When Lyle clears his throat, I look up at him. I've completely given up on him answering my question, so I'm surprised when he finally says, "Not comfortable," his voice low and steady. "It's familiar now, but I don't know if it will ever be comfortable."
I face him, both surprised and pleased that he's not only answered me, but is also obviously telling me the truth instead of just tossing me a platitude.
"Why not?" I ask as we stroll along the exterior walls and look at the sensual, evocative photographs. The kind that make me want to blush and look away.
The kind that make me think about the man whose hand I'm holding.
"I don't know," he says. "And I didn't mean to bring down the evening. This is supposed to be us out together, having a good time on a date, remember?"
"I know," I say. "But--" I cut myself off, shaking my head.
"What?"
"No. You're right." And he is. This isn't a night of getting to know each other. I'm not going to go home after this and wonder if he's going to call. We came here so that I could be seen on his arm. And once I've been seen enough, that'll be the end of the story.
I know all of that. But clearly, I'm a raging idiot, because the next thing out of my mouth is, "It's just that I'd like to get to know you better."
The words hang between us, all bright and shiny and inappropriate, and I stand there wishing I had a magic wand that I could wave to make them disappear.
I'm sure he's going to ignore the question and keep walking, which is fine by me, since I just want to get past this moment so that I can quietly extract my foot from my mouth.
Once again, though, he surprises me. "It's a very surface life here," he says. "Well, not here in the city. Here in this business. Any business, really, where there's fame and money involved."
"I get that," I say. "It must always feel like people want a piece of you."
He nods. "That's true. And that makes it a lonely profession. Which is fine if you're living your dream--there are always sacrifices. But that doesn't mean that it isn't hard sometimes."
"Is that why--you know. Me. The other girls? Why you do what you do?"
We're standing in front of a line of photographs. Sensual images of women in dim lighting and very little clothing. In the photo right in front of us, the woman's hands are above her head, wrists bound as she stands naked, lit from the side. She's trapped. On display. And yet she's looking out of the canvas with pride and not the least bit of shame.
It's shocking. Disturbing.
And, as I stand with Lyle by my side, a little bit arousing.
Now he moves behind me, then puts his hands on my shoulders, also looking toward that provocative image. I'm hyper aware of his presence. The pressure of his hands. The heat of his body. He's standing close enough that his trousers brush my dress, and with every tiny bit of motion, my pulse flutters in response.
"That's part of it," he says, and I have to struggle to remember my question. "The desire to be with a woman who has no hidden agenda. No secret ploy to use me to try to land a part or get
a script read."
"Part of it?"
"I told you," he whispers, leaning in so that his lips brush the back of my ear as he speaks. "It's a pressure release. A controlled explosion."
"Controlled," I repeat.
"Usually," he whispers as his hands glide down my bare arms. "But sometimes it gets completely out of control. Sometimes," he says, "I want it to."
10
I want it to.
That's what he said, of course.
But what I heard was I want you.
And, damn me, I want him, too.