Change

by Willow, Jevenna

  All she could say was, “You’ve known for months?” Anything else seemed pointless.

  Casey dropped her chin. He shoved his hands into his pockets and squared his shoulders. “Months, Sweetheart. In all that time I dare say you played your little game to the hilt.”

  “I never played…,” she started arguing with.

  Casey finished the sentence for her. “You never played me for a fool, Sara? Believe me Sweetheart, when I say I would much rather you slit my throat right now than tell me another lie, I truly mean it.”

  The pain settled deep. It festered, causing the beginning of complications she’d never be able to get away from.

  “You have two choices tonight. Either you undress and start making love to that fucking pole…or I undress you myself and shove my cock into your tight ass and simply start fucking your ever-lying brains out from the back door before it get really pissed at you. And we wouldn’t want for me to get really pissed, now would we?”

  Sara’s eyes widened with shock. “You would rape me?”

  Casey shook his head. “No, Sweetheart.” He smiled. “I would never rape you. It would be done as a mutual consent of mature, open-minded adults in the heat of the moment…and because we couldn’t help ourselves, thereby turned into slightly destructive on your part.”

  Sara snapped without a single ounce of remorse. “Go to Hell! And you can take your pole, your mirrors, and your fucking strip club there with you.”

  “I am in Hell, Babe. I can’t go where I already dwell,” he taunted.

  “Then what the fuck do you want from me?”

  “I already told you. I want you undressed.”

  “No!”

  “No?” Casey’s raised brow added emphasis to his surprise.

  “No. I will not take my clothes off, and unless you allow me to leave this room—right now—I will call it rape.”

  His smile returned within a single heartbeat. “Should I call the cops for you, Sara? I’m quite certain there is something you would like to tell them. Something they’d like to ask you about a certain car accident.”

  Her gasp wouldn’t stay hidden. “Fuck you, Griffen!”

  His arrogant, self-serving smile grew larger. “That was the plan, Sara.”

  “Plans change, you low-life sonofabitch! Get over the loss.”

  He grabbed her upper arm. His strong grip held tight to her flesh. “I don’t think they have.” His point more than proven as his nails dug into her skin.

  Sara had felt fear in her life, but never so strongly. Even though Casey didn’t look as though he would go through with his threat, she did not trust him, any more than he said he could trust her. At least he had viable reason not to, whereas she did not trust Casey because of the principal of caught as a liar, and little else.

  She tried to yank her arm free, causing the grip to tighten. She had only one option left her.

  “Fine, let go of my arm so I can undress.”

  When he looked as though he did not believe a word of this, Sara added more. “I mean it, Griffen. You want a pole dance out of me…you’ll get a pole dance—to perfection.”

  Casey’s hand slowly slid off her arm. He relaxed his shoulders. The tight pinch to his mouth eased into a slight smile.

  She tried to bolt for the door, but a much larger, more determined man caught her before she could get away. He slammed her body against the mirrors, cracked one from impact, and without thought ground his mouth against hers in the purest form of anger ever made.

  A mere second later, Sara knew the man could taste blood in his mouth. She’d bitten his tongue as a defense mechanism, nothing more.

  The sound of material ripped from her body echoed within the enclosed room. The red glow of the light over the pole mocked her as a fool. The smell of fury increased their game into an all-out battle. A hard swung fist at his head caught air. A nasty kick only hurt her toe.

  Casey did not rape Sara, as she’d thought he was going too. He merely tore the clothes off her body, took the punch to his face and kick to the shin like a man, and once done walked out of the room with his prized possessions in his hands. He also locked her inside the mirrored room and turned on the music to drown out her threats made at his person through the thick wooden door.

  Sara could not get out and Casey did not care.

  She turned and stared at the cracked mirror; saw her face and body distorted by jagged lines of glass. The tears welled quickly and spilled unchecked. She was a fool to have thought her lies wouldn’t be found out. Then again, only one man had ever called her out on those lies.

  Sara backed away from the mirror, her legs hit the cushions behind her, and she dropped onto the plush leather. She lay over, curled into a ball, then cried her heart out. The one thing she desired more than air was the man who locked her into a room; and only a fool would still desire that man after all this.

  ****

  It wasn’t until many hours later, after a full night’s rest on his part and a hearty lunch put into his stomach, when Casey came back to the mirrored room to let Sara out.

  Punishment could be dealt in many forms and he’d felt as though her lie deserved more than what he’d given her last night, so he’d extended the punishment until nearly noon because of his bit tongue. To his slated opinion, he’d been a little easy on the punishment.

  A few hours of having to look at her body from all angles should have certainly done the trick to curb her nastiness. If not, he could always leave her in there until her shift tomorrow night.

  He found Sara asleep in a fetal position on the center cushions; she looked as though she’d been crying all night and most of the morn. Her face was pale. She was shivering. There’d been nothing in the mirrored room to ease either of those problems: for the soul, or the conscience.

  Regrettably, he had no idea Sara was terrified of confining spaces and a bi-polar, nearly psychotic mother had locked her into closets on more than one occasion to reaffirm her dominance toward the weaker of two. He thought her tears were for what he’d done to her in the heat of anger. Instead, they’d been tears of pure unadulterated terror of the dark.

  The instant he put a hand to her shoulder to wake her, her eyes opened, and within that brief second he saw what she’d never let another human being ever view of her. He saw the absolute horror of last night, the vulnerability she could not hide, the phobia that outshined them all.

  Last night had gone too far—he’d gone too far. He never meant to hurt her or scare her, nor tear her clothes off. He felt sick to his stomach for what his angered actions created. The sight of her dried tears only proved as much.

  Very gently, he eased her shivering body into his arms. She did not fight him. She did not push at his chest. She did not say a single word to him. As he carried her from the room, he caught sight of the cracked mirror and groaned. He never meant to slam her into any mirror. It just happened. Yet, didn’t all bastards use that excuse—it just happened.

  As she held onto his body, likely to gain warmth through his T-shirt, he whispered, “I am so sorry for what I did to you last night. I was angry. I should never have said what I had…nor ever do this to you. ”

  Deep blue eyes locked with his. No spoken words came from her mouth, only fear, trapped lies, and tempered desire through the shine of her eyes.

  Casey carried her up to his bedroom, set her onto her feet beside his bed, and found a robe to cover her nakedness. He guided her onto the bed, pulled back the covers, and slid Sara’s covered form without any protest under the warm blankets. He then sat down on the side of his bed and ran his hand over her hair.

  She turned from him to curl back into the fetal position; flinched from the gentle touch to her shoulder.

  This flinch hurt him as a man more than if she’d taken a knife to his heart. He felt it to the core of his soul. “God, Sara. I am so…so…sorry for what I did to you.”

  Her fist balled against his pillow, but she wouldn’t make any emotional contact with him�
�at all.

  He stood, removed himself from the bedroom, and headed downstairs. He would let her sleep for as long as she wanted to, but he had to get to the club. Two of the wholesalers would be there by three, and if he did not get his ass moving, he would miss their deliveries.

  When she was ready to talk, he would then ask her why she lied about her identity, more importantly, why she looked so utterly terrified from one night locked inside a mirrored room.

  Casey drove to the club, put in four full hours of payroll, dealt with more than he cared or even wanted to with the wholesalers, then drove back home and headed straight up the stairs.

  There were no lights on in his house. Nothing made any sound. In fact, the moment he moved through the doorway, an ill-feeling crept up his spine.

  He found the master bedroom eerily empty.

  Griffen knew why the second he set foot inside the posh suite. His robe lay neatly across a made bed. His pillow was tucked under the quilt. However, the shattered mirror Sara scattered all over the carpeting spoke volumes to him as a man.

  Sara Rogan—aka Mecca Jones—had left Casey to pick up the pieces of a night that went terribly wrong.

  He hadn’t known her leaving was for good until three days later when she did not show up for her shift. All he’d wanted of the woman was answers, and she gave him the biggest answer of all. He’d finally opened up, enough to care about a woman, enough to open a small crack in his heart and let someone see the real man, and out of all the women in the world, Sara was the one woman to shut him down. He had to find her, tell her exactly what he couldn’t lie about anymore.

  Casey had fallen in love with Sara without any physical contact to goad him there. Christ! He’d fallen in love with her even knowing about her lie from the moment he’d hired her.

  Somehow, someway, he had to fix this huge mistake before it couldn’t be fixed.

  Chapter Seven

  “Deb? You got a minute?” Tepper’s sexy tone beckoned from behind a partition wall.

  Sara turned her head to the sound of her new name, while she held in her hand a million-dollar painting she’d readied to hang on the wall.

  A minute? Hell! She had about a thousand of those, and all of them at the tip of her fingers. However, when asked she would deny this and say she’d less than a half second of time to spare, the day hectic; the week more so.

  Yet it was six months past her hasty escape, and she still wasn’t used to the name Deb. She liked the name Mecenna better, but beggars couldn’t be choosy under regrettable circumstances, and Deb was what she’d come up with on short notice. Debra Batton.

  “Yeah. What’s up?” Her voice produced loud for Tepper to hear.

  Sara then followed the lane leading to the back of the gallery. The design of the gallery was to see the customers through while walking a garden path—and still be within the confines of the building. Artwork sold better that way, or so she was told. Sara had yet to sell a damn thing off these walls. She did better with the numerous sculptures set out as pricier displays up front.

  She set down the painting and moved toward Tepper’s desire for her presence.

  Tepper Le D`oun, who owned the gallery, looked quite perplexed with the object in his hand. He placed the large plaster leg on the table and watched her walk his way.

  She came to him with a smile on her face while his look of confusion changed to something she’d never before seen. The playfulness, of which no man could hide, filled his eyes.

  “Anatomy 101?” she teased, glancing at the plaster leg he still had to attach to the other three limbs. It was supposedly a sculpture of the male torso, but by all intents of what Tepper had pieced together thus far, it looked more alien than human.

  He sent her a quick, shame-free smile. “101 would be easy if it came with color-coded instructions,” he determined.

  Sara feigned shock. “Really, a man, wanting instructions…ones he would actually use?”

  He gave her another easy smile; this one edged with devilish intent. “Yes. And with lots of pictures, if at all possible.” A quick jerk of his head was made toward those in his possession not having pictures. “Who the bloody hell designed this shit?”

  “Your favorite artist, that’s who. And the man who netted you over a quarter mill last year…and likely another two more this year.”

  This was a daily reminder from Sara to Tepper of the immense wealth the gallery brought in.

  Tepper Le D`oun ran the largest, most profitable art gallery this side of the Mississippi. He was well known for his highest standards and reputable tastes. He was filthy stinking rich, and he loved every single minute of it. The man lived life in the fast lane, drove fast cars and raced sailboats. He loved his gourmet food. But he was truly inept at the assembly of near priceless artwork.

  “Why the bloody hell doesn’t my favorite artist come here and put this contraption together on his time, not mine?” Tepper was never one to mince words.

  He might pretend to be mad, but Sara could see right through the ploy. He wanted her to assemble the piece so he could go off and do something else—something fun.

  Sara stepped forward and picked up the plaster leg. Her eyes gave the limb a quick once over. She read the instructions that came with the assorted appendages. Within less than a minute, she had the limb attached to where it supposedly belonged, atop a headless torso.

  Tepper stepped back to survey her handiwork. As he did, he ran his hand over his chin. Last night’s endeavors drifted into today’s multi-tasking activities and the five o’clock shadow was quite pronounced within his palm.

  Sara stepped back as well and looked at the art piece when done, then hurried a glance to Tepper. She could not help her smile or the chuckle that followed it.

  “I’ll give you back one week’s paycheck if this thing sells within ten days.” It was a bet she knew she would not lose. No one in their right mind would buy the torso, properly titled Up Shit Creek.

  Where the creek was, was anybody’s guess—without instructions. Nevertheless, it definitely resembled a piece of shit and would likely grace its final destination for quite some time; until Sara moved it to storage, disassembled it, and then sent it back to the artist as not purchased. All work was on pure consignment in the Le D`oun gallery.

  “What do you think he was trying to achieve with this piece of crap?” Tepper questioned. Never before had he called a work of art a piece of crap. But if the shoe fit…

  Sara shrugged her shoulders. “Damned if I know.” She was as dumbfounded about this change in the artist’s behavior as he was.

  Tepper turned, took her hand in his, and gave her arm a hearty shake. “You’re on, Little Lady, ten days, one week’s paycheck, and we just shook on it.”

  The touch of his hand sent shockwaves up Sara’s arm. She had to glance at her limb to make certain it hadn’t gone up in smoke, or found Shit Creek all on its own, because every time Tepper touched her, she melted upon impact.

  The man had the softest hands of any man she’d ever known. He did work with them, but he took care of them when the work done. He, as well, had the most unusual eyes. They were teal in coloring. And there was a rugged handsomeness about him Sara would sell her soul to obtain.

  Tepper Le D`oun was French, hot, and gorgeous. Good God! Even his name turned her on.

  Most Frenchmen Sara had been privileged to meet had dark eyes and dark hair. Not Tep. Tanned skin, created from the outdoor life he led, and light brown hair, this guy was every woman’s sexual fantasy. But he wasn’t interested in her, at least he hadn’t shown any interest in her other than a perfectly legitimate business arrangement—employer, employee. Sara ran the art gallery. Tepper brought in the artists and clients paying her salary and the gallery bills. A win/win setup for both, sort of.

  She felt a bit cheated in this win/win scenario.

  Had she mentioned he was nearly six feet six, built like a solid brick wall, was so buff she nearly drooled whenever he took off his shirt while
he unpacking the wooden crates the pieces came to them in…and he looked more like a lumberjack than a multi-million dollar art gallery owner, French playboy should?

  Sara made five times as much as she had while she’d been Sara Rogan and Mecenna Jones combined—within only six months’ time. Life was good. She was back on track; even had a bit of spare change saved for a rainy day. She loved coming to work. She loved her job as curator. She loved to watch Tepper. Whenever he seemed so deep into his work, she was there to draw him back out. Whenever he needed her assistance, she was there to give the man her helping hand.

  Now if she could only draw his attention her way, life would be near perfect.

  “You do know you just shook on a possible million dollar exchange in income within ten days, right?” she asked innocently.

  Of course, he knew. Tepper never betted anyone anything unless he expected to win. He nodded his head, then smiled her way.

  “How do you know it won’t be me to sell this damn thing before you even get the chance…and it will be my million dollars handed over to your bank account?” he quibbled.

  “Had it snowed in Haiti this week? I’m not sure. I’ll have to check and get back to you on that,” she informed her boss.

  Tepper touched her arm. His tone turned soft, almost reassuring. “You can sell this as easily as I can, Debra, and you know it.”

  “But I’m not the one with extremely wealthy friends willing to purchase something poorly titled Up Shit Creek, now am I?”

  “I may have the friends but they are up their own shit creeks most days. They sure as hell don’t need a visual reminder of it.”

  In fact, Tepper’s closest friend was in the grips of dealing with another messy divorce. The man’s fifth, he hadn’t quite learned his lesson from marriage one through four. Or, if he had, he simply enjoyed the process of divorce more than the rewards of a fruitful marriage.

  Sara chuckled at Tepper’s easy statement toward his rather careless friends, and returned her eyes back to the sculpture. She took a moment to absorb the plaster monstrosity into her brain. Whatever the artist was trying to go for when he created this masterpiece, he hadn’t quite met his target audience. In her opinion, it was a piece of shit. He got the name part correct. However, there were no big piles of the stuff, nor any creek within sight. It was a man’s torso, ribbed, one arm stuck out the back, one arm made as a leg, a leg coming out of the neck, and the other where most men would not want it put—ever.