by Natalie Wrye
My brothers’ words emerge in my mind.
The eternal bachelor.
Doesn’t believe in marriage.
Bad when it came to women.
I can feel myself freeze underneath Becky’s fingers as she moves in, her mouth starting to inch to the skin below my belly button.
But I can’t. I can’t do this.
Can’t be with her. Not right now.
Because all I can think of is the woman I’d rather have in bed with me at this very moment.
The mouth of the sultry brunette I’d recently left in my bed slants against my own, her tongue touching mine. Light brushes at first, then sweeping. I take control of her kiss, my fingertips traveling up her sides to tangle in her silky chocolate and caramel-colored hair.
She tastes just as sweet as the chocolatey hue of the strands on her head.
Pure temptation with a hint of tequila.
I’ve got the imaginary taste down to a science. Well, that, and the vision of the missing half a million dollar watch she’d lifted from my nightstand.
Not to mention the note she left behind, the dark ink wet even hours later when I found it, written in haste, its script scribbled and long.
The image of it was engraved in my mind long after the scent of her perfume left my pillows.
I close my eyes and still see it, still feel that thread of fear that twisted down my spine when I arrived at my apartment to a hysterical Maria, my nightstand in practical pieces on the floor.
I read the writing slowly, my eyes scanning.
Noah,
Believe me when I say this:
I never meant for this to happen.
But I swear, one day, I will find a way to pay you back.
Consider this an I.O.U.
P.S.
Thanks for not stabbing me in my sleep.
It’s good to know you weren’t a serial killer.
You were right. You’re not the liar.
I am…
Signed,
Little Bear
I read the note back in my mind’s eye, even while I imagine taking a taste of my little thief’s lips. The tasting turns hungry in my imagination, and within seconds, I’m taking my fill of her, devouring her ravenous kiss, holding her head between my hands.
With a nip of my mouth, I take her bottom lip between my teeth—tugging, and she moans, a sound so unexpectedly erotic that my growing erection turns to steel inside my slacks, begging for attention.
That’s when I open my eyes to find Becky pulling back an inch, still in my hotel bed, her mouth just out of reach of my skin, and she gazes up at me, her blue eyes questioning.
“Something wrong?” she asks.
“No… I just…” I stammer. Shit, I’m out of sorts. “It’s just a little, I don’t know…too right.”
She angles her head. “Too right?”
She doesn’t get it.
She’s not too right. The situation isn’t too right.
But what my brothers said is.
Too right. About me.
Becky blows out a breath, her pretty blushed cheeks puffing as I apologize, slipping quickly from the sheets. My tuxedo fitting is nearing anyway, and I kiss the skin at her cheek, promising to pay the rest of the hotel’s bill.
Calling a ride-share car, I thump down in the back seat, shoving a hand through my hair as I fix the early morning mess that is already me.
The Lyft car lets me out in front of a small cafe, and my eyes swing on a swivel until seconds later, they find what they were searching for. I can’t help but break out into a shit-eating grin.
My brothers, together like they are now on the street, are just as I remember them as kids, though a tad taller. The self-satisfied smiles of my siblings and company co-owners now replace the goofy grins of youth, and I walk closer to the troublesome pair on the street, my hand held out in a gesture of welcome that quickly fakes into a faux-punch.
I nudge the hell out of my younger brother first.
“Lachlan, you fucking bastard. Did you grow taller? Or are you just standing on your money?”
Each grins. “I think that’s because you’re shrinking, old timer.” He hugs me, slapping a hand on my back, helping me to recall all the laughs we’d once had, the jokes that had helped me make it through hard times and an even harder childhood. He winks. “How’s life treating you, Noah?”
“These days? Life is treating me like I slept with his wife and got caught red-handed.” I glance at Jase. “Nowhere near as good as this fucker, from what I hear.”
“Take a good look.” Jay shakes out his jacket’s lapels. “But if I keep traveling the way I have been for work these days, I might not make it to see the end of these next two weeks. Mindy is pissed that I have to leave to travel for work again tonight.”
“Hopefully a new deal in the works?” I arch an eyebrow.
Jase hitches a shoulder, letting it drop just as quickly. “When duty calls…”
“We pick up. Yeah, yeah, I know. I just wish the bastard would forget my number sometimes.”
Jase actually grins at me, a rarity these days. “And I have a soon-to-be-bride to keep happy.” A glint enters his gaze. “In more ways than one.”
He glows beside me, his sea-green eyes alive with joy as he slaps me on the back, our rough-housing just a reminder of the “good old days.”
Days I often (and quietly) miss.
Things were so damn tense with us over these past few years.
I stepped back to gaze at my two brothers. My two best friends, who, despite everything, were the closest people in my life.
It’d been a while since I had a reminder.
“Look, I know we only meet like twice a year? If that.” I glance at the slip of a cafe in front of us. “But why the hell are we meeting in front of this vegan-only shop? Did I miss the mention of brunch? Because I can taste the wheatgrass just by looking at this place. And I doubt they have enough calorie allowance for the scotch I think I need right now.”
Lach playfully punches my shoulder. “Ay, it’s a little early for the hard stuff, don’t you think, hotshot? Almost forgot for a minute how much of a food snob you used to be.”
“I am more Aussie than the two of you. But just because I’m not a Native New Yorker doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a good pizza as much as the next Yank.” I correct. “Besides, I wouldn’t call myself a ‘snob.’ I just have…special tastes.”
Jase chimes in. “‘Special tastes,’ huh? Is that how you explain your luck with women?” He raises a sandy-brown brow. “Never deciding any of them were good enough, Mr. Perfect?”
There it goes again. That damned moniker. Tagging itself to me like a bad tattoo.
I think quickly of reminding them what happened the last time I truly thought a woman was, but decide against it. I stroll towards the door, ducking under the sudden drizzle that starts to beat down.
That is, until Jase grabs the door handle first, prompting me to meet his excited gaze.
“The tuxedo place is behind the cafe next door.” His gaze averts. “And it’s just my luck that Mindy—art obsessed as she is—found this gallery next door. She’s got a few pieces on hold. Come on; it’ll only take a second.”
Lach cuts in. “Yeah, sure, just a sec. We wouldn’t want to miss out on all that cold, uh, soil we could be eating right next door.”
The mention of a gallery catches me off-guard but I follow my brothers all the same. Taking a step back, I notice the non-descript store beside us with a wall of glass, bordered by smooth, lightly textured wood paneling. There’s a set of double doors that greet us just to the right, inviting us inside, and soon we step into a world that is nothing like its exterior.
White walls and ceiling windows greet us as we smile at the receptionist and pass inside. Circular rooms filled will bright fluorescent lights and colorful paintings offer up a soothing assault to the senses and within seconds I am inundated with a beauty I forgot existed.
Creativity broug
ht to life. An artist’s dream in physical form.
I’m almost overwhelmed.
The pieces are amazing. Sensational.
Not even an art guy, even I can recognize the cunningness behind the works, the ingenuity of each individual artist in the craftsmanship of each sculpture, the skill in each ceramic, the whimsy in each painting.
I stroll past a series of paintings, checking out each as Jay checks out, sealing his purchases at the front desk, he and the receptionist casually discussing a public auction taking place at the gallery tonight. My interest peaked, I make it a point to gaze at the slew of names at the bottom of each painting and portrait—the never-ending sequence of artists’ signatures.
Until I find the one that steals my breath.
A signature eerily familiar, its stylish strokes calling to memory a set of handwriting my mind is incapable of forgetting.
The private investigator said she was good. I just didn’t know she was that good.
It’s the name, the artist’s signature, on the painting right in front of me that grips the insides of my throat. Her name.
My gaze travels up to the rest of the painting to find myself staring in hazel-green eyes I’d only earlier had imagined in the throes of ecstasy. Hazel-green eyes you could lose yourself in, stare back from the picture of the picturesque princess-like siren on the canvas, the brunette subject in it hiding secrets within those warm irises.
There’s no doubt who this self-portrait belongs to.
My one-night stand. My thief. The woman who I’ve been trying to find for two days.
A name I know I’ll never forget.
Sophia.
Chapter 9
SOPHIA
Monday night
Fuck, I’m late for the exhibit.
Goddamn my favorite pair of shoes for hiding in my closet.
Still feeling shaky about being out of the house for long after discovering that someone—most likely, Big Bad—was asking around about me, I was still thinking about my next moves.
I have to admit: I’m still sad that my brother Jesse can’t make it after leaving a note saying so on my front door (thanks to Drew for noticing), but now that the gallery exhibit is just minutes away, all my thoughts are on keeping my lunch in my stomach as the nerves gnaw at the pit of my gut.
God, it was all I could do through my shift not to shake my kneecaps right off from fidgeting, not to chew my newly painted fingers to nubs at the thought of what might be waiting for me when I got off.
Tonight, I’d stepped into the exhibit an unknown painter with chipped nails and coffee stains on her shirt. Tomorrow? Who knew?
Maybe the next great American artist like Georgia O’Keefe.
I’d sure as hell wanted to be.
The ticking time was practically breathing down my neck the entire time, and I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that if I didn’t try, as Drew suggested, I’d live the next year of my life in regret.
My head was swimming. My mouth needed air.
By the time I make it home to change into my exhibit auction outfit, I’m already fifteen minutes late to the exhibit opening, and once again, I’m missing a shoe…for half of the ride.
I hop out of a cab—literally, slipping on my right red heel. Skipping over the curb to the Dweller Gallery, I twist the waistline of my bodice-fit red dress into place. Picking up the long swaying skirt just past the cafe next door, I haul ass to the gallery’s double doors, and when I make it inside, I release a long breath I feel I’ve been holding for a lifetime.
I feel instantly at home.
The lights are dimmed down low inside my favorite gallery in Manhattan, and a warm, golden spotlight shines on each painting and piece, highlighting each unique and nuanced work.
Including mine.
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth at the sight of my self-portrait on the wall, its own spotlight bounces offing the corners of the colorful painting.
It’s just like me.
A mess.
Eyes wide, hair up, brown wisps of strands straying across my forehead.
The black and white painting intermingles shocks of strong colors throughout, an array of streaks bleeding into the neutral colors as bright reds, warm yellows and oceanic blues bring out the character of the woman in the work.
It’s almost as if the object of the painting doesn’t know who she wants to be.
Black and white. Mixed. Or mingled. Colorful.
A battle between the two sides of her takes place on the canvas, and instantly, tears start to spring to my eyes when I feel a set of arms close around my waist, the smell of vanilla filling my sniffing nostrils.
I turn to find a small curtain of strawberry blonde strands at my side.
Nancy.
The co-owner at The Alchemist gazes at me, eyes full of wonder, her hand outstretched as she tips my chin.
“Sorry I’m late, Soph.”
I hug her closer, twisting her in my arms. I’m glad she’s here.
I pull back in seconds as a tear escapes the corner of my eye. I swipe it away.
“You’re late?” I laugh, my voice thick with emotion. “Hell, I’m late. I just showed up, like, seven seconds ago.” My gaze falls to the wide-skirted dress on her small pixie frame. “And thank God, too. Because I would have hated to walk in the door the same time as you.” I shake my head. “You look phenomenal.”
“You think?” She grimaces. “I got dressed so fast I couldn’t think twice.”
“And it’s a good thing you didn’t. That dress has its own heat index.” Drew steps in closer, clad in a dark collared shirt that accentuates his strong shoulders. His gaze flickers up at my face but lingers when it meets Nancy’s. His pale blue eyes almost burn.
He glances up at my self-portrait. “Amazing work, Fee. Really.”
I smile. “Thanks, Drew.” I reach out for a hug as he wraps his arms around me squeezing briefly. “And thanks for showing up.”
He opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by Nancy who cuts in quickly, her voice just as sharp. “Hm. And here I thought ‘showing up’ was a concept that Drew wasn’t very familiar with. Since he never seems to ‘show up’ to work.”
Drew’s ink black brow quirks. “Come again?”
“You heard me, Andrew,” Nancy levels at him, her normally soft voice biting. “Rick told me you called out to work on Saturday. Again.”
“I’m not sure I would take the word of a man whose demeanor makes poison ivy sound pleasurable.” Drew stares down his nose at Nancy, a mixture of disdain and desire gleaming in his icy eyes. “And let’s just say I had more important things to do, Nance.”
“And by ‘things,’ you mean ‘people,’ I’m sure…” Nancy scoffs, reaching for a glass of champagne from a nearby tray passing in a waiter’s arms. She takes a sip.
Drew smiles, a wicked grin crossing his mouth. I know that wicked grin from my favorite coworker.
“Jealous?” He exhales. “I mean, I know sex isn’t a concept you’ve been familiar with in, say, the last millennium, Nance, but there are those of us who still have it.”
“God, do you know that you’re starting to sound like my over-the-hill Casanova-wannabe Uncle Duffy, Andrew? And let me tell you: It’s not exactly a compliment to sound like a man who gives Chlamydia a bad name.” She takes another sip of her champagne, her stare thinning in his direction before she lowers it. “But I’m sure the subject of Chlamydia is something that you and my uncle are both very knowledgeable about.” She places a hand over her heart. “My mistake.”
Drew prickles, and I intervene as he stares at her, a mixture of intrigue and indignation gleaming in his icy blue eyes.
I heave a sigh, grabbing Drew’s arm to escort him away. “Alright, alright, children. Let’s just…agree to go to our separate corners, why don’t we? This is supposed to be a nice time. Not Madison Square Garden on fight night. I think we can leave the verbal fisticuffs for another night, right?”
I pull Drew quickly in the opposition direction of Nancy, walking fast. Fifty feet away, I finally turn on him, tempted to reach for a glass of champagne from a stranger’s hands.
Where were the damn champagne waiters when you need them? Right now, I would gladly stick my head into a whole tray of them.
My eyes narrow up at Drew as he scoffs. “If she weren’t my boss, I’d definitely have a few choice words for her to let her know what I think of her.”
“Seems like you’ve already used a bunch of those choice words just tonight.” I huff. My voice is a hiss. “Why do you have to antagonize Nancy so much?”
“I can’t help it, Fee. Ever since she went from your basic bartender to full-fledged co-owner, she’s had a stick up her ass that needs surgical removal.”
I roll my eyes. “And you think making comments about her social life will help loosen it?”
“Not exactly.” Drew’s mouth twists. “I’m just saying… I can take a guess as to a better place where Nancy might be in use of a stick.”
“Jesus, Drew, could you be more crude right now?”
“Not even if I tried.”
I slap his arm, sending Drew on his way. His low laughter still reaches me from the other side of the room, and I can’t help but to think that Nancy’s not the only one who needs a “stick” in her life.
I shake off the twisted, tense moment between my coworker and boss by slipping off to the restrooms on the other side of the gallery. Once inside, I wet a paper towel, swiping at my suddenly sweaty neck. I dap at the skin beside the red dress’s thin straps and at my full cleavage.
The December evening sun has just set, but my skin is still slightly dry from the day’s winter air, and I glance up and into the mirror to find that my red lips are still swollen, strands of my chocolate and caramel-colored hair escaping to slide down my face.
With dark mascara on, my brown lashes look impossibly long and my mind can’t help but to venture on the thought that my life might be as lacking as Drew accused Nancy’s of being.
I haven’t been on a proper date in longer then I can remember, the constant need to work to make the rent squeezing out any possibility of a social life left.
