Breaking Him (Love is War #1)(17)

Like us, and what felt like most of the women in L.A.? they were aspiring model/actresses.

I saw it as points against them. Stubborn woman that I am, I’d refused to even meet them at first. Leona was one of my first truly close female friends, and to be honest, I felt possessive of her. What if she found some new friend she liked more? What if I didn’t like these women, and she chose them over me?

But it was around that time Leona had found this apartment, and we needed two more to make the rent, and so she’d talked me into giving them a shot. The first time I met them, I disliked them on principle. They were too young, too gorgeous, too bright-eyed and optimistic. Too sweet and undamaged.

But, like Leona, they’d grown on me.

I’d been conflicted about it in the beginning. They were literally my direct competition. We’d be auditioning for some of the same roles. It was inevitable.

In spite of myself though, over time I’d gotten over it. For one simple reason. I liked them. They became my friends.

Even now, a year later, I tried to picture how I’d feel if one of them got a part I wanted. Any of them. Demi, Farrah, or even Leona. I’d hate their guts, I told myself. I’d feel betrayed, I reasoned. I’d been working for this longer. I wanted it more. There were no friends in show business, I told myself sternly.

But if I were being honest with myself there was a good chance I’d be happy for them. I might even be thrilled for them. Because I’d come to care for them and wanted great things for them. Because they were my friends.

What the hell had these damn girls done to me? When had I gone soft?

I’d surrounded myself with nice people. Apparently the condition was contagious.

Fuck me. I’d always been taught that kindness was a close cousin to weakness, so it didn’t settle easy on me. I doubted I’d ever let it.

I told myself they were the exception. I was otherwise still hard as nails.





Leona went out with her new ‘boyfriend’ for the day. I tried not to roll my eyes when she referred to him as such. They’d been dating a very short time, and she didn’t know him well enough to give him that title, and also he was a pilot, and therefore untrustworthy, but I kept that to myself. She seemed happy, and I did enough of my own bubble bursting. I didn’t need to do the same to her. Not everyone had to be as miserable as I was. Maybe she’d found herself the one faithful pilot on the planet. My cynical mind couldn’t fathom it, but I hoped for her sake that I was wrong and she was right.

Demi decided to crash for the day, and Farrah took off shopping with some friends.

Normally I was down to shop in a big way, but my mood was too dark even for retail therapy. I was not fit company for anyone today, let alone someone I actually liked. I might inflict this extra sharp version of myself on my worst enemy if I were forced to, but certainly not a friend.

I did the only thing post-therapy me could do when fuming with impotent rage.

There was no real way to vent it. No way to make it actually go away.

The best I could do was try to push it somewhere to the back of my mind, or at least not at the forefront.

So I baked. And drank. A lot of both.

Baking cupcakes and drinking scotch. Ardently courting comfort and oblivion.

Oblivion was particularly elusive when I was at this level of keyed up, so I settled for getting buzzed and keeping busy with mindless chores.

I don’t bake often, but I do it well, even out of practice. Sweet carbs rarely find their way into the apartment of four actresses, but I knew no one could resist my cupcakes, even if they’d all be cursing me for it later.

I told myself, to appease the sharper half of my personality, that if I made my competition gain a few pounds it was an added bonus, but it rang hollow, more like a humorless joke than anything else.

Our hideous dog, Amos, kept me company, nudging my legs and licking my toes as I worked, the damned mutt.

He was the ugliest dog in the world. His fur was half kinky curly, half sticking straight up in the air and the color was a mix of different shades of poo brown. He had one light blue eye, one dark one, and his muzzle was long and homely, his teeth sticking out of his mouth at odd angles. He was hideous. Some kind of a mix that apparently nobody but me had wanted.

Well, I wouldn’t say I’d wanted him.

So why did I have a dog I’d never wanted?

Ten months ago I’d found him in a dumpster down the street. Someone had thrown him away.

I sympathized with the poor guy.

I tolerated him. He was a sweet thing. Slobbery and ugly as hell. And affectionate to a fault.

But I didn’t even like dogs. I was a cat person.

I loved cats. Everything about them. I loved that they could be vicious and adorable in equal parts. The way they loved you more if you ignored them. How they did whatever the hell they wanted and with outright defiance. They soothed me with their sleek bodies, soft fur, loud purrs, contrary ways and bad attitudes.

I loved cats, but I had a dog.

Story of my life. I was a conflicted person. Never at peace with myself. Hard to please. A malcontent.

I refused to be happy about any part of it, even something as simple as having a pet.

I collected eccentric and funny cat T-shirts. I liked to wear them around the house, sigh at Amos, and occasionally lecture him about how how disappointing he was to me.

He’d always just wag his tail, gaze at me with absolute adoration, and wait for any affection I might have to give him.