If I Were You

by Lisa Renee Jones

  It’s Chris who breaks the silence, reaching for his fork and motioning to my plate. “Eat before my masterpiece gets cold.”

  I nod and in silent unison, we pick up our forks and begin to eat again in silence, both thoughtful. There are so many questions I could ask but I don’t. Personal questions about his family I know I can’t ask now, if ever. He’s already shared more with me than I expected, as I have with him. Still, with this new revelation about his mother, I want to know this man now more than ever.

  “Why painting?” I ask. “Why not a sport or the piano, like your father?”

  His jaw tenses, barely perceivable, but I notice, and I wonder why. What nerve have I hit?

  “My father dated a rather famous artist who decided I needed an outlet outside the schoolyard brawls I was getting into for my anger.”

  “Wait. You were fighting? You don’t seem like a fighter.” Then again, he’d all but flattened Mark, who had seemed untouchable, with nothing more than words.

  “I was a teenager. I was in a new place and I didn’t speak the language, and I was an outsider to the other kids. It was fight or get beat up. I don’t like being beat up. The problem was that once I started fighting, I looked for reasons to keep doing it. I was pissed off about being in Paris and wanted to come back here. The result was I got kicked out of school.”

  “Ouch. What did your father do?”

  “He didn’t even know. The woman he was dating at the time — the artist I mentioned - stepped in and got me back into school. Then she sat me down and told me I had anger issues and had to find an outlet. She shoved a paintbrush in my hand and told me to create something worth looking at.”

  “And what did you draw?”

  He laughs. “Freddy Krueger from Nightmare On Elm Street. One of my best works to date, I might add. I was trying to be a smart ass.”

  I laugh. “You? A smart ass? Never.”

  “You think I’m a smart ass?”

  “You ordered a beer at a wine tasting.”

  “You have to admit Mark’s obvious discomfort was priceless.”

  As much as I want to take this opening to talk about the prior night’s events, I’d rather him keep talking about himself. “I’m not feeding this battle between you and Mark. What happened when you revealed your Freddy drawing?”

  “She said I still had anger issues but I was also talented as hell and if I didn’t put it to use she’d go Freddy Kruger on me.”

  “And so it began,” I say softly. Warmth fills me with this story, and I wonder who the artist was who’d helped him, but I’ve already surmised Chris does everything with specific intent, including avoiding the use of her name.

  “And so it began.”

  He gives me a keen inspection and I can see his mind working, and my skin prickles in a prelude to whatever probing questions I’ve earned with all of mine.

  “So, Sara,” he beings slowly. “Tell me. Just how rich is your father?”

  I inhale and shove aside my plate. He’s told me more than I expected him to tell me, more than he claims he tells anyone. I can’t shut him down and I know he isn’t interested in the money, as much as me walking away from it.

  I pull my feet to the chair and hug my knees, the big robe a cloak, a shelter of sorts. “He’s the CEO of Neptune Technologies.”

  He arches a brow. “As in the cable network?”

  “Yes.”

  He leans back in his chair to study me. “And you live in a modest apartment on a teacher’s salary?”

  “Yes.”

  “You hate him that much.”

  It’s not a question so I don’t answer. I get up and walk to the coffee pot and come back to the table. I hold the pot up to him. He offers me his cup and I fill it. He glances up at me, his eyes probing. “Thank you.”

  I nod and fill my own cup before replacing the pot and sitting down. I pour creamer into my coffee and stir, avoiding Chris’s scrutiny.

  “Do you talk to him?” he prods, apparently not worried about pushing me as I was him.

  I sip my coffee, in no rush to deliver my reply but finally confess, “Never and I don’t talk about him, Chris.” I add his word choice for emphasis. “Ever.”

  He ignores my obvious plea to change the subject. “When was the last time you actually saw or talked to him?”

  “I said my goodbyes to them both at the funeral.” I sip my coffee and I wish it were liquid chocolate comfort, not ground brewed beans. Chris is still staring at me when I set it down.

  He looks puzzled. “She died of a heart attack, right?”

  I nod.

  “So why do I get the feeling you blame your father for her death?”

  My lips thin. ”I blame him for her miserable life.”

  Understanding washes over him. “You didn’t take a dime. You just walked away.”

  “Yes.” A lump forms in my throat. “Which brings me to last night. I don’t know what is up with you and Mark, but-”

  “It’s not a cock-fight,” he teases and I can tell he’s trying to lighten the mood.

  I cringe at the memory I cannot escape. “I still can’t believe I said that.”

  “We aren’t enemies,” he adds, answering what I have not asked but planned to. “I just know him and I know how he works. I wasn’t — I won’t - let him manipulate you.”

  “I’m an employee trying to earn my way into a permanent job, and one that pays more than an intern on the floor.”

  “And your desperateness to make that happen showed. He can’t manipulate you. If he thinks you have something to offer, he’ll give you the opportunity at Riptide, minus the head games he was working on you.”

  “My father is the king of users and I handle him just fine. I can handle Mark, Chris.”

  “You ended up with nothing from your father, Sara. You didn’t handle him just fine. Any father worth a grain of salt takes care of his fucking daughter, no matter how hard-headed she might be about letting him. You deserve to be taken care of.”

  Anger surges in me and I stand up. “You have no right-”

  He’s on his feet towering over me. “What if I want to have a right?”

  “You aren’t a relationship kind of guy, Chris and that’s why I’m here. I’m not a relationship kind of girl. No white picket fences, remember? We both agreed on that. You all but insisted on it. Therefore, you get to fuck me but you don’t get to fuck with my life. This is my opportunity to prove I can have my dream just like you have yours. I appreciate the commission. I do. More than you know but it changes nothing. I still need more than money or I’d be my father’s whipping dog right now, lapping up his money.” My heart is about to explode from my chest. “I need to get dressed and go home.” I start to walk away.

  “Already running away? Can I scare you that easily?”

  I stop dead in my tracks and my chest burns. “I’m not running,” I hiss, facing off with him.

  “You look like you’re running to me. The first time I push a button you don’t like you bolt.”

  “A few orgasms does not give you control of my life.”

  “You know, sweetheart, I know I’m fucked up. But if you think the guy trying to protect you instead of walk all over you is the one trying to run your life, you’re just as fucked up as I am. Walking away from your father is not managing him. It’s running.”

  He’s hit every nerve I own like a lightning rod. “But you want me to walk away from the gallery and Mark and you don’t call that running?”

  His expression clouds and he reaches for me, pulls me hard against his body, his hand snaking into my hair. “Because Mark wants to fuck you, Sara, and I don’t share. You’re with me or you’re not. Decide now.”

  I can barely breathe. He’s jealous. Chris is jealous. It’s hardly conceivable and I want him all the more because of it, which probably means he’s right. I’m fucked up. But then, I know that already. He’s wrong about me being a doormat, though. I’ve been there, done that, and I’m not going there a
gain. “You want me, Chris, you accept my job and you support me.”

  “What do you think I was trying to do by taking away Mark’s control over you last night? But damn it, Sara, say what I want to hear. Tell me you don’t want him.”

  “I don’t. Just you.” And suddenly his mouth is on mine, his tongue pressing past my teeth, stroking me until I’m mindless. We are all over each other, touching and kissing, and I barely register the robe falling away.

  “Damn it, woman, you are making me crazy,” he groans, pressing me against the wall, his fingers caressing my breasts, teasing my nipples, his mouth already devouring mine.

  I can feel him shoving down his pants. “Hurry,” I plead. “I need-“

  He kisses me. “Me too, baby. Me too.”

  And then somehow, he’s inside me. Oh God. Yes. He’s inside me, thick and hard and I’m no longer on the ground or against the wall. He’s lifted me and my legs are wrapped around his waist. He is thrusting into me, pulling me down on top of him, pushing me so that I’m leaning so far back I feel like I might fall; only he has me. His arm is around my waist, his powerful body pushing into mine, his hot gaze raking over my breasts, and he has me. He won’t let me fall and that knowledge, that certainty that comes from some place deep inside, allows me to let go. I let myself feel and not think. I am lost to the passion, to the moment, and the push of him inside me, the pleasure of him stretching me, is more than I can take. An orgasm ripples through me with a sudden, intense blast, my body clenching around his. He groans with the impact and God, that groan is hotness personified. I feel the wet, warm heat of his release and I am past my release, and clear-headed enough to revel in the beauty of his face etched with the pleasure I am giving him. I am spellbound by the sight of him, hanging on every second of his release, watching the tension in his features slowly ease into relaxation.

  He pulls me close and buries his face in my neck and just holds me for long seconds, still standing, holding my weight and his. My gaze goes to the window and I am aware of the blue sea and gorgeous city beneath us. Of the feeling of sanctuary I’ve found here and nowhere else, if only for a short while.

  Slowly, Chris slides me to the ground and offers me a paper towel which I demurely accept, feeling a wave of shyness. Yes indeed, I’m a contradiction these days. Chris fixes his pants and then grabs the robe and pulls it around me.

  “I’d like to take you somewhere and show you something I think you’ll like,” he says. “Overnight, if you can?”

  Overnight with Chris? The idea thrills me more than it should and I remind myself this is a hot fling. Enjoy it while I can. Don’t get attached. Don’t fall for him. “Where?” I ask.

  “Is that a yes?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Then it’s a surprise but you’ll like it, I promise.” He glances at a clock. “But if we’re going to do everything I want to do, we have to get going.”

  “I have to go home and shower and get clothes. I don’t even have a shirt to wear out of here.”

  “You can use my shower, and you leave clothes to me.”

  “Chris-”

  He picks me up and I yelp. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking you to the shower. Me Tarzan. You Jane. Do as I say.”

  I laugh at his silliness, and think that he’s the contradiction. All rough, tough manly man and a gentle bear at the same time.

  We pass the coffee table. “Wait! I need my purse.”

  He backs up and leans down enough for me to grab it. I snatch it. “My skirt-“

  “I’ll get you clothes,” he says, charging up the steps from the living room to the foyer by the elevator and down another hallway I hadn’t even noticed, and then up a winding set of stairs that ends in his bedroom, which is spectacular. A massive black bed on a pedestal with an incredible view I only get to see in passing before I am deposited on the white marble floor of a bathroom the size of my bedroom.

  “I’m leaving you here and shutting you inside because if I join you, we won’t leave anytime soon.”

  I open my mouth to object but it’s too late. He kisses me quick and hard on the mouth and then steps out of the room and shuts the door behind him. I am alone in Chris Merit’s bathroom and all I can do is smile.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I use Chris’s soap and shampoo; it has a sandalwood musky smell that reminds me of him, and makes me wish he’s in the shower with me. Images of the things we’ve done together, the conversations we’ve shared, pour through me as the hot water pours over me. Chris confuses me on every possible level. Or maybe I’m confused anyway. Until this past week, I’d convinced myself I had life figured out. Did I let my father beat me by leaving everything behind? Part of me says no. I escaped with my own identity. I stood up for what I believed in. My love of art had been like my mother’s, a frivolous hobby, not a career. My role would have been like my mother’s, that of servitude to my father, and in my case, also Michael.

  Another part of me, well, it grimly says that I ran rather than stood up to my father and demanded he accept who and what I am, not who he wanted me to be. I’d always hoped my mother would stand up for herself, and what had I done? I’d simply left. I’d run. Chris is right. No wonder I wanted to hit the man. He’d made me see the bitter, hard truth of my actions. He’d made me wish I’d been braver, made me see I’d lost five years of my life I can never get back. Still, I don’t want to see my father. I don’t want his damn money. I can’t be certain I’d have stayed in my current state of mind, but I would have fought for my dream, rather than hiding from everything. Wasn’t that the entire reason I left? To be me? I inhale and let it out. Me. I don’t know myself.

  My stomach is officially in knots and I turn off the water. I did run. I can’t deny it. Damn it to Hell, I’m furious with myself. But I can create my own life and success now that I’ve decided to try. Resolve forms deep in my soul, where I’ve not felt anything for a long while…until Chris. I am going to embrace what is before me, including this weekend with Chris. Chris is my escape. This new job is my hope.

  Pushing open the glass doors, I wrap myself in a fluffy white towel I’d found in a cabinet and wish for my clothes. Chris might dig up a shirt for me, but I’m sure he knows I need more for the weekend. We’ll have to make time to stop by my place, and the idea bothers me. My place. My little hole in the wall the size of Chris’s bedroom and bathroom. It shouldn’t matter but somehow it does.

  Stepping to the vanity mirror, I find the hair dryer easily since it’s sitting on the shiny white tiled counter. Hair products are crucial though and I pull open the spacious medicine chest to hunt some down. Chris’s electric shaver, and various toiletries, including cologne and lotion are inside. No hair products. He has such great hair, and it’s as long as his chin, so it must require gel or some kind or product.

  I start to close the cabinet, and hesitate, picking up the cologne, and spraying it in the air, drawing in the familiar scent of Chris, warm and wonderful, and strong in ways I’ve never experienced before. If you think the guy trying to protect you instead of walk all over you is the one trying to run your life, you’re just as fucked up as I am. Ah yes, I think. Exactly. I am. So is he. We are destruction waiting to happen to each other; he’s a drug, as Rebecca had called the man in the journal, I’m already addicted to.

  I shake off the thought and return the cologne to the cabinet. Still without hair products, I decide to focus on my makeup. Grabbing my purse, I pull out the journal to get to my makeup and set it on the counter, staring at it like it’s some exploding device. “Where are you?” I whisper softly, but I’m not sure I’m talking to her or me. I am lost in her life, and I wonder if I want to be found? Does she want to be found wherever she is? Has she escaped into a new life like I have?

  With Rebecca on my mind, I focus on creating a soft, natural look with my makeup and I finish with lip gloss. With no hair products, I turn on the dryer, and wish for some straightening serum. Ten minutes later, my hair is
dry and a bit wild. I’d kill for a flat iron right now.

  I drop the towel and grab the robe, wrapping it around me, ready to find my clothes. I pause at the medicine cabinet and open it again, reaching for Chris’s cologne and squirting it all over me. Inhaling, I draw in the spicy scent and smile. I like smelling like Chris.

  Tentatively, I pull open the door to the bathroom and Chris is nowhere to be found, but the bedroom door is open. My bare feet touch the hardwood floor and my gaze settles on the massive bed. On top are a good seven or eight bags, all from two high-end brand name stores I know are in the building next door. On the floor is a woman’s Louis Vuitton travel case which would sport a $2500 price tag.

  My throat goes dry and my chest hurts. I walk toward the items and when I reach the bags I see they are packed with clothes, shoes, and even, yes, bath items and a flat iron. A very expensive flat iron that puts my bargain special to shame.

  I’ve been in the shower maybe forty-five minutes and somehow he’s pulled off an entire shopping spree. Or rather, he called downstairs and the staff jumped through hoops. These are expensive items, thousands of dollars expensive.

  My heart begins to thunder in my chest. These are all stores I used to shop at. Stores I enjoyed. Sure, I left the money behind, but a more humble life hasn’t been easy. I’ve found a place to store away the hunger for more, along with everything else associated with my past. I’d convinced myself I was fine, that I don’t need these things. That I didn’t care. But staring at these bags, there is an ache inside me, and I know it’s not simply about nice things. It’s about everything I left behind, about how easily that old life forgot me, even if I didn’t forget it.

  “Anything you don’t like we can take back when we get back to the city.”

  I turn to find Chris standing in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the doorjamb, looking sexy and all man. “I can’t take these clothes, Chris.”

  He pushes off the doorjamb. “Of course you can.”

  “No. No, I can’t.” I feel panic rising inside me.