Behind His Lens (9 page)

But when we’re almost to the address she gave the cabdriver, I
watch a sloppy smile unpeel across her lips. I can’t keep up with her drunken moods. She’s crying one minute and smiling the next. Will she remember any of this in the morning?

“Jude, will this be like it is in the movies— where you start to undress me because I’m too drunk to do it myself
, but then we have sex because I suddenly sober up?”

Her words are sloppy, but I can’t help the fact that hearing her say the word ‘sex’ still makes my dick stir. She’s
that
enticing.

“Is that how it happens in movies?” I ask, trying to appease her.

“Mhmm,” she mumbles, keeping her eyes closed and her head tilted back. “But just so you know, I’m definitely going to throw up when we get home. And you’ll be disgusted, so we should probably not have ‘the sex’ if that’s okay.”

I laugh, completely losing myself in the drunken allure of this woman.

“Alright, Charley, guess I’ll just have to settle for a rain-check then,” I retort, wishing my words weren’t a joke.

Her smile spreads across her cheeks, highlighting her little dimples
, and I lose myself in the innocence of them.

But the moment washes away when the cabdriver pulls up in front an old townhouse. I pay his fare quickly and then help a clumsy Charley out of the backseat.

It’s hell trying to get her from the cab to her front door. Once were there, she leans against me as she rifles through her purse for her keys. My neck cranes back to see the view of the two story house. Ivy winds up the brick facade and friendly plant holders dot the outside of each window. Does she live in this place by herself? It’s huge.

A frustrated sigh breaks through her throat and I glance back down. “Charley, do you want me to get the keys for you?” I ask lightly, not wanting to push her amiable mood.

Her tongue peeks out of the edge of her mouth as she focuses on finding the keys. I have to fight the urge to just take the damn purse out of her hands.

“No. No, I can get them,” she slurs. If this was any other girl… no. I do
n’t even know what I’d be doing because we wouldn’t be here right now. We’d be at my apartment finishing up so I could call a cab and send her on her way.

Suddenly a light flicks on in the foyer and the image of a short, gray haired woman appears through the frosted glass.

“Mrs. Jenkins!” Charley shouts, much too loudly for the middle of the night.

The door creaks open and the woman I assume to be Mrs. Jenkins eyes me with
cold skepticism. If Charley doesn’t drink often, then I’m sure she usually brings guys home in a much more sober state. I don’t know why I care, but I don’t want this woman thinking I’m trying to take advantage of her.

Old hinges squeak to life as the elderly woman opens the door wider and steps back so that I can help Charley through.

“Thank you for your help. Charley isn’t feeling well so I wanted to make sure she got home okay,” I offer as Mrs. Jenkins eyes me up and down. She nods slowly and waves her arm for us to follow without a word. She’s wearing a patterned muumuu and well-worn house slippers. Her back slumps over at a sharp angle as though her spine can no longer support the weight of her upper body.

“Mrs. Jenkins, you don’t have to worry. Jude, here, doesn’t even find me atttractiveee!”

I snap my gaze to Charley. Even in her drunken slur, her words annoy me. It doesn’t help when Mrs. Jenkins sends me a glare over her shoulder. What? What am I supposed to do? Confess what I really feel for Charley while she stumbles drunkenly through the hallway? I don’t even know where she’s getting that idea from anyway.

When we arrive outside of a
cherry-red door at the end of the hall, I begin to piece together that this is a boarding house of sorts. Mrs. Jenkins uses her set of keys to unlock the faded copper lock and then turns around, keeping her concerned gaze on Charley.

“Do you want me to come down and check on you in a little bit?” she asks, her warm expression makes it clear that she adores Charley
. Suddenly I don’t mind her as much. I’m glad someone will be here to check on her later.

“No. No. I’ll come over in the morning if you want.”

“That’d be lovely. Good night, Charley. Feel better.” She offers me a tight-lipped smile as she moves around us and heads up the old wooden staircase in the corner of the foyer.

“She seems nice,” I note with sincerity as I hold the door open for Charley to enter.

But Charley doesn’t answer. The moment we’re inside, she runs to the toilet and collapses before it with a heavy groan. I bolt over and lift the lid and seat, brushing her hair away from her face. She isn’t sick right away. She sits there for a moment trying to will the nausea to pass, but sadly nothing will help but getting the alcohol out of her system.

I don’t know what to do. I’ve never sat with someone while they’ve thrown up before
, but I try to remember what my mom did when I was little. I rub Charley’s back the way my mother used to do, around and around in small circles, and I hope it soothes her a bit.

After a few minutes
, her stomach is empty and the dry heaves subside. She leans back on her heels.

“I don’t think there’s anything left.” Her hands rest on her legs and her bottom lip protrudes subtly, but it’s enough to make my heart break at the sight. She won’t look at me and I know she probably feels embarrassed.

“Do you have a washcloth somewhere?” I ask, pushing off the ground.

“There are
a few in the basket under the sink,” she gestures to the porcelain sink against the wall, which is barely two feet away from where we sit. That’s when I realize just how tiny Charley’s apartment is. Her kitchen and bathroom are crammed together against the wall before me. And when I twist my head, I see that her entire life is crammed into this one room. It doesn’t feel sad. No, it feels like a home and I don’t mind the small space one bit.

I wet the wash
cloth and bring it back to Charley, handing it over so she can dab her lips. She looks utterly drained as she lifts the towel, so I reach over and help her, dragging the warm cloth against her cheeks. I stand up and rinse it quickly, then turn it to the clean side to wipe away her makeup. She was wearing too much anyway. She looked breathtaking, but I like her blue eyes without makeup even more.

After she’s cleaned up, I
stand to make an exit, knowing she probably wants some privacy.

“You could’ve looked at my boobs, but you didn’t. What kind of guy doesn’t look?”
she asks out of the blue as she shoves off the ground and moves toward a dresser next to her twin bed.

Whoa. What?

“What are you talking about, Charley?” I wrack my brain through the events of the night, but not a single thing comes to mind.

“At the photo shoot. You were so close to me and I wanted you so badly, but you didn’t even look!” I watch her pull out a t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants.

Is that why she doesn’t think I find her attractive?

I stand up and tug my hand through my hair, “I didn’t want to, Charley. You weren’t
naked because you wanted to be. You were naked because you were modeling on set.” I’m not a fucking pervert.

“But you touched me like you wanted me, Jude.” She
bites out, turning toward me when she says my name and it cuts to my heart.

The old Jude would have lied and told her it was part of the job
, but she was honest with me in the cab. She opened up about her mom and the least I can do is be honest with her.

“I
did
want you.” My words sound momentous, but my tone is cold and insensitive, as if my callous heart isn’t ready for lyrical confessions just yet.

Her eyes grow wide. Sh
e looks down at the clothes in her hand as if hoping they’ll supply her with the answers to her drunken musings. Her beautiful lips mash together in thought. Is she turned on? Pissed off? Does she want me to leave? It doesn’t matter.

“I don’t date models, Charley.
” My mouth feels dry and my heart hammers against my chest. Why? Why am I fighting against what I feel for this girl?

Long, torturous seconds pass as I wait for her to react. And it’s just enough time for me to realize that I don’t want to hurt this girl. She’s t
oo much. Too much of everything. She burns away the loneliness and scar tissue encased around my heart every time her gentle blue eyes fall on me. Which is why I have to walk away. She has her own issues and I’ve got mine. She needs lightness, happiness. Not someone who has their own demons.

Yet I can’t peel my attention away from her. Instead, I watch her head lift and her eyes drag up my body with slow determination. I’ve seen those blue eyes flushed with a range of emotions but carnal desire takes me absolutely by surprise.

Fuck.

“I’m not on duty right now,”
she whispers, looking up at me from under her lashes. She’s absolutely beautiful and I want nothing more than to close the space between us and feel her skin against mine again. My fingers tingle in memory of what she felt like: smooth, magnetic, addicting.

Neither one of us says a word as she starts to peel her black sweater over her head. My dick hardens so quickly I think it may be conditioned solely for her use. As her hands pull the sweater off, I stand paralyzed, watching her strip for me, revealing a strapless, lacy black bra. The swell of her breasts
, spilling over the top of that bra, is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. She’s breathing slow and steady and her trim, toned stomach quivers beneath my gaze as she tries to seduce me.

Fuck.

I blink, trying to break the spell she has over me. “We can’t do this, Charley. You’re drunk.”

My entire body hums with desire and I feel like a live wire. I need to leave. I need to run or go to the gym. I have to get this energy out of me or I’m going to take advantage of this girl.

I tug my hand through my hair agitatedly and turn on my heels. Her kitchen, or lack thereof, is right behind me, so I reach for a glass and fill it with water before heading back over to the basket beneath her sink. I grab a bottle of aspirin and then walk to her nightstand. My movements are hurried and methodical, but she’s watching me with enamored focus. I don’t look at her until I’ve set everything down next to her bed. She’ll appreciate the gesture in the morning even if she’s too drunk to realize it now.

I have to leave.

My eyes implore her to listen to reason. “Charley, it’s for the best,” I try, knowing it’s not what she wants to hear.

“Get out, Jude.”

“Charley…”

“Get out!”
she yells, pointing angrily to the door. I have no idea what she’s thinking, but this is the way it has to be. She’ll be happier in the long run and I just wish she could see that.

Running my hand across the hairline on my neck, I
shake my head and walk to the door.

“You know
, on second thought,” she speaks, and her voice sounds bone-chillingly calm. I glance over my shoulder. She has her hands on her hips paired with a look of steely determination. I know she’s closing herself off. I can feel the walls being built with brick and mortar around her heart.

“I was wrong earlier.” She narrows her eyes for emphasis
. “I should have picked Tom to bring me home.”

Charley

I don’t know what depression feels like. I know what my life feels like. I was diagnosed with clinical depression four years ago, after the
incident.
So is my entire life a “depression”? It can’t be. I’m happy when I’m staying busy, running and working, or when I’m with Naomi. But then there are times when I feel like the atoms inside of my body are firing in every direction, rioting against me and boiling over until all I can do is scream. In those moments, I feel completely at a loss, out of control of my own body and mind. Most of the time, if I just expel the anger, I can start over, building my resolve once again. That’s the reason why I run every morning. I have to exert every muscle of my body into submission, willing my brain to comply for the day.

I
t’s very simple. I don’t look homeless. I don’t look crazy. Maybe that’s life’s greatest hoax— on the outside I’m a model, completely flawless, and on the inside, I’m a whack job.

The whole process was
easy
compared to everything else I was living through during the end of my senior year of high school. I smiled and took the anti-depressants until Dr. Francis asked me if I was ready to wean myself off of them. I should have said no. I should have told them that I had no appetite and never slept. Instead, I smiled politely and crossed my hands on top of my designer skirt.
“I’m ready to take control of my life. I feel so much better, Dr. Francis. You have no idea how much these past few months have changed me.”
I said it so convincingly, and who doesn’t trust a girl in designer clothes with perfectly applied makeup?