Made
You Got That Hollywood Glow
When they arrived at the flat, he paced, wondering what to do with her. She sat silently, looking out the window at the people walking below them. The building was old, but had an old-fashioned fire escape that partially blocked her view. She didn't seem to mind.
"Why did you run off like that?" he asked.
Laila still said nothing, but instead examined her nails. He had a strong desire to hit her again, but swallowed it down.
"Laila," he warned.
"I told you I didn't want to come here," she said.
He scoffed, then walked into the small adjourning kitchen to pour himself a drink of water. They only had tap, but it would have to do. When he walked back into the living room, she had vanished. Again. He threw the glass he'd been drinking out of, and ran into the hallway. He could just see the sheer material of her dress as she rounded a corner, and he sprinted after her, dragging her back into the flat by her wrists. He was livid, but also confused. The anger won out, and he hit her again.
Michael felt dizzy. The alcohol, the lack of food, Laila, had all done him in. He just wanted to sleep, but still had to go out and do work. He went into one of the bedrooms, leaving her alone in the living room.
"Don't fucking move," he'd growled.
He opened drawers all around the room, hoping for something, ANYTHING to give him guidance. What the fuck was he supposed to do with her? Why was she acting like this? He groaned. Suddenly, there it was. The solution to his problem. Handcuffs.
He gave her one last glance before he left the small flat, satisfied that she couldn't escape this time. "It's for her own good," he told himself, trying to rationalize leaving the bleeding girl handcuffed to the radiator. He closed the door behind him, and could hear the jingling of the metal handcuffs as he locked the door twice, once on the doorknob and once with the deadbolt. He sighed, resting his head against the door. She wasn't saying much, but he could still hear her curses through the door. He felt like shit.
The tram was late, which was his reasoning for being late for the photoshoot. He made it up to the crew by buying everyone coffee, except for Jeannie on lights, who preferred tea. He was all smiles and fun throughout the shoot, trying to put Laila out of his mind, but Nick's words kept coming back to him. Just a backhand will get her in line. He hated that, just the idea of hitting her made him sick, but after a drink or two, it had seemed more reasonable. She had seethed hatred at him, undoing all that had been accomplished in LA. The set up wasn't perfect, but it had worked, and then she had snapped. It wasn't his fault. And it wasn't like he would do it again.
He rushed back to the flat, forgetting in his haste that he had locked both locks, and ran into the door trying to get in. That would bruise, but he put it out of his mind as he entered the flat, seeing the radiator ripped off of the wall and thrown onto the floor. He had no idea how she had done it. She didn't have enough muscle on her own to get it off. She could have called someone, but the door was still locked, he had her cellphone, and the window was closed.
He tested the window, not surprised when it opened easily. He cursed. Manchester was a large city, and looking for her would be, well, looking for a needle in a haystack. Though he knew the trick for that (use a magnet), and not for this.
"Why did you run off like that?" he asked.
Laila still said nothing, but instead examined her nails. He had a strong desire to hit her again, but swallowed it down.
"Laila," he warned.
"I told you I didn't want to come here," she said.
He scoffed, then walked into the small adjourning kitchen to pour himself a drink of water. They only had tap, but it would have to do. When he walked back into the living room, she had vanished. Again. He threw the glass he'd been drinking out of, and ran into the hallway. He could just see the sheer material of her dress as she rounded a corner, and he sprinted after her, dragging her back into the flat by her wrists. He was livid, but also confused. The anger won out, and he hit her again.
Michael felt dizzy. The alcohol, the lack of food, Laila, had all done him in. He just wanted to sleep, but still had to go out and do work. He went into one of the bedrooms, leaving her alone in the living room.
"Don't fucking move," he'd growled.
He opened drawers all around the room, hoping for something, ANYTHING to give him guidance. What the fuck was he supposed to do with her? Why was she acting like this? He groaned. Suddenly, there it was. The solution to his problem. Handcuffs.
He gave her one last glance before he left the small flat, satisfied that she couldn't escape this time. "It's for her own good," he told himself, trying to rationalize leaving the bleeding girl handcuffed to the radiator. He closed the door behind him, and could hear the jingling of the metal handcuffs as he locked the door twice, once on the doorknob and once with the deadbolt. He sighed, resting his head against the door. She wasn't saying much, but he could still hear her curses through the door. He felt like shit.
The tram was late, which was his reasoning for being late for the photoshoot. He made it up to the crew by buying everyone coffee, except for Jeannie on lights, who preferred tea. He was all smiles and fun throughout the shoot, trying to put Laila out of his mind, but Nick's words kept coming back to him. Just a backhand will get her in line. He hated that, just the idea of hitting her made him sick, but after a drink or two, it had seemed more reasonable. She had seethed hatred at him, undoing all that had been accomplished in LA. The set up wasn't perfect, but it had worked, and then she had snapped. It wasn't his fault. And it wasn't like he would do it again.
He rushed back to the flat, forgetting in his haste that he had locked both locks, and ran into the door trying to get in. That would bruise, but he put it out of his mind as he entered the flat, seeing the radiator ripped off of the wall and thrown onto the floor. He had no idea how she had done it. She didn't have enough muscle on her own to get it off. She could have called someone, but the door was still locked, he had her cellphone, and the window was closed.
He tested the window, not surprised when it opened easily. He cursed. Manchester was a large city, and looking for her would be, well, looking for a needle in a haystack. Though he knew the trick for that (use a magnet), and not for this.