"Hush, now," she says. "I wouldn't want to make a scene."
"Stop it, Emily." Oakland is on his feet.
"I'll stop if you invite me to sit," she says.
"Please," he says through gritted teeth. "Join us."
"Don't mind if I do." She releases me, and the pain recedes.
"What is wrong with you?" I spit the words at her. "I'm calling the police."
"Your phone won't work right now, lovely," she says.
I pull it out to check, and sure enough, I have no reception.
"She's a troublesome one, isn't she?" the woman says to Oakland. "If you can't make her behave, I will."
"Are you freaking kidding me?" I rise from the table, raising my hand to summon the server at the other side of the patio.
Oakland catches my arm and pulls me back down. "Please, Marilyn. It will be over faster if you let me handle it."
I don't know what the hell is going on, but I want to find out—so I sit, promising myself that I'll have this woman arrested or kicked out of the restaurant if she tries to touch me again.
Oakland turns his attention back to her. "What do you want, Emily?"
"Have you considered my offer?"
"The same offer you've made dozens of times at my workplace? The same one I've refused for weeks? That offer?"
"That's the one."
"My answer is unchanged," he says. "No."
Emily shakes her head. "You and that ridiculous pride of yours. I know your bills are bigger than you can handle, sugar. I'll pay you far more than you could ever earn at that bar, or anyone else you'd choose to work. More than you'd earn as some petty little accountant trapped in a sad, tiny office. Don't tell me that's what you want—to slouch in front of a computer all day, moving numbers until the blood vessels pop in your eyes, until those lovely shoulders are permanently hunched and your six-pack turns into a flabby gut?"
I blink, and blink again—because as she speaks, I see those things happening to Oakland. His back curves, his cheeks sag, his neck juts forward, and his chest and stomach grow thick with fat. His hair thins, and his eyes turn bloodshot.
"Holy hell," I whisper. I pinch myself viciously, and when I look up again, he's back to normal.
"I don't mind that future," says Oakland calmly. "It's a hell of a lot better than being your slave."
"So you object to being a lapdog—excuse me—lap-cat?" Emily smirks. "Don't worry, you won't be. True, you may start out with small errands, low-level responsibilities—but I can raise you up. You can be useful to me—to us."
"I thought your kind didn't care for my kind."
What the hell is Oakland talking about? Her kind? His kind?
"What's going on?" I demand, louder than I meant to. I'm feeling lost and helpless, and I don't like it. This bitch has ruined a perfectly good first date, and I deserve to know why.
"I'm offering Oakland an opportunity," says Miranda smoothly. "One that he thinks himself too good to take, though I've lowered my own standards significantly just for him."
Lowered her standards? That doesn't make sense. Oakland is heart-stoppingly gorgeous, with a brilliant mind and the body of a Greek god. If she had to lower her standards to go after him, her bar must have been set impossibly high before.
"I'll be honest with you, Oakland," says Emily, tracing a pattern on the table with a scarlet nail. "My need for you is growing more urgent."
Gross. I flush and look away.
"I have a job for you—one that requires your specific skill set. There's a deadline. So you see, if you don't accept voluntarily, I'm afraid I shall have to force you."
Force him? Oh, hell no. "That's it. I'm calling the police." I start to rise again, but Oakland's hand covers mine, pressing down. His eyes plead with me to wait.
"Look, creeper—if you want sex, just hire yourself a male hooker." I keep my voice low, soaking each word with derision.
Emily bursts into musical laughter. "Oh, god, she thinks I want you for sex? Oh, how cute!"
My face flames. "But you—" I meet Oak's eyes. "Isn't she your stalker?"
"Yes," he says. "But it's not what you think."
"Think whatever you like, darling," says Emily, dabbing delicately at the corners of her eyes. "Goodness, I haven't laughed like that in ages! Thanks for that, dove. No, you're welcome to his human bits. For now, it's the other part of him that I want."
"Emily." Oakland's voice is low, a tense warning.
"Of course! It's all very hush-hush." Emily lays a finger playfully across her lips. "I'll be in touch, sugar. One more chance to do this the fun, easy way. The hard way would be such a downer, for both of us. Well, more so for you. But terribly inconvenient for me as well. So I hope you change your mind. And as an incentive, allow me to buy your dinner." She rises, slipping a wad of cash from her purse and laying it on the table. "Go ahead and order dessert, loves." She crosses behind Oakland, passing her hands over both his shoulders and running them down his chest. She whispers something inaudible in his ear, keeping her eyes on me the whole time. I swear I feel a twinge of pain through my shoulder again, though she isn't touching me.
And then she leaves, gliding across the patio and disappearing into the night.
Oakland stares at the remnants of his seafood pasta, both his hands curled into tight fists.
"Now you're going to explain to me what that was all about," I say evenly. "Or I'm leaving right now."
"She's involved in some illegal stuff," he answers. "She wants my, um—my math skills, for a job."
"Surely there are other mathematicians who could handle it—ones with fewer scruples. Why you?"
"My specific talent is hard to come by in this part of the country, I guess." He shrugs, avoiding my eyes. "And maybe she does have a thing for me."
It sounds reasonable, especially given the way she behaved toward him. "You need to tell the police."
"She's got bad friends, Marilyn. A really rough bunch. If I go to the cops, her guys will find someone I care about and take it out on them. Plus I don't really know much about her operations. I don't have enough evidence for any kind of solid case." He turns his water glass around and around, leaving broad streaks in the condensation. "I keep hoping she'll find someone else and leave me alone."
"It doesn't sound like she's going to give up easily. I mean, she followed you all the way here, to the coast. What are you going to do if she doesn't quit?"
His jaw tightens. "What I have to."
"And what does that mean?" I don't like the hard, jewel-brightness of his green eyes, the fury glinting in the depths of them.
"I mean, I'll take care of it."
"It, or her?"
"Both."
Is he saying he's going to kill her? Maybe I shouldn't have agreed to dinner tonight. I just got out of a relationship with a violent guy, and I'm not about to leap into another one.
I ease back my chair and stand. "I think I'll pass on dessert."
"Marilyn." There's an ache in his voice, sadness and disappointment. "I'm so sorry this happened. I had no idea she would come here. Please, can we try to salvage this? Here, what do you like?" He grabs the dessert menu. "Triple chocolate fudge brownie with chocolate sauce and fresh vanilla ice cream? Or maybe peach cobbler with whipped cream? Or—"
The faint desperation in his voice and eyes pierces my heart. I relent, sinking back into my chair. "You had me at 'triple chocolate.' "
He sighs with relief. "Then you shall have it. Want to split one?"
"Are you kidding?" I snatch the menu and ogle the picture of the dessert. "After the night we've had, I think we deserve our own separate desserts—and calories be damned."
"To the damnation of calories," he says, lifting his water glass. I clink my half-empty glass of sweet tea against it.
By the time dessert is over, I'm so wonderfully full of chocolate that I've almost forgotten about the savage look in his eyes when he said he'd "take care of it." I've almost forgotten about the pain shooting
through my collarbone, and the way Emily whispered in Oakland's ear. I've almost forgotten that getting attached to this man is a bad idea.
Almost.
Oakland leaves all Emily's cash on the table. There must be three hundred dollars in the stack. As we walk away from the patio, toward our cars, I hear a squeal of delight echoing from somewhere behind us.
"Our server must be happy." I squeeze Oakland's arm.
A half-smile curves his lips. I unlock the car door with the remote, and he darts in front of me and whisks it open.
"You're one of the brave guys who still opens doors for women? I thought you had all died out."
"There are a few of us left. We're a rare breed."
I step into the space between the open door and the driver's seat, and he moves a single step, corralling me in that triangle of space with his body.
This is the moment. The moment when he'll lean in for a kiss that I'm not sure I want to give.
"I had fun with you, Marilyn." His eyes are soft green in the semi-darkness. "Thanks for agreeing to this."
"You're welcome." What a dumb thing to say. "I mean, I had fun too."
He smiles, but it's not gleeful or triumphant. "So I'm not a complete dick?"
"No, you're not. At least, tonight you pretended not to be."
There's a hint of pain in his eyes, an ache, like an old wound. When did I learn to read his emotions?
"Um—you should lag behind a little, so no one figures out that we were together," I say.
"I'll give you a ten-minute head start," he agrees.
"Okay then—see you there!" And I duck into the driver's seat before he can try to kiss me.
"Good night, Marilyn." He closes the door. As I drive away, I glance in my mirror. He's still standing there in the parking lot, alone, his dark head bowed, looking like a lost prince with the weight of a thousand souls on his shoulders. The colored lights of the restaurants and shops mingle and blur behind him like fallen stars.
I have to draw him, paint him—something. On the way back to the beach house, I plan the piece of art I will make, the colors and shadows and the lines of his profile. I might even give him wings—big, dark, sweeping ones. That will make my Instagram followers go wild. I'll probably sell a bunch of prints.
Why didn't I let him kiss me? What would those lips of his taste like? Is he a good kisser? The questions scamper through my head, one after another, the entire way back to the beach house. By the time I arrive, I've convinced myself that kissing Oakland would be a bad idea. It would give him ideas, make him think that I'm interested in him. I'm not. I don't want a relationship with him, and I don't want to be a one night stand for him either.
I made the right choice, not kissing him. So why does my brain keep playing through various kissing scenarios, with him as my co-star?
I grind into the gravelly parking area by the beach house and leap out of the car, my fingers itching for my iPad and stylus. I'd prefer to do the work on my big, beautiful digital drawing pad back home, but the iPad will have to do for now.
Up the stairs I race, and through the unlocked front door. The house is mostly dark, but there's a light in the kitchenette, and on the back porch. And then I hear a bottle smash.
I freeze, my mind running through all the possibilities. Burglar, animal, one of my friends, a random drunk. Slowly I move to the screen door and peer onto the porch.
Nothing.
I push the screen door open, and it squeals, slamming behind me as I exit onto the porch and lean over the wooden railing.
There's a figure moving below me, near a rocky outcropping by one of the dunes.
"Hey!" I shout.
The figure turns and waves back. "Hey, Mari!"
I breathe again, relieved. It's just Jeremy. "What was that noise?"
"I had a bottle of Coke—broke it by accident," he shouts back, his words partly muffled by the surge of the ocean.
"I'll get a bag and help you clean it up."
I dash back into the house and rifle through the kitchen until I find a plastic bag. It's better than nothing, and we can't leave broken glass on the beach. It's against my personal code.
Bag in hand, I hurry down the steps and sprint across the sand to Jeremy. He's leaning against the rocks, running his fingers through his red hair. He straightens as I approach, and the light from the back porch falls across his face. He looks flushed, swollen, and unfocused.
Oh, no.
"It wasn't a bottle of Coke, was it?" I ask.
"Just a little drink," he says, and I can hear the slur in his speech now. "The others went out drinking, but I said 'no!' I said, I'll be good, for Mari. I'll stay here and wait for her to come back, so we can talk. But then you didn't come, and you didn't come, and I said, 'To hell with it! I'm havin' a beer.' And I did. I had lots of beers." He laughs, shrill and wild.
I crouch and begin putting the shards of glass into the bag. "I'll take care of this. Why don't you head back to the house and get some rest?"
"Where were you?" He's not laughing now. There's a thread of rage in his voice.
"I went out to a coffee shop, to draw. And got a mani-pedi. I told you that."
"You lied, didn't you? A mani-pedi doesn't take that long."
"Maybe it does for me." I try to laugh, but my gut twists with fear, and my fingers move faster, cleaning up the glass.
"Who were you with?"
"Does it matter, Jeremy?" I speak as gently as I can. "You and I aren't together anymore."
"For stupid reasons," he growls. "Because you wouldn't stick with me and help me. That's what love does. It sticks with the other person. It doesn't go running off when there's some trouble, a little mess. Love works through the mess. But you left me. You didn't love me."
"I did, Jer." I rise, knotting the bag. "I still care about you, and I want you to get this under control. But for now, you just need sleep."
"Don't tell me to sleep!" he roars, slamming the side of his fist against the rocks. "I'm not a kid."
"Of course not." I back up a step.
*trigger warning—rape attempt. Skip to next chapter to avoid*
"Running away again?" He lunges forward, seizing my arms and whirling me around so fast that I can't resist in time. He pins me against the rocks, holding me in place with his burly arms and chest. "If you still care for me, we can be together again. It was good, wasn't it? We had fun. Good sex."
With one forearm across my collarbones, holding me in place, he reaches down with his other hand, scrunching up my dress and pawing between my thighs.
"No, Jeremy." I push his hand away. "It was good, yes, and fun, but no. We can't do that anymore."
"Why not? I want you. See?" He shoves his hips forward, grinding against me. "Feel it?"
"Jeremy. Jer." I press my hands to his cheeks, trying to force him to look at me. He does, but his eyes are bleary, unfocused, with a kind of mad, moronic lust in them that sends a spear of panic into my lungs. "Jeremy, stop this. I don't want to have to hurt you."
He grunts and mashes his mouth against mine, and I smack the side of his head, hard. He grabs both my wrists—I manage to wiggle one free and press my thumb on his eye—not hard enough to blind him, but enough to send a message.
"Bitch," he yelps foggily, snagging my forearm again. He throws both my wrists together, over my head, and grips them one-handed while his free hand yanks down his swim trunks. I buck, trying to twist so I can knee him in the groin, but he's big, so big—there's so much of him holding me against the rock. He reaches for my underwear, and I lurch again, avoiding his clumsy fingers. Desperately I wish that I had worn shorts on my date with Oakland, instead of this stupid sundress—a pair of tight shorts would be a lot harder for him to get off me.
His face is near mine, so I lunge forward and bite his nose, grinding my teeth into the cartilage. With a furious shout he slaps me—the impact of his massive hand making my vision spark and my ears ring. My body goes slack.
Until now I've re
fused to scream. Refused to be the girl shrieking like a distressed damsel in the paws of a monster. I thought I could handle it.
Now it's probably too late to scream. Too late for anyone to get here in time, before he takes what is mine. But I scream anyway, the sound tearing through my throat into the night. The sand deadens the cry, swallows it—I try again, louder, and Jeremy claps his free hand over my mouth. At least he can't pull down my panties now.
He's a mess—bloodshot eyes, bitten nose, breath reeking of alcohol. The scream seems to have awakened him a bit, though; he's looking around, scanning the darkened beach around us. He must be convinced that there's no one around to hear me scream, because he moves his hand off my mouth, back to my crotch, tugging the fabric out of his way.
"Jeremy," I say hoarsely, desperately. "Jeremy, please stop. If you stop, I won't tell the police. I swear I won't." I will, I promise myself.
"Police?" He looks confused.
"Yeah, Jeremy. That's who girls talk to after guys try to rape them."
He shakes his head. "But I love you. And you like it rough."
"No," I say. "When we were dating, I did. But we're not dating. It's not fun for me right now. I said, 'no.' No, no, no. You're drunk, Jeremy. Please just back off, and let me go."
"You bit my nose."
"I did. And I'll do it again."
He's fighting—fighting the fog in his brain and that all-consuming urge, that ugly imperative from his animal self. But I can't afford to wait to see if his lust or his reason will win, and I tense for another escape effort.
And then a horrible scream pierces the night—a sharp, skin-crawling shriek, like the cry of a madwoman stabbed with a spike. Something lands on the rocks above me, heavy and soft, and I hear nails scraping over stone. Jeremy looks up, and screams.
-7-
Treat You Better
Jeremy pushes himself off me, stuffing his junk back into his swim trunks. He turns, tries to run—but he's too drunk and he trips, sprawling in the sand.
As I look up, craning to see what has him so spooked, a tawny shape flies over my head, landing with a sickening thud on Jeremy's back. Jeremy roars with pain, because the thing has claws that are sunk to the hilt in his flesh. I can see the trickles of scarlet blood over his pale skin.
The Lion and the Artist Page 6