by K. L. Jessop
“Is it a case of he’s not willing to or is unsure how to?” The question, I believe, is a little forward, but if I’m going to be working alongside Dexter, I’m going to need to know the sort of man he is if I can’t seem to ask him myself.
“Both. Dexter is all about the art, it draws him into his own world, so everything else around him kinda gets forgotten. He needs someone beside him willing to help him do the business side of things while he can carry on and work.”
“I tried to research him online, but I came up with nothing other than a few works of art that I was unsure were even his.”
“Yeah, he’s not one for wanting to be known, and I’ve told him that will have to change if he wants to earn a living.”
Why doesn’t he want to be known?
I nod with a smile, itching to get started but having no idea where to begin. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. The best thing to get up and running is social media as it’s the way forward with anything these days. People need to be able to find him and know where to go to look at his stuff.” I pause and take another look around this building that holds so much potential. “And if he doesn’t want it as an open gallery, it would make a great pit-stop for those coming to collect commissions—a few designs on the wall… It will also give them an insight into what else he can do. Depending on where he feels more comfortable at work, it would be great if they saw him in action, too.”
Looking back at Emmet, he stands with a shit-eating grin on his face. “You see, that’s why I hired you. Something told me you’d have a better idea than me.”
“It needs a woman’s touch.” I tease. With that, I hear movement from the floor above before a groan fills the stairwell. Emmet instantly leaves my side and heads towards who I assume is Dexter, saying something to him quietly as I stand there in anticipation, waiting to be greeted.
My nerves have unexpectedly taken flight and I bite down on my lip, but it’s not until Emmet speaks that I find myself in a puddle of anxiety.
“Dex, this is Pepper, your new assistant. Pepper, the man himself.”
My eyes take him in from the floor up. He stands barefoot in black jeans that are ripped at the knees. The light grey T-shirt he’s wearing is covered in paint, holes in places along with a bigger one at the bottom of the hem. His physique is something else: the muscles of his biceps pop out from under his shirt, and I can only imagine his torso is as spectacular. But when my eyes land on his face, that’s when I lose every bit of air from my lungs as I’m taken aback at how ruggedly beautiful he is. His long, brown unruly hair hits his shoulders—his beard just as wild. However, it’s his eyes that tell me so much more when I know so little. He’s a mess, but a beautiful mess—one that makes him look like a god. As he looks in my direction, I can see that there is more behind the artist standing in front of me, and what shakes me to my core is his solid stare that makes my skin tingle all the way to my toes. It’s both unnerving and electric, and I blink hard to break the connection.
“Nice to meet you, Dexter.” I smile, going over to him to greet him properly. His eyes drop to my hand that’s now extended and I wait for him to shake it. When he does and our hands lock, a jolt of something travels through me, leaving my body with a sensation I can’t understand. His eyes seem to darken with my touch and his jaw muscles move as though he’s fighting something.
Without a word to me, he drops my hand and turns back to Emmet, his following words rude and uncalled for. “I said I didn’t need a damn PA.” The blunt reaction crushes everything I’m feeling, and I quickly lower my hand, frozen in place.
“Dexter, we discussed this.” Emmet sighs and I try to offer reassurance.
“I’m a quiet worker. You won’t know I’m here.”
His hot glare slices through me before he turns away from us both and heads back up the stairs. Never in my life has a man ever made me experience so many emotions in a matter of seconds and as much as it has made me feel uncomfortable, I want them all over again despite the annoyance that’s beginning to build inside with his curt introduction.
I turn to Emmet who has an apologetic look on his face along with a flat smile. “Sorry. He’s not really a morning person.”
No shit.
“Neither am I, but I’m not rude with it.” The words are out of my mouth before I have the chance to stop them, but I don’t apologise. Malcolm had been right: this guy is an arsehole and I have every right to turn and walk away. But I need this job. So, Dexter Wilson is going to have to get used to the fact I’m sticking around.
And more importantly, he’s met his match.
Chapter Four
Dexter
Her stare had held so much strength it had kept me captive far longer than I intended giving her eye contact. I don’t want anyone here—I especially don’t want her here—but in the split second that I looked across the gallery, I’d felt my guard fall and I was lost.
The purest thing I had ever seen stared back at me with long dark hair and a smile that would make any man cave. And then, when her small hand had pressed against mine and her crystal blue eyes held me with even more conviction, something had shifted inside that I’d never known was there. I don’t know what it was, but I’d felt it at the bottom of my soul, and I swear she’d been able to read every dark, putrid part of the man I have become.
I’ve never given two shits about my appearance, but in that instance, where she’d managed to make time stand still, I’d never been more ashamed, and because of that, I loathe this whole situation I’ve suddenly been forced into.
Slamming the door behind me, I amble across the wood floor to my mattress and lay down, trying to shift this unwanted feeling her eyes have had the power to create. My own eyes are heavy, my body nothing but a dead weight of exhaustion and demons—demons that continue to eat away cavities of my soul little by little until eventually there will be nothing left but the ashes of a lost cause that dwels in my twisted existence. One that happily feeds my own terrors just to keep them talking.
I need a drink.
Reaching for the bottle of JD that’s jumbled up in my covers, I groan in frustration and let it fall from my grip when I realise it’s empty, clearly having finished it off last night before I crashed on the mattress. To many, this bed of mine is nothing but a poor excuse for a resting place that belongs in the gutter, but to me, it’s everything I’ve never had and more valuable than I deserve.
My mind doesn't appear to be as raw as yesterday but it’s not respectfully pleasant either. I’m hungover and grouchy. I’m often fucking grouchy. I rarely sleep when the darkness hits because my thoughts are on a sickening spinning wheel that never stops until I fall into a whiskey-filled coma.
Thoughts of her.
Thoughts of what I should have done.
Thoughts of what I didn’t do.
Thoughts of what may have been.
Thoughts of what should have been.
Her scream.
Her cry.
Her.
It all rotates in my mind on a constant loop, and nothing and no one can calm the raging storm inside—not even my meds.
Damn. Fucking. Meds.
I sigh at the thunderous sound of boots coming up my stair, and I close my eyes, not wanting to participate in what’s about to go down.
The slam of the door fills the air before his foot kicks the mattress. “What the fuck was that?” The anger in his tone says it all, but his words come out in a harsh whisper, clearly not wanting to let his new friend hear how pissed he is. Like I give a fuck.
“Go away, Emmet.” I keep my eyes closed as I twist the ends of my long hair between my finger and thumb. The last thing I want to do is sit and play introduction parties with a pretty girl and pretend that my life is a bed of fucking roses when it’s nothing but thorns and fire. I just want to drink away the torment and paint out the memories on paper—paint another portrait to add to the collection that only Emmet knows about. I want to lock myself away in that very room an
d let the haunts drip from the tips of my fingers as I reminisce of a time when I felt more alive than I do right now, surrounded by the shrine of the only woman who has played a massive part in my life and has resulted in me being the guy that everyone hates. Guilt can do some shit to you, let me tell you.
“It’s Pepper’s first day.”
“I came down, didn’t I?”
“That’s beside the fucking point, Dexter, and you know it.”
Dexter. My full name that falls from his lips makes me smirk internally. He only calls me that when he’s really pissed off with me.
Oh, dear, Daddy Emmet is cross with me.
Opening my eyes, I look up to find him staring down at me with a thunderous glare, his jaw tight, his fist clenched even tighter.
“I feel like shit,” I admit, hating the continuation of these days that suppress me. I’m not much better on my good days, but at least I can get out of bed.
“No one made you drink except you. I’ve told you before: you may think it is, but alcohol is not the answer.”
Nothing ever is.
“I was having a bad day. I still am,” I growl, the anger beginning to boil inside with each second that he stands over me like I’m a child.
“I thought you were getting over that episode. Have you taken your meds?”
Push.
Push.
Push.
That’s all he seems to do on days like this. He never stops and he sure as hell doesn’t understand. I don’t want to see people when I’m like this. I want to be alone so I can be surrounded by my own shadows, let them talk to me once again and remind me of what a worthless piece of trash I am—that trying to make something of myself is pointless when I hadn’t even been able to do one thing right all that time ago.
All Emmet does is try to stop me from falling down into this spiral of depression, and I get it, but when you’re a lifetime down the line with no change it’s really. Fucking. Irritating.
“I can’t just turn it off, Emmet. It’s not that easy.”
“And I get that. But regardless of that, walking out on someone who is here to help you make something of yourself is out of order. Pepper has no idea what goes on in your head, and if you want her to ask questions then carry on. Otherwise, get your shit together.”
That’s all it takes to have me jump to my feet in a flash as the fury inside channels through my veins with his words and the constant pressure. My eyes are ablaze, jaw tight as my fists clench at my sides, trying my damn hardest for them not to raise any higher and make contact with his face.
He stands dead straight, not at all fazed by my sudden reaction, but when his hand presses against my chest to stop me, it also tells me he’s unsure of my unpredictability.
He should be. Even I am unsure at times just what lengths I can be driven to.
He pushed me once before, and the outcome hadn’t been pleasant. He’d ended up battered, bloodied and bruised while I’d sat on the floor and cried out the regret of my actions. Only then, he’d never truly known my hell hole of a story and I’d never truly knew what was going on in my head. But for some reason, he’d seen something in me. He’d saved me from being sent to prison. He’d stayed silent, lied to others when they asked questions—lied to the law and had gone against everything he’d trained for to save my skin when I’d deserved nothing but the punishment I should have had.
I’m grateful, don’t get me wrong, but when I’m a mess, even I don’t know what the hell I’m doing so I sometimes wonder if I’d be better off behind those bars where I’d be able to sit and feed these damn fuckers that take over my mind.
Now, as well as being a complete headcase with nothing to offer anyone other than a run-down apartment and a few paintings I’m reluctant to sell, I’ve also been fucking labelled.
I push my finger into the solidness of his chest and grit out my words, hating that I’ve let this disease get the better of me once again. “You and I both know that when the bad days take over, I can’t just get my shit together. You’ve got no fucking idea, Emmet, so don’t you dare come in here and tell me what to do when you had no right to hire someone I. Don’t. Fucking. Need.”
His eyes hold mine, and I’m suddenly envious of the deep breath that left his lungs because I’d give anything to feel that release—have all my trouble leave my body like his clearly left his. The reason I know they have is because his eyes have now softened, and we are back to that look that pisses me off every time.
Raising his hand slowly, his fingers wrap around mine that still press against his chest, gently pushing me back. He doesn’t break eye contact when he speaks, and his low tone is soothing but it doesn’t stop the knife twist inside of me, reminding me that I’m fucked up and will never be free.
“I apologise. It was wrong of me to say that. But you’ve got Bipolar, Dexter, and I’m sorry if you disagree but that does not give you the excuse to act like a prick. Pepper is here to help and will still be here tomorrow and the next day if you haven’t scared her off already.”
Bipolar.
Bi-fucking-polar.
Why does he always remind me?
His hand cups my shoulder in a reassuring grip. “I can’t always be around, Dex. I have work. We need her.”
My body starts to relieve the tension and I step back, looking to the floor and wanting it to open and swallow me. “What will you tell her?”
“I’ll make up some excuse like I always have to do. Now do yourself a favour: take your damn meds and take a shower, or at the very least, get some sleep.”
He steps away, heading to the kitchen to put on the kettle like this little confrontation never happened, and as much as it drives me insane that he can turn a blind eye, it also calms me somehow. It’s like he knows it’s needed, and I hate that he can read my warped behaviours better than I can.
When I enter the bathroom, I turn on the shower to let the water get hot before stepping out of my jeans and T-shirt, letting them fall in a pool on the hardwood floor. My temper from just now quickly turns on the downward spiral that always follows as I stand looking at myself in the mirror fixed to a paint-flaking wall. The apartment may be my home but the surroundings reflect how I feel.
Empty.
Broken.
Tarnished.
Everywhere you look, there are cracks that can’t be fixed and holes that are irreparable. And I’m grateful because after a life living on the streets, this place is a kingdom. But the ache inside my heart and the ice that settles in my stomach is far worse than any night out in the cold.
As the steam from the shower starts to creep across the mirror, my emotions get the better of me and I come down hard and fast. I don’t need any damn meds. They don’t change a thing. The unpredictability of this disease is exhausting. It’s not an illness, not in my eyes. No amount of treatment can change who I am, and I hate it. I’m nothing but a worthless arsehole.
I'm the worst version of myself.
As I step into the warm spray of the shower, my body falls into a depressive state, and I have no control over the battles that have consumed my thoughts for days. Pressing my hands against the cold wall, I close my eyes and let the water pour over my head, and like I know it will—like it always does—my mind fills with nothing but her and my body erupts with hot tears.
Tessa.
My beautiful baby sister.
I long to hold her, have her in my arms and guard her like I’d always promised I would.
But I’d failed.
And it’s why I’ve become the brute I am today.
No matter how many raindrops fall and soak into the thin fibres of my clothes when I lay outside, or how many times I try to wash the darkest parts of my life off my skin, they only come back twice as hard, continuing to suck the moisture through the cracks of what I’ve become, torturing my tarnished soul with a deadly thirst that can never be tamed.
I was wronged.
I have lost.
I am lost.
&nbs
p; But instead of trying to fix myself, I’ve given in to the battle and have become the fucking monster my mother always said I would.
Chapter Five
Pepper
“Helloha,” Malcolm sings, arriving at the table where I’m sitting with two cocktails. We are in The Yard Bar in Soho, a gay bar where I am in no doubt that every guy in here has got Mal’s number. I left Dexter a note earlier to say I’d finished for the day before locking up the gallery with the key Emmet had provided and then promptly texted Malcolm an SOS, demanding drinks before going home to freshen up.
As first days go, today has been long and exhausting to say the least, where I feel like I achieved nothing.
“How was your first day?”
“Terrible.”
“Oh? What happened.”
Dexter Wilson happened.
How can one man manage to piss me off and make me want to climb him like a tree at the same time?
But those eyes.
They’re all I can see every time I close my own, and for some reason are the only reason I’d stayed rooted to my chair all day when I could easily have walked out without a care in the world. And why do I care? I know nothing about this man.
“You were right. He’s an arsehole.” I sigh, half-slumped over the table as I roll my straw between my fingers.
“Oh. Didn’t start off good then?” He looks at me with eyes that scream I told you so.
“It hardly started at all. He came down, gave me a handshake, grunted he didn’t need a PA and then went back upstairs. Never to be seen for the rest of the day.”
“So that’s it? You’re jobless again?”
I cut him a look. “When I’m yet to get my inner bitch out as you call it? Hell no. I’ll be back in the morning to brighten up Mr Sunshine’s day all over again.”
“Wow. Get you.” He takes a long suck on the straw before his eyes turn inquisitive and he leans forward. I already know the question that’s coming—the man is gay for Christ sakes. “So… we’ve established that he’s an arsehole. But how hot is this arsehole?” He wiggles his brows and I grin.