The Temptation of Lila and Ethan

Sensing my panic, he gathers my hands in front of me. “Relax, Lila. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I never said you were.” I sound choked and I know he can feel my pulse pounding through my wrists that he has pinned beneath his hands.

He smiles, glancing around his dimly lit bedroom. He has candles burning on the nightstands and in the windowsill, creating the perfect glow and lavender scent to make love in. The bed is decorated with rose petals, there are chiffon curtains enclosing the elegant four-poster bed, and soft music flows in the background. Everything is perfect. Perfection. I can feel it, which means this is right. The thing I’m supposed to achieve. I have the perfect guy, older and more mature, with stubble and a firm jawline, and he’s wearing a fancy suit. These are the things my mother always told me to look for in a guy. Yes, he’s been a little rough with me, and when we’re around other people, he ignores me, but only because he has to because he’s older.

He strokes his finger delicately down my cheek and all my reservations melt like the wax dripping from the candles around the room. “You trust me, right?”

I nod, gazing up at him. “Of course.”

An artful smile curls at his lips. “Good.” He leans in, putting his lip to my ear, and breathes on my skin. I try not to shudder because I know it will make me seem immature, but I can’t help it and my shoulder drifts upward. “Lie down on the bed for me,” he says softly and then grazes his teeth across my ear.

“O-okay,” I say breathless.

He leans back and his eyes almost look black in the inadequate lighting as I back toward the bed and he slowly drinks me in. My knees are shaking as I sink down onto the mattress, remaining on the edge.

“Do you—do you want me to leave my skirt on?” I sound so nervous, but he’s so experienced and I’m not and I’m doing a terrible job of hiding it.

He walks back and forth in front of the foot of the bed, tracing his finger along the footboard. “Leave it on for now.” As he reaches one of the bedposts, he stops and begins unwinding a frayed rope I hadn’t noticed was there until now.

My eyes are fixated on it, my body filled with uncertainty as he unravels the rope from the bedpost and winds it around his hand. “You look nervous,” he observes, rounding the bed back and coming to me. “I thought you trusted me.”

“I-I do,” I stammer, unable to take my eyes off the rope. “You just seem different tonight.”

He puts a finger under my chin and forces me to look up at him. “Lila Summers, listen to me. I’d never do anything to hurt you, understand?” He pauses, waiting for me to nod, and I do, almost certain that I mean it. He smiles. “Good, now lay down for me please.”

I obey, telling myself I love him, even when seconds later he calls me his little whore as he ignores my pleas for him to stop and he ties me to the bed…

I jump up from my seat, even though the bus is stopped nowhere near my destination. The doors open and I rush out into the heat and dusty air, trying to shake my head of thoughts of lavender and the aching memory of how the rope felt. I make a right instead of a left, heading toward a house I know I shouldn’t be going to, but it’s hard—too hard. Remembering the things I’ve done—the dark things I did—is making a vile feeling pollute my stomach.

The house is located a few blocks down from where I got off the bus. The neighborhood is nice, homey, each two-story stucco house surrounded by lush green lawns dotted with plants and small trees. Each two-car driveway has a midsize sedan, sleek, but not too sleek. There’s an illusion of middle-class perfection in this neighborhood, but behind some of these closed doors lives a darker way of life. I know because I’m headed to one of them.

At the end of the street, I make my way up the driveway and rap on the door that has a decorative wreathe on it and a welcome mat below. I fidget anxiously as I wait. My phone goes off, notifying me that I have a text message, but I reach into my pocket and silence it. I want one thing right now and only one thing and when the door swings open, that’s what I say.

“I need one right now.” I sound panicky and it’s going to give Parker all the power, but I don’t give a crap at the moment. I just need to feel okay.

He leans against the doorway, looking handsome, his sandy-blond hair perfectly in place, the sleeves of his black button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows. He has dimples and his smile is flawless. He seems perfect with his charm and a PhD. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Isn’t this what my mother wanted for me?

“You know instant hits cost more than a blow job,” he says, nonchalantly leaning against the doorway. “But I guess you do know that, since you were pretty much a little whore for our entire relationship.”

I want to tell him a thousand things, like how I hated every second we dated. Or how I wanted to break it off with him after our first date, thought about it a ton of times, but the fact that he could write prescriptions kept me coming back. But saying so would piss him off and I need him happy at the moment.

“I know what it costs,” I say, letting the foul feeling take me over because I know it’ll be gone soon. “But can we make it a quickie? I’m in a hurry.”

He grins like a freaking greedy, disgusting thief and I both hate him and love him for it. Hate him because of what he’s making me give him but love him for what he gives me in return.

Ethan

I know I’ve messed up, yelling at her like that just like my father always did with my mom, but it wasn’t to belittle her or to purposely hurt her. I told her she looked like a whore, which she did, but I hated that she’s dressed like that and how good she looks dressed like that. I hated that every guy in that damn place she works at is going to be thinking the same things as me.

I’ve been doing my best to keep my distance from her, especially after she mentioned London’s name. I’ve never talked about London with anyone and suddenly Lila was asking me to talk about her. It scared me because I was afraid of what I’d say, that I miss her, but not really, that I feel guilty for walking away from her, but I don’t want to, that I want to let her go and move one—move on with Lila.

After I call Lila a whore and she runs off, I realize just how badly I’ve been fucking up for the last week. The look on her face was toxic. Dangerous. I need to make it right. I need to not screw up again. I try to text her a couple of times and finally decide just to go down to her workplace, hoping I don’t have to see her dancing up on the bar. I need to apologize for messing up.

When I arrive, however, I can’t find Lila anywhere. The place is filled with ogling guys, drooling all over themselves as they stare up at the half-dressed women shaking their asses on the bar. It’s the first time I’ve showed up at a place like this not looking for entertainment and it’s strange seeing it from an outsider’s point of view. It makes me think kind of poorly of myself for being here and loathing myself for letting Lila work in a place like this. Why didn’t I stop her? Sure, she needs a job, but not like this.

I stop one of the waitresses as she whisks by wearing a see-through dress and carrying a drink tray. “Hey, there’s a girl named Lila who works here. Have you seen her?” There’s panic in my voice.

She looks me over from head to toe and then tries to dazzle me with a grin. “No, but whatever you’re looking for, I can sure as hell give it to you.”

“No, thanks,” I say, walking away from an open invitation. And I haven’t had sex with anyone since Lila moved in twenty-two fucking days. Jesus, I’m getting blue balls.

I’m making my way to the bar when my phone vibrates from inside my pocket. I reach in and take it out, checking the text message.

Lila: I messed up.

Shit.

Me: What happened?

Lila: I did something bad… I think I might need your help.

Me: Where r u?