Stripped by Jasinda Wilder
Page 44
Dawson sighs. “So yeah. I grew up around Hollywood. I was an extra in Dad’s movies starting at the age of four. He got me my first real acting role when I was six. Mountain on the Moon. After that, I got my own roles. Mom and Dad managed me. ” His eyes go dark, brown with remembered pain. “You want another true thing? I found Mom. When she OD’d, I mean. She was in her bathroom. She was naked in her tub. The tub was empty, not filled with water. She was just sprawled in it, covered in puke. I was just a kid. It was in ninety-six, so I was like…eight, I guess. The puke was all bloody. I didn’t speak for six months after that. I was in the middle of filming my second feature film and when I shut down, they had to recast and reshoot. ”
I put my hand over my mouth, trying to imagine what that must have been like for a little boy. I can’t.
“My mom died of cancer. When I was a senior in high school. ” I’m barely whispering. “She was my best friend. My everything. She was the only one who understood me or supported me. My dad…I’ve never gotten along with him. We’ll just leave it at that. Then she died, and I watched it happen. Day after day I watched her fight and fight, but she lost, and she died and…she—she left me! She died, and left me alone, and God didn’t stop it. ”
Dawson wraps his arms around me, and I sink into him, absorb his scent, the feel of his skin against my cheek. I’m losing myself in him, bit by bit.
I push away. “I need to go home,” I say, wiping tears from my eyes. “I can’t deal with all this. ”
“Grey—”
“I’m not running from you, Dawson. I just…I’m overwhelmed. ” I am running, though, and he knows it.
“Okay. Fine. Whatever. ” Dawson rubs at his jaw with his knuckles. “Greg brought the Rover back for you. It’s in the driveway. In fact, hold on. ”
He disappears, and I sit on the bed and sip at the now lukewarm coffee. He comes back after a few minutes with a piece of paper, a pen, and my purse.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Do you have any cash?” he asks, apropos of nothing.
“Um, yeah. Why?” I reach for my purse and dig out a roll of bills.
“Give me a five. ” I hand him a $5 bill, and he turns the piece of paper around to face me. It’s the title to the Range Rover. “Sign here, and date it. ” He points at a line.
“Dawson—”
“Just do it. Please. ” He’s not looking at me.
I sigh. “I’m not taking your car. It’s worth, like, $140,000. ”
“Grey, money means nothing to me. It never has. You want the Bugatti? I’ll give you the Bugatti. Fuck it. I can buy another one. ”
“I don’t want any of your cars. I don’t want your charity. ”
He throws the pen and title on the bed next to me. “Goddamn it, Grey. It’s not f**king charity. ”
“You don’t have to swear at me. ”
He slumps, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, I just…God, Grey. Just sign the title. Take the car. Do it for me. ” I stare at him, and then I cave. I sign the title where he pointed, date it. “Thank you. Take it to the DMV on Monday. I’ll add you to my insurance policy. ”
“Dawson, you’re not adding—”
“Have you won any of these arguments yet?” He looks at me with a quirked eyebrow. I shake my head and sigh, then fold the title and put it in my purse and start to leave the bedroom. I feel Dawson’s hand close around my wrist. “I don’t want you to go. ”
“I’m just going home for a little bit. I need a shower. I need clothes. I have to do homework. ”
“But you’re not going to work. ” This is not a request, judging by his tone of voice.
“I have to. ”
“No. You. Don’t. ”
“I have tuition due. I have—”
“How much would you have made this weekend? Tonight and Sunday night? On average. ”
“You’re not gonna try—”
He glares at me, speaking over me. “How…much?”
“A thousand, maybe?”
Dawson whirls in place, stalks to his closet, and opens a safe built into the wall. He pulls out an envelope and counts out some bills, returns the envelope, and closes the safe. His expression is grim and hard. “Here. Five thousand dollars. Take the week off. ”
“You can’t buy me off, Dawson. ” I’m both touched and insulted.
“Fuck, you’re stubborn,” he growls. “I’m not buying you off. I’m giving you a chance to have some time off. ”
“If I take time off, I’ll never go back. ”
“Good. ”
“No! Not good! You can’t be my sugar daddy, Dawson. I’m a stripper, not a whore. ”
“And I don’t want you to be either! I’m not asking you to do anything for the money, goddamn it!” He’s shouting, and I cringe away. He winces at my obvious fear and immediately quiets. “I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. You’re just making me so crazy. I’m not…I get how you would think that. I do. But. . . it’s a gift. The Rover is a gift. You won’t be with me, and that’s okay. Or no, it’s not. It f**king sucks. But at least let me help you. It’s not much, but it’ll make me feel better. ”
“Feel better? About what?”
“You don’t get it? Really? You don’t see how I’m feeling? What you’re doing to me? How hard this is for me?” I don’t answer, and he tosses the sheaf of $100 bills on the bed beside me. He stands over me, staring into the middle distance. “Just go, then. Take it, don’t take it. What the f**k ever. ” He moves past me, around the bed, and shoves open the door to his balcony.
I watch him stand with his hands on the ornate stone railing, staring out over Los Angeles. His posture reflects conflict, defeat, coiled anger. His shoulders are slumped, his head hanging low, his breathing slow and even. He looks like he’s trying to crush the railing into stone dust by sheer brute force. He looks capable of it.
I want to say something, to comfort him, but I can’t. I have no answers for myself, let alone him. I stand slowly, and then stop and stare at the thick pile of money, and I consider. In the end, I can’t take it. I want to. I want to not have to work, to not have to take my clothes off. But I can’t take anything else from Dawson. It makes me even more his, and I’m already losing myself in him, losing track of who I was and who I am and where that stops and he begins.
Dawson sighs. “So yeah. I grew up around Hollywood. I was an extra in Dad’s movies starting at the age of four. He got me my first real acting role when I was six. Mountain on the Moon. After that, I got my own roles. Mom and Dad managed me. ” His eyes go dark, brown with remembered pain. “You want another true thing? I found Mom. When she OD’d, I mean. She was in her bathroom. She was naked in her tub. The tub was empty, not filled with water. She was just sprawled in it, covered in puke. I was just a kid. It was in ninety-six, so I was like…eight, I guess. The puke was all bloody. I didn’t speak for six months after that. I was in the middle of filming my second feature film and when I shut down, they had to recast and reshoot. ”
I put my hand over my mouth, trying to imagine what that must have been like for a little boy. I can’t.
“My mom died of cancer. When I was a senior in high school. ” I’m barely whispering. “She was my best friend. My everything. She was the only one who understood me or supported me. My dad…I’ve never gotten along with him. We’ll just leave it at that. Then she died, and I watched it happen. Day after day I watched her fight and fight, but she lost, and she died and…she—she left me! She died, and left me alone, and God didn’t stop it. ”
Dawson wraps his arms around me, and I sink into him, absorb his scent, the feel of his skin against my cheek. I’m losing myself in him, bit by bit.
I push away. “I need to go home,” I say, wiping tears from my eyes. “I can’t deal with all this. ”
“Grey—”
“I’m not running from you, Dawson. I just…I’m overwhelmed. ” I am running, though, and he knows it.
“Okay. Fine. Whatever. ” Dawson rubs at his jaw with his knuckles. “Greg brought the Rover back for you. It’s in the driveway. In fact, hold on. ”
He disappears, and I sit on the bed and sip at the now lukewarm coffee. He comes back after a few minutes with a piece of paper, a pen, and my purse.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Do you have any cash?” he asks, apropos of nothing.
“Um, yeah. Why?” I reach for my purse and dig out a roll of bills.
“Give me a five. ” I hand him a $5 bill, and he turns the piece of paper around to face me. It’s the title to the Range Rover. “Sign here, and date it. ” He points at a line.
“Dawson—”
“Just do it. Please. ” He’s not looking at me.
I sigh. “I’m not taking your car. It’s worth, like, $140,000. ”
“Grey, money means nothing to me. It never has. You want the Bugatti? I’ll give you the Bugatti. Fuck it. I can buy another one. ”
“I don’t want any of your cars. I don’t want your charity. ”
He throws the pen and title on the bed next to me. “Goddamn it, Grey. It’s not f**king charity. ”
“You don’t have to swear at me. ”
He slumps, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, I just…God, Grey. Just sign the title. Take the car. Do it for me. ” I stare at him, and then I cave. I sign the title where he pointed, date it. “Thank you. Take it to the DMV on Monday. I’ll add you to my insurance policy. ”
“Dawson, you’re not adding—”
“Have you won any of these arguments yet?” He looks at me with a quirked eyebrow. I shake my head and sigh, then fold the title and put it in my purse and start to leave the bedroom. I feel Dawson’s hand close around my wrist. “I don’t want you to go. ”
“I’m just going home for a little bit. I need a shower. I need clothes. I have to do homework. ”
“But you’re not going to work. ” This is not a request, judging by his tone of voice.
“I have to. ”
“No. You. Don’t. ”
“I have tuition due. I have—”
“How much would you have made this weekend? Tonight and Sunday night? On average. ”
“You’re not gonna try—”
He glares at me, speaking over me. “How…much?”
“A thousand, maybe?”
Dawson whirls in place, stalks to his closet, and opens a safe built into the wall. He pulls out an envelope and counts out some bills, returns the envelope, and closes the safe. His expression is grim and hard. “Here. Five thousand dollars. Take the week off. ”
“You can’t buy me off, Dawson. ” I’m both touched and insulted.
“Fuck, you’re stubborn,” he growls. “I’m not buying you off. I’m giving you a chance to have some time off. ”
“If I take time off, I’ll never go back. ”
“Good. ”
“No! Not good! You can’t be my sugar daddy, Dawson. I’m a stripper, not a whore. ”
“And I don’t want you to be either! I’m not asking you to do anything for the money, goddamn it!” He’s shouting, and I cringe away. He winces at my obvious fear and immediately quiets. “I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. You’re just making me so crazy. I’m not…I get how you would think that. I do. But. . . it’s a gift. The Rover is a gift. You won’t be with me, and that’s okay. Or no, it’s not. It f**king sucks. But at least let me help you. It’s not much, but it’ll make me feel better. ”
“Feel better? About what?”
“You don’t get it? Really? You don’t see how I’m feeling? What you’re doing to me? How hard this is for me?” I don’t answer, and he tosses the sheaf of $100 bills on the bed beside me. He stands over me, staring into the middle distance. “Just go, then. Take it, don’t take it. What the f**k ever. ” He moves past me, around the bed, and shoves open the door to his balcony.
I watch him stand with his hands on the ornate stone railing, staring out over Los Angeles. His posture reflects conflict, defeat, coiled anger. His shoulders are slumped, his head hanging low, his breathing slow and even. He looks like he’s trying to crush the railing into stone dust by sheer brute force. He looks capable of it.
I want to say something, to comfort him, but I can’t. I have no answers for myself, let alone him. I stand slowly, and then stop and stare at the thick pile of money, and I consider. In the end, I can’t take it. I want to. I want to not have to work, to not have to take my clothes off. But I can’t take anything else from Dawson. It makes me even more his, and I’m already losing myself in him, losing track of who I was and who I am and where that stops and he begins.