Photograph

55 - Caveman Ben

Oh God, it's going to take a truckload of makeup to cover this up. Well, we're only travelling today, there's no shows to do; maybe I don't really need to cover it, the guys aren't going to worry, plus they'll have their own scars from last night's shenanigans. We can be the walking wounded on tour.

The artificial lighting over the bathroom mirror wasn't helping any, but still it was a hell of a shiner. I heard my phone vibrate an incoming message and picked it up. Eight messages from Ben – uh oh, that can't be good.

Ben: Darling I saw the photos, are you all right? xx

Ben: Please let me know you're okay. xx

Ben: Call me. xx

Ben: What the hell happened?

Ben: Darling I'm worried about you.

Ben: Skype me. Please.

Ben: You're not concussed are you?

Ben: Fuck!

The last one made me giggle, until it hurt and I stopped. Pulling my laptop over, I fumed when the damn thing started doing an automatic software update. Bloody technology! Okay, phone it is. It barely rang a second time before he picked up.

"Cara-"

I interrupted him, knowing he needed reassuring. "Darling, I'm fine, I really am; just a black eye and a small bruise on my side. The doctor checked me out and pronounced me fit as a fiddle. Please stop worrying."

All I could hear from his end was heavy breathing – not the creepy kind or sexy kind, the I-can-barely-control-my-anger kind. I knew it well, after all.

"Ben?" I ventured.

"Skype. Now."

My computer had finished its update but judging by the growl in his voice, I wasn't sure that seeing my face was a good idea. "Are you sure you want to-"

"Cara, I want to see what those bastards did to you. Get. On. Skype. NOW."

Oh my. I haven't met this version of Ben before. I've met sweet Ben, kind Ben, flirty Ben, goofy Ben, and a whole host of other Bens, but this...this is fiercely protective Ben. This is I'll-beat-the-shit-out-of-anyone-who-messes-with-my-woman Ben. And fuck, that's hot. I started doing some heavy breathing of my own as I logged on and accepted his call.

Dammit, why does he have to look hot too? Hair in complete disarray as if he'd been running his hands through it for hours – which he could well have done, I guess. Top two shirt buttons undone and collar askew as if he'd ripped his tie off and tossed it aside without bothering to smooth the collar down again. Chest rising and falling in an agitated manner and his face – his face looked...how do I describe it? It looked...caveman, yes, that's it. He looked caveman. Shit. Fuck. Ovaries? Your work is done; Elvis has left the building.

"Turn your head so I can see better." I turned my head to the left so he could see my right eye, at the moment a rather garish shade of eggplant and plum. I heard him draw in a hissed breath and held my own, wondering what his reaction was going to be. "Does it hurt?" It sounded like the words had been dragged over a bed of broken glass.

"No, it doesn't hurt."

"Cara."

"All right, it hurts a little."

"Cara."

"Okay, it hurts a lot. But only when I touch it. Or laugh. Or frown." I added the last one because I'd just learned it from experience.