it.
 
"Just be nice.
 
Jesus.
 
If I can pull myself together and be pleasant for a day, so can you."
     

"I don't even think they're dating," Farrah added helpfully from the front seat.
 
"They're just friends.
 
She likes to hang out with him.
 
Kind of like you two."
 

That seemed to improve Anton's mood dramatically, but again, I still didn't catch the significance.
   

"And us," Mitch added.
 

Farrah gave him one of those looks you can only give to a lover who has just said something that offended you.
 
"Not like us.
 
We have sex.
 
Sometimes."
 

I saw Mitch's baffled expression in the rearview and it almost made me laugh.
 

"You guys aren't sleeping together?" he asked either Anton or me or I guess both of us.
 

At that I did laugh.
 
Maybe I should have been offended at such a personal question, but I knew he wasn't trying to be rude.
 
He was genuinely shocked.
   

Anton was smiling and shaking his head as he answered, "Not at all."

"Like ever?" Mitch seemed unconvinced.
 

"Never," I added.
 
"We're literally just friends.
 
So un-L.A. it hurts."
 

"Dude," Mitch said, and it was definitely directed at Anton.
 

"Dude, I know," Anton shot back, still grinning.
 

Farrah and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes.
 
"Relax, bruhs," I said, mocking them.
 
"You don't need to feel sorry for Anton.
 
He gets around plenty.
 
Just not with me."
 

"Dude," Mitch commiserated again.

Whatever.
 
I gave up.
 
Men were from Mars, and Mars was stupid.
   

The reason for our beach day wasn't just to get my depressed ass out of the house on our time off.
 
It was also an ongoing PR project for Anton, whose publicist insisted that he be seen more at all of the 'spots.'
 
His show was building a steady and loyal following, and every time he showed the world how hot he was off the set, it invariably got them a boost of viewers.
 
And on a beach day, where he could show off the killer body he worked his ass off to perfect, the rewards would undoubtedly be tenfold.
   

We were only too happy to help him.
 
It was, after all, exposure for each one of us.
 
We'd all gotten roles, albeit small ones, from opportune TMZ moments.
 

These little outings used to be fun for me.
 
The attention.
 
The potential exposure.
 
The hope of being discovered.
   

Not anymore.
 
I played the game, acted the part, but the crushing weight of reality was too oppressive for me now.
 
Growing up, when fame had been my dream and I'd envisioned a future in Hollywood, it'd been all about doors opening and directors fawning over my incomparable talent and beauty.
 

The reality was nothing like that, and it felt as though the magic was gone.
 
I was broke, nowhere near famous, and I sure as hell wasn't having a good time.
   

Still, for whatever reason, I hadn't yet given up.
 
Likely because I was too cursed stubborn.
 

I spotted a few paparazzi camped out at the entrance to the beach as we were still parking.
 
"Did your publicist call them, or is this a coincidence?" I asked Anton.
 

He looked annoyed even with his sponsored shades covering his eyes.
 
"I told her what I was doing, so I'm sure she called."
 

He seemed salty about it.
 
"It's all part of the job," I reminded him.
 
Small price to pay for the world to know your name, as far as I was concerned.
 

"I know, I know," he said, already shrugging out of his shirt.
 
"You mind playing it up with me?
 
The photographers always love it when we're affectionate."

I grinned wickedly, all too ready to play that role for anyone that cared to watch, in particular my oldest stalker.
 
"It will be my pleasure."
 
I was glad I'd worn makeup, dressed scantily, and had brought a spare pair of killer heels for the short walk from the car to the sand.
 
I was decked out in metallic hues, head to toe, and it brought out the new gold ombré color in my hair.
 

I was ready for my close-up.

I waited for Anton to come around and open my door because it made for better pictures.
 
I let him pull me from the car and up into a brief press of our bodies.
 

I giggled gamely when he kissed me on the neck, my hands stroking intimately over his hair, playing with his little man-bun like it was foreplay, then let him lead me with a familiar arm wrapped cozily around my waist, his big hand on my stomach.
 

I gave the paparazzi my warmest smile when they called out for Anton.
 
Hell, they even called my name.
 
That's how long and how much we hung out together.
 

"When will you finally make an honest woman of her?" one of them called, all good humor.
 
We'd been encouraging on again off again rumors for years.
 

We laughed on cue.
 
"Who says she'll have me?" Anton called back, flashing his perfect white teeth.
 

"Who says he's up to the challenge?" I said.
 

They got a kick out of the banter, laughing with us as one of them got it all on video, another snapping pictures of us and our entire entourage.
       

We walked past them leisurely (for better pictures), but we didn't linger.
 
The idea was that we were in a bit of a hurry, like the photographers weren't half the reason we were there.
 
It would never do to seem too desperate, even if desperation
was
half of our profession.
 

At least half.
 

We'd chosen a particularly nice day to visit Carbon Beach.
 
Only a dozen or so other people were lounging about, giving us plenty of room to play.
 

"Did they follow?" Farrah murmured as we laid out our towels.
 

I glanced around surreptitiously.
 
"Yes.
 
At ten o'clock."

"Looks like the show must go on," Demi added, her tone flat.
 

I glanced at her, studying her face.
 
She didn't seem like herself.
 
Not at all.
 

I moved under the shade of the umbrella that Anton was propping up for me and closer to Demi.
 
"Is everything okay?" I asked her.
 

She sent me a sheepish smile.
 
"Yes.
 
Of course!" she rallied, shrugging off her purple cover-up.
 
Underneath was a lavender string bikini that was tinier than anything I'd ever seen her wear.
 

I checked her out.
 
"You look fucking hot, Demi," I pointed out.
 
It was not her usual style, but she was knocking it out of the park.
 

She blushed, and it was as adorable as it sounds.
 
"Thank you."