Hung: A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance

by Sowood,Simone

  After a couple of wrong turns, I find my way to Lawson’s mansion. I get the painting out and balance it on one arm while I ring the doorbell.

  “Yes?” a man says as he opens the door.

  “I”m looking for Lawson.”

  “Mr Heywood isn’t home, would you like to leave that for him?” he asks, nodding toward the painting.

  I pause, debating, deciding.

  “No, it’s okay. He asked me to deliver this into his hands. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “He’s at work now, I don’t know how long he’ll be.”

  I have to try. “Oh, is he at the office?”

  “I believe he’s gone to the newest hotel for a meeting.”

  “Thanks.”

  I flop back in my car and take out my phone. A quick poke around on their website and I have the address for the latest hotel. And it’s local! I’d figured it would be in L.A. Or San Francisco or somewhere even further away.

  A local hotel is easy. I drive to it, wondering how big of a scene my presence will create. I don’t want anything public, that’d be humiliating.

  The hotel is super fancy looking. The kind of place only the rich can afford. It’s way smaller than I’d anticipated, with a stylish Georgian front.

  Even though I shouldn’t, I leave my car parked in front of the entrance, I’m surprised there’s no valet parking.

  I grab my painting, balancing it on both arms, like I’m delivering pizza. My purse is slung over my shoulder. Halfway between the car and the door, my phone rings. I ignore it and stroll inside.

  The lobby is subdued. Vases of fresh cut flowers fill the room with their scent.

  Busy rehearsing what I’m going to say, I only vaguely notice pictures in heavy frames around the room. It feels more like walking into a home than a hotel lobby.

  Halfway to the front desk, I realize the painting hung behind it is one of mine. A glance to the left shows me two more of my paintings along that wall. I come to a standstill and shift my body to the right. Two more of my paintings hang there, between the blue hydrangeas.

  My jaw drops. I can’t move, my feet are frozen to the ground.

  Why didn’t I know Lawson bought my paintings from Gordon? And why are they here, in the lobby of this beautiful hotel?

  “Can I help you?” the receptionist says from behind the desk. Her voice sounds faraway, as if in a dream.

  I don’t move. I can’t. Every part of me is frozen. No matter how long I stare at my paintings, my brain simply cannot compute what they mean.

  “Miss, are you looking for someone?” the receptionist says again.

  Why are my paintings on the wall? Lawson bought them. He hung them here. But why?

  Because, idiot, he likes them. He likes them enough that he bought them and put them on display in his newest hotel.

  But why didn’t he tell me? I would’ve accused him of only doing it because I’m fucking him. He tried so many times to convince me to let him help me and I’d always refused.

  And then he went ahead and did it anyway.

  The receptionist appears in front of me, a fake smile plastered across her face. She gestures to the painting in my arms. “Are you here to deliver that?”

  I blink, forcing myself to drag my focus away from my paintings.

  “Uh, yeah. I’m looking for Lawson Heywood.”

  “Mr Heywood is in a meeting, would you like to leave it at the desk?”

  “No,” I twist myself to put my body between her and my painting, “I have to give it to him myself.”

  “Sure, no problem. You’re welcome to take a seat anywhere while you wait.” She turns and hurries back to her position behind the desk.

  For all I know, his meeting is all day. Do I wait? I could sit in the car and wait. Maybe that’s better. I turn to face the doors.

  “Skye,” Lawson’s voice comes from behind me.

  I spin to look at him. He’s dressed in a dark suit, and my breath hitches at the sight of him. I vaguely register a shorter man standing beside him.

  “Lawson.” I’d planned to lecture him. To throw my painting in his face and make him feel my pain. But now that I’m looking at my paintings on the walls, I don’t know what to do.

  “Rick, this is Skye Simmons. The artist who created all these paintings.” He points to the walls.

  “You don’t need to tell me who Skye Simmons is, we have people asking about the artist of these paintings all the time.”

  My heart stops. Did I hear him right?

  “Excuse me? They do?”

  “Oh yes, we’ve had multiple people offering to buy them. I’ve had to get a stack of business cards from the Piek Gallery to give out.”

  A light goes on. That must be why people from all over the country are phoning Gordon.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Refusing to Let Go (Lawson)

  Skye hasn’t blinked since Rick first spoke. She looks like she’s in shock. I move to her side and put my arm around her.

  “Thanks for bringing your painting down. Come with me.” I turn to Rick, “Rick, you don’t mind if we use your office, do you?”

  I don’t wait for Rick’s response and guide Skye away.

  When I walked into the lobby and saw Skye standing there, my chest tightened. She sought me out. She fucking tracked me down and that thought alone lessens the weight that’s been pressing down on my shoulders.

  I hope she doesn’t see me here in a suit and on business and think I’ve pushed her behind me. I needed a distraction, is all. A distraction from the way she slammed the door on my face.

  The door to Rick’s office is propped open. We enter the room and I push the door shut behind us.

  We’ve only been open a couple of weeks, and his office glistens with brand spanking newness. It even smells new. A desk is along one wall, and a small, circular meeting table and chairs is in the corner.

  Skye still hasn’t spoken. I take the painting from her and set it on the table.

  It’s different from her other stuff, there’s no picture, just abstract blotches of paint. But it’s intriguing.

  I stare down at it, turning it in a clockwise motion, trying to figure out which way is up. The colors are subdued — there’s nothing bright or cheery about it.

  Her eyes are wide and her lips slightly parted. She’s examining me as I examine the painting. I don’t know what to make of it, other than that the longer I stare at it, the more my mood sinks.

  I shift my gaze to her. When our eyes catch, a lump instantly forms in my throat. I swallow to try to clear it. Her eyes betray a hundred emotions brewing inside her.

  Neither of us speaks. I lift my hand, hoping to find her cheek but instead settling on grasping her hand. My insides wrench, it feels like this is my chance, my one shot, at getting her back. There’s so much at stake, I can’t fuck this up.

  “This is great, thanks for bringing it. It’s different from your other stuff, but it’s just as powerful. Maybe even more so.”

  “I wanted you to see how you made me feel.” Skye’s voice is sharp, with much more confidence than I’d anticipated given how vulnerable she’s seemed since I found her in the lobby.

  “Yeah, I’m kinda feeling that way myself.”

  “Angry?”

  “Frustrated. Anger at myself.”

  “At least I’m not the only one who’s angry at you.”

  “Anger at myself for not being able to explain things better. For upsetting you. Believe me when I say the last thing I would ever want is for you to be hurt.”

  “Then why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you make me lose my job and not even care? Twice!” The volume of her voice increases.

  “It wasn’t intentional.” I squeeze her hand tighter, trying to hold onto her.

  “Why are my paintings hanging in the lobby?”

  “Because I like them, they’re perfect for our needs.”

  Skye squeezes her eyes shut. “But
why didn’t you tell me you bought them and were using them for your hotel?”

  “Because it would’ve pissed you off. And trust me, I never wanted to piss you off, even though I managed to anyway.”

  “You really like them?”

  “Do you think I’d hang them in my hotel if I didn’t? This is a new, boutique luxury range of hotels I’m rolling out. We charge a fortune for the rooms, and we can’t do that if the first things clients see when they come in is shit hanging on the walls.”

  She swallows, her eyes tracing my face. I release her hand, and run mine up her arm. Skye doesn’t resist when I hook it around her shoulder and pull her into me.

  My arms rise and fall with the heaviness of her breath. I nuzzle my face into her hair, inhaling her flowery shampoo. Whatever else, there’s no way I’m letting go of her now.

  I bring my mouth close to her ear, lower my voice, and say “I didn’t help you because I like making your body purr, I did it because you’re an amazing artist. It helped me more than you anyway. Your work has been a huge hit with clients. We get so many offers to buy them it’s difficult to say no.” I pause to clear my throat. “With any other artist, I would’ve sold them off. But because it’s you, I refuse to let go of them.”

  We fall into silence again. I hold her tighter, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other cupping her head.

  “But the other people who want to buy more from Gordon, are they all you? Do you just get different people to pose and buy them?”

  “Why would I do that? They’re competition for me.” Her breath stops at my words so I carry on. “The only other thing I’ve done, because it’s you, is to take myself out of the bidding war for your next painting. I did that for you, so other people would get to have your paintings all over the country, and so you wouldn’t think I was helping you. You’ve made it pretty clear you don’t want my help.”

  She shifts her head, and our eyes lock.

  “Those people are real?”

  “Why is it so hard for you to see how talented you are?”

  “People really want my work,” she states to herself.

  “Yes, they do.”

  “But I’ve been here so long, and only sold one painting that wasn’t to you.”

  “And that pisses me off. It stripped you of your confidence. You didn’t deserve what they did to you.” It makes my blood boil to think about how the people that were supposed to be helping launch her career stuck her in some obscure little low-end gallery.

  “What who did? What are you talking about?”

  “That gallery you’re in. It’s too low-end for your stuff. His customers aren’t looking to spend the kind of money your stuff should be going for. If you’d been in a high-end gallery with a bigger presence, your stuff would’ve sold like crazy. Whoever convinced you to sell through his small gallery didn't do you any favors. Using him gave you a steeper hill to climb.” I wonder if she’d ever had the same thought as me about it.

  “But,” she sighs, “I went through Gordon because Ava recommended him. She had such glowing things to say about him. Gordon always had such glowing things to say about me. I intentionally priced lower than what I thought I should be, considering the amount of time I spend on each piece, because I wanted to keep my art accessible.”

  “You have a decision to make. Do you want an art career, or do you want to spend all that time and money on supplies for nothing but the feeling of rejection?”

  “I don’t like feeling rejected.”

  “That’s why you don’t need Kelso. You’re too good to have your stuff locked away in his house. You’d never get discovered while creating stuff that’ll only be seen by that asshole.”

  “But you had no right to make that decision.”

  “I didn’t,” I say, my eyebrows arched.

  “You used me to get at him.”

  “No. I know the slimeball, I was trying to protect you from him.”

  “You were so, that’s why you came and did that to me in his bedroom.”

  “Skye, angel, I didn’t go there intending for that to happen. I couldn’t help myself, you’re too irresistible.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, don’t you think I would’ve brought a condom if that’s why I was there?”

  “Maybe. Yes. Unless…”

  “Unless nothing, why don’t you want to believe me? Because you believe him when he says I used you to get to him? I thought we got through that.”

  Skye looks at me, at the floor, around the room. I don’t think she knows what to believe, but I need her to believe me. I’m ready to tilt her head to mine and kiss her until she believes, but as I tighten my grip on her hair, she pulls away and drops into a chair.

  “I have to sit down.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It’s About Time (Skye)

  I pull away from Lawson and drop into the chair. With my face in my hands, I try to make sense of the past fifteen minutes of my life.

  The last thing I expected to see when I stormed into the hotel was my art, framed and displayed prominently in the lobby.

  The very last thing I expected to hear was the manager of the hotel telling me how many people offer to buy them from the hotel. Which explains why Gordon gets enquiries from all over the country.

  This morning, I thought everything in my life was lost. My parents were lost months ago. My career, which never really started, was lost when Kelso fired me. Lawson was lost, because I blame him for losing the Kelso job. I still blame him.

  Except now I see I didn’t need the Kelso job. I hated Kelso. I hated the idea of my work being locked up in some mansion. But I’d needed the money so bad. And I had my heart set on the gallery show.

  Meanwhile, I’d already been having my own gallery show, right here in this hotel. Lawson went and did it all without telling me. After I’d made it clear I didn’t want his help.

  I don’t understand how I feel or what to think.

  “I should be mad, but thank you,” I say, looking up at Lawson.

  “There’s nothing to thank me for.”

  “There is. You did so much for me, and I appreciate it. I really do.”

  “But?”

  “There’s no but. Not really.” I don’t think, anyway. Why did he do all this stuff for me? Why didn’t he tell me? Why did he do it when I told him not to help me? It’s so important for me to make it on my own.

  “It doesn’t seem like there’s no but.”

  “There isn’t. I don’t know what to think.” I really don’t. Every emotion in existence has coursed through my veins today. I’m already running on no sleep from last night. It’s like my brain has shut down, and all my emotions, heightened from exhaustion, are spinning at ninety miles an hour. I can’t make sense of anything.

  Lawson heaves a great sigh and sits at the table in the chair beside me.

  “Skye, this is killing me. I don’t know how to make you see how much I care about you. You don’t know what to think, but you’re in the driver’s seat here. I want you in my life. I need you in my life.” Lawson jams his fingers into his hair.

  My entire body is numb. I need time to think. The painting is near me, and I pull it in front of me. The pain and anguish I’d felt when I created it come flooding back. I wanted him to know the pain I felt. That’s what I came here for in the first place.

  “I just don’t know.”

  “You’re the only person I’ve ever felt this way about. The only person I’ve ever wanted.”

  “Yeah, you kind of know my background, so I know what you mean.” He obviously knows I’ve never had a serious boyfriend before. I wonder if he realizes I’ve never had any boyfriend before.

  “I flat out don’t know what to do. I’ve seriously never been in this situation before.”

  “Well neither have I.”

  “So why are you torturing us both?” He swallows, hard.

  I manage a weak smile. “It’s been a rollercoaster morning, my head is swimming. I
need time to clear my head.” Maybe I should go home and crawl into bed to digest everything.

  Pushing the chair back, I stand. My hands hesitate over the painting, unsure whether to take it with me or leave it for Lawson.

  “What are you doing?” His voice is strained and he puts his hand over mine. His touch is electric.

  “I need to go home, I need to figure things out.”

  “Listen, we put a magazine in all our luxury hotel rooms. Because this is our new flagship boutique hotel and your work is the star of the show, we’ve decided to run an article on you.”

  “An article? On me?” Through the chaos of my emotions, pride bubbles up to the surface.

  “Yes. You heard from Rick how much of a hit your paintings are. Will you at least let me interview you for the article?” Lawson shifts his weight. I can’t figure out if his voice is sharp from anger or frustration.

  My breathing is getting faster by the minute. I bite my lips between my teeth and sit back down.

  “Okay.”

  Lawson hasn’t let go of my hand, and I make no attempt to pull it away. Instead, I relish the warmth the contact from his hand is radiating throughout me.

  He clears his throat and asks, “Why do you paint?”

  “To convey my emotion.” It’s all I can think about, it’s the reason I came here. I wanted him to know my pain. Except, now that I’ve learned what he’s done, I need to paint another, to sort out my thoughts. My mind races at the prospect of a new painting, I see a lot of yellows and oranges in it. Would my brush ever reach for the blacks and blues?

  “Is that what this painting is about?”

  “Yeah. It’s a break from my usual style. Do you get any sense of emotion from this?”

  “It’s not very cheery.” Not very cheery? That’s an understatement.

  “Do you get heartache? Anguish?”

  “Yes, I’m absolutely feeling those things.”

  “The feeling of being used?”

  “No, there’s none of that. That situation definitely doesn’t exist.” He squeezes my hand to emphasis his point. I want to lean into him, to let him hold me while I digest everything that’s happened.