by Alice Ward
I felt horrible. I had upset her to such a degree, she had to leave. She was in no state of mind to be driving such a dangerous vehicle. As I watched her pull out of the parking lot, I felt all eyes on me. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what, so I turned to the mousy waitress who was leaning on a wall in the corner. “Do you mind getting my bill?” I asked as gently as I could.
“Ya ain’t got no bill,” she barked.
“I’d like to pay for two meals. Whatever you think is appropriate.”
“Ya want your stuff?” she asked coarsely.
I just shook my head.
There was a twinkle in her eye as she glanced at the table. “Not even that good champagne? It’s hardly been drunk.”
“You can have it,” I said as she handed me the bill.
I gave her my credit card and ignored the stares, thinking about what Caitlyn had said. Was my reputation really so bad? I blew out a breath. Of course it was. I was exactly that man.
And I hated it.
Maybe with someone as fresh and honest as Caitlyn in my life, I could… Could what? Change? I scoffed at the idea, but somewhere inside my head, the thought loomed.
“Here’s your card back, sir,” the mousy waitress said as she handed me the slip to sign.
I signed, giving her a one-hundred-dollar tip.
The drive back to New York was a long and sad one for me as I replayed my conversation with Caitlyn over and over again in my head. It was torture. By the time I had sufficiently horrified myself with my own words, I emphatically understood how wrong I’d been. The words. The actions. The intent. Everything.
The problem was… I had no idea what else I could have said. I tried to think of something else, something more heartfelt and human, but anything I could come up with sounded even shittier. I didn’t have it in me to be thoughtful or heartfelt. I was a coldhearted monster.
I had another fitful night of sleep. This time, I dreamed of making love with Caitlyn, and instead of enjoying my talents as a lover, she was cutting off pieces of my flesh with a butter knife. When I woke, I was even more frustrated. Her cutting me as easily as one cut butter was a metaphor if I’d ever heard one. Maybe that was why I was so attracted to her. I hadn’t the skills to woo her, so I wanted her more.
My rescheduled weekly sparring match with Lucas was in the early afternoon. I needed it badly. I had to vent my anger and aggression as soon as possible. Also, since he was more successful in love than I was at the moment, I wanted to kick the shit out of him for it, then begrudgingly ask him for advice. I hated to ask for help, but I was hitting a brick wall on this. I was possibly out of my league. I was loath to admit it, and would only do so under duress, but the little waitress had gotten me.
To my credit, I was a bit more conscious of my dealings with people in the office as I tried not to be so short-tempered. I used more “pleases” and “thank yous” than I ever had, and I actually stopped and talked pleasantly with my assistant about nothing of true importance before I attacked the pile of work on my desk. I checked my tone and practiced making it sound pleasant and caring. This took an immense amount of mental effort on my part, which nearly caused me to have a stroke, but the practice was worth it. My attempts at civility were noted by Sandra, who gave me a warm and gracious smile.
“Someone must have had a good night,” she teased.
Shit. If she only knew how not good it was.
I grinned. “I’m turning over a new leaf.”
“Really?” She seemed shocked.
“Don’t get your hopes up though,” I warned, “I might not be able to pull this off.”
“I won’t.” She seemed a little deflated by the prospect of me returning to my usual state of unpleasantness.
“You let me know if I slip,” I said with a wink. “I’m in a twelve-step program for assholes.”
I closed my door on her confused laugh, needing to escape people. I didn’t want to “people” longer than I had to today. Ironic how my assistant teased me, assuming something wonderful happened last night. She would probably have a good laugh knowing that my ass had been handed to me by a fucking waitress. Shit. I mean server — I think that’s what she called the mousy woman… Linda. Whatever, it was all hard.
What I really needed right now was my brother, but I wasn’t willing to confess my sins to him yet. He wouldn’t understand, and he was my harshest and most honest critic.
I owed him his weekly picture, so I sent off the selfie with Caitlyn, guilt riding my back as I did so. As expected, he loved the photo because, moments later, he returned my message with hearts and smiles bursting all over the page. Each one was like a stab to my gut. I sent him back only one smile. He seemed disappointed.
Smile, smile, he texted, but sadly, one was all I could manage.
Lucas showed up at exactly four-thirty. I was ready for this. He was his usual jovial self, and I was ready to hit the mat and kick his balls to the moon. How could someone always be so happy?
“Ready to go down?” I asked in a jokingly aggressive manner.
“I’m ready to watch you go down,” he threw back at me. “You know you always lose.”
“Not this time,” I said, giving him a hard punch to the shoulder.
He eyed me. “Save it for the ring, my friend.”
“I’m ready,” I said as I danced around him, positioning another punch which I held tight, not wanting to hurt him.
“To kill someone, it seems. Ease up on the reins, buddy,” he playfully knocked me back.
He was right. I was ready to kill somebody and sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be my best friend. Outside of my brother, he was my only friend except Rachel, but I assumed I would lose her soon. Since I saw her last week, I’d been thinking about calling our affair off, and if I did, I assumed our friendship would be over since the only thing between us was sex. People only liked me for three things — power, sex, and money. Well, except Lucas and my little brother.
I didn’t want to give up the sex, exactly. We had our good days, and I always needed the physical release she gave me. My hand wasn’t better than her pussy, but her pussy wasn’t worth risking a chance with Caitlyn.
And I really wanted a chance with Caitlyn.
Lucas and I entered the ring. We started with some light jabs and footwork, which only inflamed my sense of shame and anger. I wanted real action. I didn’t want to dance around wearing boxing gloves. Without warning, I started hitting Lucas with all of the bottled-up anger inside me. I felt like my arms and legs were made of steel. Power flooded my system with adrenaline as I went after Lucas hard. To his credit, he was keeping up with my punches and only let a few land. One got him right in the gut.
“What the hell bro? Lighten up,” he said, winded.
“Sorry,” I apologized as I came at him again from the left side.
He blocked my punch to his face, and I started to seeth. I was going after an invisible enemy, punching, jabbing, throwing hits with incredible force. I was going after the demon within me, intent on knocking him out cold. I rushed at Lucas, delivering punch after punch. Fuck the rules. I wasn’t fighting a fair fight. I wanted blood. I wanted death. I wanted to kill the thing that was hounding me and prove that might was right.
I could see Lucas was getting tired, but his manhood was being challenged, so he kept fighting. Not one to back down, he became just as aggressive as I was. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t being fueled by embarrassment, humiliation, and shame like I was. I laid a punch so hard to Lucas’s face, he lost his footing and crumbled to the floor.
“What the fuck, KP?” he said, clutching his temple as blood poured out of him.
I just stared down at him, not even making a move. I watched him lay there, bleeding all over the mat. He was breathing heavily, and so was I. I was like a man completely possessed. It scared me, so I waited for his cue.
“Help me up, motherfucker,” he choked as he tried to get up from the floor.
I bent over and pu
lled him up, still feeling the sting of anger and revenge in my psyche.
“Where the fuck are you tonight?” he asked as he walked out of the ring to grab his towel from a chair nearby.
I just stood there as he attended his injury. He looked over while holding the towel to his head, and his expression changed from irritated anger to genuine concern.
“Let’s get out of here.” He motioned for me to follow him and we went to the men’s locker room.
He took off his clothes, wincing with pain as he pulled his bloodied shirt over his head.
“Don’t you ever do that again. You have some shit you can’t take care of, then you talk to me, but you don’t ever fucking use your fists on me like that. I’m not your enemy, and I’m not someone you can mess with. You don’t have many friends. Don’t screw up the friendships you do have.”
There was definitely a running theme coursing through my life. I was an asshole. He was right. I should never have taken my aggression out on him. To my horror, emotion hit me in the face, packing a serious punch. For a moment, I thought I might cry. What the hell was wrong with me?
The concern was back on Lucas’s face. “What’s happening? What kind of trouble are you in?”
“I messed up, I’m sorry,” was all I could manage.
“No, you’re going through something deep. What’s going on?” He was unrelenting.
“I need a minute. I’ll tell you, but I’m not ready.”
He looked like he was going to argue, then clapped me on the back. “Come on, let’s hit the showers. I’m taking you out for a beer.”
Fifteen minutes later, we walked to the pub near the gym and found a table in the corner. The place was dark, dank, and smelled of rotting beer. The perfect watering hole for my sorry ass. A place where no one would notice Lucas’ wound, nor would they ask questions. His left eye had started to turn black-and-blue, and the gash on his forehead was gnarly and deep.
“You should probably get that looked at,” I grunted.
“I will, and I’ll be sending you the bill. If I need plastic surgery, it’s all gonna be on you, bro.” He was trying not to be angry, but he was pretty pissed at me.
“Sure, whatever you need.”
“I’ll be fine, scars add character.” He popped a peanut in his mouth. “So you want to fill me in on what the hell happened back there?”
He watched me closely as the bartender came over to take our drink order. “Whatya having?”
“Cold IPA, whatever you got,” Lucas said, still eying me, “and some more peanuts or something, I’m starving.”
“We have a special on meat-loaded potato skins.”
“Yeah those.” Lucas nodded to me. “You?”
“I’ll have Macallan 18, neat,” I said and watched the bartender’s eyes grow wide.
“I think we have some in the back. I’ll check,” he offered eagerly.
“Find it,” I barked.
“Right.”
“I’m really sorry,” I told Lucas again.
He snorted. “You fucking better be.”
“It won’t happen again,” I promised.
He snorted again. “No, it won’t. Did you lose a big project? One of your films tank? You get diagnosed with something terminal, what?” He was being real with me, it was time for me to come out of my bastard closet and let him in.
I exhaled a long breath. “That girl, the one I told you about.”
“The chic from that dive diner?”
“Yes.”
He waved his hand. “Go on.”
“She refused me a second time.”
“Again?” he asked, astonished.
I gave him a feral glance.
“So you’re pissed off enough to kill someone, namely your best friend, because some chick in a shit restaurant won’t suck your cock,” he reasoned.
I was growing agitated again. “I said I’m sorry.”
He simply pointed to his head.
“You got into the boxing ring. You knew there was a risk.” I was only half joking.
“Boxing as exercise is a thing these days,” he reminded me.
“It’s only a scratch.” Well, it was a little more than that, but why buy into the theatrics.
“A scratch?” He barked out a laugh. “Really? You can see my brain, it’s so deep.”
“You can’t see your brain, you moron.” I thought we may have been good again. “Yeah, so um, I need your help,” I confessed.
He leaned back in his chair. “Okay. So how can I help you get into your little waitress’s pants?” he asked as the bartender brought our drinks.
“Found some,” the bartender said as he placed my glass before me.
“Goody,” I mocked.
The bartender looked at me and smiled. I could tell he recognized me after coming back with our drinks — must be an aspiring actor. New York was crawling with them. I waited for him to leave, and I took a sip, hoping to calm my nerves.
“Did you fuck the embalmer?” It was a crude way of asking, but I needed to know.
His smile lit up the planet. “She’s amazing. But we aren’t talking about me, we’re talking about you.”
I slumped forward and took another drink. “She thinks I’m this stalker, rapist, asshole megalomaniac. I’m so screwed.”
He chuckled. “Ah, I get it, you were being you.”
“Pretty much.” I felt like shit.
“Well, this is one of those times when you have to ask yourself, what would Prince Charming do?”
Was he serious? “What?”
“Well, it’s obvious that money doesn’t drive her, but what does? Do you know anything about her?”
I tossed back more drink. “She has paintings at an auction house and is working for a community outreach center for at-risk kids. Then there’s the shit diner, and, oh… she hates me!”
“She hates you now, she won’t always. At-risk kids, an art gallery full of paintings. Hello, you’ve so got this. Donate money, like heaps of it to the place with the kids and buy all of her paintings at an outrageous price. Problem solved, you’ll be her hero.”
Hmm… maybe Lucas was onto something.
“I can definitely donate to the community outreach center, but the art gallery won’t let me have her paintings.”
“Well, did you tell them how much you were willing to offer for the paintings? They get a percentage of that shit. If the number is high enough, they’ll convince her to sell.”
My friend was a fucking genius.
“I didn’t name a price, just said I wanted them. Do you think a million would do it?”
He laughed. “A million would probably, most likely, definitely do it. Remember though, it has to be anonymous. She can’t know it’s you.”
Okay, maybe not so genius.
“Well, then how does that help me?”
“Trust me, if you make the donation to the center in your waitress’s name from an admirer and buy all of her paintings, don’t you think she’ll know who it is?”
He had a point.
“And I’ll add a note to her with the donation, like a confession or an apology.”
“A little less anonymous. It’s a bit riskier, but very Prince Charming. It’s perfect.” He raised his beer to me, and we clinked.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Caitlyn
I was exhausted after crying on my way home last night, but still needed to stop by the hospital to be with Gran. She didn’t look good at all. The hospital wouldn’t release her, and she didn’t really look like she wanted to leave. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about Mr. Preston, and there was no need, she never had to know. She thought my tears were for her, and many of them were. I felt overwhelmed by everything, so when I got home, I plopped down on the couch and stared at the wall.
I woke there in the morning, still exhausted and in a pain-saturated haze. It was my off day from both jobs, so I piddled around the house, alternately missing Gran and going outside to tend her crazy flo
wers. I was getting ready to go back to the hospital when my cell phone rang. I wanted to ignore it, but couldn’t because of any possible news about Gran.
“Hello.”
“Caity, it’s Miguel from City Gallery.”
“Oh, hey. I’m sorry I haven’t come by to get my paintings yet. Gran is in the hospital, and I completely forgot. I’ll come get them this afternoon.” Wow, I really let that slip my mind.
I had a gallery showing a few weeks ago and everyone I knew attended. It was an amazing night. I felt like I had accomplished something. It was an exhibition with other up-and-coming artists and was quite the affair with wine, cheese, and swanky, cool people. There was a lot of interest in my work, and some attendees were interested in a few pieces, but as it was an exhibition, the gallery wasn’t selling them that night. Besides, Gran made it quite clear to everyone that they were all hers. She owned all of my work. She did, sort of. She was obsessed with my work. I didn’t want to sell the paintings, but it felt good that people wanted to buy them. It gave me hope that I could sell them one day if I wanted.
“That’s what I’m calling about. We’ve had quite an interesting offer I’d like you to consider.”
“What do you mean by interesting offer?” I needed details.
“A patron has made a bid to buy all of your paintings.”
My heart sank. A patron? A patron with enough money to buy all my paintings. I groaned. The bastard.
“Sorry, they’re not for sale, Miguel. Please apologize to the patron.” I couldn’t bear to have Mr. Preston own the part of my soul I’d poured into those paintings.
“He’s willing to pay a great deal of money for them,” he coaxed.
“I’m sure he is.” Sarcasm seemed to be my new favorite hobby.
“Caity, he’s going to give you a million dollars for them and he’s adding a significant amount for the gallery. Can you just say you’ll think about it before you refuse flat out?”
Anger rose and my fingers began to tremble. “I can’t be bought.”