“Yeah, it is, huh?” Was he talking about the tattoo or the feeling between us?
I could barely breathe.
Jim was probably pissed that I’d not only ruined his game but had taken all the attention away from him. “All right, lovebirds, the food’s burning. Can we get back to work, please?”
Scott and I made eye contact again. We were both smiling, but that glance was heavy. We were acknowledging the significance of what had happened there, even though there had been no words indicating what had passed between us.
After lunch was completely over, though, I started questioning if it had just been me, because we’d just kind of fallen back into business as usual. By quitting time, everything felt normal again. I said goodbye and nothing special happened.
But I was certain that moment had been magical. I had to believe it, because I planned to act on it if I ever had the opportunity again.
Chapter Nine
Of course, the universe couldn’t let me be completely happy, now could it? When I got home and took my cell phone out of my purse to charge, I saw that I had a text message.
Casey, it’s Barry. Stop avoiding my calls. I don’t want to have to come to Winchester to talk to you.
He wouldn’t.
Would he?
I wasn’t going to let him bully me.
Then I got pissed. How the hell did he get my number? There was only one way. It had to be thanks to my mother. I got even angrier with her, but then I realized that maybe she was tired of dealing with Barry, too, of making up lame excuses and stuff on my behalf. Truth be told, Barry was my mess and my problem, not hers.
Too bad my dad hadn’t talked to him when he’d called my parents’ house. He probably would have told Barry to back off.
Still…I was a grown up, and this was my grown-up problem. But that didn’t mean I was going to deal with it. I’d already dealt with it, and that was called a divorce. That was it—the finale. Why couldn’t Barry just let things go?
* * *
At long last, I’d unpacked all my pieces of art and supplies and set up the small bedroom as my art studio. The first thing I did in there was prepare some of my artwork for Sens Gallery. I chose two acrylics, one oil, and a couple of watercolors, just so she could see some variety. I had no idea what she’d like, so I was going to hit her with a range. The oil painting was my most avant garde, as if I’d dropped acid before I’d started work on it. The acrylics were still life paintings while the watercolors were nature scenes.
I strode into the art gallery feeling confident, but I knew she could easily send me on my way. I assured myself that was okay, because I still had the Arts Center in my back pocket, and I knew I could always try selling my work online if push came to shove.
The gallery had just opened when I arrived, and Isabel was adjusting one of the lights shining on a painting in the front room. When she approached me, I saw no recognition in her eyes. “Hi, I’m Casey Williams. I don’t know if you remember, but I—”
“Yes, you were looking for a job.” I nodded. “It looks like you have some art for me to peruse?”
“Yes!” Oh, God, did I sound too eager?
She came over to the counter and I spread out the acrylics and the oil painting. The matted watercolors I stacked beside them, but, frankly, they looked cheap compared to the others, and I wondered if I should have left them in the car. She looked them over, one at a time, but I couldn’t tell a thing based on her expression, and she didn’t say a word. She continued looking at them from different angles, and my stomach knotted. To distract myself, I walked across to the gallery area of the front room to look at the painting she’d just been adjusting the light on and, from that angle, got a really good sense of the depth of her building. Shooting off from the small gallery customers could see upon arrival were two long hallways filled with art—paintings on the walls and a couple of easels, pedestals with three-dimensional artwork, and wooden benches.
This place was even classier than I’d remembered.
Finally, I heard Isabel’s voice. “Ms. Williams?” I walked back over to her, the shuffle of my sandals echoing in the cavernous space. “I’ll try this one on commission,” she said, pointing to my psychedelic oil painting. “What do you call it?”
“The Party.”
“Let’s draw up the paperwork.”
Said paperwork didn’t mention how much she’d sell my painting for, but I didn’t care, nor was I concerned that she planned to take fifty percent of whatever she sold it for.
She was giving me a chance and I was thrilled.
As I was leaving, she said, “If this sells pretty quickly, I’ll want more like it.”
Holy fuck. And she liked my weird shit, too, passing on all my tame pieces. The offbeat work was the most fun I had painting, because I could express emotion more easily in those. “Sounds great.”
“I’m having an exhibit this Friday. Why don’t you come? I’ll have your painting displayed by then, and my customers often like to meet the artists behind the art.”
The air left my lungs, but I nodded. I was on the verge of making money doing what I loved.
But, for now, cooking at Bob’s Southern BBQ was paying the bills…so I ran home and changed clothes—but with a spring in my step that couldn’t be ignored.
I got to work early, long before my shift started, and I asked to talk to Ed first. He had me come to the office, like this was a big deal. “Don’t tell me—you’re giving me your two weeks.”
“No, why would you think that?”
“Because you’re getting close to the two-month mark.”
“I haven’t seen a lot of people here quit, Ed, but you guys seem to be pretty paranoid about it.”
He gave me a small smile then, but it never reached his eyes. “No inappropriate behaviors from your coworkers?”
“God, no.” What the hell was he going on about?
“Okay, good. So then what are you here to address with me, Casey?”
I let out a long breath. “I know this is short notice, but I have the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“A lifetime? Let’s hear it.”
“I don’t know if I told you, but I’m an artist. I paint. And the Sens Gallery has one of my paintings on commission. The owner asked me to come to her showing this Friday night.”
“The schedule’s already done, Casey.”
“I know, Ed, but—”
“And I’ve already given Scott and Dave that night off.”
And, unspoken, Friday nights were usually busy. But we had more cooks than just the three of us asking for the night off.
“Can I trade with someone scheduled for the day shift?”
He let the air out of his lungs. “You’re killing me, Casey.”
“I don’t want to have to quit over something like this, but my art is my life.” Oh, God, I hoped he wouldn’t call my bluff. I really didn’t want to find another job.
“You are killing me.” His brown eyes assessed me coolly before he added, “Just this once, I will find someone to cover your shift. Next time, you’ll need to try to persuade a coworker to trade with you or be here anyway.”
My grin threatened to rip my face in half and I giggled. “Thanks so much, Ed!”
I started to hug him, but he shook his head. “Go clock in. Prove to me you’re worth keeping. Oh, and plan to work the day shift Friday.”
“You got it.”
Dave and I were the only ones in the kitchen that day. “Casey, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Back at you, my friend.” While we worked, I told him about my showing at the art gallery.
“When is that again?”
“Friday night.”
“That’s a bummer.”
I laughed. “Why?”
“Because...Scott and I finally moved into our new place, and we’re having a party Friday night to celebrate.”
“Oh, yeah. Ed had said you guys were gonna be gone that night. That does suck. I would
have loved for you to see my first official art show!”
“You’re gonna invite your mom and dad, right?”
“Yeah.” As much as my mother drove me crazy, I still felt a need for their approval—when I wasn’t intentionally rebelling and trying to get under their skin.
“You should come by our place after your show, Casey.”
“I don’t know how long it’ll run.”
“I promise it won’t go longer than our party.”
“How would you know? Have you ever been to an art exhibit?”
David laughed. “No, but I doubt they last till four-thirty in the morning.” I shrugged and nodded my head. “Please come by after, Case, okay? I want to show you the place.”
I would never break my friend’s heart, but I didn’t plan to turn down an opportunity to see Scott. I’d be there even if the art exhibit did last till the wee hours of the morning.
* * *
I’d never been to an art exhibit. Well, that wasn’t totally true. I’d been to art shows in school—high school and college—but I’d always felt like they weren’t as selective as a real gallery with paying customers. Like when I was in college. Yes, they were pickier than in high school, but I was pretty sure every student had at least one piece on display. Thus, it didn’t feel special.
This, though, was a very special occasion, and there would be paying customers. Probably a few rich ones.
Which led me to my dilemma—I had no clue what to wear.
I remembered a long time ago my mother telling Kara and me that we could never go wrong in a little black dress. Throw on a little jewelry and some pretty shoes and we’d fit in at any occasion. The problem was I didn’t own any damn dresses.
That could be remedied, though. I didn’t shop for clothes much, but this was definitely the time to do it. I went to the two small clothing stores in Winchester—one on Main Street and the other in the shopping center where Bob’s was. I even went to Walmart. Not liking anything I tried on, I made my way to the consignment stores, and that was where I found the perfect black cocktail dress. It was sleeveless and the back panel was pure lace from the base of my spine up to the bottom of the shoulder blades. The skirt was on the short side, a few inches above the knees, but I loved it before I even tried it on.
It came close to showing off some side boob. This was not the kind of dress I could wear a bra with, not even a strapless one. But the dress was stunning, and I looked good in it. I could picture myself wearing fake diamonds or silver jewelry and black velvety or strappy heels with no hose.
It was sexy as hell.
Of course, after I got home from work on Friday and showered, I second-guessed the dress. It was too late, though. I couldn’t put on something different now.
I downed a glass of champagne at the show before my parents arrived, and they helped calm my nerves. Neither of them “got” the painting, but they were proud of me.
That was the first time since grade school I’d felt like my mom wasn’t embarrassed to have me as her daughter, and I almost cried. But that wasn’t all. I got to meet some local artists and lots of buyers, some who’d even traveled from Colorado Springs. I received a lot of positive comments about my painting, even though I thought a lot of that was just people being nice.
Until I sold something, I was a tiny little nobody from Winchester, Colorado, and all the nice comments in the world wouldn’t change it.
Mom and dad left close to ten and I felt myself getting tired. I tried to relish the compliments I received rather than feel discouraged and jealous over the Sold signs I saw on other artists’ work.
This was the first time; it wouldn’t be the last.
So when I left the gallery around eleven that night, I felt happy and high. I finally felt like I was figuring out who I was and pursing what I wanted—and now I was going to go after the man.
Life couldn’t get much better than this.
Chapter Ten
I hadn’t realized till I drove there that David and Scott’s new place wasn’t too far from Sens Gallery. Like me, my friends had found a house rather than an apartment to rent—except theirs was part of a complex of about fifteen small homes that looked exactly the same except with a different number by the door. As I walked up to the front, I started wondering if I should have gone home first to change clothes, but I was already there.
I couldn’t tell the music inside was loud until I got to the front door and, once there, I rang the doorbell anyway. After no one answered the door, I wound up letting myself in. The living room, just inside, was halfway full, mostly of people I didn’t know. I looked around for a friendly face and didn’t find one, but someone did hand me a beer. Even though the place had people all over, I could tell they had furniture and a television in the living room, and the walls and built-in bookshelves were raw stained wood, giving it the feel of a cabin. It wasn’t as big as my place, but I’d lived in smaller. I finally ended up on the other side of the living room, and that was when David spied me from the kitchen. “Hey, Casey! We thought you’d never show up!” A couple of other guys from work were there—the assistant manager and another cook—but no one else I knew. There was one guy with long black hair in a corner, and I couldn’t remember for sure, but I thought he might have been the bassist in Scott’s band. “We’re playing quarters.” He took me by the arm and we made our way to the table, but I noticed my friend wasn’t too sure on his feet. He whistled while pulling out a chair for me. “Wow…don’t you look fantastic, girlfriend?” I looked down. Yeah, I did still look pretty good in my cocktail dress.
“Thanks. I stick out like a sore thumb, though.” I sat down next to David but kept looking around for Scott. I couldn’t see him anywhere, but I wasn’t about to ask.
“Not a sore thumb. A beautiful one.”
I laughed and then joined their game of quarters. I knew everyone at the table except for one girl sitting next to the assistant manager, but we were enjoying Metallica playing in the background and drinking heavily, the game of quarters an excuse to drink more than we would have normally. It didn’t take long before I was feeling a heavy buzz and, the more I drank, the worse I got at the game. And, of course, the worse I got, the more I had to drink, and, before I knew it, I was on the verge of drunk.
Even in that inebriated state, I was able to conclude that Scott definitely wasn’t around, but my heart urged me to keep looking for him anyway. David finally put his lips to my ear and asked, “You looking for someone?”
“You’re quite a detective.” I grinned, wondering why I hadn’t tried to be less obvious about it. “Maybe.”
David arched his eyebrows. “I get the feeling you’re looking for my roommate.”
A silly giddy feeling swarmed through my veins, and I tried to stop the giggle that popped out of my mouth to no avail. “Perhaps.”
Clearing his throat, David brought his lips close to my ear again. “He didn’t tell me this for sure, but I think he’d been waiting for someone, too, and was finally convinced she wasn’t coming. So I think he went to go play pool with Jim instead.”
His words sank in, and the effects of the alcohol magnified my disappointment. “Oh.”
“Sorry.”
I shrugged. I was a big girl. I tried to be satisfied knowing he’d maybe been waiting for me. That was a plus, right? But I used that as an excuse to drink more—way more than I should have—until I felt myself losing hold of reality, saw the edges of my world growing black.
* * *
I woke up surrounded by utter darkness, still in an alcoholic haze. As my eyes adjusted, I realized I was still at David’s house, but in the living room on the couch. A pillow cushioned my head and my shoes were off. A light blanket covered me.
And it was quiet.
It had to be David’s doing, a reflection of when he’d been drinking at my house a few weeks earlier.
I wondered how long I’d been lying there.
More importantly, I wondered if Scott was home.
Should I find my things and leave? I decided against it as my head started throbbing and drifted back to sleep.
Much later, I woke up again and forced my eyes to open, even though it seemed to be way too bright in there. My head was pounding, so I closed my eyes again and put my hands to my temples, trying to ease the ache. I lay there simply breathing for a long time, grappling with the fact that I hadn’t had a hangover of this magnitude in years.
Dummy.
After a while, I heard distant familiar voices. I strained past the pain so I could make out their words.
“So what the hell were you guys doing?”
“Just hanging out.”
“You should’ve come home earlier.”
“Yeah?” Oh. That was Scott’s voice, meaning…
“Yeah. Hold on.” The other one was David’s.
I heard footsteps, then whispering. Shit. Was David playing matchmaker again? I was so glad I wasn’t still sleeping. I bet I looked like shit, but had I been sleeping I would’ve looked even worse—snoring, with drool coming out of the corner of my mouth. Hungover me sleeping wouldn’t have been a pretty picture.
The footsteps grew closer now. And then I heard the creak of the coffee table as someone sat on it. The gig was up. I forced myself to open my eyes. Oh, fuck. It wasn’t David. It was Scott, and I had no doubt in my mind I looked like hell. Total utter hell.
Shit.
“Morning, sleepyhead.”
My stomach protested, but I forced myself to sit up. Then my head started throbbing. Pressing my hands into my temples to ease the pain, I said, “Morning.”
“Man, you are one fucked-up chick.”
“Please, don’t be so sympathetic. I don’t know how to handle that from you.”
He started laughing. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, Tylenol…a new head?”
I stood up, taking my time. “All of the above, please.”
Still chuckling, he said, “Coming right up.”
“I’ve got to use your restroom first, though.”
Once in the bathroom, I splashed cool water on my face. That alone made me feel more human. My mouth was so dry, it felt inhabited by cobwebs, so I sipped water out of my cupped hand and ran a finger over my teeth before shuffling to the kitchen. When David saw me, he said, “Ouch. You look like you’re not feeling too chipper.”
Dirty Boys: Bad Boy Rock Star Romance Box Set Page 97