Release Me

to stand in scalding water and let it wash the grime off me.
    I take off my clothes and get in without waiting for the temperature to adjust. At first it’s ice cold, and I want to scream from the shock. Then the heater kicks in and I close my eyes, taking it, wanting to slough off the outer layer of myself.
    I squirt some of Jamie’s strawberry scented bodywash into my hand and rub it all over myself, including my inner thighs. I slow down as I feel the raised flesh beneath my fingers.
    Damien’s going to see them tonight.
    I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking about how stupid I’ve been. I’d been planning on turning his little game around on him.Making the revelation of my scars some sort of triumphant fuck you instead of the reminder of how weak I’ve been. Of how much I let the pain take over.
    But I no longer want my scars to be a weapon. I no longer want to risk losing this week with Damien. I’ve lost so much already today.
    I stand there in the shower, my shoulders shaking as I cry, and hot tears snake down my cheeks to mix with the scalding water that beats down upon my damaged skin.

19
    I am standing on a cliff, the waves crashing far below me
.
    I look down. Damien is there, his arms outstretched, his head back. He’s calling to me. You’re mine, he says. Jump to me. I’ll catch you
.
    Jump
,
    Just jump
,
    Just jump …
    I wake with a start as the timer on my phone blares. I’d closed my eyes after my shower intending only to lay in bed for ten minutes. Thankfully I had the foresight to set the timer for an hour just in case. It’s almost five—Damien will be here in just over an hour.
    I don’t bother dressing in anything fancy. After all, I’m just going to be taking my clothes off again. I frown and tell myself it will be okay. He won’t want the painting once he learns the truth, but he won’t be cruel. Damien might be ice sometimes, but he’s not cruel.
    I pull on jeans and a Universal Studios theme park tank top I bought last year when I’d flown out to visit Jamie. I slide on the flip-flops, check my hair in the mirror, and decide that I lookpassable. I’m not wearing makeup, and I feel a bit naked without it. One of those sad truths that annoys me, since I only feel like I need makeup every time I step out into the world because my mother drilled into my head that a woman shouldn’t leave the house without first putting her face on.
    Really, Mother?
Because I’m pretty sure that faces aren’t actually removable.
    Yet despite my quick dip into the land of sarcastic comebacks, I still bury myself under cosmetics every day of the week. I console myself with the knowledge that most girls do the same. It’s not a mother thing, it’s a feminine unity thing. Or, better, it’s a me thing.
    But I’ve done enough pageants and photo shoots to know that artists often like their subjects to start out as blank canvases. So here I sit with a naked face to match my soon-to-be-naked body.
    I spend the next half hour at my computer fixing up my resume. I shoot it off to Thom, the headhunter who got me the job with Carl. I include an email explaining the situation so that he understands why I’m looking for a new job after less than a week at the first one. With luck, he won’t decide I’m a problem client and cut me loose. With even more luck, he’ll get some new interviews lined up this week.
    I still have a few minutes, so I decide to work on some code. But instead of pulling up my template, I find myself typing Damien’s name into a search engine. I’m not looking for anything in particular. I just want to know more. Instead of satisfying me, the bits and pieces of himself Damien has tossed my direction have only whetted my appetite.
    Not surprisingly, I get about as many hits as the man has dollars. His tennis career, his industrial empire, his philanthropic causes. His women. Though I’m still desperately curious about his youth, I can’t fight the compulsion to narrow the search to Damien and the women he’s been photographed with. I click onthe link that shows me images only, then sit back as an array of beauties fill my screen, each on Damien Stark’s sexy but enigmatic arm.
    Damien has rarely been photographed with the same woman twice, which matches what he told me. I find one girl and click back to the original source of the image. It’s a celebrity gossip blog, and the woman is identified as Giselle Reynard. When I look closer, I recognize her as Audrey Hepburn with