by Lexi Whitlow
I go on like that for a while, trying to encourage them to stand up for themselves and each other. When I’m done, most of the students approach me to shake my hand and thank me. Paul, Chloe’s old housemate, steps forward with his hand out.
“I was wrong about you,” he says. “Totally wrong. And I’m sorry I played into Liza’s bullshit. I thought—”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Chloe’s okay, and I’ll be fine.”
Once I’ve met with my students, I post the audio file and my resignation letter to Twitter and Facebook, sharing to both faculty and students.
Let the games begin.
Don’t leave her unattended too long. That was the advice my father gave me at New Year’s.
If I hadn’t had so much unfinished business here in Richmond dealing with Liza and her schemes, I wouldn’t have left Chloe unattended at all. It was never about my employment contract. It was always about justice. Now that justice is in the process of being served, I’m not wasting any time in closing the distance between Chloe and me.
I can deal with the press, lawyers, and university officials over the phone. I can pack the house up and put it on the market in a few weeks. In the meantime, my girl is flying solo in New York City, with reporters stalking her, the whole art community talking her up, legal issues hanging over her, and a shitload of work to do in a short period of time. Every time we speak, she sounds frayed, and ever more distant.
It’s long since past time I reminded Chloe, face-to-face, that she’s not alone, and never will be if I have anything to say about it.
Chapter 26
Chloe
February is the worst month. The days are short, cold, and dreary. The damp has gotten into my bones. Lack of sleep and too much work has wearied me. All I want to do is lay down, curl up in a ball, and cry myself to sleep. But there are miles to go before I can rest.
It’s five in the afternoon and I still have comps to finish for Danny’s meeting tomorrow morning with our client, Aztec Tobacco Imports. They’re a good client. The work is steady and they pay their bills on time. The work is also tedious, loaded with fine print, and federally regulated health and safety warnings. It’s hard to maintain enthusiasm for creating flashy, attractive packaging and point of sale devices for a product that kills its consumers.
This isn’t what I though being a professional graphic designer would be. When my father ran Harvey & Company, he didn’t take tobacco, alcohol, or pharmaceutical business. It was just a rule he adhered to because he could. Danny and Scott don’t have the luxury of turning down clients. They have loans to repay. And I have an obligation to my employer to do the best work I can for all our clients, even if I hate myself for doing it.
It sucks. Everything about it sucks.
When I’m done, I mount the comps for presentation and take them to Danny. He looks them over approvingly, then he asks me how I’m doing.
I shrug. “Getting by,” I say. “Too much work. Not enough time in the day.”
He nods. “It’ll ease up after your show.”
That’s a nice thought, but unlikely. I have so much freelance work to do, I’m sure I’ll never sleep again. That, and Mary says she has a waiting list of prospective buyers for my gallery prints. Everything produced to date has pre-sold before the show even opens. If that pattern holds, the things I’m working on now will sell quickly, which means I’m going to need to keep the work coming at a steady pace to keep Mary happy.
She’s already talking about a second show in the autumn in her uptown gallery; a retrospective, featuring my work alongside my father’s. It’s something she and Kendall Chandler are cooking up together. I love the idea of my stuff hanging with my father’s art, as that’s a huge compliment to me. But I don’t see how it’s possible to produce enough to keep the Chelsea gallery stocked, while building a new collection for an uptown show.
“Have a good night,” I say to Danny. “I’m going to the basement to get some work done.”
“You should take the night off,” he says, his look imploring. “Just give yourself a break. You’re killing yourself.”
I can see by his expression, he feels sorry for me.
I shake my head. “That would be a mistake,” I say. “When I stop moving, I start thinking, and that never leads anywhere good.”
“That’s a shame,” familiar voice speaks up from behind me. Hayes. I turn. He’s leaning in the doorway like an apparition or a dream.
“I really wanted to take you to dinner, keep you out late, maybe…”
How can he be here? It’s the middle of the week in the middle of February.
He smiles. “You sure you won’t reconsider? I came a long way.”
I fly into his arms, careless of why he’s here, only astonished that he is, and happy… happy… ridiculously happy to see him. Hayes’ wraps me tight in a bear hug, squeezing me breathless. He’s warm, and strong, and he smells so good. I lose myself in him.
“I missed you,” he croons into my ear, holding me. “I missed you so much.”
He pushes me back, hands on my shoulders, looking me up and down. “You’re taking the night off. I’m going to feed you. By the looks of you, that hasn’t been high on your list of priorities. And then we’ll go from there.”
I’m still speechless.
Hayes looks up, smiling at Danny. “Is she off the clock? Can I take her away?”
Danny nods, smiling, then he asks, “How long are you in town for, Hayes?”
Hayes slips his arm around me, pulling me close. “I’m in town for forever,” he replies, grinning. “In fact, I’m in kind of a jam. I need a job. Probably freelancing—so if you happen to know anybody looking—send ‘em my way.”
Danny’s face brightens. “Seriously?” he asks. “That’s great news. Come see me. I can put you to work next week.”
What. The. Hell? He said forever. He’s back.
For good?
Hayes came straight to The Foundry from the airport. His folks don’t even know he’s back in town. I can’t manage to let go of his hand as I pummel him with question after question.
“I’ll tell you everything,” he promises. “Let me stash my bags in your place, and then we’ll go eat. I’m starving.”
In the elevator on the way up, Hayes pulls me to him and gives me a sweet kiss while fixing his gaze on mine. “I’m never leaving you alone again. You’re going to have to kick me to the curb to get rid of me.”
That’s not likely to happen.
Is this possible? Is it true? He came back to me. He came back, and he’s not leaving again.
Chapter 27
Hayes
“I hope the Soho House is okay with you?” I ask, stacking my bags in the main room beside the couch. “I already called ahead for a table.”
Chloe says she has no objections, but adds—“You should have called me. I could have cooked something or ordered take-out, so we could stay in.”
I shake my head, taking her hands in mine, pulling her near. “No. I wanted to surprise you. And anyway, you can’t cook, take-out is mundane, and I want tonight to be special.”
“I can cook,” she protests, but we both know better.
I lean down to kiss her, parting her lips, breathing her into me. Her taste is a pleasant memory recalled. He mouth and tongue, a vague dream come to life. She rises to me, returning my kiss, her hand threading through the short hair at the nape of my neck. Her scent in my nostrils is intoxicating. The warmth of her body against mine almost burns me to my core.
“We could skip dinner altogether,” Chloe purrs, breaking the kiss. She gently bites my lip, sending a bolt of stinging electricity straight down to my gut, then lower.
“That is tempting,” I say, my voice low, hungry. “But I really do want to feed you and tell you everything. We’ll come back here in a few hours and make up for lost time.”
I did call ahead at the Soho House. I called them yesterday. I asked for a private room, a bottle of Champagne on ic
e, a sushi and sashimi platter with all the trimmings, and as much privacy as they could afford us.
When we arrive, Chloe is clueless to my plotting. But as soon as the hostess leads us past the main dining area toward the private room, already set up with a luscious spread waiting for us, her expression shifts to high alert. She stops hard at the threshold, turning to me with what looks like fear in her eyes.
My heart thumps in my chest. I have no idea how this is going to go. I’m taking a huge risk, just hoping, hoping, that I’m not making a huge mistake by forcing her hand so quickly.
“What’s this?” she asks.
I press her forward, taking her hand, leading her to her chair.
“Hayes?”
“Shush,” I tell her, taking my own seat across from her while a silent waiter opens our Champagne and pours.
When he’s gone, I lift my glass to her. She doesn’t move.
“Are you going to just sit there? Are you going to make me drink alone?” I ask.
Tentatively she reaches out and with a slightly trembling hand, she lifts her glass. The heavy bracelet I gave her at New Year’s hangs low, shining on her pale arm. My own sits snug at my wrist, the shining metal peeking out from under my cuff.
“To us,” I say. “A pretty good team, reunited.”
We touch glasses and then drink. She still regards me with unveiled suspicion. She hasn’t said a word.
If I don’t get this over with, my heart is going to pound out of my chest. She’s either going to make me the happiest of men, or crush my soul underfoot with her next reaction.
I retrieve the small box from my jacket pocket, cupping it in my hand. I take a deep breath, trying to quell the rush of pressure building in the back of my head. As smoothly as I can manage, I push my chair back and take a knee at her side, opening the box with the ring before her.
“Oh, god, Hayes…” she mumbles, her eyes wide with some emotion I can’t quantify.
“Chloe Harvey. I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you. And every day since we came back into one another’s lives, what I feel just gets more and more intense. I love you with all my heart. Marry me?”
Tears. I didn’t expect tears. I didn’t expect this terrified expression either, but Chloe never stops surprising me or keeping me guessing.
“Oh… oh… Okay,” she says, her breath caught in her chest, words barely forming. “Okay.”
She’s mine. She’s really mine.
I take her hand, slipping the ring on her finger. It’s a gorgeous, colorless diamond mounted in a heavy platinum setting. It’s stunning on her hand.
Chloe studies the ring, then she studies me. I hake her hand in mine, squeezing it firmly.
“Say something, Angel. Please.”
She bites her lip, brushing back tears with her free hand. She tries to breathe, letting the air into her lungs in small gasps, then slowly releasing it.
“I… I… I never… imagined… I couldn’t…” She blinks and then, gathering herself, she says. “I love you so much, but I never dared hope you felt anything close to the same. I couldn’t imagine it was possible.”
That’s the first time she’s said it aloud. I love you. Now, I am the happiest of men, and I’m going to spend the rest of our days together, doing everything in my power to make her as happy as she’s made me.
There’s no way I’m making it home tonight. My parents are going to have to be satisfied with learning about everything tomorrow. Tonight, Chloe and are I making up for lost time, closing all the former distance between us.
“I missed you so much,” I whisper, nuzzling her hair while she fumbles with the key in the door.
Once we’re inside we don’t pause for pleasantries. I bolt the door locked then back Chloe into the bedroom, my mouth on hers, sucking her into me, tasting her, breathing her in.
Our bodies reunite in perfect harmony, each touch more delicious than the next. Her skin is hot against mine, her sex tight and wet and inviting, the taste of her coppery and fresh like new rain.
There’s no pause, no hesitation—not for either of us. She wants me as much as I want her, and I draw her into me like time is closing in on us, like my body is desperate for hers.
It is.
I kiss her deeply and slide inside of her, thrusting, making room for myself, listening to each whimper like it’s music.
“Don’t stop,” she moans. “Don’t stop—”
She cries out, and I fill her to the brim with my cock, feeling her as she shakes around me. Like an earthquake, something elemental and deep and more ancient than both of us.
I fill her with my essence, groaning, crying out her name.
“I love you,” I say, my voice quiet, almost reverent.
Before I met Chloe again, the words hadn’t crossed my lips— not with a woman. Not like this.
But the words are truer than anything.
I roll over on my side facing Chloe. She turns to me. I reach forward, taking her left hand in mine, studying the ring I put on her finger, tracing its lines and contours beneath my touch, feeling the cool dense metal and stone, measuring its weight.
“It’s heavy,” Chloe says, still catching her breath, flushed from our lovemaking. “I’m going to need to build new muscles lift it.”
“Get used to it,” I tell her, teasing. “The band that matches it is even heavier. And it needs to be back with its mate soon. The sooner the better.”
Chloe breathes, snugging in tighter. “Oh, you’re just full of plans, aren’t you? Rushing things along. Scheming schemes.”
I nod. “You don’t know the half of it, Angel.”
She lays back, closing her eyes, an enigmatic smile brightening her lovely face.
“Just make sure I’m included in all of ‘em,” she says. “Don’t go scheming without me.”
Not a chance.
Chapter 28
Chloe
The crazy thing about going through life with an over-abundance of cynicism, is that when good things happen—things you never allowed yourself to hope for—it alters your perspective, tilting your worldview sideways. I’ve come to realize that there’s an awful lot of good to anticipate, and a lot of hope left in me.
The one thing I never anticipated was justice, but when it came, it came swiftly. In March, Liza Jackson was removed from her position on faculty at VCU, with her reputation obliterated by the scandal she set in motion. I got a letter of apology from the school, along with a check for a substantial amount of money. Hayes received a settlement offer. He’s letting his lawyers handle it.
In April, my debut show at the Mary Boon gallery opened to shockingly positive reviews and strong sales. It was a challenge to keep up with the increasing demand for my work, but with Hayes at my side helping every step of the way, we managed it.
In May, a judge in Richmond’s superior court reviewed my attorney’s complaints and request for remedy regarding the management of the trust. He concurred that my mother had proven herself an unfit trustee. After a twenty-minute long interview with me and an inspection of my finances, he concluded that I was perfectly capable of managing my own affairs. He ordered the trust dissolved, giving my mother’s ex-boyfriend and attorney fifteen days to transfer every asset and financial instrument to me, with an inventory and current valuation.
My attorney asked for an audit going back to the inception of the trust, to determine where the money went, and if there were any criminal actions or fraudulent transactions made while the trust was under Mark E. Brown’s and my mother’s control.
The short of that whole affair is that we tracked down about half of the missing funds. Financially, I’m quite comfortable now. My mother is facing seven years in prison for forgery and wire fraud. She signed my name to legal documents, and she electronically transferred funds from trust accounts into her own accounts. She wasn’t terribly clever about covering her tracts.
In June, Hayes and I were married in a small ceremony beside the pool at Soho House.
Hayes’ father was his best man and as crazy as it may sound, Danny and Scott served as the most perfect bridesmaids a girl could ever have. I didn’t wear a fancy white dress. Instead, Hayes’ mother turned me out in something of her own creation. It was stunning, and much more my style than lace and satin.
In July, Hayes and I signed a contract to purchase a historic, seven-story building at the corner of Jane and Greenwich Street. The top two floors are already renovated into a loft apartment with plenty of natural light, hardwood floors, and a kitchen to die for. The lower floors are a blank slate. It’s general office space now, but as soon as we close on the sale, we’ll get to work re-making the place. It’s going to be the world headquarters of Harvey & Chandler, LLC, the design shop Hayes and I are building together.
Danny and Scott sold us the entire print shop workings from The Foundry. Hayes and I have whole-heartedly embraced the antique technology and fine craftsmanship those old machines produce. We’re building a business model around it. We’ve already got a half-dozen clients, including a film production company in Tribeca. They’re our first million-dollar client, with six films scheduled for production over the next year. Harvey & Chandler is doing typography for titles and credits, as well as film props, and all the promotional print.
In November my show at Mary Boon’s uptown gallery opens. Hayes’ mom is loaning my father’s work for the exhibition, which has served as inspiration for everything new I’m producing for the show. So far, my work for the collection is technically and visually strong. Conceptually, it’s shockingly hopeful. Mary has her concerns about all the upbeat messaging, but if happiness kills my art career, I’m fine sticking with my day job. So far there’s no indication that the investors or collectors out there snapping up my stuff as quick as I can produce it, are the least bit phased by my improved mood.
Until Harvey & Chandler can open in the building in Soho, we’re renting the basement of The Foundry. I quit my job there back in May to focus on freelance work, and Hayes started doing freelance for them, while actively pursuing new clients for our partnership. His connections have landed us several gems, with more opportunities presenting themselves weekly.
