Beneath the Scars

I shook my head to clear it. “Okay, so you were a bad boy now.”

“I was an adult with the mindset of a spoiled child—a very bad combination. I went from an egotistical teen star, used to getting his way, to an arrogant self-obsessed adult. It was all about me. Just like my mother had taught me. Everything I wanted I got. I used people, Megan. Unless you were of use to me you weren’t in my life, and once I was done with you: that was that. I had no one in my life that was loyal to me, and I was loyal to no one.”

“Weren’t you lonely?”

He shrugged, silent for a moment. “I never thought about it. I didn’t know any different—I’d been doing that all my life. Who I was, the person I had been, never changed. I was conceited—selfish. I was considered a great actor, but an awful person. My reputation preceded me on every project I worked on.” I shrugged. “And I didn’t care. All my life I had been used and now I was using people. It was a vicious cycle.

“I enjoyed being an actor. I liked it, enjoyed the craft, and as I learned more, I got better roles, so I suppose I was happy with that part of my life. Outside of that, I filled my time with empty shit: parties, cars, stuff, women.” He paused, looking uncomfortable. “Lots of women.”

I swallowed nervously at his tone and body language; both were tense. “And none of them meant anything to you?”

“Never.” He inhaled deeply. “I used them and they used me right back. I was a great way to get their name in the paper—a date with Adam Dennis. Being seen on my arm would guarantee publicity.”

“And what would you get out of it?” I asked, sliding my hands under my legs so he couldn’t see how hard they were shaking. I waited for his reply, already knowing and dreading the answer.

“Sex. Publicity as well, but often a blow job in the limo or a fast fuck before I went home.” He stared at me. “I never stayed; ever. And…rarely, very rarely was there ever a second date. Unless it was something I wanted.”

His matter-of-fact tone made my stomach roll, but I fought to keep my expression neutral. I knew if I got upset, he would stop talking and I needed to hear this; I needed to hear everything.

“You didn’t form a…relationship with anyone? Ever?”

“No. I didn’t want one. I saw how my parents used each other. How they used me. I thought that was what love did to a person. I watched people all around me use each other and walk away so easily from someone they claimed to love. I didn’t want any part of it. I refused to let it happen to me.”

“So bitter,” I murmured.

He shook his head. “Realistic.”

“Not always.”

“In my world, yes.”

“I don’t think I like your world.”

He barked out a bitter laugh. “My world didn’t like me either.” His eyes narrowed. “I told you it wasn’t pretty. Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

His voice softened, the cold edge melting a small amount. “It’s my past, Megan. You asked me for honesty. I’m trying to give you that.”

“I know. I’m fine.” I inhaled deeply, willing myself to remain calm. “Was there anything good in your life, Zachary? Anything good at all?”

He turned to the mantle, his fingers drifting over his painting. “I went into rehab for substance abuse when I was twenty-two and part of the therapy was finding an outlet to express myself. I thought it was bullshit. I thought all of it was bullshit—until I picked up a paint brush.” I watched, fascinated, as his hand moved fluidly over the swirls. I could see him recreating them in his mind, the paint being layered on the canvas as he created his work. “I could paint. I mean, I always liked to draw and sketch, but I had no idea I could paint.” Abruptly, he turned. “So I guess that was good. I didn’t share it with anyone, but it was something I could do, that was mine, you know?”

I nodded, my heart tugging in my chest. All he had was painting—and no one to share that with—no one he trusted. A small piece of himself he protected from the world.

“What happened, Zachary?”

He paced up and down in front of the fireplace—his steps measured and heavy as he walked. At one point he stopped and hunched down, running his hands over Elliott’s head, his face awash in deep emotions, but he remained silent.

“I used people, Megan. Badly.”

“So you said.”

He looked up, the darkness in his expression causing my breath to hitch in my throat. “My last film, I was twenty-five. I was jaded and bitter. I didn’t care about anything or anybody. I was rich, arrogant, and I took what I wanted.” He sighed, standing up and dropping into the chair across from me. “I decided I wanted my co-star.”