by T Gephart
Train Wreck
Published by T Gephart
Copyright 2017 T Gephart
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and scenarios are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Cover by Hang Le
Editing by Insight Editing Services
Formatting by Type A Formatting
Contents
Train Wreck
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Books by this Author
Eve
“YOU ARE A LYING PIECE OF SHIT!”
I tossed my Chanel handbag at him even though I knew it wouldn’t do any real damage. You needed a good-sized LV for that. And I really wished I had more vases or decorative stuff lying around, it would have made it easier to hurt him.
“Eve, baby. It’s not what it looks like. I don’t even know her.” He held his hands up defensively trying to pretend that the woman he barely knew wasn’t just giving him a blowjob in my apartment. “It was an accident, I swear.”
Oh. My. God.
He did not just say that to me.
I was seething. So tied up in rage that in that moment I totally got the rationalization for murder. Ten years behind bars didn’t seem so bad.
“An accident!” I pulled off one of my Louboutins and aimed for his head. The heel could be deadly even if it was just a shoe.
Sadly it missed.
“Your penis just accidently fell into her mouth? Come on, you went to Harvard, don’t embarrass yourself by acting stupid.”
The other shoe went sailing, and like its predecessor was also off the mark. Damn it. I really needed better aim.
Of course, while Oliver was playing dodge ball with my wardrobe, his little friend looked on with wide-eyed terror, frozen on her knees, silent.
“You know him?” My eyes scanned the room for something else to hurl at Oliver.
The blonde nodded, slowly her mouth opening and closing a few times before she finally found her voice. “We work together. I-I didn’t know—”
And that was as far as she got.
“Look, I’m assuming the asshat didn’t tell you he had a girlfriend or that he actually lives in my apartment.” And judging by her shock, she was either a stellar actress or had likewise been deceived. “And trust me when I tell you this, but I did you a favor. He only lasts about five minutes when it actually counts. I’ve had to finish myself off more times than not, if you know what I mean.”
I was lying of course. Oliver was great in bed and sex with him was better than average if I was really honest. But I wasn’t about to give him that kind of credit. And while I hated he had cheated on me, there was no point being angry at Little Miss Fellatio, it wasn’t her I was in a relationship with.
“Baby. Evie,” Oliver started, his pants still unzipped. “It was a moment of weakness.”
To be fair, I didn’t care if it was the first time or he’d been seeing her for six months.
He had cheated.
He, the man I thought cared about me, who I’d come home to on what had been one of the worst days of my life, had betrayed me. And as horrible as it was to admit, that was what I was really mad about. That I had needed him, hoped to come home and find some refuge, and it was taken away.
Because he cheated.
“Get out, Oliver,” I screamed, no longer willing to have to look at him and the reminder of his infidelity. “We’re done.”
There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that we were over. No room for second chances. And if I was honest with myself it was because, as much as I enjoyed Oliver’s company and loved the orgasms he provided me, I didn’t love him.
No. We were glorified friends with benefits, convenient fuck buddies and someone to take whenever a plus one was required.
But I didn’t love him.
Not like I thought I should.
Which is why instead of being devastated the relationship was over, I was more pissed off that my pride had taken another battering.
Damn it.
Couldn’t he have kept his dick in his pants for one more freaking day?
“Evie. Buttercup.” He looked to me and then to the woman whose knees were still planted on my Aubusson rug. “Kitty?”
Kitty? Her name was Kitty? Great how very appropriate.
So much for not knowing her.
The petite blonde shook her head, doing her best to remain as still as possible. Oliver, it seemed, was shit out of luck with both his women.
“Get out, Oliver. Now, before I call the police.”
He looked like he wanted to argue—to reason—say something to persuade me, but he didn’t. Slowly, backing away from us, he zipped up and made his way to my front door.
He hesitated at the door, grabbing his keys from the crystal bowl that sat on the bureau in the entranceway. Damn, now I remembered the crystal bowl. It would have been perfect to throw earlier.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he coughed out uncomfortably.
I wasn’t sure if that was directed at me or to Kitty.
“Don’t bother.” I waved after him. “I’ll have your things boxed up and delivered, expect the bill.” If I didn’t burn them first.
He didn’t speak as the door closed behind him, no doubt hoping a good night’s sleep would let me cool off. Because he was delusional like that. And had he been less of a jerk face and a better boyfriend—the cheating in my apartment aside—he would have known that one night’s sleep wasn’t going to cut it. No, I could sleep for an entire year and it wouldn’t make a difference.
Kitty coughed awkwardly, either to clear her throat or alert me she was still there.
And then there were two.
While Oliver had vacated my apartment, Kitty—the blower—had been sort of trapped. Probably wondering if her sudden movements might redirect my anger—or projectiles—to her. She’d abandoned any association to the douche canoe that was my former boyfriend and so remained. And he had left without a second thought about her safety.
He really was a gutless piece of shit.
There was no protocol for this, well none that I knew of. It had been a while since I consulted Emily Post, but was pretty sure she didn’t have any handy hints that would cover it. Guess I was on my own.
“So, Kitty, you feel like a drink? I sure as hell could use one.” My bare feet padded to my kitchen.
Wine. This would definitely be easier with wine.
“Ah. Um,” she stammered, slowly
rising to her feet. “I-I should go.”
Unlike Oliver—who while having his cock out had been mostly dressed—Kitty had been wearing all her clothes. Perhaps their interlude had been destined to be one-sided, or maybe they hadn’t gotten to the good part yet. But it helped that neither had to perform an undignified redressing with an audience; I was especially glad to be spared the visual.
“Okay, do you need me to call you a cab?” I pulled my head out of the refrigerator long enough to answer. “Or did you drive?”
I stopped for a minute, processing that I was genuinely concerned about how she got home, which I guess was sort of weird. I was acting weird. This whole scenario was really freaking weird.
This must be what shock feels like.
Or maybe I had truly lost my mind.
I probably was only remaining upright because of anger. Adrenaline was a powerful thing. Sometimes it gave you super strength, the ability to lift a car or something like that. Or obviously in my case, the ability to have a rational conversation with the girl my boyfriend was cheating with. At least I was still functional even if I had no idea what the hell I was even looking for any more.
Oh, that’s right.
Wine.
I pulled out a chilled bottle of Riesling and wondered if I should even bother with the glass. There was no point denying I was going to be finishing it.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” She approached slowly, her careful green eyes floating between me and her exit route, and probably wondering whether I was clinically insane.
I didn’t blame her.
I wondered too.
“Because today my world came crashing down and the worst of it wasn’t finding the two of you.” The desire for wine discarded as I placed the bottle on the counter and I sunk to my butt on the floor.
God, I didn’t want to do this with an audience.
I had been strong the whole time.
All morning I had kept my shit together. The smile on my face fixed in place as people at the gallery looked at me with pitiful glances. Didn’t even crack when I heard their discreet hushed conversations. Then there were the calls from my parents and my friends. But there were only so many “I’m fines” I could stomach before I felt compelled to pull a Van Gogh and slice off someone’s ear. And clearly I wasn’t a dedicated enough artist for it to be mine.
So imagine my surprise when I came home at lunchtime hoping to get naked, drunk, and call my boyfriend for angry—not at him, but that soon changed—sex and found him already home.
With his dick in someone else’s mouth.
Damn him! This was supposed to be my day to have a breakdown, to plot my revenge for all those uptight assholes, and now I had to plot against him too. It was very inconvenient. Very selfish of him.
Crap. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to cry, vomit, or slice those Salvatore Ferragamo loafers he liked so much. That was the second time I’d mentioned cutting so I should probably hide the knives.
“Go home, Kitty. I need to be alone.”
Or at least take away the possibility of a victim. A living one. I didn’t hold out much hope for Oliver’s fancy suits.
“I’m really sorry, I honestly didn’t know.” She mumbled apologies as she joined me on the floor. “I thought he was single. He didn’t tell me about you.”
The situation was ridiculous.
There I was sitting on the floor of my kitchen. My refrigerator obnoxiously beeping, warning me the door was still open. With the woman my boyfriend cheated on me with. What’s even worse is that scenario wasn’t what was making my heart hurt the most.
“I’m a failure, and I cannot be a failure.” I said the words out loud, words that had been looping in my head since the morning. “I put everything into that collection, everything . . . why would they be so cruel? I bled on those canvases.”
Poor Kitty. What she thought was going to be a lunchtime quickie had turned into a therapy session. Which I felt was fair considering A. She was still here and therefore fair game and B. I had been more than reasonably empathetic to her dilemma.
“Ummm, you bled where?” she asked bewildered, reaching across and thankfully silencing the incessant beeping by closing the refrigerator door.
Yep, she wasn’t to have known that this morning critics had unapologetically torn me to shreds with scathing reviews. That my first ever solo art exhibition had been called a train wreck and me—its creator—a soulless socialite with zero talent and even less skill.
It wasn’t just a critique.
They had annihilated me.
“On the canvas!” I exclaimed, making no more sense despite my added passion—insanity well and truly settling in. “They wouldn’t know art if it bit them on the ass. They didn’t even bother to interpret the pieces.” My hands waved around furiously to illustrate the point. “I’m a smart person, it’s smart art. I can’t help it they are boring and have no fucking vision.”
Denial.
I think that was the stage after anger. Or maybe I had mixed them up. Lord knows I wasn’t an authority, but the idea it was normal made me feel a little better so I went with it.
Yeah, this wasn’t my fault. There was nothing wrong with me. This was all them.
“Art is subjective and who are they to judge what is good.” As the ideas tumbled in my head, I felt the need to share. “I’m sure everyone thought Picasso was dropping acid at first too.” A very reasonable assumption, the amount of artists originally panned to be later revered was astounding. “That must be the problem here, clearly I am too progressive and not appreciated for my genius.”
This was logic I could hold onto. Important and intelligent thoughts that explained how it all could have happened.
I had to hand it to Kitty, she was a good listener. She didn’t try to interrupt or interject, just sat there and listened which was obviously what I needed.
And while the sting was still fresh and part of me still raw, I was definitely feeling better for talking about it.
“You’re an artist?” she asked, her head tilting to the side like she wasn’t sure. “A painter?”
“Yes, I’m an artist.” Slight agitation bit at my voice. Wasn’t she paying attention? She had looked like she had been listening so intently. “I predominately paint and sketch but sometimes I’ll use other mediums. My professors at Yale always said I was very versatile.”
“So like a professional?” Her head tilted again, I could see this was her thing when she didn’t understand. “As in people pay you to do it?”
Oh, poor misinformed and naïve Kitty.
“Yes, artists get paid despite everyone believing they should starve and work for free. I’d like to go into someone else’s place of business and tell them to work for the love of it.”
Okay, slight sore point, but it wasn’t the first time I had to defend what I did as a legitimate career. I had a fine arts degree from Yale for Christ’s sake and yet a waitress at Hooters got more respect. They had a “real” job.
“I’m sorry.” And she looked it. “I’ve just never met a real artist before. There was a guy I dated in college who said he was, but he mainly got high and occasionally graffitied a mini mart. No one paid him, and he sure didn’t go to Yale. I don’t even think he graduated to be honest.” She laughed, her voice easing for the first time since I’d met her.
It was a common misconception that “artist” wasn’t a legitimate job description, and one of the reasons why I had hoped to finally get validation. To be praised in The Times or The Village Voice, seeing my name in those publications would be a dream come true. Hell, I’d settle for a polite and honorable mention in Time Out. Well, I got my wish. My name had appeared in all of them. Just not favorably.
“It’s okay.” I shrugged, my mood still swinging wildly. “I had my first art exhibition. It wasn’t received well.”
“Well, like you said, maybe they didn’t get it.” She smiled. “I saw this exhibit that everyone loved, and it made no sense at all
. My friends kept telling me how fantastic it was but it looked like an old drop sheet someone had dripped paint all over. It was a mess. Some Polish dude, I think.” She lowered her voice to a whisper even though it was just the two of us. “It wasn’t very good. I don’t know why anyone would pay millions for it.”
Dripped paint? Polish? Millions?
“Do you mean Jackson Pollack?” Great, now I was doing the head tilt, I hoped this wouldn’t become a thing.
“Well, I mean,” she shifted, uncomfortable, “I’m not sure it’s PC to call him that.”
“No, that’s his name, he’s not Polish.”
“Well, whatever. It was bad.” She waved her hands around. “I like my art a little less weird. More classical. Actually, let me show you.” She stood up excitedly and moved her hands to the back of her black fitted sheath dress.
What the hell?
Sure, it had been far from an ordinary day. And under normal circumstances—had my professional life not been in the toilet—I wouldn’t have entertained saying two words to a woman who was about to fellate my boyfriend, let alone share a conversation.
But it was strange times, and strange times called for desperate measures and all of that. BUT even with all of the extenuating circumstances, I had my limits.
“Kitty, what are you doing?” My eyes followed her fingers sliding down her zipper at the back of her dress.
Firstly, holy shit was she a contortionist? I could only get about halfway before I had to whip the other hand around and yank from the bottom. But Kitty didn’t suffer from the same limitations, twisting her hand around and slowly moving it down her back in one smooth movement.
And secondly, surely we’d filled the quota for weird? We didn’t need to introduce nudity into it.
“It’s fine, I’m not shy.” She let her dress drop to the floor, revealing her incredibly perky breasts and a barely there lacy thong. “Honestly, I’m more comfortable wearing less.”
And the mystery of why my dumbass boyfriend invited her back to my place was solved.
Kitty was stunning with her clothes on. Beautiful face, great hair, and a lithe toned body that by the looks of things could twist itself into all sixty-four positions in the Kama Sutra.