Claude has me on the sidewalk when I finally open my eyes. I hope that when I open my eyes, the last hour or so would be just a dream. But sadly, that isn't the case.
"Leslie," Claude tells me. "I need you to breathe."
This time, I take deeper breaths and keep a rhythm. In and out, in and out. My hands are tightly gripping Claude's forearms as I sit on the curb; I might fall over without his support.
"I'm sorry. It just...I just—"
"Don't apologize." He says to me, his blue eyes wise and trusting. "You need to get out of here; you've had enough for today."
** This scenario seems too familiar to me. You know—the scenario of me crying on my kitchen floor while trying to calm my nerves with a glass of wine. The familiarity of this is probably what's hardest. It seems like my life is a cycle of reoccurring events. Sebastian's gone, and I'm here surrounded by a broken wine glass. But I'm not the innocent one; I went after him shortly after he left me flustered and deceived against my kitchen sink. There was broken glass involved in that, too. Broken glass, screaming, pushing, hitting. Most of that done by me. I'll take the blame for that. I suppose it's best to explain the events that came after Sebastian left me in my kitchen. I c
the giverthat's what I amI give and give yet receive nothingwhether it's giving my body to my mothergiving my heart to my partnergiving my mind to my jobi give until there is nothing left of mei am left with nothingand those I had given tosee the flaws of my giftssee them as thrift instead of goldis who I am cheap to you?i am leslie king!but what weight does that name carrybesides the weight of my body my mother said I had too much ofthe weight of my heart when he made it heavythe weight of my brain when work became too muchi give and givebut when will I receive?
I, Leslie King, after years of being so blind and so naive to the truth in front of me, have finally seen the light.Not in terms of death or an innovative idea that could help progress society as we know it. No, more of a "spiritual" or "personal" sense of discovery.After a year with my loyal and successful boyfriend, Hudson Maximus Bradford...III,to be exact I have finally caught him in the act to counter argue the loyalty I so liked to believe was part of his nature.And out of all instances to catch him in said act, it had to be at my company fundraiser.And as I sit, lonely, unable to process the events that have occurred just one mere hour ago, everything else seems to make sense. My boyfriend, nowex
The moment my eyes flutter open I realize that I have actually fallen asleep on my kitchen floor. I separate my eyelids and am welcomed to a blur before I see the world sideways. Pedro's head, the dishwasher, bottom cabinet, sunlight pouring in from my kitchen window, and the puddle of the little Moscatto left over spilled all over the floor; all sideways. Pedro is rapidly licking the wine off the floor. In my disoriented, head throbbing, muscle aching state, I don't have the energy to scold him for doing something as ridiculous as licking wine off of the floor. And during this moment I realize I am a horrible and irresponsible canine adoptive mother. I groan as I push myself up, hissing shortly after due to the new pain in my neck and lower back. Pedro sees I'm fully awake and
Garret isn't moving, nor am I. Instead, we stare at each other like we each have two heads. Only difference is, I'm the one who looks like a complete fool in reality, with coffee dripping from my mouth."I'm...sorry, Sir I'll...clean up this mess." I finally say. I can feel my face tingle, and I know that a blush is creeping up to light that will eventually be impossible to hide.Garrett laughs as I quickly stand up. "Don't worry about it, Leslie. I'll call someone to clean this up."Still chuckling, Garrett gets up and walks to his desk. He looks small in comparison with the giant piece of polished Italian wood in front of him and huge windows that stand behind him.As Garrett picks up the phone on his desk, I finally take the
An extra thirty minutes is needed to look through the unmentioned information on Sebastian Harrison, my new "client." Apparently I learned that he is allergic to peanuts and strawberries, stands six feet, two inches tall, and was part of the "Young Astronomers" club when he was nine at his prestigious and very expensive Los Angeles private school.Darcy, my timid yet oh-so reliable assistant, is internet surfing for alleged guest related intelligence on the Opera tomorrow night. Somehow, I'm certain she's actually watching cat videos like I've caught her doing before. Still, it's Sunday, and if I can have any type of preoccupation in Darcy's way to prevent her from asking me personal questions and referring me to her therapist, I'll take it gratefully."Andrea Bocelli is the headliner!" She abruptly exclaims.
Even after Sebastian's presence is long gone, I still feel the lasting effects of him. And I don't like it.Not only is Sebastian's behavior something that can be categorized with the behavior of a womanizer and a brash twelve-year-old boy mixed together, his inability to accept the fact that not every woman will fall to his feet at his superior good looks and female-concentrated charisma makes me want to gag.So now I'm standing in front of the secretary's desk, trying to understand what on earth just happened. In truth, I feel excited at the thought of being flirted to, despite my effort to wade off his advances, but that excitement soon dissipates when I remember that Sebastian was only looking for a good lay.One thing I also remember, is that I have to work personally
The theater lights dim around the entire complex, and when the brightness subsides, modest applause amplifies in the faint darkness.We all decided to change the seating arrangements moments before. I sit next to Sebastian, Garrett sits next to me, while he sits next to Michael Sunders. Behind us, is Lucinda, and Michael's personal assistant, who just came inside the section after taking a long phone call, hence the reason why I hadn't seen him before.Even in the dark I can see Sebastian's face pressed hard into a frown. I nudge him slightly, and when I do he slowly turns to face me. His strong jawline is hardened at the sight of me."Lighten up. You don't want anyone to think you aren't happy," I tell him."But I'm not happy."
** This scenario seems too familiar to me. You know—the scenario of me crying on my kitchen floor while trying to calm my nerves with a glass of wine. The familiarity of this is probably what's hardest. It seems like my life is a cycle of reoccurring events. Sebastian's gone, and I'm here surrounded by a broken wine glass. But I'm not the innocent one; I went after him shortly after he left me flustered and deceived against my kitchen sink. There was broken glass involved in that, too. Broken glass, screaming, pushing, hitting. Most of that done by me. I'll take the blame for that. I suppose it's best to explain the events that came after Sebastian left me in my kitchen. I c
**I come into consciousness shortly after I pass out. Claude has me on the sidewalk when I finally open my eyes. I hope that when I open my eyes, the last hour or so would be just a dream. But sadly, that isn't the case. "Leslie," Claude tells me. "I need you to breathe." This time, I take deeper breaths and keep a rhythm. In and out, in and out. My hands are tightly gripping Claude's forearms as I sit on the curb; I might fall over without his support. "I'm sorry. It just...I just—" "Don't apologize." He says to me, his blue eyes wise and trusting. "You need to get out of here; you've had enough for today."
**I wake up the next morning and immediately get to work.I've been receiving calls about Sebastian's party since I opened my eyes—E! News, People, TMZ, POPSUGAR, you name it. Apparently, they all want to know the reason for Sebastian's erratic behavior at his house party and why he was so ballistic in the first place. Darcy and I have been commenting the same thing: "We don't have a comment on that at this time." The ironic this is, I'm the reason he was acting that way in the first place. Though, I'm the last person they'd expect to push Sebastian to that point.I sit at my dining room table, sipping coffee even though I'm not in the mood to consume much of anything, and sift through the rest of my emails on my laptop. I'm trying my best to keep 'him' out of my mind, bec
** "This is Sebastian. You know the fucking drill." I sigh irately—one, for calling Sebastian twenty times already only to be led to voicemail, and two, for the voicemail's existence in the first place. I make a mental note to tell him to change it whenever he feels comfortable with talking to me again. "Hey, Sebastian. It's me again. I know for a fact you're ignoring me." I play with a stray piece on my button up shirt and sigh. "I don't blame you. I don't know how many times I'll have to apologize for you to forgive me, but I think we should talk first before that happens. Call me back." I hang up and vow not to call him back. It's already 9:00PM, and I've been blowing up his phone since he left the conferen
It's my fault for thinking this wouldn't happen. Usually I would admit to my own fault with a hint of uncertainty, using words such as "I guess" or "I suppose." I won't use them this time; this is my fault. Point. Blank. Period. I went this long, letting the lie accumulate into something that it never would have been if I were just honest in the first place. In my defense, I thought Sebastian wouldn't open up to me if he knew I was paid a very large sum to be with him. Is that a valid argument? I hope so; it's the only one I have. That, and the fact that my feelings have changed drastically during this month with his company. Garrett strides into the conference room with an ulterior motive set deep into his dark blue eyes. Everyone is puzzled; I'm not. I know exactly why he's he
**I had never been a victim of "the morning after" until now.You know—leaving the location that you had sex at with a mixture of guilt and pleasure in your system, wearing the same clothes as the night before, holding your head down, that sort of thing.After getting dressed in the clothes I wore the day before, Sebastian walks me out of his house to his driveway. Despite holding my head down, the bright sun still burns my eyes.Even the sun is judging me.I haven't turned on my phone since last night. It's both a blessing and a curse; I hate being so disconnected, yet it is nice to detach once in a while. Plus, Sebastian would roll his eyes if I turned on my phon
This chapter is 18+. Reader's discretion is advised.**Song of the Chapter -I Miss Youby Adele (Playable in the Media Section)**All I'm going to say is, I hope my mother doesn't read this chapter any time soon.**I guess I can start this off by saying that I've seen the tattoo on Sebastian that he was talking about. It isn't as glorious as seeing Sebastian's ass itself, but it's nice to have a little comic relief once in a whi
**I've never been at such odds with my wardrobe.My clothes gaze back at me, taunting me with the fact that no matter what outfit I pick, one will always be better than the other, and because of this, I will be prompted to start all over again and choose a new selection.It's currently a warm Monday afternoon, and I have two hours to get ready and make it over to Sebastian's house for dinner. Beverly Hills isn't too far of a drive from where I live, but I'm certain that indecisiveness will be the reason for my tardiness, not traffic.Pedro trots into my room with his chew toy between his teeth, only to jump on my bed to devour it."Pedro!" I yell at him. "Down!"
** SEBASTIAN "Bro, look over there." Trevor slaps my shoulder, bringing my attention—and the attention of Franklin and Chris—to a table behind us at the restaurant we're at—The Cabana on Melrose. The four women sitting there gives us smiles that say, "If you let me, I'll gladly blow you in the back." Don't get me wrong—they're hot. All four of them. But my mind is a little preoccupied on other things. "You eyeing the redhead?" Franklin asks me. I didn't even realize the girl was a redhead; that's how much I don't care. "Um...nah, not really. Not my type." My friends stare at me like I have five heads. Trevor downs his drink and narrows his eyes. "Hold up, hold up. Four hot chicks are staring our way—four that youknowyou can score all at once, and you're looking like your dog just died. What's up, man?" "Nothing's up." Lies. "I've just got a lot