ME: The Complete Series

by Logan Chance

“What you don’t like it?” I ask. “I love the colors. The vibrant blues. The dark yellows.”

  “Can I be honest?” I nod. “It doesn’t really look like the middle of the ocean.” He cringes.

  “Well, maybe they aren’t even near the ocean. The person might be making a statement: Let’s walk to the middle of the ocean. Doesn’t mean they did.”

  He stands, stalking closer to the painting. “Oh, wait.” He leans his head in closer. “This little black smidge looks like a person, in the middle of the ocean.”

  I follow him. “No, it doesn’t.” It really doesn’t. “I’m not even sure if the blue is the ocean.”

  Pollux steps closer. “Of course, it is. And this blob right here,” he points to the yellow splatters of paint, “I think those are the rocks, or shore.”

  I laugh. “You’re too literal. I think the artist is asking someone to do the impossible. Think about it, no one can walk to the middle of the ocean. So, he’s asking for the impossible. Let’s do something that can’t be done.”

  “Do the impossible. I like that.”

  “It’s stunning.” I step back, admiring the piece again.

  “Honestly, I’ve never really thought about it. Like this one here,” he moves to another framed painting, “it looks like random numbers and letters on a blank sheet of paper. Any kid past kindergarten could do this.”

  “Ah, yes. Christopher Wood. Yeah, I’m not a fan.”

  “I mean the guy couldn’t even be bothered to title his artwork. That’s too busy to tie your shoes busy,” he says, crossing his arms as he studies the piece.

  “Maybe that’s his uniqueness shining through,” I say, returning to the blanket.

  “You’re good at interpreting art. I guess I’ve never really been a fan.” He joins me on the blanket, stretching out his long legs.

  “Of course, you are. You have all that vibrant artwork all over your body.”

  He removes his shirt, and I nearly choke on my wine. “How would you interpret what you see?”

  “Hmm,” I take in each tattoo all connected in some way: the cross, the words scrawled along his chest, tribal designs down his arm, and a lion on his bicep. “I think it all works well together.”

  “What does it say to you?”

  “Well, I think it shows anger or fear. The cross is someone dear to you that you lost. The words mean you will carry out what he or she couldn’t. Then, the lion. The most relentless fighter. It represents courage and overcoming difficulties. I don’t really know, though.”

  He stares at me, quiet for a moment too long. “Wow, you should charge money for that.”

  I laugh. “Oh, stop.”

  He pulls his shirt back on. “I just thought the lion was cool. That’s why I got him.”

  I want to ask him about the cross, the person he lost, but he surprises me by opening up.

  “Her name was Harper. She was my little sister.”

  “You don’t need to talk about it, if you don’t want.” I feel bad for souring the mood.

  He takes my out. “Fucking art, right?”

  “It’s very deep, I know.” I smile wide, and Pollux laughs.

  We continue eating, laughing over art interpretations and life. I want him to open up to me about his sister, but only when he’s ready.

  The past few weeks with Pollux have been an exciting whirlwind of fun and sex. So much sex. I almost introduced him as my fuck-ce. After the latest charity event, he leads me to the waiting town car. We head back to my place in a frenzy of kisses and moans that continues all night long. The silent push and pull of everything I want in this life that I can’t have weighs on me as we hold each other in the twilight hours.

  How can I have him?

  “Will you show me your artwork?” he asks.

  “I’ve never shown anyone.” I want to show him, I want to give him this part of me. But, fear envelops me. It’s something private I use to release pent up emotions.

  Travis never understood my love for art. Not that he cared about anything that interested me. He thought it was a senseless hobby.

  A hobby that wouldn’t amount to much. And I’ve always kept it hidden, afraid everyone would feel that way. Sometimes we let people make us believe the lie. They’re just that good.

  The painting in my living room isn’t even signed by me. And whenever anyone asks I never say a word. When they say it’s beautiful, I smile. They don’t know the beauty came from hurt. From finding out the man you married was a manipulative cheater, and realizing there is a difference between love and the fantasy of love.

  All those emotions were thrown onto the canvas in a swirl of reds, blues, and yellows. Anger, melancholy, and hope, weeping down the canvas. Pollux saw the sadness. It reminded him of tears. And honestly, it terrified me. It was as if he saw right into my soul.

  “Well, I’d love to see some,” he says. “If you want.”

  I rise from the bed and put on my robe. “Ok, get dressed and follow me.”

  He raises a brow. “Where is this artwork?”

  I smile. “You’ll see.”

  A few minutes later, I lead him down the hall and through a doorway. A short staircase later, and we exit onto the roof of the building.

  “It’s nice up here,” he says, glancing out at the magnificent view of the city.

  “Follow me.” I lead him to a large shed and open the lock with my key.

  When we step through, he’s quiet as he studies each piece of abstract art.

  He’s taken by one piece mixed with purples and blues on a large canvas. “Tell me about this one,” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder.

  I step closer. “Ah, this was a very somber time in my life. My brother had just lost his son, my baby nephew.”

  “How old was he?”

  My chest aches. I run my fingers along the dried paint, remembering. “Six. Way too young to be taken from this world. He was such a great kid. So cute and funny.”

  He wraps his strong arms around me and rests his chin on my head. Tears well in my eyes. “I painted this not long after.”

  “You can really feel the sadness from the piece.”

  “I miss him.”

  “I know. After Harper died a few years ago,” he says, quietly, stepping from our embrace, “I didn’t ever like talking about it. Sometimes I still don’t.”

  “I’m sorry.” The pain in his eyes hurts my heart. “Don’t you hate sorry?”

  “Yeah. It was a bad time for all of us. I just remember it was too soon for her to die. She had so much more life to live.”

  “I know it’s hard.” I run a hand down his arm. “Death is horrible.”

  “Well, death is quick. It’s the living who suffer.” He grabs the rosary around his neck. “This was hers.” He rubs the onyx beads through his fingers.

  “It’s lovely.”

  “She was an artist like you,” he tells me. “She liked to draw. She was gifted. I saved all of her drawings.”

  My chest aches for him. “Maybe someday you can show me.”

  “Someday.” He looks back over to my paintings. “So why don’t you sell the artwork? I’m sure your friends would pay a lot to own these.”

  I shake my head. “No, I’d never do that.”

  He grabs another canvas, gazing at the autumn colors. “I think you’re very talented.”

  I don’t know how to handle his praise. No one has ever critiqued my art. “Thanks,” I say, softly.

  “Why do you want to be partner so much?”

  His question takes me by surprise. “Uh, because? I’m not really sure. Isn’t that the goal? Work hard and be promoted?”

  “Just seems to me that you’re so busy proving yourself to others that you’re not really proving yourself to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He steps closer, running his hands up my arms. “Passion, Katy. What fires you up? Does painting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Show me.”

  I pick up
a canvas and drop some paint onto my palette. He steps back, watching every move I make as I gather all the brushes I like working with and set everything in order.

  He’s right. The fire lights deep in my soul when I make my first mark. “I have an idea.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  I smile. “Take off your clothes, and sit down.”

  He raises a brow, but in two minutes he’s sitting nude on the sheet spread out on the floor. His body is its own work of art.

  I grab the body paint from my drawer and squirt some on a fresh palette.

  “I’m trusting you,” he says.

  I take his words to heart. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe they’re just words people throw around. But, to me, they’re everything.

  I remove my robe.

  We sit together, intertwined legs, and I brush a stroke of red paint along his perfect abs.

  “That’s cold,” he says, flinching slightly.

  He dips his fingers into the blue, and smears the paint along my neck and right shoulder.

  He leans in, kissing me. Our hands paint every emotion we have for each other all over our skin.

  Reds. Blues. Yellow. We are covered in colors as he lies me back.

  “You’re drop-dead gorgeous,” he says, cupping my face in his large hands.

  I run my hand through his jet-black hair. It feels good to open myself up to someone. To him. I’m not some stuck-up socialite princess like people think I am.

  No, Pollux sees me for who I am.

  He moves over me, kissing my lips, sucking them into his mouth, nibbling the corners. Our tongues meet, speaking unspoken feelings. This is what it means to give yourself to someone completely.

  I pull him closer, digging my nails into his skin.

  He groans near my ear, and his hips press into mine. He spreads my legs, and I close my eyes, overcome by fear of feelings I can no longer deny. “I’m trusting you,” I whisper. “Can I?”

  “Always,” he moans before running his hands up my abdomen to my full breast.

  The colors swirl together, creating divine art.

  Chapter 12

  Pollux

  Pollux

  This is the hottest sex I’ve ever had. When she first asked to smear paint on me, I almost told her no.

  But, the look on her face. The desire in her eyes. I realized, I’d do anything for her.

  The swell of her breasts is best in red. Her legs in deep blue.

  She’s my own little masterpiece, and I can’t wait to sink deep into her. Have her take me all.

  I move the colors around on her body; she’s the perfect canvas. I can’t stop staring at her.

  The colors.

  The beauty.

  The girl of my dreams.

  Waiting and ready for me. Her eyes call to me, begging me to bring her pleasure. Begging me to take her. I grip her nipple between my fingers with one hand, rubbing, snapping, and pinching slightly.

  She moans.

  She belongs to me.

  And I’ll do whatever I can to make it real.

  Our bodies move together through the night. Making love, being together, uniting our souls.

  When we finish, I take her downstairs and right into the shower, where I do it all again.

  At a banquet dinner a few days later, I put on a smile, chatting away to some of Katy’s coworkers, and potential future employees of mine, while she works the room. As a pending partner, she needs to make sure she’s always schmoozing the right people. It’s fun to watch her glide around the room. The sparkling lights of the chandeliers reflect off her black curls. Watching her out there, knowing I’ve touched her in places other men could only dream of, makes me the proudest motherfucker here tonight.

  James steps up to the podium and drones on about work policies and how happy he is everyone is having a good time. As he speaks about the upcoming holiday, I wonder, what do you get for the girl who has everything?

  She walks over and sits next to me. “I’m tired.”

  “I bet. You’ve been the social butterfly all night. Eat.” I push her untouched salad closer to her.

  Her nose scrunches in the cutest way. “Thanks. I could use some real food.”

  “Katy, I want to keep doing this,” I admit.

  She sets her fork down. “Doing what?”

  She has to know what I mean. Maybe she doesn’t want it, though. But, I remember the other night, and the feelings I’ve been pushing away come to surface.

  I take the leap, hoping she wants it too. “Seeing you. I want to be with you.”

  I don’t know how it would work or if I would even buy this company anymore. I wouldn’t, if she didn’t want me to.

  But, a part of me believes being partner isn’t really what she wants.

  She smiles. “I’d like that, too.”

  I release a breath. Thank fucking God.

  I grab her hand, bringing it to my lips and place a soft kiss against her skin.

  At the end of the night, Katy and I head back to her place.

  Together.

  Like a real couple.

  Like a dream, I’ll try my hardest to make into a reality.

  It can work. I’ll relocate from Chicago if I must.

  Chapter 13

  Katy

  He carries me inside and deposits me on the couch. One drawback of these events is standing in heels. I can barely walk by the end of the night.

  Pollux lifts my feet to his lap. “Does this feel better?” he asks, massaging my soles with his skilled hands.

  “Ahh, yes. I’ve never had anyone give me a foot massage.” Sure, during pedicures, but never has a man done this for me.

  Travis couldn’t be bothered with me. With him, I was more of an accessory. Arm candy. The perfect little trophy wife.

  Until, one day, I couldn’t do it anymore.

  “Your ex never did this?”

  “No, he didn’t like me much.” And that’s the truth. “Our divorce was rough. But, I’m happier,” I say, leaning back into the softness of the sofa.

  “He married you. I don’t think he’d marry you if he didn’t like you.” His eyes are so earnest, like he actually believes in the fairy tale. Unfortunately, I know they don’t exist.

  “Oh, please. He liked my social standing. He liked my background. He thought we’d make a good fit.”

  “And he didn’t like that you painted?”

  “No. But, I love it.”

  He smiles, shaking his head. “Have you ever thought about opening your own gallery. I bet you’d be amazing.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “I just think you’d love it. Do you love working for Masters?”

  I stare at him for a moment. “I thought I did. But, now I’m not so sure.”

  A smile appears on his handsome face. “I think you’d be happier painting. Maybe you should think about it.”

  I run my finger over my bottom lip, and his eyes glaze over, watching the movement. I love the way he stares at me. It makes my insides warm. “Honestly, when I first left my husband, Travis, I was so worried about what people thought of me. I wanted to prove myself to everyone I could do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Be a success.”

  “Katy, I don’t think you even know how to fail.”

  “Thanks. I don’t know why I let him get to me so bad.”

  “It’s natural to want to show off to an ex. But, I think you’ve proven yourself. Fuck him. I’m sure your family is very proud.”

  I smile, wide. I can’t contain the tingles racing atop my skin. “Yeah, probably so. I was a good wife to the wrong man. I bet if I had the right man, I’d be a great wife.”

  He hisses, low. “You’d be an amazing wife.”

  “Well, look at you, Mr. Rub My Feet All Night Long, you’d make a mighty fine husband,” I say, laughing.

  “Well, this is all new to me. I’ve never had a serious relationship.”

  My breath hitches. Are we in a relationshi
p? I want to be. I smile, trying to keep it to myself as my insides flutter with happiness. I feel like a school-aged girl.

  He doesn’t notice, and I change the subject. “Where do you live? I’m sure your home isn’t the Plaza.”

  He smiles. “No, I don’t live at the Plaza. I’m currently working out of Chicago.”

  “What do you do?”

  He stops rubbing, taking a moment to answer. “I run a company there.”

  It must be some company for him to be as successful as he is. “Why are you in New York?”

  “Just scoping things out for business.” He moves on to my other foot, kneading it in the same fashion as the other.

  His hands are magic, relaxing me, and I close my eyes. My thoughts drift to opening a gallery.

  It would be unbelievable.

  Why had I never thought of this before?

  A gallery.

  I already know a ton of vendors and could host my own gallery events.

  And as far as the artwork, well, I have more than enough art to make any gallery shine.

  But, fear sets in.

  Putting myself out there? Letting random strangers see a piece of my soul? Critique it? It’s not the same as being evaluated at how I close a business deal. My art is personal. Could I do that?

  Maybe. I don’t know.

  Later that night, when he’s deep inside me, his eyes never leave mine.

  He gazes at me as he thrusts into me, slowly. It’s different than before. More connection. More passion. My mind swims with possibilities.

  And after we finish, and in the deepest hour of the night, he holds me so close. Tighter than he ever has before. He whispers sweet nothings in my ear, making me feel things I never thought possible.

  And before I succumb to the night, when my eyelids are heavy, he tells me he needs me. He tells me I’m the only person to make him feel anything again.

  I fall asleep, praying for the fairy tale.

  The next morning, Pollux surprises me with breakfast in bed.

  “Don’t think I cooked any of this. I ordered in,” he says, smiling, as he sets a silver tray, laden with pancakes, fruit, and eggs on my lap.

  “This is so sweet,” I tell him.

  “I have a few errands to run, but can I come back by later?” he asks, leaning in to kiss my forehead.