Chapter 12

The rhythmic thrum of the tires against the pavement lulled me into a restless contemplation. The streetlights blurred into streaks of yellow as Quinton weaved through the deserted night streets. Beside me, he hummed along to a faint melody, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm on the steering wheel.
Sebastian's searing kiss still sent shivers down my spine. But it was the confusion swirling within me that gnawed at me more. A part of me recoiled at ever doing it again, but another part, a traitorous whisper in the back of my mind, couldn't deny a flicker of excitement at the raw intensity he'd brought to the scene and how powerful it felt to be able to get what I wanted for something I wanted to do anyway.
When I thought about all those stories about actresses who had to sleep with old and ugly men for parts, fucking Sebastian didn't seem so bad, even if I had to keep doing it.
A glance at Quinton, bathed in the soft glow of the dashboard lights, only deepened my disorientation. His was relaxed, almost serene. Here was a man who seemed comfortable in his own skin, someone who didn't resort to veiled threats or emotional manipulation to get what he wanted. Yet, beneath that calm exterior, I sensed a simmering current of power, a hidden intensity that mirrored Sebastian's in a way I couldn't quite place.
"Lost in thought, Yvonne?" Quinton's voice broke the silence, his tone surprisingly gentle.
I jolted, ripped from my internal monologue. "Huh? Oh, I was just…" I stammered, searching for a coherent response. "Thinking about the scene. It was… intense."
A sardonic smile played on Quinton's lips. "Intense enough for a repeat performance, perhaps?" His gaze flickered to me for a fleeting moment, a spark of something dangerous glinting in his eyes.
Heat flooded my cheeks.
"That's not what I meant," I said defensively. "It's just… Sebastian is a demanding director, to say the least."
Quinton snorted, a humorless sound. "You're talking about your shoot with him, huh? Did he live up to the hype?"
"Yes."
He smirked. "Good to hear it. Better than me?"
I didn't have an answer for that and he laughed. "I guess you're a bit start struck."
His words resonated with me, a strange sense of validation washing over me. Maybe I was star struck give Sebastian's place as my boss.
The car finally pulled to a stop in front of a sleek, modern high-rise building. Craning my neck, I gazed up at the towering glass structure, a wave of intimidation washing over me. This opulent building was a world away from my cramped apartment, a stark contrast to the life I'd always known.
"Welcome to my humble abode," Quinton announced with a sardonic flourish, gesturing towards the building.
I grabbed my purse and climbed out of the car, the basket of dirty laundry feeling oddly heavy in my arms. As we entered the opulent lobby, a doorman in a crisp uniform greeted Quinton by name, his eyes lingering on me with a touch of curiosity.
"Don't worry about the laundry," Quinton said, sensing my apprehension. "There's a dumbwaiter down the hall. We can send it up ahead."
Relief washed over me. The thought of lugging my laundry basket through this luxurious building was almost unbearable. Following Quinton down the hall, I put my basket in the dumbwaiter. He hit a button and it vanished. Then, he led me into a sleek elevator, I couldn't help but steal a glance at my reflection in the mirrored walls. I felt out of place in this world of wealth and privilege, a feeling that only intensified as the elevator doors opened onto a private hallway, leading to a living room overlooking the glittering cityscape.
But the breathtaking view was the last thing on my mind. Standing in the living room, his back to me, was a man. Tall and broad-shouldered, he was shrouded in shadow, but the way he held himself exuded a dangerous intensity.
My breath hitched as Quinton spoke, his voice devoid of its usual amusement. "Caleb. What the hell happened?"
The man turned, and the sight that met my eyes sent a jolt through me. His face was a canvas of dried blood, a nasty gash splitting his eyebrow. His clothes were ripped and stained, and he held himself with a grimace, favoring his left leg.
"Don't worry about it," he rasped, his voice rough with pain. "I'm fine."
He glanced at me, his gaze sharp as a hawk's. For a fleeting moment, our eyes locked, and a cold shiver ran down my spine.
The intensity in the room was suffocating. It was a silent conversation between the two men.
"You need a doctor," Quinton said, his voice clipped.
Caleb shook his head, his jaw clenched tight. "No time. Just need a clean shirt and a place to crash for a few hours."
I felt like an unwanted audience in this testosterone-fueled scene. The air crackled with tension, a secret language I couldn't decipher.
"I, uh…" I stammered, my voice barely audible. "I'll just… go get my laundry started."
"Dumbwaiters by the dryer. Down the hall to the left."
My escape felt like a necessity. As I made my way down the hallway, the weight of their unspoken conversation settled heavily on my chest. Glancing back, I saw them huddled together in hushed tones, Caleb's bloodied face was pale in the dim light.
Reaching the laundry room, I pulled my basket out the dumbwaiter and started sorting my clothes. I poured in detergent.
Who was Caleb?
As the washer whirred to life, I couldn't shake the feeling that I didn't want to know. I shook my head, my mind replaying the image of Caleb's bloodied face and the raw intensity in his eyes.
Suddenly, the laundry room door creaked open, and Caleb walked in, his movements surprisingly agile for someone who seemed to be in pain. He ignored me completely, his gaze fixed on the washing machine. Then, without a word or a single glance in my direction, he began stripping off his bloodstained clothes.
My jaw dropped. Here I was, a complete stranger, and this man was casually undressing in front of me. Heat flooded my cheeks. His movements were efficient, almost robotic, revealing a toned physique beneath the ripped clothes. Muscles taut with tension rippled beneath his skin, and a smattering of faded scars peeked out from under his arms. He was bruised all over and smeared with blood.
He tossed his clothes haphazardly into the washer, then grabbed a clean towel from the shelf beside me. As he brushed past, his body heat washed over me, mingled with the faint scent of blood, sweat, and something indefinably masculine. It was a potent combination that left me momentarily speechless.