Complicated Page 10

  "Harry," I sigh, but his tongue darts out, flicking against my neck and I know I'm done for. "Just this once."

  But as he hugs me tight against him I know it's not just this once. It never is with us.

  14

  My eyelids are drooping as we make our way through the fading daylight, the headlights of the passing cars being the only thing that's keeping me from drifting into a peaceful slumber. My forehead rests against the cool window, my bleary eyes watching the lines on the road as we twist and turn our way through downtown Los Angeles. Harry is in the seat next to me, his hand resting between us, not quite close enough to touch me but a constant reminder that he's there, willing to hold my hand if I reach for him, which he knows I won't but he still does it anyway.

  This is his idea, wherever it is we're going tonight. Even though its only 7:30, I'd be perfectly happy to be in my hotel room, getting ready for bed. The switch from East Coast to West Coast has taken its toll on my body, but Harry insisted. We're in town for some award show tomorrow night and today is the group's only day off for another week, and Harry does what he wants on his day off. And today he wants to take me somewhere and he wants it to be a surprise.

  The last two weeks have been...well, they've been something, that's for sure. The tour has really picked up: long bus rides (made even longer by the close quarters), lessons full of discrete touches and shared smiles. Then the shows: the waiting in my room, feebly working on my thesis, watching the clock until that knock on my door. Maybe jet-lag isn't the only thing that's got me exhausted...

  My eyes flit to Joe, the large bodyguard sitting shotgun, and then the driver in front of me, that ridiculous fleeting fear that they could be mind readers gnawing at me, just like the guilt, wondering where the hell we're going as we drive along. I sit up, craning my neck as we come to a gate. Harry is fidgeting in his seat, trying to suppress his smile. The driver pays the parking fee and I'm looking everywhere for a sign, some indication of where the hell we are.

  "Harry—"

  "Just wait," he says, slightly bouncing as the driver pulls into the parking garage.

  The driver drops us off by the elevators and we all climb out and I see it—a huge mural on the wall. The Getty. As in the J. Paul Getty Museum, one of the largest collections of European paintings and sculpture in the United States. I'm so shocked I stop walking and Harry and Joe look back at me as I stare dumbly at the wall.

  "Come on, Scar," Harry says, chuckling slightly, "We haven't even gotten to the real art yet."

  I'm completely speechless as we ride up and get on the tram, starstruck as we climb high above Los Angeles. The setting sun is on my back, the 405 beneath me, Bel-Air looming in front of me, and the city lights twinkling to my right. I'm wrapped up in it, anticipation causing me to shift impatiently in my seat. The Getty collection is one of the most priceless and extensive in the country and ever since I knew what classical art was, I've wanted to see it. This desire strengthened when two years ago they moved the collection from the small home gallery to the center we're ascending toward now.

  It takes all of my willpower not to run towards the main building as we step off the tram, taking in the marble walkways, smiling at the man who greets us and hands us maps.

  "Where do you wanna go first?" Harry asks me softly as we lean into each other, looking over the map.

  I look back at him and he smiles widely at me, his ball cap casting a shadow onto his boyish face, and now I can't speak for a different reason.

  "Why don't we start at the North Pavilion," he suggests, pointing to the little building on the map. "That has the oldest stuff."

  I just nod dumbly, slowly following him, Joe trailing behind us. We step in and the first thing I see is a Greek relief and it takes every ounce of resolve not to squeal like one of Harry's fans. I run up to it, leaning in close, taking in the detail of the horses, ranging from low relief to high relief, giving the piece incredible depth.

  "Tell me about it." It's Harry, his voice right next to my ear. He's leaning in close too, his arm pressed against mine, and I stare at him for a moment, still slightly dumbstruck.

  "It's, um..." I stutter, finally finding my voice. "It's Achilles and his mother, Thetis and they're on a chariot coming up on worshipers, I would assume." I lean in again, surveying it closely. "There's only seven in this piece but I would imagine there were about ten originally. It was probably a religious votive for the Achilleides cult."

  "Bingo," Harry says, reading the little plaque underneath the relief. "How do you do that?"

  "What?" I ask, moving excitedly into the first room, taking in the various pieces of pottery.

  "Know all this crap," he says, studying me curiously and then his attention turns to what I'm looking at. "Hey, red form pottery!"

  "Very good, Harry!" I exclaim, bouncing slightly. I turn, fighting the urge to hug him and nearly smack right into Joe, gasping in shock.

  "Sorry," Joe says, his deep voice vibrating with laughter. "I was just looking."

  "Be careful in here, man," Harry tells him, walking around the room, glancing at things with slight interest. "You break it, you buy it."

  "There are priceless!" I gush as I examine some stone sculptures and I'm sure I'm grinning like a fool.

  "Oh I'm sure they'd price it for us if this oaf knocked it over," Harry quips, grinning cheekily up at Joe who glares back at him before shaking his head and chuckling.

  "I can't believe you did this!" I exclaim, barely containing my excitement as we move to the next room.

  "Well, you know..." he says, hands in his pockets, swaggering behind me. "It's about time I took you on a date."

  And I nearly break my neck turning to look at him. Joe is standing right next to him and the panic curling in me is enough to nearly knock me over. He's smiling at me, unaffected, and Joe is looking at a chalice in a glass case.

  "Harry..." I say slowly, my eyes flitting to Joe, giving him a warning look.

  "Oh, he knows," Harry tells me, waving his hand dismissively. Joe glances at me, nodding hesitantly before looking away again.

  I feel my knees go weak and my entire body flushes, my breath coming in pants. Harry looks at me concerned and I'm sure my face is completely white. He steps forward, one large hand cupping my shoulder, the other moving to hold my chin, his eyes looking into mine. I slap his hands away, looking at him horrified. I'm done. This is it. I'm fired and probably going to jail. Goodbye to my dreams of being a curator of someplace like this. Goodbye to my masters and to my doctorate and every other ambition I ever had. Hello to a three by nine cell and an orange jumpsuit.

  "Scarlett, calm down," Harry laughs easily. "It's Joe! He was there at the club that night. Remember? He took us back to the hotel."

  I close my eyes, wincing slightly at the memory. My heart is thudding hard in my chest and my stomach is turning over and over. Joe is still avoiding my gaze, reading the plaque for the chalice.

  This is why this was a bad idea. I've never been good at keeping secrets. My father knew when I had one more popsicle than I was allowed because I left the stick on the counter. My mother knew that I was still seeing that boy she told me I wasn't allowed to date because I wore his jacket home from school one day. And Joe know I'm having sex with my underage student because I couldn't keep my hands to myself. I close my eyes again, and for what seems like the millionth time, I hate myself for what I'm doing.

  "He's cool, Scar," Harry says and I open my eyes to find him looking at me steadily, assuredly. "He didn't tell the first time your drunk ass tried to seduce me. Why would he bring it up now?"

  I gasp and he smiles cockily at me. I reach out and hit him with the back of my hand, pursing my lips to suppress my smile. He dodges me, grinning and I sigh, turning back to the art around me. "You are a brat," I say, and he follows me as I walk along the wall, surveying the small pieces of jewelry and purse covers behind the glass. "And I did not seduce you," I add lowly, not wanting the other patrons to hear.

&nb
sp; "Excuse me?" he exclaims softly, scurrying up behind me after he had stopped from the shock of my statement. "I seem to remember someone backing her ass up on me on the dance floor."

  "That was not seduction," I reply, doing my best to contain my smile as we move down the hall toward the next room. "That was just dancing."

  "Oh, okay," he says sarcastically and then he comes up behind me, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me snugly against him, his breath warm on my ear. "What do you call your hand on my dick in the backseat of the car?"

  I gasp slightly, and I can feel him grin, his lips pressed to my earlobe. I shake him off, casting nervous glances at the people around us.

  "Okay, maybe that was..." My voice trails as the hall opens up and in front of me is a large statue of a woman, completely nude aside from a small scrap of cloth she's reaching for to shield herself. I'm in awe because this...this is a replica of my favorite piece of Greek art. It's not the exact same, but it's one of the only surviving Roman replicas of the Aphrodite of Cnidus.

  "Hey!" Harry exclaims, pushing past me to stand close to the statue. He cocks his head to the side. "Isn't this that statue from the book?"

  "Yes," I reply, finding my voice again, and stepping forward to stand next to him.

  "Aphrodite of Cider," he says, nodding.

  I roll my eyes, laughing a little. "Cnidus, Harry," I correct and he shrugs indifferently.

  "This is kinda cool," he says, gazing up at her intently. "You know...seeing a piece from the book in real life."

  "Yeah," I reply absently and he's moving on, heading out the door. I linger a little, taking in the folds of the cloth and the delicate features of her face.

  "You ready?" he calls to me and I turn fully towards him, following him and Joe back out of the room. We head up the stairs and view a few paintings and the illuminated manuscripts before moving on to the East Pavilion, taking our time in surveying the 17th century Baroque paintings. Harry questions me on various works and I pester him with school work, forcing him to analyze at least one piece from each room.

  It's starting to get darker and darker as we step out into the courtyard again, the warm summer air laying against my skin like a blanket. Harry is walking ahead of me, chatting with Joe about basketball. I watch him tug his cap lower over his eyes as a group of young women pass, his gaze following them briefly before turning back to his conversation. My blood heats up a little but I push it down. This thing with he and I, it's...it's...God, what is it about us that defies my grasp of the English language? We fuck. There, that wasn't so hard. It's what we do, no strings, no emotions...well, for me anyway. I eye him, watching his head fall back as he laughs. Being with him isn't easy, but well, I've tried the alternative. That worked out just great.

  "Hey Scar," Harry says, turning to me and I snap out of my daze. "Want an ice cream?"

  I glance ahead and see an old man with a cart set up in the middle of the courtyard, handing ice cream cones to a middle aged couple. Harry nods his head at me, gesturing for me to come with him and I do, striding up next to him to stand at the cart.

  "Hey, can I get two please?" Harry says, holding up two fingers as his other hand digs into his pocket. He's buying me ice cream. Seriously, is he for real?

  "Enjoying the museum?" the man asks as he scoops vanilla ice cream into cones for us. I nod animatedly.

  "Oh yes, it's amazing!" I can't help but exclaim, taking my cone from him as he begins to make Harry's.

  "What's been your favorite piece so far?" he asks, handing a cone to Harry. I open my mouth to speak but Harry cuts me off.

  "You don't wanna ask her that, man," he says, handing the man a few bills. "You'll be stuck here for days."

  "Hey!" I say, nudging him gently. He laughs, that deep, throaty laugh from his chest and I can't fight the shiver that runs through me.

  We turn to sit on a bench near the fountain, Joe moving to sit across the way, giving us some privacy. I watch Joe take his seat, taking in his surroundings, keeping his eye on a few of the younger women milling around. My stomach turns a little because he knows. He knows! Someone besides Harry and I knows and this could be the end of everything. Harry was right, Joe had never said anything from the incident before, but that was different. I was drunk and it was late and it hadn't been happening every night for the past two weeks.

  Oh my God, I'm going to hell.

  "Having fun?" Harry's voice startles me out of my thoughts and I realize that he's been watching me all along.

  "What?" I respond and then his words register in my brain and my spirits lift again. "Yes! Oh my God, this is fabulous!" I tell him and he runs his tongue along his bottom lip as I run mine along the outside of my ice cream cone.

  We're quiet for a moment, just listening to the water flow into the fountain, me watching the few people that are bustling through the courtyard, him watching me, eyes trained on my mouth, and I know what he's thinking. God, he's such a perv sometimes.

  "You're dripping there, Harry," I say, smiling slightly. He looks down, seeing his ice cream melting down over his hand.

  "Oh...yeah," he chuckles, bringing his hand up, his tongue lapping up the liquid around his fingers.

  Heat flushes through me as I watch him flatten his tongue along the side of the cone, licking in one long sweep, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows, licking his lips before going in for another. Okay, so apparently I'm a perv too.

  "So..." he says slowly, not looking at me for what seems like the first time all night. "Have you ever had a serious boyfriend?"

  I nearly choke, coughing, my ice cream grazing my chin, and before I can get a hand up to wipe it away, Harry's own hand is cupping my jaw, his thumb brushing the stickiness away. He brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks it clean and I swear there is no way that I am not going to hell for this.

  "W-what's it to you?" I stutter, nervously wiping at my chin with the back of my hand. He shrugs.

  "Nothing really. I just never have," he says and then he tenses a little. "Well, there was this one girl..."

  "Oh really?" I grin at him and he smiles weakly back at me. "The one your mom caught you with?"

  "Oh no, that was a different one," he says, waving his hand dismissively, and I laugh a little. "No...no, I really liked this other girl. She was on this TV show I did for awhile. We had really hit it off and then the show ended...and I went home," he says, sighing and then grinning at me. "And that's when I met the girl my mom caught me with."

  "You're such a playboy," I tease lightly, and he chuckles.

  "Two girls," he says, looking at me pointedly. "Oh yeah, I'm big pimpin' baby. Well...three girls now." He smiles softly at me and I feel my stomach flip.

  "We are not dating," I say after I get a hold of my senses, and he frowns at me.

  "Yes, we are," he responds, nodding.

  "No...no, we aren't."

  "We're here together, aren't we?"

  "This is not a date, Harry," I say sternly, and he shakes his head.

  "No, see, I took you here and I bought you food. It's a date. We are on a date, therefore we are dating."

  I scoff. "No," I reply, searching for something to rebut with. "Just...no!"

  He chuckles. "Good argument," he replies, and licks at his ice cream again and I have to look away.

  "Harry...seriously," I continue, the guilt rising in me. This is a strictly physical thing. He has to know that. He has to believe it and live it because we cannot...we are not dating.

  "Scar, seriously," he mocks and I purse my lips, huffing quietly. "Answer my question. Have you dated anyone seriously?"

  I shift uncomfortably. "Not really," I responds and he eyes me skeptically.

  "You're lying," he says and I sigh, glaring at him.

  "Why the sudden interest in my past love life?" I question, and he grins.

  "Just curious."

  "Well, get over it," I tell him, a little too harshly to be just simply annoyed. His eyes soften a little.

  "Was he
an asshole?" he asks, licking at his ice cream cone and I can't believe we're talking about this.

  "Yeah, he was," I say flatly, and he places a comforting hand on my knee.

  "He break up with you?" he pries gently. I sigh, rolling my eyes.

  "Yeah, Harry, he did...after he got my best friend pregnant," I say and his eyes widen, whether it's from the news I delivered or the venom in my voice I'm not sure. "Why are we talking about this?" I ask, turning away from him slightly so that his hand falls from my knee. Shit, I haven't thought about that in forever.

  "He's a moron," Harry says softly, his hand running smoothly up and down my back as the hurt that I buried inside me so long ago surfaces again. "Seriously, baby. He'd have to be to let you get away from him."

  I cringe slightly at the term of endearment. He usually only calls me that when he's joking, his voice light and teasing or when we're in bed, his voice soft and gentle. He's not teasing me. I'm just about to reply when a man in a suit approaches us.

  "I'm sorry," he says, his Italian accent light and apologetic. "Its nine o'clock and the museum is closing."

  My heart constricts. We've only been through two of the buildings! We can't go yet! There's still so much to see! The 18th century European paintings, the furnished and paneled rooms, the Italian paintings and sculpture ranging from the 1700s through the 1900s! We can't go yet!

  "Oh yeah, um, I called about that," Harry says, fidgeting with the hat on his head, glancing around before pulling it up quickly, revealing his mess of golden brown curls underneath and then replacing it nervously.

  "Yes, I thought it was you," the man says, smiling, and I nearly fall off the bench. "I'm John Giurini, director of Public Affairs. I'll be accompanying you through the museum after hours."

  "Thanks for doing this," Harry says, extending his hand, and John shakes it enthusiastically.

  "It's not a problem at all! You're my daughter's favorite," John enthuses and Harry drops his head, smiling as he nods a little.

  "Well, tell her thank you for me. I'd be happy to sign something for her."