Olivia

by Lori L. Otto

  “Oh, sweetie,” she says, grasping me by my shoulders. I peek out of the eye she’s not concentrating on. “Are you okay?”

  “Look at me,” I tell her, determined. “Don’t I look okay?”

  “You look hot,” she says with a smile. “If he breaks up, he is a fool.”

  “I know,” I tell her arrogantly... but it’s true.

  “I have this new lipstick,” my best friend says, returning to her own purse and producing a bright red tube. She forms her lips into a kiss, instructing me to do the same. She applies one coat of color, and another layer of shiny gloss on top. “I hope he shows up,” she laughs. “There’s no way he’d break up with you, looking like this.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “He’s not that shallow,” I admit to her softly, but still hope that my appearance has some affect on him.

  “But he’s a guy, Liv. Just watch the reaction of every guy you pass on the way out. And those guys have only imagined you naked–”

  “Thanks for that reminder,” I tease her. “Wish me luck.” I check myself once more in the mirror before grabbing my things and leaving.

  I wait for Abram outside of the apartment building, having texted him before I left school letting him know that I needed to get the painting. He suggested we meet here first. He finally pulls up in a new white Mercedes, taking his time as he gets out of the car and seeming reluctant to give the valet his keys.

  “Pretty car,” I tell him.

  “I just bought it. It pays to have talented clients,” he laughs.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And a thank you to you, Livvy,” he says with a smile.

  He ushers me in the building with his hand on the small of my back–and then doesn’t move it when we actually get inside.

  “Hi, Francisco.”

  “Miss Holland...” he nods his polite greeting, “and this is...”

  “Abram, my agent,” I tell him, and only then does he remove his hand to shake the doorman’s.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Abram says.

  “Your mother said you might come by.”

  “I just have to pick up a painting.”

  “Did you need a cart?”

  “No, it’s not too big. Surely he can carry it,” I say, smiling at Abram.

  “It’ll be a doddle, Livvy,” he assures me, putting his hand on my back again. Has he always done this, and I’ve never noticed? It just feels strange today, but I don’t stop him, curious what Jon would think if he saw us.

  “Penthouse,” I instruct him as we get into the elevator. When the doors close, I check my makeup in the mirror on the back wall. “Do I look okay?”

  I can hear him swallow before he answers me. “Exquisite,” he says. “Like a true artist.”

  “Good.” I flash a brief smile at him before getting out on our floor.

  “So, this will be your place when you turn eighteen?” he asks.

  “I guess so,” I tell him, opening the door. “I don’t know that I’ll actually live here. I guess it depends on where I decide to go to school.”

  “You can’t leave Manhattan,” he says as he steps into the apartment. “My God, Livvy, you certainly can’t leave this loft! Most people only dream of places like this.”

  “I’d come back,” I laugh. “I fully intend to live here someday.”

  Abram walks over to the tall windows and looks at the view below. “Incredible. You could do so much with this. You must move your studio here–”

  “It’s here,” I remind him. “Behind those doors–but don’t open them,” I say, suddenly anxious that he will. “But I can’t really come here to work until I’m eighteen.”

  “And why not?” he asks.

  “Because I’ve gotten myself in trouble, being here,” I tell him vaguely with a blush.

  “Is this where the infamous photo was snapped?”

  “You saw that?”

  “The world saw it, my dear,” he answers. “Are you telling me it was truly you?”

  I smile, wishing I could lie about it but realizing it’s too late. I just shrug my shoulders, but his grin shows a certain satisfaction. “It was stupid.”

  “It was lovely. It was nothing you should be at all ashamed of.”

  “I’m not,” I tell him with confidence. “Not at all.”

  He stares down to the scene spread out beneath us, taking a few steps to find a better angle. “Come have a look at this,” he encourages, waving me toward the window without taking his eyes off of whatever has grabbed his attention. He points to a spot in the middle of the park. “Those lovers,” he laughs. “I bet they have no idea people can see them.”

  “Probably not.” The couple is caught in a frantic embrace in the grass beneath some trees. I take a few steps back, not wanting to encroach on their moment, regardless of the fact they have no idea two people are watching them from a penthouse apartment with mirrored glass.

  “Such a birds-eye point of view,” Abram says. “How could one not be voyeuristic living in a place like this?”

  “Well, one wouldn’t stare out the window at them,” I say softly, mocking his accent. This gets his attention, and he finally looks away.

  “It is a little rude, isn’t it?” he admits. “I was raised with better manners. But who wouldn’t get carried away, with lovers behaving in such a way? In public, no less,” he explains.

  “What, like you’ve never made out with anyone in public?” I ask him.

  “Not once,” Abram says, and I believe him. “And you have?”

  “Maybe once,” I answer. This time, it is a lie.

  “Displays of affection like that,” he says, “they’re much more American than British, to say the least.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I tell him with a shrug, trying to envision him carried away with any emotions at all. He is always so even-tempered and polite. The conversation between Matty and me returns to my mind, and I feel compelled to ask Abram the question my uncle had planted into my head a few months ago since he’d never gotten the chance to. “My uncle and I were joking,” I start. “We were curious who you would find more attractive: me or him.”

  He looks a little offended. “Livvy, you think I’m gay?”

  “I don’t,” I laugh. “My uncle thought he picked up on something when he met you. Honestly, I don’t know.” I shrug my shoulders.

  “Let me assure you,” he says, moving closer to me, “that your uncle’s senses are off.”

  “Okay, I’ll let him know.” Growing a little uncomfortable, I start to walk toward the chair where the painting hangs. The touch of his hand on mine startles me, and he clasps it, tugging at my arm gently, bringing me back to him.

  “And let me assure you–” he repeats.

  “I understand,” I laugh nervously. He puts his finger under my chin and tilts my face to his.

  “I assure you that I find you infinitely more attractive,” he whispers.

  “Okay.” I try to take my hand back, but his grip tightens. Before I have another chance to pull away, his lips are on mine and both of his hands have moved once more to the small of my back. He holds my body tight against him as he kisses me, even as I try to push away from him.

  “You do this to me,” he says as he nudges against me. Jon and I had shared enough intimate moments to leave nothing to my imagination. “You, Olivia.” He kisses me again, but this time I turn my head to the side in an attempt to escape.

  “Don’t call me that,” I say as I try to catch my breath.

  “He calls you that,” Abram says. “I thought you liked it.” He brings one hand back up to reposition my face once more, this time gripping my chin roughly.

  “Stop it,” I tell him at the same moment a knock is heard at the door. I hear Francisco’s voice, and Abram steps back suddenly, straightening his shirt and blazer.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know–”

  “Livvy, open up!” It’s Jon’s voice now. Stunned, I look from the door to Abram. I s
tumble backwards, and my agent grabs my hand to steady me just as my boyfriend opens the door I had left unlocked. I pull away from Abram quickly, looking toward the door to find Francisco behind Jon.

  “Sir, you cannot be here,” the doorman says to Jon. “I’ve called security. I have strict instructions from Mr. Holland–”

  “What’s going on, Liv?” Jon asks as he walks in tentatively, ignoring the apartment employee. He eyes both me and Abram.

  “It’s okay, Francisco.” My boots click noisily on the hardwood floor as I walk toward Jon, straight into his open arms. I hold him tighter than he holds me.

  “Livvy, I’m sorry, but your parents– Your dad–” Francisco stutters.

  “No, I know. We’re just leaving.”

  “Is everything okay?” a uniformed guard asks from the doorway.

  “This young man needs to be escorted down–”

  “Francisco, I said we’re leaving–”

  “Olivia,” Jon says, still ignoring everyone around us except Abram. I look up at him to see his eyes trained in the direction of my agent. “What happened here?” Jon touches his fingers to his lips, and I turn around to notice evidence of my bright red lipstick on the corner of Abram’s mouth.

  “He kissed me,” I say only loud enough for him to hear. I can feel Jon’s body tense up as the security guard approaches us.

  “Did you want him to?” he asks, still looking beyond me. I shake my head. “Did you kiss him back?”

  “No!” I exclaim, appalled at his question.

  “Sir, you need to come with us,” Francisco announces, but Jon pulls away from the hand that touches his shoulder and moves with purpose across the room. I barely have a chance to turn around to see Jon’s fist make contact with the left side of my agent’s face. Francisco and the officer both rush Jon as Abram crashes to the floor with a loud thud.

  Jon doesn’t struggle, but the guard still immobilizes him with handcuffs. “Those aren’t necessary,” I argue, following them across the room.

  “Have a seat, sir,” the security officer says, pushing on Jon’s shoulders until he complies, bending his knees and sliding down the wall with his hands restrained in front of him. The guard and Francisco return to Abram, whose left eye is already showing signs of redness and swelling.

  “Are you okay?” Jon asks me, lifting both of his shackled hands and taking a strand of my hair between his fingers. The hair slides through, the single curl bouncing slightly when he lets go. He watches intently as he does it once more.

  “I’m fine. Why are you here?” I ask him.

  “You said you were stopping by here,” he explains quietly. “I thought you’d be alone. I thought it was an invitation to talk,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “What happened?”

  “I don’t really know,” I admit. “I don’t know how it happened. He just told me I was attractive and kissed me.” I think back to the conversation, wondering if anything I said may have encouraged him. “Maybe I brought it on myself, with this dress or–”

  “Olivia, did you want him to kiss you?” he interrupts to ask me again.

  “Of course not, Jon.”

  “Then don’t think for a second you invited his attention.”

  I smile weakly. “I’m just really glad you showed up.”

  “Was he forceful?” he asks, and a line forms on his forehead as he once again looks at my agent. I hesitate in answering him, sensing another spike in his temper. “Was he?”

  “A little, yes.” With all of my weight, I press against his shoulder to keep him from standing back up and going after Abram again. Francisco helps my agent to his feet while the officer stands rigidly between us and them.

  “She’s seventeen, you pervert,” Jon seethes. “I never did trust you.”

  “Livvy, what the hell is going on?” Jon and I both turn our heads abruptly to face my father, who’s now standing in the doorway.

  “Mr. Holland,” Francisco says. “I couldn’t get in touch with Emi, so I assumed you would want to know.”

  “Thank you,” Dad says, still looking confused as he tries to assess the situation. “What happened?” He notices Jon’s hands and walks quickly toward us. “Why is he in handcuffs?”

  “He went after this man–”

  “Abram,” my agent announces, his voice weak, as he takes a seat on the large bed in the center of the loft. It’s the same bed that Jon and I–

  “Can you please not sit there?” Jon says, staring back at Abram. I smile smugly, wishing the request had come from me, watching my agent find a seat on a nearby wooden bench. Seeing my dad’s reaction to Jon’s request, though, makes me happy I didn’t say it.

  He rubs his temple and takes a few deep breaths. “Olivia Sophia, I came home early so I could escort you to this meeting,” he speaks evenly, “but why is there blood trickling from your agent’s nose?”

  “Jon hit him.”

  “I gathered that,” he sighs. “Why?”

  “It was just a misunderstanding, Mr. Holland.”

  “Right,” Jon says. “Abram was here alone with Olivia, and he tried to take advantage of her–”

  “That’s not exactly true,” Abram argues when he sees my father’s angry expression.

  “Tell me, then, what exactly is true?” Dad walks slowly, flexing his own right hand as he nears my agent.

  “Sir, please calm down,” the security officer interjects.

  “I’m calm,” Dad says with an intense smile. “Francisco, can you please get the guard out of here?” my dad asks. “After he removes the handcuffs?”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Abram says as the color drains from his face completely–except for the pink, swollen skin around his eye and the stain of red on his mouth.

  “There will be no more punches,” Dad assures everyone in the room. “I’ll take responsibility for Jon’s future actions. Something tells me his past ones were warranted, though,” he adds quietly. “I own this property, and at this point, I believe someone in here is trespassing, and I’d like to have a word with him.” Francisco and the guard both look from Abram to Jon, not knowing to whom my dad is referring.

  “Officer, please take the handcuffs off the boy.” I help my boyfriend up as a key is slipped into the cuffs and his hands are released.

  Jon stretches his fingers before weaving them between mine. I pick up our hands, noticing how red his knuckles are. I bring them to my lips, kissing each one tenderly. Jon faces me, and kisses my forehead after my lips leave his thumb. Dad clears his throat to get our attention. I smile sheepishly, then watch as Francisco and the guard both leave the apartment.

  “Mr. Holland, my apologies. I misread Livvy’s signals, obviously–”

  “I did not give you any signals!” I yell at him angrily and wrap my other hand around Jon’s bicep as he once again tenses up. “I swear, Dad, I wouldn’t–”

  “Abram, she is seventeen,” my dad repeats Jon’s earlier statement. “You are an adult that I trusted... after thorough background checks, at that,” he says.

  “This isn’t a pattern, sir,” Abram explains. “I care about your daughter. I was hoping she’d feel something for me in return.”

  “You disgust me,” Dad says as he stands over my agent. “You’re fired–”

  “Mr. Holland–”

  “Fired!” he yells once more. “I’m going to follow you to the gallery you’ve set up, and I’m going to apologize to the client–assuming there really was a meeting–”

  “Yes, of course there was, sir, I’m sure she’s wondering where we are,” he rambles, stumbling over his own words. “I had no premeditated–”

  “Will you please be quiet?” Abram nods submissively, tilting his head to the ground. “You’ll take me there, I will apologize to the client, letting her know that you are an opportunistic creep, and I will take my daughter’s paintings with me. And you will never contact me or her ever again, is that understood?”

  “Of course,” Abram answers. />
  “Good. Jon?” Dad says, turning around to look at us. “I expect you to see her safely home. And you should both be there by the time I get there. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Jack,” Jon says.

  Dad looks at his watch quickly. “I’ll be home in thirty minutes.”

  “We’ll be there, Dad,” I assure him.

  “Come,” he says to Abram, who reacts abruptly. My dad follows him out of the loft and shuts the door behind them. I look up to Jon and feel a sudden rush of relief. I sigh as tension leaves my shoulders.

  Jon leans in to kiss me, but I stop him before he reaches me, covering my mouth with my hand. “Just a second.” I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water, taking it with me to the bathroom. As soon as the door closes, my knees weaken. I set the glass down carefully, leaning against the sink and staring at myself in the mirror. My eyes begin to tear up as I reach for a towel off the rack and rub my lips with force. I stare at the cloth, noticing the red pigment, hoping that I’ve removed all of Abram’s kisses. I suddenly feel sick to my stomach and try to take deep breaths to calm myself.

  After rinsing my mouth out with the water, I can’t stop myself from crying. My efforts to do it quietly aren’t good enough. Jon doesn’t knock before entering the room.

  “Baby, don’t cry,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. His affection makes me cry harder, and I let him hold me for a few minutes while my emotions spill out in waves. His hand caresses the back of my head, his fingers linger gently in my curls. “Did he touch you?” he asks weakly, standing rigidly as he waits for my response.

  “He... just pressed himself against me,” I answer, wishing I’d never felt it. “He wanted me to know what I did to him.”

  “I wish you had told me about that sooner,” he says. “I would have made him regret that.”

  “You did enough.” I look up at him through my lashes and smile, letting him wipe away my tears. I get a glimpse of his dress shirt, noticing the makeup stains I’ve left. “I’m sorry.” He examines his thumbs, dark with mascara, and laughs. He moistens one end of the towel I’d set on the counter and starts to dab the makeup off of my cheeks and eyes.