The Coffee Shop Ch. 05

And no one missed the look of horror when Hilary's eyes opened to see that she had an audience, Amelie's main sycophant heading the pack.

"You!" she glowered at Peyton, shoving Griffin away as she hurried to wipe the mess off her lower back with her discarded underwear. Classy.

Griffin caught Peyton's gaze and winked, a smirk playing on his lips. Peyton fought hard to keep her smile from showing. Obviously Griffin had gotten her email and hadn't minded playing along.

Rick then gasped and fled in a flurry of spindly limbs, pushing through the gathered crowd as he headed for the nearest elevator – and undoubtedly towards Amelie, the Ice Queen.

"That kid can move," Griffin said in his husky British murmur, chuckling afterwards when Hilary huffed in indignation. He blew Hilary a kiss after adjusting his pants, waving his black-painted fingernails in her direction as he left the copy room.

"Do great things," he murmured in Peyton's ear, slapping her rear playfully as he passed her at the doorway. Hilary, finally through with her clean up, marched over to Peyton and pushed her flamed face into Peyton's, ready to launch her verbal attack.

"Better go catch Rick before he gets to Amelie," Peyton interrupted. She then paused. "You missed a little," she stage-whispered as she tapped the right corner of her mouth with her pointer finger. Hilary's face burned an even deeper red as she wiped furiously at her face before racing from the copy room in the direction Rick had taken, her dress shirt still all askew.

Peyton had left The Pacific Review with her head held high and the meager earnings of her month's pay in her pocket. All she had to sacrifice was a little bit of dignity and allow her ego to suffer a bit of battering, but she had made it out alive. Thanks to Griffin's cooperation and Broadway acting skills, Peyton wasn't the only person at the Pace to get deleted off the payroll that day.

Peyton's moods were in a constant turmoil the entire drive back to house she shared with her boyfriend, but she finally managed to maintain a bit of positivity as she pulled into the parking lot. But clearly the Gods were against her today – for the sight that greeted her eyes when she unlocked the front door and followed the curious noises up to the bedroom sent her entire day – and mood – straight to Hell.

Efraim Scott had been born in Cairo, Egypt; to the British fashion model Isabelle Blair and her nameless security guard that had been picked from the local 'police force' to help crowd control at a fashion expose. Isabelle had planned accordingly – her father was the manager of Duncan Lawrie Limited, one of "the" banks to go to when you had more money than sense, and had managed to set her up with a respectable match through his ties. Robert Patrick Simeon Scott the fifth had consummated the marriage almost instantly as the match had been arranged, eager to claim the model as his bride.

The marriage ended when Efraim had been four years of age, but by then his dubious origins wasn't any matter. Robert had never questioned Efraim's paternity as Efraim had; there simply hadn't been any reason to. Their resemblance was uncanny – each man was tall and of darker olive-toned skin, their hair unruly dark waves that refused to lie flat no matter what hair product was used, their eyes the same almond shape. But it was there the similarities ended. Thanks to his blonde, pale model of a mother, Efraim's eyes were the most brilliant shade of blue and his lips on any other man would look womanly.

Efraim had followed in his mother's footsteps in almost every way imaginable. He had refused to obtain his higher levels in pursuit of a "more artsy" career. After one photo shoot for Valentino, Efraim had become a modeling commodity, using his quick thinking, acting skills acquired from years of watching his parents masterfully manipulate one another, and his demigod beautiful looks to acquire whatever he wanted. And Efraim wanted. Underneath Efraim's façade of calm, cool, and collected, he was a cruel, brooding man who once he set his mind to any task, carried it out ruthlessly. Mercilessly. Efraim was as cold and cunning as his conception; he just hid it beneath Versace and aloofness.

Six years Peyton's senior, Efraim was at the peak of his life physically and financially. Following in Robert Scott's footsteps, he invested his inheritance wisely and had profited considerably from his risks. His active modeling career demanded that his body be a temple; Efraim willingly complied.

It was due to Efraim's persistence and, if the rumors were true, his considerable finances that brought him to Los Angeles for the weeklong fashion show held in October. The show demanded attention of not only aspiring fashion designers, but of celebrities who wore the names...and of course The Pacific Review. Peyton had been "asked" to help cover the event by Amelie herself, hinting at future benefits at the magazine if Peyton did well.

So of course, Peyton freaking went.

Sometime after losing Bridget White, the Pace's fashionista contributor, for the fifth time in the first hour, Peyton wound up backstage among the designers themselves. She watched rail thin models scramble to their racks and rush into their clothes, not caring for modesty as they were stripped to nothing in front of dozens upon dozens of eyes so they could hurry into the next dress, business attire, whatever. Not that those dozens of eyes were paying any attention, they were too busy yelling about makeup, stains or rips on the dresses, of models gaining an ounce or two since they had come off the walk...it was madness.

And somehow, Efraim had seen her through all of that. Peyton hadn't been able to shake him ever since.

Efraim's attentions of her instantly became tabloid news. Peyton wasn't a fool – she may have been a little overwhelmed with the media's eyes being drawn to her, the other models both male and female giving her dirty looks or even disrespecting her outright, but Peyton hadn't gotten caught up in the whirlwind of it all. Maybe that was why she became friends with everyone so easily. Peyton, quite simply, had not cared for the attention and brushed it off as easily as it fell to her, remaining her down-to-earth nature despite the many excuses not to.

And Efraim...he had been a dream. He respected Peyton's wishes down to a T. He didn't shower her with expensive gifts or lavish weekend retreats, though he did try. More than once he would slip beneath her defenses and she would end up toting around some expensive watch or shoes that to her had looked nothing more than normal. Her picture would be found the next day on daily gossip shows under "the next trend." Efraim respected Peyton's job as a journalist and didn't exploit it for his own name, not like he needed to anyway. He was good to her parents, he was sweet and thoughtful, he was a driving force for her creativity, he respected her space, and he took her quirks in stride.

At least, he had in the beginning. Soon, Efraim's true colors began to show.

It started with the way Peyton dressed. Slowly her jeans and Converse became designer pencil skirts, heels, and blouses discarded from the runway. Her t-shirt bras and boyshorts underwear became custom-made lingerie sets and eventually, she was commando under her dresses.

After the invasion of the designer wardrobe, Efraim's "suggestions" began to take over every aspect of her life. She wore what he laid out for her and accessorized accordingly, with his approval. Her hair was curled, highlighted, and cut to reflect the latest hair trends. Peyton was expected to accompany him to galas, fashion shows, photo shoots, and while there aid him in any perceivable way possible – even recording what he ate and counting up the calories he had consumed. On nights that they were out to dinner with friends, she would end up with a Wikipedia entry of who's who so she would know every detail of the couples' lives, everything from ex-lovers to if they were allergic to shellfish or dairy. When Efraim was in town, but not in the mood to entertain, they would order in food – his vegan, healthy food of course.

Peyton went on his diets, ran five miles every morning, and even accepted his criticism on her articles in the Pace. Efraim was good to her, and honestly, Peyton had never been more fit or better dressed in her life. She had friends, money, a demanding job that would pay off soon, and a boyfriend who loved her and expressed it to her shamelessly. It hadn't occurred to her that Efraim was taking complete control of her life. He was just being a considerate boyfriend and besides, she was bettering herself and moving up in the world, what was wrong with that?

It wasn't until she walked in on Efraim that awful Tuesday afternoon taking his pleasure from "that Spanish sleaze" lingerie model, Sofie Fey, on their Swedish foam bed that Peyton knew just how badly her day was going to end.

Peyton watched in absolute horror as the two bodies collided in frantic, wild beats; oblivious to her arrival. The procession continued for a minute or so more before Efraim grunted his pleasure as he came inside the model, the woman beneath him having already reached her climax seconds previous. The couple stewed in post-coitus, nuzzling and kissing each other's skin; an act that just hours earlier Efraim had granted Peyton before she skipped off to work.

That thought broke her silence. Peyton reached out blindly for one of the stupid fluted crystal Tiffany candlestick holders Efraim had insisted last Christmas they shell out money for, her heart in her throat as her slim fingers wrapped around the cold accessory. With a screech of pain, a yell that came from her very soul, Peyton threw the holder, candlestick and all, at Efraim's muscled, sweaty, sexually-sated frame. At the same time, Efraim shifted his weight to stand by the bed and the holder collided into the headboard with a resounding crack, shattering shards of glass over the model and that stupid Swedish foam mattress.

Efraim turned quickly, his lust-burnt eyes darkening to calm aloofness. It was a look he wore when he spoke to someone he loathed, a look that Peyton had once been certain she would never elicit. Efraim straightened up slowly, looking unapologetic, like everything was normal, like nothing was wrong with this sick picture that he had made.

Peyton wanted to scream at him. Kick him. Tear at his face with her stupid French-tipped manicured nails. Dig the heels of her uncomfortable Steve Madden Myley leopard pumps into his shriveling ball sack.

Instead, she mimicked his chilly expression and murmured in the patient, emotionless tone Efraim used when he was most displeased with her, "You're filth, Efraim. Absolute trash."

Then, without a single glance in Sofie's direction, Peyton left the room, satisfied with the look of ice cold shock on Efraim's face. Peyton tossed her house key as she walked down the stairs to the first floor of the house Efraim owned, making sure to take the key for storage from his keyset before leaving the home completely.

After that, Peyton cashed her paycheck, hired movers to pick up her things from storage, took a cab to Santa Monica and splurged on a hotel with an ocean view. Only after Peyton raided the "honor bar" did she let the world come crashing down around her.

+ + + + +

The sound of a door shutting drew Peyton back to the present. She retreated to her bedroom, kitchen phone still in hand, and shut the bedroom door before leaning wearily against it. She rubbed her face, trying to force the memories back to no avail.

In the first few weeks following the very well-documented break up with Efraim, Peyton had lived her life in a cloudy haze of denial. She thought that just because she was free to wear her old tattered pj's around the house, drink all the rum-and-coke she could stomach, or eat as much Ben and Jerry's as she could bodily consume, that she was free. As long as those long-buried Led Zeppelin records filled the empty air of her apartment, Peyton had basically lived her life as though Efraim Scott and the diva world of fashion had not come and fucked it all up.

And it had worked too, until a few weeks later when her only friend in the city, Dany McCoy, had showed up with a tabloid of Efraim Scott and his four-month-pregnant fiancée Sofie Fey gracing the front page, and had told her to "Don't let this get to you, because he deserves to get run over by a city bus."

Peyton hadn't known whether to laugh or cry at the news, so she threw up instead and drowned her feelings in the bottom of Tennessee Honey despite Dany's speech to not drink her problems away. The next day, while still nursing the aftereffects of too much Jack, Peyton's mother had hit her with the double whammy of Aiden's death. Aiden, who had meant more to her than any of the people she had "befriended" like a Facebook status in Los Angeles, was gone. Peyton had forced herself to deal by buying another bottle of Honey, throwing that up, taking a shower, and packing her bags for the airplane to Maine, using the excuse of his death and her downtime to nurse her wounds.

It was pathetic and sickening. Never had she felt so low, so defeated, and so disgusted with her own reflection. It was here in the small fishing town of Hamish, Maine that Peyton and her family had felt she could recharge, and after her parents had sobered her up and removed all the liquor in the Barn, they had taken a prolonged vacation in locations through South America, leaving Peyton here to fend for herself.

Peyton sighed when she heard Caleb's footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs, his hesitation obvious. He didn't want to be alone. Well, neither did she.

Opening her eyes, Peyton looked around her room. When she had first come back from L.A., she had been certain that staying here would be temporary, just long enough for her to get her life back in the order it had been, the craziness all sorted out. She had been stagnant, surprisingly, until the moment she entered Sidestreet Coffee and gazed upon the loneliest green eyes she had ever seen. Everything after that had been a convenient detour from the own Hell of her life and into the nine circles of Hell of someone else's.

"When people have been scarred as badly as we have, we can recognize another's pain."

Is that what had attracted Peyton to Caleb? Did that really explain his attraction to her? Granted, her abuse had not been as deadly or illegal as Caleb's had been, but the end result had been the same. They trusted no one, confided in few, viewed the world with cynicism that bordered obtuse...

But there, the similarities ended. She preached of optimism, yet held none herself. Peyton was willing to help aid a broken soul, but had yet to piece back together her own. That was hypocrisy of the highest order. Caleb knew he needed help and asked for it. Demanded it, actually. Peyton was too ashamed to even admit she had a problem.

"Someone hurt you, didn't they? They didn't leave a mark, not in any place I could see."

Caleb was right. Peyton had to give him that. The scars were beneath the surface – they were in her head and had hardened her heart.

Peyton closed her eyes tightly shut when the sounds of Caleb's footsteps receding reached her ears. Quickly she shook her head until the tiny voice was gone, her ears ringing with the movement.

Peyton knew then what her biggest obstacle would be. Where she craved freedom and wanted to answer only to herself and her work, Caleb craved stability and the presence of another. He did not know stagnation. He had not had a single constant presence in his life besides his drunken excuse of a father.

Peyton sighed and opened her eyes, drawing up her strength as she turned to face Caleb and their future. As she opened the bedroom door and took the steps down to the first floor, Peyton hoped that giving Caleb what he needed most wouldn't turn her into the monster that had once loved and promised her everything, and so much more.

The thought of disappointing Caleb, of seeing his face crumple in pain and knowing that she had caused it, touched a part of her that not even Efraim had been capable of reaching and scarring. Peyton promised herself then that she would do anything to help Caleb win his life back. Even if it meant risking her own soul.

Because Caleb Vaughn was worth it.

+ + + + +

By the way, Duncan Lawrie Limited is an actual bank used to catering to high-income clientele with numerous branches across the world. I obviously do not promote the bank or am affiliated with its personnel. "The Pace" is a made up magazine based on The New Yorker and "Edge" takes cues from Vogue. Amelie St. Clair is not based on Anna Wintour of Vogue, since I have never met the woman nor have I ever worked for her.

Comments/votes/feedback are welcome and appreciated! Xo, LilyArc