If I Were You

by Lisa Renee Jones

  A good hour passes, and Chris is as attentive to me as he is the visitors. At this point, he’s doing all the selling, but the wine tastings have continued. The longer the event continues the more I think I need to learn how to avoid drinking at events like this one. I am unsteady, and in need of food.

  Mark joins the small group we are talking with and Chris hones in on him. “You got a minute?”

  Mark inclines his head. “Anything for the artist of the night.” And while the statement is true-- Chris is the ‘artist of the night’--his tone drips saccharine.

  Mark turns and walks away, and I expect Chris to follow. Instead, he slides his fingers through mine, and pulls me with him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I am all too aware of Chris’s hand intimately twined with mine as we pursue Mark, or rather, as he drags me along for the ride. There is a possessiveness to his touch and I have the sense I am a token in these two men’s ‘who’s dick is bigger’ contest, and now I am the one who is not pleased. In fact, I’m freaking out, and my heart is about to explode from my chest.

  “What are you doing?” I demand, gently tugging on Chris’s hand.

  Still walking, he cuts me a sideways look. “What I came here to do. Protecting you.”

  I gape at this ridiculous notion. What is it with him and this ‘protection’ hangup? I contain the urge to jerk hard against him and demand he stop and explain himself, simply because we are in public. My mind races in search of a more discreet plan of escape before I end up trapped in one of the offices in the middle of their obvious war.

  Mark surprises me and halts in the center of the gallery, away from the fifteen or so guests still mingling amongst themselves, where low voices mean discretion. Chris stops with him, and I don’t have an option but to do the same since my fingers remain tightly tucked inside of his.

  “I came here tonight to support Sara,” Chris announces without preamble. “I expect her to get the commission off my sales.”

  What? I scream in my head. Oh my God. This can’t be happening.

  “Ms. McMillan and I will discuss her compensation amongst ourselves,” Mark replies, and his tone is icy, his refusal to look at me damning. My heart sinks to my feet. I am as good as fired.

  “That’s fine,” Chris states, “as long as the outcome of your conversation includes her getting twenty-five percent of my sales for tonight.”

  My stomach knots at both the ridiculously high figure, and the demand Chris has made. Dread fills me as I realize what this must be about. Chris wanted me out of here. He told me to leave. I didn’t listen so he’s forcing me out. Why? Why does this matter to him?

  Mark’s eyes flash with ice and settle on my face, and I am certain he is either going to fire me here and now, or he’s planning my dismissal for the near future. Instead, he shocks me with a curt, “Twenty-five percent, Ms. McMillan but be clear. Future rewards will be negotiated between you and I or not at all. Understood?”

  I blink at him, speechless, but still manage to calculate twenty-five percent of the roughly three hundred grand Chris has sold tonight. Surely Mark has not just agreed to pay me fifty thousand dollars.

  “Ms. McMillan,” he snaps. “Are we clear?”

  “Yes,” I rasp. “Yes. I…of course. Understood.”

  Mark’s gaze shifts back to Chris. “If there’s nothing else, I have customers to attend and so does Ms. McMillan.” He doesn’t wait to find out if there is anything else. He turns on his heel and departs, leaving me reeling with the impact of what has happened. My adrenaline surges through me, anger curling in my stomach and chest.

  Whirling on Chris, I barely muster the will to keep my voice low, and it’s all I can do to remember the customers who might be watching. “What have you done?” The question comes out a hiss and I jerk my hand back with as much discretion as I can muster considering I’m shaking, but he holds it still.

  “Made sure you’re no one’s captive.”

  “By getting me fired?” I tug on my hand again. “Let go, Chris.”

  “You aren’t going to get fired, Sara.”

  “Let go of my hand,” I ground out between my teeth.

  He clamps his lips together, and with obvious reluctance, he releases me. “You aren’t going to get--”

  I walk away, cutting to my left, and toward the hallway opposite the office leading to the fancy guest bathrooms, afraid I’m going to do the completely unacceptable, and cry in public. I’m not a crier. I’ve never been a crier, but this is my dream Chris has destroyed. I thought I could be here, belong here. That a famous, gorgeous artist wanted me, when he was trying to destroy me. I am embarrassed and hurt. I hurt. This hurts. Chris hurt me.

  Rounding the corner, I enter the hallway, and Chris is suddenly there in the narrow passage with me, pressing me against the wall, his powerful thighs framing mine.

  My hand goes instinctively to his t-shirt-clad chest. I am immediately aware of the intimacy of the touch, of my body’s reaction to the man who has betrayed me. “Don’t shove me against another wall and try to intimidate me, Chris.”

  “I’m not trying to intimidate you. I was protecting you, Sara.” His hands move to my waist, scorching me, and my reaction to the sizzling touch is instant. I cover his hands with mine, trying to control what he does next, but it doesn’t help. Now, my hands are on his hands and his hands are on my body.

  “Call it what you want,” I ground out, “but you had no right to do what you did.”

  “He had to know he couldn’t manipulate your dream. Money, and my many resources at your disposal, does that.”

  His words knock my anger and my breath away, and confusion consumes me. His actions and his words conflict at every turn. “Why would you help me? You said I don’t belong in this world.”

  “Because I won’t watch him gobble you up and destroy you.”

  I remember his words, and understand now that he wanted me out of this gallery, not this profession. “Because he’s a dark, messed up, arrogant asshole who will play with my mind and use me until there is nothing else left of me I recognize.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And yet you say you’re worse.”

  He stiffens and cuts his gaze, seeming to struggle before fixing me in a turbulent stare. “I am, Sara, which is why you should run as far away from me as you can. And I should step back and let you.”

  “Then why aren’t you?” I whisper.

  His eyes hold mine, and what I see there, the depth of his desire, overwhelms me. He flattens his palm on my belly and I tremble beneath the touch, and he has to feel it too. “Because,” his voice low, seductive, his hand traveling up the center of my body, “I can’t stop thinking about you, and everything I want to do to you, everywhere I want to touch you.”

  His hand presses to the swell between my breasts, and my nipples ache with a wish he would touch them. His boldness ignites something sultry and dark inside me, a side of me that defies the good-girl school teacher who is appalled I haven’t stopped this. I want him. I want him here and now, and any way I can have him.

  And when his gaze lowers to my mouth and lingers, I know he is thinking about kissing me and I have never wanted to be kissed so badly in my life.

  “Do you taste as good as I think you do?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for my reply.

  Suddenly, his fingers have tunneled into my hair and he’s dragging my mouth to his. I am all soft submission, yielding to the moment, to the man. I melt into him, welcome the hardness of his body pressed to mine. And when his tongue presses past my lips, a long, wicked caress, I taste his hunger, his need. There is possessiveness to his kiss, to his hand on my back, molding me closer. I am lost in the ache that has become my need for this man, this stranger I cannot resist. He says he’s protecting me; he says he’s dangerous. I am conflicted, and sure I should be angry with him, but I am completely incapable and unable of processing why.

  Remotely, I register voices sounding somewhere nearby, and some
tiny part of my mind is aware we could be caught, but I am too lost to care. I do not want to stop kissing him and I am panting when Chris tears his mouth from mine and presses his lips to my ear. He gently strokes my hair, his breath warm on my neck. “Go the bathroom baby, before someone sees us.”

  The endearment does funny things to my chest.

  He turns me to the door, his hands on my waist, his body framing me from behind, and I can feel him hot and hard against my backside. It is all I can do not to lean into him. He kisses my neck. “I don’t mind who knows what we are doing but I don’t want you embarrassed.”

  The voices grow louder, high heels clicking on the tiled floor. Reality blasts through me and I dart for the bathroom door without looking back at Chris.

  ***

  I rush into a bathroom stall, forced to hide until the ladies who have followed me inside the bathroom depart. Sitting on top of the toilet seat, I know I should be reprimanding myself over my wanton behavior, and worrying about my job. Instead, I squeeze my thighs together, all too aware of the dampness clinging to my panties, and replay every stroke of Chris’s tongue against mine. It is a testament to how affected I am by Chris. I am protecting you, he’d said. What he’d done was more like claiming. His hand on mine with Mark, his demand I be taken care of. His following me to the bathroom and pushing me against the wall. His mouth on my mouth.

  A full five minutes passes, and the woman chatter amongst themselves and finally leave. I exit the stall and stare into the mirror, barely recognizing the woman in the reflection. My hair is a wild, dark brown mass and my lips are swollen. My eyes are dark with unfulfilled desire.

  High heels sounds outside the door and my heart leaps with the inevitable newcomer. I haven’t had time to process what to do about Chris, how to act when I exit the bathroom, but I don’t want unwanted scrutiny either. I smooth my hair and dart for the door and I am shocked at who stands on the other side.

  “Ava,” I blink.

  “Sara!” She exclaims and I join her in the hallway, only to be pulled into a hug and she announces, “I was hoping I’d get here in time to see you.”

  I scan over her shoulder, seeking out Chris, but he is nowhere visible. His absence gnaws at my gut, but I tell myself he’s still here. He’s being discreet.

  Ava releases me and I step back, noting how her long, silky black hair is styled with ringlets around her face and she is wearing a red siren dress. “You look terrific.”

  “Thank you. I love the excuse the gallery gives me to dress up, but I barely made it. I flew in today.”

  “Oh? Where’d you go?”

  Her lips curve with mischief. “A little last minute romantic getaway. It was fabulous. Listen, I don’t want to get Mark mad at you. I know you have to work the floor, but how about lunch on Monday?”

  Mark. She’d called him Mark when no one else did. “I’d love that,” I say, and remind myself she isn’t an employee of the gallery, so why would she use his formal name?

  A few minutes later, we’ve arranged a meeting spot, and I head to the gallery floor. Nervously, I look for Chris and don’t see him. Mary is helping a customer and Amanda and the rest of the crew seem to be hanging out at the front door, bidding customers goodnight. I quickly check in with the few lingering guests, and try not to let my mind go wild over Chris. But it is. He’s gone. He used me to piss Mark off, kissed me, and then left. I am hurt and yes, I am angry all over again. My final customer is all about sampling wine, and this time, I dive right in. I’m going to be fired. I’ve been used and abused and turned on in a hallway I shouldn’t have been doing naughty things in. I have a free ride home. I’m going to drink some damn wine.

  By the time the final guests are gone, and I’ve gathered my jacket and purse, the staff is gathering for a cab line at the door. At this point, my head is buzzing and I feel a little queasy. I don’t want to talk to anyone, and I sure as heck don’t want to see Chris or Mark. Not that seeing Chris appears to be an option, but Mark is unavoidable since he’s standing by the door, having what looks like a tense conversation with Ava—or the wine is distorting my impressions, which is quite possible--and the two of them are having a happy chat. Nah. Mark isn’t the happy chat kind of guy. More the whips and chains, and pleasure me baby, kind of guy. Oh boy, the wine has worked me over good and my mind is running a marathon of ridiculousness. Empowered by wine, and feeling quite the daring butterfly, I decide it’s time to go home, and to do so with answers.

  Unsteady, but with nothing to lose that I haven’t already lost, I walk right up to Mark. He glances at Ava, a silent command in his look, and even she obeys him, waving to me as she departs. The world does what this man wants. Well, the world minus Chris.

  “Am I fired?” I demand, fairly certain no one else is around, which on a non-wine night wouldn’t be good enough. It works just fine for me now though.

  He crosses his arms over his broad chest, and studies me with—what?—Interest? Irritation? The man is impossible to read. “Why would you be fired, Ms. McMillan?”

  “Because of Chris.”

  “Chris made us both a lot of money tonight. Making money is not a terminating offense. Now, using Chris to manipulate me for money would be, but you wouldn’t do that, now would you?”

  “No,” I say, and dare to go where I would normally never go, but then nothing is normal about the past few days. “And I don’t want to be a part of the ‘who’s got the bigger sword’ contest you two have going on either. I don’t do cock-fights. I just want to do my job and do it well.”

  He chuckles, and I think it’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh. I’m not sure how I feel about my wine induced braveness sparking amusement in a man so difficult to amuse.

  “Smart decision, Ms. McMillan. Once you’ve slept off the wine, I suggest you begin studying again. I’ll test you on Monday.”

  I open my mouth to protest and he arches his brow. It’s a testament to his natural-born authority that I’ve already come to know that arched brow as a warning. “I’ll be ready,” I state, and with a little rebel left in me, I don’t bother with ‘goodnight’. I head for the door.

  “Ms. McMillan.”

  I stop at Mark’s command and glance over my shoulder, fearful my escape isn’t as imminent as I’d hoped.

  “Pain meds and a bottle of water before you sleep,” he orders.

  My boss is dictating my preventive hangover care and I’ve just used the word ‘swords’ in reference to his obvious cock-fight with the man I just made out with in a public hallway. I am truly in an alternate universe.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Compton,” I say and continue on my way.

  I step into a starlit, chilly night and find Ralph and several of the interns are loading up in a cab. I hold my breath, hoping I won’t be noticed. Now that I’m staying at the gallery, my decision to drink too much jeopardizes the professional image I value. The door shuts behind Ralph and I sigh in relief but a sudden awareness turns my attention to my left.

  My breath hitches as I find Chris, now wearing his leather jacket again, and leaning on a fancy black sports car I know is a Porsche 911. I know it’s a 911 because, in an ironic twist, my father will drive nothing else. Chris makes the Porsche look sexy in a way I didn’t think was possible. Not with my history with this car.

  His lips curve, and his gaze burns a path up and down my body, and there is no question he’s here for me. He’d come here tonight for me, he’d claimed, but he and Mark clearly have a power play going on, and I became a token in that game tonight.

  I start walking toward him, trying my best to appear steady on my feet. Why I thought wine was a good idea, when I never drink, is beyond me. He is watching my every step, and his stare is a hot caress stroking my entire body. I remember his hands touching me, his mouth on my mouth, and sensation builds low in my belly and tingles down my thighs. I want him. He knows it too, but I’ve been played with enough for one night. No, I amended. Enough for a lifetime.

  “You left
,” I accuse as I stop in front of him, the wind blessing me with a rush of his clean, male scent, and adding to my wobbling legs. I sway toward Chris and his hand settles on my waist, my hip and leg, pressing to his. Our eyes lock, and the instant charge between us all but sets sparks to the air. I am lost. So much for the bravado of being played with too much.

  “I’m here now,” he says softly and there is a slight splay of his fingers on my waist.

  I should push away from him, but I want to touch him instead. I curl my hand on top of my purse to control myself, the sting of him disappearing still present. “I thought you’d left.”

  “I didn’t think you’d want to ride on the bike with your skirt on.”

  “We didn’t talk about me riding with you. We didn’t talk about anything.”

  “I planned to convince you and I would have been back long ago, but in my eagerness to return, I had a run in with a police officer who didn’t like my speed. He wasn’t forgiving, but I’m hoping you will be.”

  My anger evaporates instantly. Not only did he go after a car for me, he managed to get a ticket in the process. A wave of dizziness washes over me and I press my hand to my forehead. “Considering how I feel, I think I should thank you for trading in the bike.” I drop my hand and it ends up on his chest, and his heart thunders beneath my touch. Because of my touch? Do I affect this man as he does me?

  My gaze lifts, and the smoldering look on his face tells me I am right. I affect him as he does me. This cool, confident famous artist is reacting to me. ”I’m guessing you now realize I drank a little extra wine after you left?”

  “I kind of got that idea.” He pushes off the car, his arm wrapping my waist to steady me and I am aware of every hard inch of him next to me. “Why don’t we go get you some food? I know a great pizza joint, if you like pizza?”