by Cole, Jagger
But I’m not doing those things. I’m hesitating. And I know it’s because of who she is; who she is, and what she’s doing to me.
“I’m working it out, Alan,” I bark again.
He nods. “Well, call me if you need me to move forward on anything.”
Outside the job site where we just had the meeting, my driver opens the door to the Bentley for me. But I shake my head. “You know what, Mike? I’m going to stroll the neighborhood a little.”
Mike doesn’t look very up for that idea. “Sir, it’s a rough neighborhood.”
“Come see the poor side of Glasgow in the nineties, Mike,” I grunt.
He shrugs. “South Bronx in the eighties, sir,” he shoots back. “But I still wouldn’t advise you walking around alone.”
“I’ll be fine, Mike. But thanks. If you could stay close to the area though. I’ll call later for a lift.”
“You got it, boss.”
I take a breath. I glance up and down the street and finally head left. The dive bar on the corner is exactly what I’m looking for. I step in and smirk. Yeah, it’s a shithole in here. But it reminds me of Glasgow, honestly.
I’m overdressed. That’s actually the overstatement of the century. I get a few looks from some guys playing pool in the corner. But no one seems to recognize me, which is probably a good thing. I walk over to a seat at the almost empty bar.
“Whatcha havin’, buddy.”
I glance at the grizzled looking bartender. “Vodka, rocks, lemon.”
The guy smirks at my accent. “What, no scotch?”
“Very funny,” I say, unsmiling. “Just the vodka will be fine.”
He chuckles “C’mon! I thought you guys drank scotch?”
“Could I just get that drink,” I growl.
“They may take our land!” he howls in this absurd Scottish accent. I grit my teeth. I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“But they will never take, our freedom!” he screams. Then he grins at me expectantly.
“Yeah, Braveheart, I got it.”
He chuckles and walks off to grab my drink. I roll my eyes. I turn and glance around the place. It’s badly lit in here. And it stinks. I can see one of the walls next to the front door is festooned with posters and neon fliers. But suddenly, something catches my eyes: a name.
“What the fuck…”
I stand up and walk over to the wall. I narrow my eyes on the flier and rip it down to look at it. It’s for an art show, but it’s not the fucking art that’s caught my eye. It’s her.
It’s Ella’s art show. I stare at the flier and walk back over to my bar stool. There’s her face, smirking at the camera. I want to scowl at it. But instead, it just makes my pulse beat faster. The venue is close… maybe two blocks from here. And when I scan to the bottom of the flier, I blink in surprise.
Her show is tonight.
My heart beats faster. My cock stirs between my legs. I frown. What the fuck is wrong with—
“Hey, pal.”
I look up, just in time to get a glass-full of vodka tossed right in my face.
“There’s your drink, shithead.”
I hiss and lurch to my feet. The bartender is glaring right at me, and he’s got a baseball bat in his hand.
“Thought I recognized you, you fucker,” he snaps.
I glare back. I’m like twice his fucking size. But when the jukebox turns off, and the guys from the pool table suddenly start to become real interested in me? Yeah, no thanks.
My phone rings. I’m still glaring at the fucker behind the bar when I answer it. “What,” I snap.
“Boss, we got trouble.”
It’s Alan. I sigh and grab a napkin from the bar. I turn away, wiping my face off.
“What is it now, Alan,” I groan. When he hesitates, I freeze. “Shit, the Morganthal contract?
"No, not that…”
“The drilling permit for Beech Street project?”
“No, boss…”
“Out with it, Alan!”
My assistant takes a deep breath. “She did it again, sir.”
I instantly know what he’s talking about. I narrow my eyes. I grind my teeth, and I curl my hand into a fist.
“Where?” I snarl.
“Um…” Alan’s voice sounds nervous
“Where, Alan!?”
“Front door of your offices,” he blurts.
I blink. “Wait, you mean…”
“Like the actual front doors of the building, Mr. Heath. She spray painted on the glass.”
I close my eyes, tightly. God. Fucking. Damnit. I breathe. Or I try and make myself breathe through my glanced jaw.
“She painted what, Alan?” But I think I already know.
“Um… another penis, sir.”
I’m going to kill her. I’m going to find her, and I’m going to sue the fuck out of her.
“Sir, I’ve had a tracker following her after what happened outside your building the other night.”
I start to grin. “Oh?”
“He got it all on tape, Cormac. Filmed the whole thing, including her face.”
My lips curl wickedly. It’s half a smile, half a snarl.
“Find her,” I hiss. “Find her and—”
I stop. I glance down and slowly uncurl my fist. The neon orange flier slowly uncrinkles in my hand, and I smile thinly.
“Belay that, Alan. I’ve got her.”
I know where she is. And now, she’s mine.
6
Ella
“You came!”
I squeal and run over to throw my arms around her. My friend and former across-the-hall neighbor Delphine hugs me back tightly.
“Of course I did!” She pulls back and grins at me. Then she looks around the small venue full of my paintings in shock. “Ella, this is amazing! How could I miss your first real solo show?”
I blush and wave her off. “Oh, stop. There’s going to be like six people.”
“I count twenty right now.”
“Yeah, half of them work here.”
We both laugh, and I grin at her. “No, I just meant, I can’t believe you came since you’re all fancy now.”
She rolls her eyes. “Right, fancy.”
This time it’s my turn to roll my eyes. She’s being humble. But my friend is engaged to one of the richest, most powerful guys in New York. Richer than Heath even, actually. Sure, Barrett King also comes with the fun nickname of “the Demon King of Wall Street.” But I have it on authority he’s mellowed out a whole lot now. Delphine has something to do with that. Or all to do with it, probably.
“Well, I’m just happy you still have time for me,” I tease.
She sighs. “Ha-ha-ha. Come on, of course I do. But you know we’ve been busy at work.”
I know fuck-all about finance or Wall Street. But you’d have to be living under a rock at the bottom of the ocean to not hear how Barrett’s company, King Equities, is killing it right now. Delphine might be my age, but she’s also a genius. Which is why she’s a senior analyst at his firm—a job she got before they were an item, for what that’s worth.
I smirk at her. “Oh I bet you have been ‘busy’ at work.”
She blushes deeply. “With work,” she mumbles, avoiding my eyes.
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it? I mean, Delphine, just because it’s on a desk, it doesn’t mean it’s—”
“Are you done yet?” she groans.
“Not really,” I giggle. “So how is it working under your fiancé?”
She sighs, still blushing. “Can we just talk about art, you weirdo?”
I laugh and grab us both a plastic cup of cheap chardonnay from the caterers. Okay, it’s not much. But it really is my first solo art show, and I’m so glad she’s here for it. I introduce her to Tony, the gallery owner, and Matilde, my part-time agent. We gab and laugh. Basically, anything I can do to not think about Cormac.
It’s not working very well. In fact, not much at all has been working to get my mind off of
him. At all. Since the other night, he’s all I can think about. I’ve had this art show to worry about, my grandfather’s future to worry about. My whole life to dismay over.
But Cormac Heath and his ridiculously kissable mouth is the only thing I’ve been stuck on.
Two nights ago, I kissed the devil. Two nights ago, my lips tasted sulfur and brimstone. And the problem is, I think I liked it a little too much.
“So I said, ‘if that’s a Kooning, then I’m Steve fucking McQueen!’” Tony bursts into laughter at his own joke. “I mean am I right?”
The small crowd laughs along with him. Even Delphine, before she turns to whisper in my ear.
“Should I know what the hell any of that meant?” she hisses.
I giggle. “It’s pretentious art shit, don’t worry about it. I’m going to go get us more wine. You in?”
“Definitely.”
I turn and push my way through the crowd. Then the thought hits me, and I stop and grin. Crowd. It’s actually kind of crowded in here. It’s not a big venue, but still. I push my way to the front door. I turn and grin at the people milling around.
Okay, this is kind of cool. Plus, it’s even more amusing since I started my night at the other end of the art spectrum: by spray painting a dick on the front door of Cormac’s office building. Now, here I am presiding over my first solo art show.
I step outside and take my phone out. I back up and raise it up to get a shot of the show through the big front windows of the gallery. I’m beaming with pride as I step back for an even wider shot—right into a huge, muscled chest.
I gasp and almost scream. I whirl and choke when I look up into the smoldering, piercing blue eyes of Cormac Heath. And he looks pissed.
“Oh fuck,” I groan.
“Yeah, oh fuck is right,” he yells angrily. “As in ‘you are so fucked.’”
I smirk. “Buy a girl a drink first?” Yeah, there’s my sarcasm coming to the rescue as always.
Cormac’s lips thin. “Very funny.” Then he frowns. “Can you even drink? Legally, I mean.”
“I’m twenty-two,” I mutter as he glares at me. I suddenly wrinkle my nose though and sniff. “Um, seems like you’ve already been to happy hour, though.”
He grinds his jaw dangerously. I sniff again and look up at him.
“What did you do, bathe in it?”
“It was thrown at me, actually.”
I laugh; loudly and genuinely. Cormac just glares at me until I’ve stopped slapping my own knee.
“Oh my God, that’s the best thing I’ve heard all day!” I giggle, wiping my eyes.
“You lead a very sad life, then.”
I smile sarcastically at him. “Well, I don’t know if you heard. But I just got fired.”
“Well, you’re about to be arrested. So, there’s that.”
“For?”
“For the dick on my front door.”
I bite my lip to stop the giggle from getting out. “Mr. Heath, I have no idea what you’re taking about.”
He sighs and smiles at me. He leans close, making me gasp quietly. “Can I give you some advice?”
“No?”
He shrugs and starts to turn.
“Okay, okay. Fine, yes.”
Cormac’s eyes sweep over me. “If you insist on persisting with being a criminal—”
“Um, art isn’t a crime,” I mutter.
“Spray painting veiny cocks on people’s front doors is not art,” he snarls.
“Well, agree to disagree, I guess.”
He rolls his eyes and growls.
I’m goading him, and I need to stop it. But it’s so much fun, because it feels dangerous. It’s like taunting a bull. It’s thrilling, and it’s making me… warm.
I simmer to myself. What the fuck, am I actually standing here flirting with Cormac fucking Heath? He’s the devil! And, yes, also obscenely hot. And also, I kissed him and it’s the only fucking thing I can think of when faced with him. But still…
I clench my lips shut and glare at him. “Was there a point to this sermon?”
“Yes. If you’re going to keep being a criminal…”
“Art isn’t—”
“Stop talking for fucking once,” he snaps. I tremble. My core clenches and throbs. Goddamnit, self. Stop reacting to him like that.
“If you’re going to keep doing this,” he leans close and pulls his phone out. “Be better at not getting fucking caught.”
He turns the screen towards me. I instantly freeze, and my heart drops. It’s a still-frame image of me, from earlier tonight.
“That could be anyone,” I shrug casually. Or try to.
Cormac just smiles. He pushes the play button on a video file. The camera zooms onto a figure finishing the last touches of ink on the head of a dick. The figure caps the spray paint, puts it in a shoulder bag, and then speed walks off around the corner. But the camera follows me.
Because yes, it’s definitely me. My stomach sinks, knows what’s coming. Down the block, from a little distance and maybe hiding behind a parked car, the camera zooms on me. I glance around and then take my hat and mask off.
On the video, I even hold up the spray paint can and laugh before putting it away. Okay, it’s pretty damning. It’s really, really bad, actually.
“My my,” Cormac sighs. He grins triumphantly at me. “And you worked so hard to get this show.”
“What do you want?” I ask softly.
“I’ll take the first painting you make with toothpaste and a shiv in prison, signed, of course,” he mutters.
I swallow back tears. I look down at my hands twisting in front of me.
“Fuck,” Cormac grunts. “Don’t cry.”
I glare up at him. “I’m not going to fucking cry.”
He nods stiffly. “Good. Because I have a job for you.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”
“A job. You don’t currently have one, and I have one for you.”
I frown, glaring at him. Cormac sighs heavily. He brings a hand up and pushes it through his hair. “Labor, in exchange for monetary gain?” he says sarcastically.
“Yeah, I know what a fucking job is,” I snap. “But I don’t need yours.”
“You don’t have one.”
“Yeah, I’m actually a professional artist.” I turn and wave a hand at the show behind me through the windows. “See?”
“Ahh, yes.” He glances past me with a blank face. “And how many sales have you made tonight?”
I glare at him. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Look, when you get tired of wishing heavy objects would fall from the sky on top of me? Here.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a thick, gorgeous looking business card. He hands it out to me.
“No thanks.”
“Just take the fucking card, Ella,” he sigh impatiently. “Tomorrow, nine AM, sharp. My offices.” His lips curl as he glares at me. “We both know you’re well aware of the address.”
I chew on my lip. “For what?”
“A job.” He pushes the card into my hand. “Dress professionally.”
He turns without saying another word. He starts to casually walk away up the street. I tell myself to just let him go. But I open my mouth anyways.
“Why are you doing this?” I blurt.
“Because you’re better than toothpaste and a fucking shiv,” he calls over his shoulder. I grin. “Nine AM, sharp. I don’t give second chances.”
He turns back and keeps walking. And I stand there like a weirdo watching him until he’s out of sight around the corner.
Ugh, why is he so hot? And why the hell does being around him make me act all crazy and say stupid shit?
A cab rolls up in front of me. I turn and see my grandfather stepping out with his cane. I beam and rush over to help him.
“Gramps! You made it!”
He chuckles. “Of course I made it,” he says musically in his gravely, French-accented voice. He smiles and gives me a big hug. Bu
t when he pulls back, he’s frowning. He nods down the street. “Was that that son of a bitch Heath?”
“Yes, actually it was.”
He scowls. “Well what the hell did he want now? My goddamn liver? Tell him I’ll wash it out with as much brandy as I can get my hands on first.”
I laugh.
“So? What did he want?”
“Nothing,” I shake my head, lying. “He was just walking by and asking about the art show.”
“Cormac Heath?” he mutters. “Art? The hell does he know about art?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
Grampa Jules grunts and spits in the general direction Cormac went.
I laugh and hug his arm. “Come on in! Delphine’s here, too.”
I lead my grandfather into the gallery and back into the crowd. But not the familiar faces, the wine, the crowd, or even the momentary flash of celebrity can shake Cormac Heath from my freaking brain.
7
Cormac
This is a bad idea.
I look out at the city from my loft window. My eyes narrow as I scan the lights of New York and Central Park below.
I’ve built a career on being Darth fucking Vader. I’m the asshole; the stone-cold killer. The ice man. Ella crossed me, and I should do to her what I’ve done with anyone who’s ever been stupid enough to cross me: ruin her. End her. Destroy her.
But I can’t. I roll my eyes. Fucking hell, I just offered her a goddamn job.
I could stand here lying to myself. I could try and make up some bullshit about wanting to ease my own guilt at knocking down her grandfather’s nursing home. But that’s not it, and I’m nowhere near that close to having a conscious.
It’s because I fucking want her. And I don’t just mean I want to fuck her, or feel her lips wrap around my cock, or spread her legs for my hungry mouth. No, I want her, and I want all of her.
My blood boils at the thought. My cock surges in my pants, and I groan. Then, there’s a knock at my loft door. I turn and frown in anger. No one’s called up from the front security desk. I glance at my phone. No calls there either.
The knock comes again. I cross the large loft and go to the door. I glare through the peep hole and swear.
