Damaged Beauties (Romanced by the Damaged Millionaire (Erotic Romance)) (10 page)

No sex.

We wouldn’t want to risk that, and besides, he wasn’t in the mood after all that drama. So I just held him and he held me and we fell asleep in each other’s arms. Almost like love.

He was still Ethan when we woke up. I know I’m supposed to be relieved, but there’s a tugging inside of me – a yearning that longs to peek at Lothar, who sends my loins into a melted tizzy.

I should of course tell Ethan who I really am. About why I’m really here. But it’s so nice out here, and I don’t want to ‘trigger’ him into another bout of violent, self-destructive behavior.

If it actually remained
self
-destructive, that is.

He could well take it out on me.

Ethan is broody today. I don’t blame him. After a personality switch like that, his brain synapses will take some time to adjust. Besides, Jeffery dosed him with Xanax last night, and he must still be suffering the aftereffects.

Ethan pushes his scrambled eggs around his plate. They must already be cold. He hasn’t touched the coffee either. His face is pinched and there are dark circles under his eyes. His hair is uncombed and tousled.

He still looks carelessly gorgeous.

“Ethan,” I say, closing my hand over his across the table, “are you all right?”

He nods. He seems a little dazed. I don’t blame him. Xanax does that to me the next morning too.

“What do you want to do today?” I say. I’m not sure he will be the best judge of this, but I want to ease him into a state of normalcy.

He gazes at me out of his mud-green eyes, which are flecked with gold and bronze. He really has the most marvelous eyes. I can drown in them forever. Though I’m sure that if I peer into them deeply, I will see other entities in them. Entities like the volatile Lothar.

Maybe even more.

Ethan says, “I think I’ll pay a visit to my shrink.” He holds my eyes steadily. “You want to come along?”

2

Jeffrey drives us in the black Merc with the darkened windows to St. Louis, where Ethan’s psychiatrist resides.

“Have you been seeing her long?” I ask Ethan.

He gazes out of the window. I’m not sure he sees the throngs of pedestrians crowding the busy and gaily decorated sidewalks in their lunch hour. I’m not even sure if he’s right here beside me.

He sort of shakes himself and reaches out for my hand.

“I’m sorry you had to go through this,” he breathes.

“It’s OK,” I say, squeezing his hand.

He’s warm, even if his flesh is a little sweaty. He’s wearing a Dolce and Gabbana suit. The thing is, I’m not even sure he’s dressing to impress. He doesn’t seem to care what he puts on or how he looks. All his clothes seem to be from a previous life – a life of movie premieres and walking the red carpet at the Oscars. Not the life he is saddled with now.

“You know, you can walk way,” he says seriously. “You don’t have to be here.”

“I’m here, so can the discussion, OK?”

He sighs. “I don’t know why you’re doing this. You hardly know me.”

I take a deep breath. “When I crashed into your valley, you and Jeffery took me into your house and looked after me. You were good to me.”

He averts his beautiful but haunted face. “We only fucked once.”

“That’s beside the point.”

I’m well aware of Jeffrey upfront listening to every word. In the center mirror, his long face is impassive.

“Did he fuck you too?” Ethan says hoarsely.

I know who he meant.

“Yes.”

There’s the sharp intake of his breath. “D-did he hurt you?” His tone is pleading, as if he doesn’t really want to know the answer.

“No,” I say truthfully.

Ethan clenches his fist over my hand, and I can feel his strength almost crushing me. A frisson of danger seeps into my spine. Yes, buried inside this mild-mannered, gentle man is the raging beast that is Lothar.

“Ethan, let’s get help for you, OK?” I say gently. I massage his clenched fist, my fingers dipping into the grooves between his knuckles.

“OK,” he accedes.

*

Ethan’s psychiatrist is named Martha Baggins. With a name like that, you’d expect a society marm, the kind who sips afternoon tea at her floral patterned parlor. But Martha Baggins is a black woman. A dyke in a relationship with a white woman, to boot, and with two biological children.

We only have to wait ten minutes before we are ushered in for Ethan’s appointment.

“Are you sure you want me in there with you?” I say. I’d always thought that shrink sessions were private, like rectal examinations.

“Yes. You witnessed my last incarnation as Lothar. An eyewitness account would be helpful. Dr. Baggins said I should contact her if he surfaces, because he hasn’t in a long time.” Ethan seems troubled.

Well, I would be too.

We both walk in through the door. Behind us, the male receptionist watches us guardedly.

Martha Baggins’s office is tastefully minimalist. She has eschewed the psychiatrist’s couch for green armchairs and a sofa, all sprawled in the middle like Oprah’s stage. Her desk is uncluttered, and behind it are bookcases filled with thick, bound psychiatric books.

She gets up as we enter.

“Ethan. I see you’ve brought someone new.”

Ethan shakes her outstretched hand. I’m surprised to see how tall she is, and how thin, as if she’s an African tribal queen.

“Dr. Baggins, this is Virginia Tremont. She’s a . . . friend staying with me.”

If Dr. Baggins is surprised, she does not raise her eyebrows. “That is unusual, Ethan. You have not spoken of many ‘friends’ before, let alone brought one here.”

My heart is beating fast. Yes, I suspected Ethan doesn’t have many friends. Bringing me here must be a breakthrough of sorts. I can only hope this is a step towards his recovery – or whatever we are trying to do for him. Ethan doesn’t want to be whatever he is right now, and that’s good enough for me to try to help him.

“Please, sit.” She gestures to the couch.

Ethan and I seat ourselves on it beside each other. Dr. Baggins takes the armchair beside the couch. I feel really awkward, like an intruder. I sense Ethan does too, because I’m probably the first person besides Jeffrey he has brought here. He hasn’t told me in so many words, but I know.

Dr. Baggins is the first one to break the ice.

“It happened again, Ethan, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I thought we were doing so well. What brought it on?”

Yes. This is when the guilt comes in. Sex brought on his transformation. His orgasm . . . with me.

“It was me,” I reply in a steady tone. I’m the witness here. Ethan has no recollection of what happened during the time he was Lothar.

Slowly, haltingly, my voice gaining confidence as I go on, I relay what happened last night to Dr. Baggins. She listens, interrupting only occasionally to ask some questions. Ethan listens as well. I can tell that much of it surprises him. Jeffrey is probably not privy to what Ethan does in bed and his metamorphosis within it, but I was.

“You underwent another trigger,” Dr. Baggins finally says. “Orgasm.”

“It appears so,” Ethan replies bleakly.

If the frank sex talk is supposed to make me nervous, it doesn’t. Somehow, Dr. Baggins has the ability to make me –
us
– feel at ease. Maybe it’s a shrink thing.

“How do you feel about that?” Dr. Baggins asks Ethan.

He sighs and doesn’t look at me. “Like I can never have sex again.”

“You didn’t, for a long time.”

“Christ, but it’s hard.” Ethan gets up and paces the floor. His voice rises. “It’s not only sex. I can’t jerk off. I can’t lay my hands on my dick. I can’t even think about sex in case I get hard. Have you any idea how difficult that is?”

He swings to look at the two of us, and his eyes are mutely pleading. I can feel the frustration radiating off him in waves.

Yes, I think, my heart beating fast. I can relate to that. For a relatively young, virile man who must have had every woman and fag throwing themselves at him in Hollywood, this must be Hell on Earth. Perhaps Ethan had buried his own needs into his solitude and art, but it still manifested in disturbing ways. I can’t help recalling the story of the hooker who was beaten up.

I shiver inwardly.

“I understand, Ethan,” Dr. Baggins says calmly. She doesn’t motion him to sit down. “The question is . . . what do you want to do about it?”

My eyes do not leave Ethan’s face. He’s so beautiful standing there, framed by the light from the window. Anyone can see that he is David Kinney in the flesh, especially those who have had long memories of the movies. A pang fleets in my chest. I have loved and idealized David Kinney as a movie star for the longest time. And he still doesn’t know I know who he is. Or who he used to be.

I see the frustration brimming to the surface on Ethan’s face, and also regret, indecision, fear. No. not just fear.

Absolute terror.

“Ethan,” Dr. Baggins says, “the only thing we haven’t tried . . . yet . . . is hypnosis. You’ll have to relive your past.”

“No!” Ethan turns away to face the window. “I-I can’t.”

“We have talked about your past, or what you remembered of it. But it’s still incomplete. There are large chunks of your life that are missing. Hypnosis will hopefully reveal them.”

“Talking about it is one thing. Reliving it through hypnosis . . . ” Ethan shudders. “It’s too real. Too stark. I can’t revisit those memories. I just can’t.”

“Then there’s no chance for a cure, Ethan,” Dr. Baggins argues. “We’ve been through this. For
years
.”

“I know,” Ethan whispers. “I just to think about it, OK?”

“Yes, you do that. Then let me know.” Dr. Baggins glances at me. “It was easier then, when you didn’t really have someone you cared enough to have sex with, Ethan. But I’m thinking the situation might be different now . . . am I right?”

Ethan glances at me but does not reply.

“I’ll have to think about it,” he repeats.

*

When the session is over, Ethan excuses himself to go to the bathroom. Dr. Baggins motions me to stay.

“I suppose you need a catch-up with Ethan’s disorder. It’s the only way you will understand what plagues him. If you are willing to be part of his treatment, of course.”

I glance at the open door where Ethan has just vanished.

I say determinedly, “I will be part of it.”

“Good. With Ethan’s permission, I would like to schedule a session with you, his partner, so that I can brief you on what to expect, among other things.” The look in her eyes is grim.

My gut twists a little. I scarcely know Ethan. All I have is a cherished memory of him in my fandom, as well as those days and nights we spent together. Do I really want to be involved any further? I’m aware that I’m no longer thinking as a reporter. I’m not doing this to ferret facts about him for my article.

I think.

I say, “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

“Good. Then I’ll schedule it with you. Leave your number with my receptionist. I’ll call you.”

“Dr. Baggins, I’m not really Ethan’s partner. We have just met.”

“So I understand. But both of you seem to have an instant connection. Ethan hardly talks about any women. He doesn’t have relationships for the obvious reasons. And whatever affairs he had in the recent past have ended in disaster, as you might have intuited. Ethan is a very damaged man.”

I think of the horror stories I have accumulated on my way here. And those are just the tip of the iceberg. “Yes.”

But I would still like to be a part of it. No way I’m going to throw Ethan to the wolves, especially since he has entrusted me with his secret.

Am I doing the right thing?

Somewhere in the shadow of my mind, doubt creeps like a draping shroud.

3

In the car back to Kelowna, I ask Ethan, “Why are you so afraid of hypnosis?”

His green eyes are troubled.

“I’m not afraid of the actual procedure.” He makes it sound medical, like a colonoscopy. “I just don’t want to go through my past again.”

“But why? What is it about your past that you don’t want to revisit?” All I remember reading about Ethan’s past is that he was discovered as a teenager by a man who subsequently became his manager.

All he does is shake his head and look out of his tinted windows.

*

That night, I receive a call from Sharon Contralto, my Editor. She sounds pissed.

“You should have been reporting back two days ago,” she hisses over the phone.

“I know,” I say contritely. “I’ve been caught up . . . but it’s all got to do with the assignment. I’m not spending any more money than I should, Sharon. Honest. I’m actually . . . staying over at Ethan Greene’s place.”