by Cole, Jagger
Fuck, it’s Kristen; my ex.
Maybe another man would pretend to not be home. But I’ve never been one to avoid confrontation. I know what this is, too. But fuck it, time to send her packing once again. I growl and swing the door wide.
“The hell do you want?”
Kristen blinks in surprise. But she catches herself pretty quick. She grins seductively. “Wow, charming even for you, Cormac.” She starts to push past me, but I stop her with an arm across the doorframe.
“What?” She frowns.
“What are you doing, Kristen?” I growl.
“Coming in.”
I smile coldly. “No, you’re not.”
“Cormac,” she flashes me that sultry smile again. “Come on.”
“Come on what?” I snap.
“Me, if you’d like.”
I roll my eyes. “I think you need to leave.”
“I think you need to let me in.” She undoes the front of her black trench coat and opens it wide. Underneath, she’s only wearing heels and this elaborate looking leather and lace BDSM-esque lingerie get-up.
It honestly does nothing for me.
“Cover up, Kristen,” I disdain. She’s done this a dozen times. I’ve been done with her for two damn years. And she still shows up every few months looking to jump me. It’s not flattering, trust me.
Our relationship was never good. ever. Two rival developers getting together? That’s only cute in fucking movies. In reality, it was shit. In the end, what I always told myself would happen, happened. She stabbed me in the back, stole a bunch of my clients and contacts, and cheated on me with half the fucking city.
“Oh come on, Cormac!” She whines. “You know you miss this.”
“This may come as a surprise to you, Kristen,” I smile and lean forward.
“Yes?” she purrs, arching her brow.
“But I don’t,” I growl. “At all.”
She purses her lips. “Seeing someone?”
There’s a dangerous tone in her voice. I’m tempted to say yes just to watch her explode.
“No,” I shrug.
“So? What’s the problem?”
“The problem is, I don’t actually like you, Kristen.”
“Oh, Cormac,” she laughs and bats her hand like I’m kidding.
“I’m not joking. Go away.”
Kristen pouts. “Why didn’t we work out, Cormac?”
I laugh. “Because you’re a liar and a backstabbing thief.”
“That was business! You’re really going to blame me for having a career—”
“And because you had trouble going from the milk aisle to the bread aisle in the goddamn grocery store without falling on a new dick.”
Kristen purses her lips and glares at me. “You’re a real piece of work, Cormac.”
“So I keep hearing.”
“You know, it’s no wonder this whole city hates you!” she snaps angrily.
I roll my eyes and start to close the door. “Goodnight, Kristen.”
“Because you’re just a sad, pathetic, grumpy asshole!”
“Pleasure to see you as always, Kristen. I’d say try not to get pregnant on the way home. But I don’t think succubus demons can actually bear children, can they?”
She sneers at me and steps back from the door. She angrily ties her coat shut again. “Whatever, asshole. I was doing you a favor!”
I laugh. But she frowns and leans forward. She sniffs and wrinkles her nose. “And get your shit together, Cormac. You reek like vodka.”
I slam the door shut and walk away.
The next day, I’m still pretty sure this is a shite idea. I’m pacing my office when Hannah, my secretary knocks and pokes her head in.
“There’s a Ms. Veers to see you?” She frowns.
I nod. “Yeah, send her in.”
Hannah hesitates. Her brows knit.
“What is it?”
“She…” She gives me a strange look. “She has an appointment?”
“Yes?”
“Oh, okay.”
She turns to leave, but I frown. “Hannah, what’s up?”
“Oh, nothing, sir. I’ll show her right in.”
Um, okay? I shake my head and glance back at a contract I’ve been going over. There’s another knock at the door, and it opens. I look up and instantly scowl.
What. The. Fuck.
Ella smirks as she steps in. Yeah, she did this on purpose.
“What part of dress professionally didn’t really resonate with you?” I grunt.
“Oh, all of it.” Ella smiles sweetly. She’s fucking with me. First of all, her hair is now blue. Well, streaks of it are. And she’s wearing… fuck, I don’t even know what she’s wearing. It’s like she’s starting a pink-themed punk band: black Doc Martin boots with pink laces, ripped fishnet tights, a pink and black plaid skirt, and a black tank-top with pink lettering that says, “Fuck Corporate America.”
I mean I understand she might not own a fucking business suit. But this is deliberate. This is a shot across the bow. She’s looking for a reaction. Well, she’s got it.
“You’ve heard the saying cutting off your nose to spite your face?”
“I have, yeah.”
I raise my gaze to her newly blue-streaked hair. “Interesting choice.”
She shrugs. “What’s the problem with my hair?”
“Are you familiar with aposematism?”
“I—”
“In nature, poisonous things are neon colored to warn of their toxicity.” I smile sarcastically.
“To predators,” she mutters.
“Excuse me?”
“Aposematism. The neon color warns of their toxicity towards predators.”
“Exactly.”
Ella smiles thinly. “Guess it’s working.”
I glare back at her. “I can see how you’ve been able to climb the corporate ladder so fast in the world of latte foam art.”
Her lips purse. “Are you done?”
“For now.”
She crosses her arms. “So what’s the job? Secretary? Data processing? CFO?”
I roll my eyes. Unbelievable. But hell, as much as I hate to admit it even to myself, she looks good. I feel a throb of desire surge inside of me. Yeah, she looks good. Too good.
Yet again, I remind myself what a fucking awful idea this is.
“Follow me.” I brush past her out the door of my office. I can hear the sound of her boots as she follows, down the hall and into the main conference room.
This is my crown jewel. This is where I’ve signed some of my biggest deals, and where I lay my battle plans for domination. But it’s also so much more than a conference room; it’s art. And while I’m aware of how fucking pretentious that sounds, those aren’t my words. Architectural Digest said that about the room, not me.
“Wow.”
She actually does sound impressed when we step inside. And she should be. The room is all white and glass and curved around the lush inner courtyard garden of the building. Technically speaking, it’s a terrarium rainforest, not a garden; complete with its own little biome. The conference room on the top floor that curves around it faces into it. And honestly, it really is more like art than a room.
“I guess that means you like it.”
“Well, I’m supposed to, right?” She shrugs. “That’s why you spent a gazillion of your Satan dollars on it?”
I smile. “Exactly, yes. Two gazillion Lucifer-bucks, actually.”
She grins. So do I, before I stop that shit. This is business. And I definitely need to stop flirting with this fucking girl. She’s a thorn in my side, not a cute eye-catcher. She’s also thirteen years younger than me.
I watch as she slowly walks across the immaculate white floors to the huge windows overlooking the garden.
“Um, yeah, quick note? If the job is to clean these windows—”
“It’s to paint that wall.” I jab a thumb over my shoulder. The huge, blank white wall follows the same cur
ve as the glass one across from it. Ella stares past me at it. Her mouth falls open.
“What?”
“That wall,” I turn and gesture at it with my chin. “I want a mural on it.”
“You’re serious.”
“I’m serious.” I frown. “And no dicks, if you could restrain yourself?”
She blushes. I like making her blush. A lot. But then Ella frowns and shakes her head.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because you’re good.”
“Is that why you came to the show last night?”
“No, I came there to have you arrested,” I grunt. “And I’m not joking.”
She shakes her head again, still frowning. “I think I’m missing something.”
“What’s not to get? I need a mural painted, and you’re a very good painter.”
“Yeah, but there are like a million ‘very good’ painters in this city. And a lot of them have way more cred than me.”
I shrug. “Your art…”
“Speaks to you?” she says sarcastically.
“Maybe.”
“Does it make your jaw hurt a little?” she smirks.
“Careful,” I growl in response. Ella frowns at the wall. She walks past me to stare up at it from the mid-point. Then she turns back to me.
“This is fucking huge.”
“Well, it’s all yours. Just no dicks.”
She chews on her lip. “How much?”
I grin. I like that she’s direct.
“Because don’t you dare cheap out on me. You’re richer than sin, so if you say a thousand bucks…”
“I was going to say fifty, actually. “
Stares at me. Her jaw drops, and her eyes widen. “Thousand?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Um…” she blinks. She quickly shakes her head. “No, I guess that’s fine.”
I grin. She has a terrible poker face.
“I provide whatever supplies you need.” I shrug. “Hey, you can put your grandfather up somewhere nice with that kind of money, right? So, in terms of timeframe…”
The smile fades from her face, fast. She freezes, and her eyes narrow to slits at me.
“Wow,” she shakes her head.
“What?”
“You are…” Ella scoffs. “You are really unbelievable.”
“Now what’s the problem?”
“Is this a payoff?!”
I scowl, annoyed by the new accusatory looks and tone. “Yes? It’s a payoff for you to fucking paint the damn wall.”
“No, I mean to stop me from spray-painting you like I have been all over your properties,” she snaps.
“That would be a nice bonus,” I growl.
“No, no. This is gag money!”
“For?”
“For keeping quiet about you leveling a nursing home!”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not doing it while the residents are still fucking in there, Ella. I’m not a super villain.”
“No, you’re worse.”
I sigh. “It’s not a secret. It’s public record. Christ, they were talking about it on NPR this morning with the fucking mayor on the phone. So, no, this isn’t ‘gag’ money, Ella. It’s for painting my damn wall.”
She glares at me. I glare right back.
“I’m not doing this.”
She whirls and starts to storm across the conference room to the door.
“How about a hundred grand?”
She freezes, her back to me.
“That settle your clash of idealism a little?”
Ella slowly turns and glances at me. “Getting there.”
I smirk. Everyone’s a money-hating idealist until some cash actually hits the table. “To save us the time, let’s just fast-froward to the part where I tell you a hundred and fifty grand is the highest I’ll go.” I give her a hard, meaningful look. “And I mean that.”
Ella swallows. She looks away, and I can see the gears turning. She walks over to the windows into the atrium. She turns and lets her gaze slide across the big blank wall. Then she finally turns to me.
“Fine.”
“Fine what?”
She glares at me. “Yeah, I’m not calling you sir.”
I groan at the thought. My cock thickens a little.
“What I meant was, what is the fine for.”
“I mean fine I’ll do it. The wall.”
I suck on my teeth. I look at her without blinking, and I nod.
“That nursing home is coming down whether I do this or not, right?”
I nod. “Yes.”
She glares at me. “Then fine, I’ll do it. For a hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Deal.”
I stick my hand out. Slowly and cautiously, Ella walks over. She puts her hand into mine and shakes. I groan on the inside. I like touching her skin.
“So, you’ll start tomorrow.”
She makes a face. “Well, the creative process—”
“Tomorrow,” I growl.
Ella looks like she wants to keep throwing shit at me. But she wisely backs down this time. “Whatever, fine. Tomorrow.” She gives me one last glare. Then she whirls and storms towards the door.
“I’m going to need that up front though!” She calls over her shoulder.
I roll my eyes. Of course she does.
“Tomorrow!” I bark after her.
“Okay, fine!” She yells back from the doorway. “Bossy pants!”
I smirk. And then she’s gone. But my mind is still firing on all cylinders. What am I doing? Why the fuck am I going forward with this?
There’s no need for a mural. And if there was, I could hire anyone. Its fucking New York, for God’s sake. And Ella is right. What are there, a million other painters out there in Manhattan looking for work? And the time frame? Tomorrow? What the hell is that about?
But I know what it’s about. I know why I’m doing this. I don’t want just any painter. I want her, because I want her.
I’ve had a taste. And now, I want the rest.
Right now.
8
Ella
“He what now?!”
I brace myself. “Gramps, calm down…”
“I will not!” He bangs his cane on the ground. It’s supposed to convey anger, obviously. But my grandfather also has a way of dressing like a French impressionist painter—double blazer, vest, pocket-watch chain and all. With his big bushy white mustache, stomping his cane always makes me have to hold in a laugh.
“He wants to give you a hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollars?! For what, shutting—”
“He wants me to paint, grampa,” I finally blurt.
He pauses and frowns. “What?”
“A mural. He wants me to paint…” I purse my lips. My brows knit. As I’m actually explaining it out loud to someone else for the first time, it’s suddenly sounding even worse. It is hush money. For all his charming smiles and Mr. Grumpy-Sexy looks, this is what it is: the rich asshole throwing his money around to “fix” a problem of his own making.
I scowl. “You know what? You’re right, this is stupid. Forget it, I’m telling him no—”
“Wait-wait-wait.” Gramps taps his cane again. He peers closer at me. “Hang on now, back up. He wants to give you a hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollars to paint?”
I nod.
“Paint what again?”
“A mural. But I’m not doing it.” I groan. Why the fuck did I say yes to Cormac? Why on earth would I voluntarily choose to be around him, much less work for him.
A hundred and fifty grand, that’s why.
“Why not?” Gramps frowns.
I frown right back. “Five seconds ago you were on my side!”
“Five seconds ago I thought it was hush money.”
“It is!”
He shrugs. He flashes a lopsided grin from under his mustache. “But you’re being paid to paint, Ella.”
“So?”
He smiles. “Honey, that’s a big deal.”<
br />
I shrug.
“Where’s the mural?”
“His conference room, in his offices.”
“Like right there in the room?” Gramps says excitedly.
I frown. “Are you somehow familiar with Cormac Heath’s conference room?”
“No, but… well, yeah, actually.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, I saw it on the internets. Hang on.”
Gramps hustles over to his laptop. He opens it up and brings up a browser window. A minute later, he’s clicking onto a bunch of different websites. My jaw drops. Yeah, there’s Cormac’s big snazzy conference room—being written about in Architectural Digest, Elle Decor, Luxe, Interior Design… the list of publications featuring Cormac’s dumb conference room goes on.
I scowl at them. “Of course he hired some super fancy architect for cool points—”
“He built it himself, actually.”
I blink. I slowly turn to look at Gramps. “What?”
“Yeah, wild, isn’t it? It’s his design. That’s why all these magazines are going ape-shit for it.”
“Cormac is a designer?”
“Apparently so.” He clicks on a picture. A huge image of the full conference room fills the screen. Gramps whistles slowly. “Damn, it’s a beautiful space. So what part of the room?”
“The wall,” I say quietly.
“What part of it?”
I swallow. “Um, all of it?”
Gramps slowly turns to stare at me. He grins. “Ella, honey!”
“Gramps—”
“That’s international recognition!”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, please…”
“Diego Rivera!”
I sigh. “Gramps, don’t…”
“No, listen. Diego Rivera, nineteen-thirty-three.”
“I’ve heard this story,” I groan. And I have, several times. Gramps is like an art history book.
“Then hear it again,” he huffs. “So, Rivera gets commissioned by John D. Rockefeller junior himself to paint the lobby of Thirty Rockefeller Plaza in nineteen-thirty-three…”
“Yeah, and they tore it down when he filled it with perceived communist imagery of the working class.”
Gramps smirks. “And it put him and his message on the map; in history books.”
“I’m sorry, are you really saying Cormac freaking Heath, douchebag extraordinaire, is our modern Rockefeller?”
