Love Hurts

by J. J. Keller

  “Thanks, Liz. It’s good to hear your voice.” Shania didn’t want the call to end, but she’d kept Liz away from her celebration long enough. “I’ll call in December.”

  “Thanks, hun, and Shay…don’t worry, it’ll all work out in your favor. Have faith in love.”

  Chapter 5

  Morgan glanced through the office building window. Liz, beaming as if she’d won the lottery, walked out of her office and wiggled her way into the center of a cluster of girls.

  He didn’t know their names. They must work at Companion Connections because the locked entry into the building required fingerprint identification and keycard. High security was a method of keeping clients out and maintaining a protected environment for the staff and records. Wish he’d thought of it. Instead his partner, Tom, had. Bottom line was the employees would be safe.

  They were perfectly protected except the heavy metal door shut too slowly. Morgan slid in after a dark-haired beauty. Once he finished riffling through the records, he’d give Tom a call and advise him of the problem. Anyone could slip inside and their business would be subject to robbery or worse.

  As Morgan walked through the open space, he glanced at the female gaggle, a colorful arrangement of white, black, red and golden goddesses. The women were dressed in a variety of apparel from sleek, sparkly, short skirts to jeans. Their body shapes varied from tall and thin to short and stocky. The only common denominators were their sunny personalities and sexy voices. He’d entered a room full of husky-timbered Leona Lewises and Kathleen Turners--or even Lana Turners, as some of the companions had to be as old as black and white movies. The one he wanted wasn’t a part of the group.

  The beautiful flock waved at him. Music with a snappy beat vibrated his eardrums. Lyrics depicting doing it on the floor made him question their music choice. Obviously not bothering the women as they concentrated on their dancing, chatting and drinking. A simple sofa and two club chairs had been pushed to the side. He slipped into the office Liz had exited from and softly shut the door. The click could not be heard over the shouting, laughing, and singing along with the song. He glanced out the office window. There wasn’t a banner declaring what they were celebrating. Regardless, the ladies were having a good time.

  Morgan walked into the classic office--beige walls, black iron lamps on the tables at the ends of a brown suede sofa and a large antique desk directly in the middle of the room. The space was dark. He itched to turn on one of the lamps. He didn’t dare. She’d catch him and drop-kick him out the door. Behind the desk chair was a set of file cabinets. Would they be unlocked? He slid his finger into the metal handle and tugged.

  The drawer snicked open. Sweet success. He pulled it enough to catch some light from the hallway outside and riffled through the folders until he came across the name he’d been searching. Shay Lei AKA Shania Miller. He glanced out the window to find the motley crew line dancing. Some of the women were on top of the tables and others straddled chairs. He tried to listen to the current song, but didn’t recognize the artist nor understand the words. Liz continued to shake her generous booty.

  The heavy steel office door provided the privacy needed to conduct business. Morgan glanced at the documents in his hand and lifted the corners with two fingers. Should he invade her records? What would he see? As Shania’s indirect boss, he had the right to review her work records. So why did he feel like he was betraying a trust?

  He took a deep relaxing breath. His goal was only to find out her address. That was it. His gaze shot out the window. Fuck. Liz was making her way to the office. He’d been spotted. Morgan slipped the folder back into the cabinet, uncaring where it was placed. He skidded around the desk and landed onto the seat of a leather chair. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Liz flipped on the light switch. The bright glow illuminated the room.

  “What are you doing in here?” Liz’s croaky voice held a snippet of anger mixed with a chuckle. Was the laughter a carry-over from the party or directed at him?

  He disregarded her question. “What’s going on out there?”

  “We’re celebrating,” she quipped.

  He smiled. Liz was worth every penny he paid. He admired her dedication to the job. She was the best manager he’d ever hired, but her sense of humor was what he valued the most.

  Liz glanced at the file cabinet and then at him. Morgan had the strongest urge to squirm in his seat. No fingerprints were on the metal. Nothing had been shifted on top. Her office chair was in perfect alignment with the desk, yet she knew.

  “Do you have psychic powers, Miz Liz?” he asked and flashed a grin. From the time he was the tender age of two his “sweet little smile” had always gotten him out of trouble. Would his luck hold?

  “You betcha, so what are you trying to find in the files, young man?” She plopped onto the chair. Resting elbows on the desk, she folded her hands together and propped her chin on top.

  “Liz, Liz, Liz.” He flashed the grin again. The clever woman seemed to know everything. He should have anticipated getting caught and formed a plausible excuse.

  “The truth shall set you free,” she pronounced, her stare intense and pious.

  He blinked.

  She smiled and shifted her hands to rest on top of the desk. Her shiny mouth curved slightly at the corners.

  “I want a forwarding address for one of your girls,” he admitted and licked his very dry lips.

  “First off, they are not girls. They are women who are employed to provide comfort and conversation to companionless people.” She narrowed her eyes and her fingernails dug into the desk blotter. “Our business, if you’ll recollect, is called Companion Connections.”

  “I know that, Liz. I’m sorry for the wrong terminology. Typical of me to piss off my best friend.” He grinned and reached forward to touch her hand.

  Her brown-eyed gaze softened at the same time her fingers entwined with his. “Mmm-hmm, friends.”

  “Ah, Liz, if only I was free. I’d be all over your sexy woman body.” He sighed. She blushed, adding bright red from her cheekbones down along her neck. Her broad smile narrowed.

  “You devil. I never know when to believe you. You canceled your wedding with Petulant Patty.”

  “Don’t call her that,” Morgan said. “You were there, so you know I ended it.” This wasn’t going well.

  “Right. Now you’re riffling through my files, looking for an address.” She released his hand and smoothed down her salt and pepper hair. Her fingers clasped the deep V of her fuchsia dress and tugged it, drawing his attention to her chest and the brilliant diamond on a very important finger. “Who does your heart belong to, then?”

  “New ring? You’re kidding me?” He sat against the backrest and laughed. “You’re getting married? You?”

  “Hey, even the unbelievable and uncompromising can be convinced to love. Devon is a wonderful man. I’m lucky…er… He’s lucky to have found me.” She held her age-spotted hand in front of her, the diamonds glittering in the overhead light.

  Morgan laughed louder, and then lowered his eyelids halfway. “I guess I didn’t act fast enough to catch you, Liz. Do I have time to make a play for you?”

  “You fiend. You’re only saying that because you know once I commit it’s a forever thing. Stop trying to change the subject. I’m not going to leave you alone in here, so get over the idea of riffling through the files. Just tell me who has caught your eye.”

  “My love. She put knots in my heartstrings from the day I met her.” He sobered and propped his ankle on his knee.

  “Oh? Heartstrings? Interesting.” She leaned forward and pierced him with a look, an intense stare. “We’ve been friends for what, ten years now? You need to divulge all of your secrets. I think I already know why you were nosing around in my folders. So tell.”

  Morgan cleared his throat. Should he confess to Liz? He’d always kept his personal life and professional business separate. However, Shania had called and when he rang back there wasn’t a con
nection. She could be in danger. According to Tom, Beck was showing signs of erratic anger. Pain in his chest prevented him from breathing normally. What if something had happened to her? He’d never told her that he loved her.

  “Shay. I’m in love with Shania Miller. She moved away from Cyan, and I can’t locate her. Tell me where she’s gone?” He lowered his leg, leaned forward and placed his hand on the desk. Ready to grab a pen and paper if needed to write down details. As if necessary, he scoffed. He’d find out the address, commit it to memory, and then he’d go get her.

  “No.” She puffed out a long breath. The scent of whisky floated in the space around him.

  “What?” He shook his head. His listening skills needed to improve.

  “I don’t know her address. She called earlier tonight. I’m holding a paycheck for her until December.” Liz hadn’t blinked. Her body movements were straight, unmoving. She was telling the truth. “She’s fine, Morgan.”

  Chapter 6

  “Miss Miller, please stay a moment after class.” Monsieur Barrett hovered beside her easel, glancing at her work instead of into her eyes. Her breakfast toast spoiled in her stomach. Background noises--students packing away their supplies, stuffing portfolios or backpacks and exiting--didn’t distract her from the demand.

  Shania glanced at Justin who was dragging a miniature truck across the tiled floor of the professor’s office. The first hour of class her son quietly drew on his artist pad. For the last thirty minutes he’d made motor sounds. He wasn’t disruptive. She didn’t think his murmurings bothered anyone. Sharp angry looks didn’t get shot his way, nor had anyone asked about him.

  Monsieur Barrett wandered into his office once, talked to Justin for a couple of minutes and came out again. He’d had a smile on his face. Had her son later destroyed something? She stowed her work in progress in her cubicle and wiped the charcoal from her fingers. Hoisting her bag, she made her way into the room.

  She sat on the hard chair opposite the professor’s desk. Justin climbed onto her lap, truck in hand.

  “Your son used my charcoals while I was teaching.” He grabbed Justin’s small artist pad and placed it on the desk.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll replace the pencils.” She held Justin close. “He’s never used something that wasn’t his without permission before.”

  “The reason I’m mentioning it is because of what he did with the charcoals.” He reached across the desk.

  “I’m sorry, sir. He’s three, and although he tries to stay in the lines, sometimes misses happen.” Cripes, how much would she have to pay to replace the ruined item? She mentally waved goodbye to their winter coats as she looked around the room, trying to find what had been damaged.

  “He’s three?” he asked as he lifted the cover of the pad.

  “Yes, sir. He’ll be four at the end of April.” Because of his young age would the professor forgive and forget? In her mind she envisioned the winter coats back into her closet with new department store tags hanging from the cuffs.

  “You claimed he was a good child and you were right. He resembles his father in more than appearance.” He flipped a few pages of crayon renditions, and then turned the page around so she could see the charcoal drawing.

  She gasped. “Oh, my.”

  “‘Oh, my’ is right, Miss Miller. Your son is a genius. He obviously listened to the lecture today and, unlike a few of your colleagues, applied the information.” Monsieur Barrett gently removed the page and held it up. “This is a perfect example of Gainsborough’s unconventional chalk on gray cotton style. See how the books and papers have feathery surface patterns and the lone truck sits on top? The sketch has rhythmic layers. The chalk strokes are diagonal emphasizing the focal point. Justin, did you draw this picture?”

  Justin nodded.

  “Do you mind if I try to get this piece into an art show?” Monsieur Barrett laid the drawing on the credenza behind him. Was he so sure of her answer?

  Excitement jetted through her. Her three-year-old son might have his work in an art show. “Yes!”

  “No. For Mommy.” Justin scooted off her lap, shook off her hand and scuttled to his drawing.

  “Honey, why don’t we let Monsieur Barrett show other people your beautiful picture? I bet he’ll frame the art for you, and when he’s done we’ll hang it at home.” She glanced at her professor, who smiled and nodded.

  “By the TV?” Justin asked. She chuckled inside. Behind the television was prime real estate. They’d been looking for the perfect piece for the wall since they’d moved to Briarwood.

  “Yes, I think that would be the ideal location.” She grinned at her clever son.

  Justin smiled and switched his attention to Monsieur. “Okay.”

  “I want him to try still-life next week.”

  “What? I don’t think so,” she hissed. “The still-life scheduled is a nude.”

  “No, not a model. Fruit or flowers. Simple. Not a lot of detail, a single flower or an apple.” He muttered and flipped through his old-fashioned rolodex. “You’ll show him some of the Clara Peters, or as you’d prefer impressionist point to a Van Gogh and Cezanne in your text?”

  “Yes, I’ll show him.” She wanted to shout her joy, exclaim to everyone of her young son’s amazing ability.

  “I’ll expect you to bring him next week then.” Monsieur Barrett rubbed his hands together. Was his enthusiasm only for Justin, or due to the fact her child’s talent was more remarkable than Beck’s? Beck Longview had a charcoal currently hanging in the university’s art museum. During a weak moment she took Justin to see Beck’s art. She didn’t tell her son the sketch had been created by his biological father.

  “Yes, sir.” She repacked Justin’s trucks and helped him into his jacket. Her bag firmly set on her back, she took her talented son’s hand and they left the building. A block later she sat on the edge of the fountain, dug into her jeans pocket, and drew out coins. She handed them to Justin. Pleased he didn’t have to ask, he took the bits of brass.

  “Don’t forget to make a wish.”

  He tossed the coins into the fountain with exuberance and a concentrated expression. Shania removed her cellphone and pressed the number two button. Morgan should be the first to know.

  The phone rang four times when a female voice came on instructing the caller to leave a message after the tone. She snapped the cell closed, cutting off the connection. She needed to share her elation with him. Justin’s first word was voiced in front of both of them. Justin took his first steps to reach his surrogate father. Morgan taught him how to use the big boy toilet. He was always the first to hear good news.

  She rubbed her head in misery. Morgan had been a part of their lives for the past four years and now he wasn’t. He didn’t know where to find them. She had left Cyan and traveled to Briarwood without telling him. No note. No call. No last good-bye.

  “Deception and truth eventually coincide,” she said to herself. Justin glanced at her and continued to play. She should have made an effort to tell Morgan how she felt. Shania had the perfect opportunity the day of the rodent incident. Who was she kidding? There were several occasions she’d lost or ignored. She’d missed Morgan every minute of every day since they’d arrived in Briarwood. He was her primary contact and her heart bled thinking he wouldn’t be any longer. Why hadn’t he called her? Normally, he would have, regardless of the incident in the church. He’d given her mixed messages by coming to see her and asking if she meant what she’d said and then left. Had Morgan given up on them?

  “Mommy, why are you crying?” Justin snuggled beside her.

  “I’m happy. You’re a very good artist, honey.” She wiped her face with the sleeves of her sweater. “Come on, we’ll go get ready for our dinner with Dr. Raimo.”

  “Okay. Look, there’s Megan.” Justin pointed to his Thursday night babysitter. “Hi Megan,” he shouted and waved.

  The perky black-haired teen, a piercing through her left eyebrow and another four on each ear,
jogged up to them. Her black sweat pants, rolled to her knees, displayed a colorful butterfly on her ankle. She wore a matching zippered jacket with a dragon on the right shoulder.

  “There’s my favorite kid in the whole world.” Megan leaned down and hugged him.

  Justin wiggled free, but stayed close.

  “Hey, Shania, what’s happening?” She sat on the edge of the fountain and smoothed her fingers through Justin’s blond hair.

  “Same ol’, same ol’.” Shania didn’t want to tell anyone else about the possible art show in case it fell through. “Would you be able to cut my hair today?”

  She would shed her exterior and create a new stronger woman. Someone who didn’t need a man to feel secure, successful. She and Justin would make their own way in spite of the odds.

  “Sure. Are you talking a trim?” She lifted a lock of Shania’s hair. Justin ran to the edge of the grass. His toes touched the green, while his heels remained solid on the cement. He wanted to run, but he wouldn’t.

  “No, I want something new. Contemporary. Easy care.”

  “Great, I have something in mind. Can I cut the kid’s hair too? His shag’s long enough to braid,” Megan said. Shania glanced at Justin who caught a ball and tossed it toward a dog. He shook the hair from his eyes. Blocked vision wasn’t good. Why hadn’t she noticed?

  “Yes, but I can’t pay you until next week, is that okay?” The extra twenty from daycare would be spent, but they both needed a fresh look, and she wanted help with a new attitude.

  “Great, let’s go.” Megan ran to Justin, grabbed him around the waist, and swung him around.

  Shania picked up Justin’s backpack and slid the tiny strap on one shoulder. As the trio made their way to Shania’s apartment, her stomach roiled. She would hide the bruised side of her core, and prevent further pain and injury. An uncomplicated solution to take the anguish away would be to start with a make-over.

  What seemed like hours later she glanced in the bathroom mirror, not believing how much her appearance had changed with a simple haircut. Her head felt lighter. She tilted her face to the side. The bob scarcely moved as her head turned. Combed down the center instead of on one side, bangs drew attention to her almond shaped eyes. She glanced at Justin, who was watching cartoons. Bob the Builder was searching for treasure with a friendly cowgirl. Justin’s fine hair cropped close to his head made him look like a little boy instead of her baby.