by Megyn Ward
“Cari’s ex-boyfriend,” I tell her. “The guy who almost ripped her arm off the night you and I met.”
Recognition dawns on her face and she turns, looking toward the empty space where James’ car had been parked just a few seconds ago. “That was him?” she says, looking back at me with wide eyes. “He works for my dad?”
The kids are done and Declan is rounding our team up on the other side of the field around an ice chest full of water. “I don’t know why else he’d be here, wearing a LH&H shirt, do you? I mean,” I laugh and shake my head. “It’s not like he has any fucking kids.”
“My parents are divorced. I grew up in Chicago. Before I came here for college, I saw my father twice a year.” Sara narrows her eyes at me. “I have no idea who works at his firm and who doesn’t,” she says, jerking her chin at a park worker laying chalk lines on one of the neighboring ball fields. “For all I know, that guy over there just made junior partner.”
It isn’t her anger that deflates me. It’s the hurt I see on her face when she realizes what I’m accusing her of. That she somehow set this whole thing up. “I’m sorry, Sara,” I say, reaching out to give her hand a quick squeeze. “He caused a lot of trouble for Cari, for a long time. Seeing him here was a surprise.” And not the good kind, either.
Sara nods. “Maybe he was just here to watch the game,” she says, offering an explanation. It makes sense. James was a climber and the firm-sponsored team was coached by a founding partner’s daughter. It could be that he was here to kiss ass. Use the game as a way to get in good and score points with Sara’s dad. It made total sense. Exactly the kind of thing a guy like James would do.
I’m not buying it for a second.
“You’re probably right,” I say, smiling in an attempt to put the last few minutes behind us. “Burgers and beers at Gilroy’s?”
“It was a tie,” Sara says, giving me a relieved smile. She’s as eager to put it behind it as I am.
“That’s why we’re going Dutch,” I tell her, starting to walk away, toward where Declan is collecting equipment and passing out water. “Meet you there in thirty minutes?”
She laughs. “Last one there buys the beer?”
I grin at her over my shoulder. “You’re on.”
Forty-two
Cari
I can hear them as soon as I open the front door to our apartment. Laughter. Music. The loud clack of pool balls. The smell of burgers cooking on the flat grill. Gilroy’s is closed on Sunday but what good is having access to the family bar if you don’t abuse your privileges every once in a while?
“Sounds like a party,” Chase says on the stairs behind me. “Are we invited?”
Even though I’m not entirely sure we are, I nod my head and laugh. “Being a member has its privileges.”
The first thing I see when I hit the ground floor is Conner and Tess playing pool. As usual, they’re bickering over something. When she sees me, Tess straightens up from a bend and gives me a look before aiming one at the bar. I follow her gaze and my stomach does a slow roll before slamming itself into my throat. Sara is sitting there, talking to Patrick while he makes drinks. He’s laughing at something she’s saying and he slides a college girl special across the bar. As soon as he sees me, he stops laughing, letting his gaze settle on Chase. “Hey, man,” he says, recovering quickly. “Want a beer?” He smiles while he says it but I saw it in his eyes. He’s jealous. Knowing that shouldn’t make me feel good, but it does.
Behind me, Chase laughs and leans over my shoulder. “Tell me again about how you’re not his type,” he says in my ear before straightening himself to walk around me to approach the bar. “Sure,” he says, taking the stool next to Sara while Patrick draws him a beer.
“Cari?” Patrick says, looking at me, a glass in his hand. He’s asking me if I want to a drink.
“No, thanks,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ll take a burger though.” I say it loud, so Declan can hear me in the kitchen, my request answered with a far-off laugh. I know it’s Declan in the kitchen. If given the choice, it’s where he prefers to spend him time when he’s working a shift at Gilroy’s. I think it’s because it keeps him sequestered and away from Tess when she’s here but that’s just my guess.
Leaving Patrick and Chase at the bar with Sara, I make my way to the pool table where Tess is waiting for me.
“Well, that was quick,” she says as soon as I’m within earshot and I give Conner a quick look to see if he’s listening. He looks focused on lining up a shot but I know him. He’s listening to every word we say.
“What?” I say, even though I’m certain I don’t want to know what she’s talking about.
“Second date with Mr. Arty-fartsy in less than 24-hours,” she says, she leans against the pool table and arches an eyebrow in my direction. “You worked Cap’n out of your system in record time.” Behind her, Conner takes his shot and sinks a solid.
“His name is Chase. And we’re just friends,” I say quickly when I see the smirk on Tess’s face.
Conner proves he’s eavesdropping by laughing out loud. “I swear, I’ve heard that somewhere before,” he says, cocking back his cue before letting it fly, breaking up a tight cluster of balls at the other end of the table.
His words, and the meaning behind them, stain my cheeks a bright red. “He wants to show my work at the charity benefit he’s putting together with my boss.”
“Oh, yeah,” Conner says, shooting a glance at Chase who’s looks like he’s in deep conversation with Sara. Behind them, Patrick rounds the bar with a pitcher and a stack of pints, headed our way. “And what does he want from you?”
The question yanks the rug out from under me. “Why,” I say, feeling like he just punched me in the gut. “Because I’m not good enough? Because no one would want to show my paintings unless I fucked them for it?”
Conner shoulders go stiff and he suddenly looks uncomfortable. “That’s not what—”
“Yes it is,” I say, shutting down his excuses. “It’s exactly what you meant.”
“What’s going on?” Patrick says behind me and I turn to watch him set the pitcher and glasses down before he divides an expectant look between me and Conner.
“I was just telling Tess and Conner that Chase wants to show some of my paintings at the benefit show he’s putting together with Mandy.” Saying it makes me feel proud. Something I haven’t felt nearly enough.
“Seriously?” Patrick lifts the pitcher and pours a pint before handing it to Tess. “That’s fantastic.” He smiles at me and I smile back because this moment feels so normal, so right, that I can’t help but smile. This is the Patrick I know. This is the Patrick I know how to handle.
“Thanks,” I say, cheeks flushed. “It’s not a big deal—just a charity thing he’s working on with Miranda.”
As soon as Tess and Conner resume their game, Patrick leans into me. “So, how’s your date going?”
I don’t know what happened. I really don’t. Maybe it was Conner’s snide comment about having to seduce Chase to get him interested in my work or maybe it’s the fact that this is the second time in as many days that Patrick and Sara have been hanging out. Hell, maybe it’s the fact that despite all the orgasms he’s been giving me, Patrick hasn’t fucked me in days and it’s making me irritable. I don’t know what it is, but it’s something. And it’s enough to make me snap.
“You know what, Patrick,” I say, narrowing my eyes on his face. “Fuck you.”
His pint stalls halfway to his mouth, the smirk withering on his lips. “Excuse me?”
I resist the urge to smack the glass out of his hand. “You heard me.” I take a step back so I can look him full in the face. He doesn’t look amused. That’s okay because neither am I. “You’ve made your opinion of me clear.” Just thinking about it, the things he’s done to me over the past few days—the things I’ve begged him to do—sends a rush of heat across my chest. Whatever he thinks of me, whatever he’s done—it’s my fault. I pushed him. I
asked for it. I know that but right now, I don’t care. “Now, let me be clear—I don’t give a shit. You want to fuck me, fine. You want to make me feel like shit, great. But it’s not going to be both. Got it?”
My voice rings in my ears, echoing around the bar and the people in it. They’re all quiet. Too quiet. I keep my glare trained on Patrick’s face, ignoring the flush that erupts across my chest and neck. They’re all staring at us. Waiting to see what happens next.
Patrick lowers his glass, setting it on the table, never taking his eyes off me. “Loud and clear, Ms. Faraday,” he says, his tone so calm I’m able to pretend the last thirty seconds happened in my head and not in front of God and everybody. The thought is comforting but it only last a second before someone clears their throat—my bet’s on Conner—and breaks the spell.
I don’t wait for him to say anything else. I don’t wait for Tess to rescue me with a smartass comment or for Chase to make his excuses and leave.
I just turn on my heel and bolt.
Forty-three
Patrick
Before I can move a muscle or say a word, Cari is gone. I don’t watch her but I can hear the fast, heavy stomp of her feet on the stair as she heads back up to our apartment.
What the fuck.
“That was Conner’s fault,” Tess says in a rush and I look up to see her shifting from one boot to the other, uncomfortable with the scene she just witnessed and possibly her part in creating it. “He inferred that she had to sleep with the art guy to get him to show her work.”
“Inferred?” I look at Conner.
If possible, he looks even more uncomfortable that Tess. “She misunderstood,” he mutters, giving me a shrug, which means, she understood perfectly.
I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I need the two of you to do me a favor.” I drop my hand, dividing a look between them both. “Stay the fuck out of our business. Whatever’s going on between us, it’s between us,” I say, thumping my clenched fist against the table. “It’s our business. Not yours.”
Tess nods her head quickly, ready to surrender, but Conner gives me the kind of mutinous glare that spells trouble. Before he can start mouthing off, I point a finger at him. “And the next time you open your mouth at her, you better think long and hard about what’s about to come out of it because the next time you infer anything negative about her character, I’m going to fucking kill you.” I don’t wait to see if he takes me seriously and I don’t wait for him to say something else that will undoubtedly piss me off. I don’t say goodbye to Sara and I don’t even look at Chase. The cat’s out of the bag now. They all know what’s going on with me and Cari and I don’t care.
I just head upstairs.
She left the front door hanging open, like she was in such a hurry to get away from me that she couldn’t spend the precious seconds it would take to shut it. Pushing my way through it, I hear the music resume downstairs. It’d take a hell of a lot more than a minor blow-up to derail Conner’s good time. I’d bet money he’s already trying to figure out a way to get into Sara’s pants now that I’ve made it obvious to her that I’m otherwise occupied.
She’s in her room with the door closed. Painting. I know that’s what she’d doing because it’s the only time she shuts her door—but only sometimes. Sometimes she welcomes me in when she paints and others, she shuts me out. I have no idea why. Never understood the difference in why or when but I’ve always respected it. Until now.
Pushing her door open, I stand in the doorway, watching her and for a moment, she’s a person I’ve never seen. She’s got her long hair piled on top of her head and earbuds plugged into her ears. She’s changed out of her shorts and tank and into a paint-splattered T-shirt. This one is hers, short enough that the hem of it barely skims the top of the pair of pink boy shorts she’s got on. Tight enough to give me a clear view of her dusky-pink nipples, pushing against the paper-thin fabric. Watching her, my cock is instantly hard.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was another game of hers. Painting in her panties. But I know it’s not. She doesn’t even know I’m standing here watching her.
The wide, flat brush in her hand, isn’t one I’ve ever seen her use. I watch her, slashing and cutting bright colors across the canvas, her movements fast. Almost violent. She looks hurt. Angry. That’s the way she’s painting, her arms and hands telegraphing her emotions into the canvas. When she lets me watch her paint, there’s nothing violent about it. Her movements are precise. Careful. Her brushes small and fine. The colors that tip them muted and refined.
Whatever she’s doing, wherever she is, it’s not something I’m supposed to see. It’s not a place I’m allowed to follow.
Then she drops her brush to swipe a wide stripe of bright color across her bare thigh. Seeing her do that, something familiar, makes me feel better. I’m able to recognize her for a moment and that gives me permission to cross the threshold to her room.
I sit on the edge of her bed and let my gaze wander around the space. She cleaned up—her table clear of cups and glasses. The carton of Chinese take-out that’s been there for a month finally gone. She cleaned up for Chase. She invited him into her room.
Something ugly fares in my chest.
Of course, she brought him into her room, you fuckwit. She had to in order to show him her paintings.
Logical. True. Didn’t matter. Wasn’t working. That something ugly in my chest starts to strangle me. Chokes me so hard I can feel the pressure of it ringing in my ears.
Cari does not belong to me just because I want her to.
Cari is a grown woman who is capable of making her own decisions.
After the way I’ve treated her, Cari is smart to stay away from me.
I repeat my mantra over and over, letting my gaze rove the room to distract myself from the irrational jealousy pounding through my veins. I see a trio of her paintings leaned against the wall behind her. A landscape and two still-lifes. I’ve seen them before. She showed them to me and I told her they were beautiful. I meant it. I have no doubt that these are the painting that Chase wants to show. Despite what my asshole cousin says, I know Cari didn’t have to do anything to get Chase interested in her work. All she had to do was show it to him.
Something catches my eye from the corner of the space—wide slashes of bold color across canvas—and I look. It’s a painting, completely different than the ones she’s showed me. It’s propped against the stack of finished canvases she usually keeps covered with a drop cloth. I suddenly understand why she keeps them hidden. Why she won’t let me look at them.
It’s because they’re of me.
I can’t say that for sure—that they’re all of me—but the one I’m looking at is. In the painting, I’m leaning against the kitchen counter, bare chested, drinking a bottle of water after one of my runs. The angle shows my profile through the open door to Cari’s room.
While I’ve been watching her, she’s been watching me. Painting me.
“What are you doing in here?”
Her voice, sharp and angry, cuts across the room, jerking my gaze in her direction. She’s glaring at me, pissed off, but there’s a flush on her chest, creeping up her neck. She looks guilty. Like I caught her doing something dirty. She knows I saw the painting. She knows I recognize myself. I feel like I’ve violated her. Like looking at the painting has stripped us both bare and words bobble in my mouth, too thick and stupid to find their way out.
She jerks the earbuds out of her ears with one hand while she drops the other to swipe the brush against her thigh. I see it for what it is now. A nervous habit. I make her nervous. Unsure of herself. But that doesn’t stop her from being angry. “What?” She demands again, her glare falling to my hard-on, outlined perfectly against my thigh even though my jeans are a little baggy.
She thinks I came up to fuck her again.
Jesus. What kind of animal does she think I am?
She doesn’t think anything. She knows exactly what kind of animal
you are. The kind who orders her to masturbate while he jerks off on her ass.
“I—” I can feel my gaze start to stray back to the painting but I force myself to focus on her instead. “Conner’s a dick. I know you’d never fuck someone to get them interested in your art.” I blurt it out and watch her eyes narrow on me, suspicion replacing anger. “Besides, you wouldn’t have to. Chase—anyone—would have to be blind not to see how talented you are.”
The tables have turned between us. She’s angry. She’s the aggressor and it’s knocking me off balance. I stand up before I can make a total ass of myself. “Just wanted you to know,” I tell her, making my way through her open door.
Crossing the living room, I keep waiting for her to come after me. Call after me. Stop me from leaving. In the refection of the mirror, I can see her. Earbuds plugged back in. Her arm guiding the brush across the canvas in front of her, their movements still big and fast. Angry and violent.
It’s like I never said a word.
Forty-four
Cari
I put my earbuds in but don’t turn the music back on until I hear the front door slam shut. I stare at the canvas in front of me. My arms move. My hands transfer paint from brush to canvas, the bright slashes of color that cover it taking shape. I don’t even think about it. I just paint. Let everything I’ve been feeling and thinking and wanting for the past three days flow through me. My hand and brush an extension of my heart.
I paint until my arms are tired. Until I feel empty and the roar inside my head is silenced to a whisper. I drop my brush and take a step back to look at the image in front of me. Patrick again but this time not just him. This time it’s him and me. Us together. Me, naked to the waist, the bodice of my dress pooled around my hips. Panties around my knees. Skirt hiked up over my ass. One hand braced above the mirror. The other between my legs. Anyone looking at this painting, that’s all they’d see. Me. Alone. But Patrick is there. In the deep slice of black reflected back to me in the mirror I’m posed in front of. Watching me.