Behind His Lens(25)

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.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

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.


It’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?

That’s the reason I picked up painting in the first place. Dr. Francis suggested it for therapeutic purposes once he decided I could quit taking the prescriptions. It was either start to keep a journal, join a weekly support group — hell no — or pick up a hobby, like painting. Dr. Francis said that it would help me work through my emotions, and in a way, it does.

The summer after high school I started painting. I lost touch with every friend, or rather acquaintance, I had from my old life, and I let the images in my mind take over. It wasn’t enough though. It didn’t sate me, so on the very first day of my freshman year at Columbia, I swapped out of Finance Honors and into Fine Arts.