by S. L. Scott
From the Inside Out—Jealousy
First Edition
Copyright © S. L. Scott 2014
The right of S.L. Scott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-940071-20-6
Cover design: Melissa Ringuette
Cover Image: Coka
Interior Design: Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dedicated to my amazing readers.
MY PHONE FLASHES with a missed call as soon as I turn it back on. I had turned it off while visiting with Jean-Luc, wanting to check on his progress for his upcoming show in two months.
“You look different, beautiful Jules.” Jean-Luc is very intuitive. I’ve always liked that about him. He noticed the change in me as soon as I walked into his loft.
“How so?” I ask whimsically, a small smile forming on my lips as I walk around the large space.
“Your aura has shifted. You seem happy.”
I laugh, then scoff at the notion. “These windows need to be cleaned. You need to let some sunshine in.”
His body warms my backside, his chest to my back. The smell of oil-based paint mixed with a hint of cleaner and his sweat, fills the air around us, stronger than my perfume. The rough skin of his hand runs down my arm. His lips are at my ear as he presses his bare chest against my shoulders, only a tiny dress strap between us. “I like you better sullen and hard to get. Aloof is sexy when you do it.”
“I never purposely act aloof. Sullen maybe, mainly miserable. That’s what I was going for. I guess I failed. I’m reevaluating my whole emo image as we speak,” I deadpan. It’s easier to play along with his dramatics. He’s an amazing painter when he’s riled up.
“Emo,” he repeats, chuckling, his breath hitting my neck. “Yes, emo and sunshine don’t go well together.”
“Changing.”
“Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t let someone change you, who you are. You’re perfect, always, delicate and perfect to me.”
I turn slowly around, our chests now touching, no professional space remaining between us. I lean forward toward his ear, cheek to cheek, and whisper, “We’re perfect as we are. Let’s not change this, the distance we keep works better than the reality ever could.” I kiss him lightly on the cheek, then take a step back. “Thank you for accepting me how I am.”
Backing away from me with a smirk on his face and a paintbrush in hand, he points it accusingly in my direction. “You’ve met someone. Tell me, Jules¸ does he let you have your quiet moments? Does he let you thrive in your sadness and love you regardless?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re such an artist. Not everything has to be so extreme. Sometimes things happen that mess with the flow and then you come to realize that everything flows better than it did before the change.”
“So I’m right. Just tell me he’s opposite of me. Lie to me if you have to. You’re good at lying. Convince me that my hope being dashed is purely because he offered you something I couldn’t.”
“He’s nothing like you.” I tell him the truth, though it would be easy to fall for Jean-Luc if I let myself. He’s very sexy in his own way. He has great eyes, or maybe it’s just the way he looks at me that I find so appealing. “He won’t destroy me or drag me to the dark places to wallow, the places you like to frequent.”
He’s painting, his back to me, solid black on the canvas. He glances at me over his shoulder as if he’s studying me for the lies, or the truth, to see if he can figure me out. He’s always seen me clearer than most. We’re similar, or were. I’m not sure today. “Stay true to your heart, beautiful Jules.”
I nod, but he doesn’t see.
I listen to my voicemail in the back of the taxi while returning to the city from the borough where Jean-Luc lives. Hearing Austin’s voice makes me smile. “I’m in Paris. Six hours separates us by plane. Five hours on the clock. I don’t like it,” Austin says with a laugh. “I want to be on the same continent. I don’t know.” He sounds embarrassed for admitting his feelings. “I just want to be near you again. Feel free to put out a restraining order on me for this fucked up stalker sounding voicemail.” I laugh to myself as I continue listening to him. “I miss you. Is it too early in our relationship to say that? You know, I’m just gonna hang up now. It’ll be safer for the both of us if I do. We’ll talk soon. Call me or I can call you again or email, text, pigeon carrier. This is why I need to hang up now. I suck at this. Goodbye, Jules.”
I disconnect, smiling and hold the phone to my chest. He’s so sweet and funny. He warms me on the inside, not from embarrassment or lust, but from happiness, pure unadulterated happiness.
When I return to the gallery, I find a bouquet of gerbera daisies in all different colors arranged in a vase that I recognize instantly as a Boda. The purple and orange colors of the vase are beautiful and highlight the flowers. The glass appears to flow boundless, which always intrigued me about the artist. Austin sure knows how to woo a woman.
Smiling, I anxiously pull the card and read: I missed you. I still miss you.
I call him, not caring about the cost of the call or the late hour in France. I just want to talk to him. He always makes me smile and it grows when he answers, “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Weston. This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur.”
“Tres bien, Jules.”
“Austin, I miss you too. This is all so crazy and fast and—”
“But right, so right.”
“Yes, this feels so right,” I add. “The flowers are beautiful, the vase is stunning. I’ve always loved Boda. Thank you so much.”
“What?”
“The flowers,” I repeat, but the line crackles, the connection dodgy. Damn distance. I speak louder to make sure he can hear me. “Thank you. I love it. You don’t have to send me expensive gifts though.”
“Jules—”
“How long will you be gone again? I want to see you. We can video chat.” I drop my voice down to a whisper, so the other employees can’t hear me. “You know, private video.” I giggle, my happiness making me silly.
He doesn’t. Instead I’m greeted with silence, except for the crackling line binding us together.
“Austin, can you hear me?”
“Yeah, private video chat sounds good.” He lets out a breath that’s heard loud and clear. “We should do that. But I think you should know that I didn’t send the flowers.”
A knock at the door draws my eyes up from my desk. A delivery man, holding a pale pink box wrapped in black ribbon, stands there. “Hold on, Austin. I have a delivery I need to sign for.” After signing his order, I take the box to my desk and pick the phone back up, holding it to my ear.
“The gift is from me, Jules, not the flowers.”
When I look down at the pink box in front of me, I lift the lid. Agent Provocateur is scrolled across the top of the box. I slip the lid off the box and stare down at a black lace over soft pink bra and panty set.
“I’m here.”
“You got the box?”
“I got it,” I reply, nodding. I drag my finger over the luxurious material. “They’re beautiful.”
“I hope you like it. I thought they would be beautiful on you.”
The box is from me, not the flowers. My hands start to shake as Austin’s words replay—the box is from me, not the flowers.
“Thank you. The gift… it’s very thoughtful.”
“Thoughtful? I can’t say I was really going for thoughtful, but I guess I’ll take it.”
I sigh, disappointed in myself. He deserves a better response. “I’m sorry. Sexy. It’s really sexy. You shouldn’t have.”
“Believe me, it was purely selfish.”
Smiling, I laugh. “Okay, then feel free to be selfish any time you like.” I look back at the flowers still confused by the note. Austin is speaking, his mood lightened, but his words don’t register as it becomes clear who the flowers are from. Dylan. My eyes move to where the card resides. Dylan missed me… Dylan misses me now? So over the last three years Dylan missed me?
“Jules?” Austin sounds worried. “I need to return to dinner. I’m in a meeting.”
“I’m sorry.” My mind refocused. “Thank you for the lingerie. It’s very pretty.”
“I thought it would look stunning on you.” I can hear his smile return, even if just slightly.
“Thank you.”
“Au revoir, Jules. I’ll call you soon.”
“Au revoir.” As soon as he hangs up, I set the phone down on the desk, my hand starting to shake as I reach for the note again. My stomach rolls and I feel sick.
Weak.
Ambushed.
I want to throw this vase. I want to see it shatter into a million pieces, this time the vase instead of my heart. Running my finger along the smooth hand-blown glass, I try to appreciate the feel. Shaking my head, I realize I could never destroy something so beautiful, something so fragile. I’m left with questions that I’m not sure I’ll get answers to.
Questions like why did he send these? Why is he back, invading a life that was created in the aftermath of him? What do these flowers mean? What did he mean when he said he can’t stop thinking about me no matter how hard he tries? Why is he trying so hard? Does he remember the good between us? Sometimes I do.
Now I’ve hurt Austin. I could hear it in his voice and I hate that more than Dylan.
I pick the panties up. They’re silky, light as a feather with such fine detailing. They’re sexy and naughty, innocent, and pretty. They’re perfect, as if Austin knows what I would pick out for myself.
I take the box and go home, leaving the vase to be dealt with another day, tomorrow perhaps.
Within an hour, red wine is poured and I have a bath running. I sink in, letting the hot water engulf my body up to my neck. Lots on my mind, but I let it fade, choosing to picture Austin instead—remembering how he touches me, and then his face as he comes undone.
My hand is underwater, my fingers stroking gently, then rougher, more determined. My mouth drops open as I work myself over, letting my mind wander around the planes of a memory I shouldn’t be remembering. Like his laughter in my ears. The feel of his hair. I let go, going with all the things I shouldn’t be remembering because I realize it’s Dylan, not Austin I’m thinking of.
I reach forward and grab the bar of soap, wanting to scrub my body, needing to wash away this memory and the pleasure it brought me.
JUST LIKE AUSTIN, the lingerie is a perfect fit. Lying on the bed, I admire the caress of the silk over my breasts and the fine detail of the lace straps. I put my arms above me and twist—hips to the side just slightly, breasts pressed together, and then I push the button. I take a few more pictures before I decide on the one I like best. After quickly typing out a message, I send it.
I crawl under the covers, setting my phone down on the base that sits on the night table. But before I have a chance to close my eyes, I receive a return text. I can’t wait to see you dressed like that in person. I’ve been thinking of you all night.
I type back: You’re up late.
My phone dings: Can’t sleep.
My fingers are in motion, typing again: Can I call you? This time my phone rings, making me smile. “Hi,” I answer.
“Hi.”
“Austin, I’m sorry about earlier. I just assumed—”
“Sounds like I have competition, Jules.”
“You don’t.”
“We’re new. We haven’t talked as much as we should have. I get it. I might not be the only one you’re seeing.”
“You are. Please don’t think I’m dating anyone else. I’m not. My best friend is a guy, but it’s not romantic.”
“I’m gonna be honest with you. I’m afraid the word exclusive will scare you. I’m not seeing anyone else and I don’t want to. We can move at your pace, but I need you to set that pace.”
“Exclusive doesn’t scare me with you, Austin. Misunderstandings do.”
He sighs. “I agree. Misunderstandings can be a problem. Jules, I told you before that I’d be honest with you.” His voice strains a bit, sounding uncomfortable. “I’ve been lied to and used many times. I won’t, I can’t do that again.”
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes in the dark room, and holding the phone to my ear. “I don’t want that either.”
He chuckles lightly. “It’s funny that we’re having this conversation when thousands of miles and a large ocean separate us.”
“I like that we can talk like this, even with the distance.”
He whispers, “So do I.” The weight of the conversation lifts. “You look better than I imagined in that set too and I have a pretty damn good imagination.”
I laugh this time. “Oh I know you do.”
We talk for another twenty minutes, our more responsible sides eventually winning out at the late hour. After a short but sweet goodbye we hang up, all doubts and hesitations settled as we move forward as a couple.
“WHAT DO YOU not understand about do not disturb, Tricia?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, my irritation peaking, then dumping it all on her.
She sits there wordless, anger in her own eyes, but smart enough not to say anything back. I turn away from her, others watching this play out. I close my eyes knowing the source of my real annoyance is not my longtime secretary, but the messed up emotions fucking with my head. Immediately spinning around, I apologize to her. Loud enough to where the others can hear because she deserves that respect and I deserve to look like the ass I’m acting like. I lower my voice then. “Please hold my calls for the next hour. I have a meeting on the forty-seventh floor.”
“Yes, sir.” She calls me sir when she’s mad at me. She normally calls me Dylan.
I ride down the elevator and am greeted by the Junior Vice President of Finances. She takes me into the meeting, and the door closes.
TRICIA SMILES, GREETING me when I arrive back at my office three hours later. She hands me my messages, then tells me she sent about a dozen more to my voicemail.
I walk in and drop the messages on my desk before walking to the window, pulling at my tie until it’s untied. I toss it onto my desk along with the papers I left hours ago. I cross my arms and stare out at the vast city before me, my mind not into work right now, my mind is on Juliette instead. She’s becoming an occupational hazard lately.
I hear a light knock, but don’t turn around. I know who it is. “Dylan.” Tricia is hesitant. She can read my body language. I’m not happy, though I should be after that meeting. “This package arrived for you while you were gone. I’ll just set it here.” She sets it on the bureau by the door and closes the door quietly, leaving me alone with the package.
Turning around, my concentration is broken. The box is large. I walk over and rip the tape at the top that’s keeping it sealed shut. Checking the top left corner, there�
��s no return address. I remove several sheets of tissue paper and lots of packing peanuts fall to the floor. It’s heavy and bubble wrapped. I pull it all the way out, then unroll it. I only get about half way before it’s revealed—the vase. The vase I sent Juli— Jules with the flowers.
My anger flares again, flames flicking in my chest. “God damn it!”
This woman has caused me nothing but trouble for over a month now. If I was honest with myself, which I’m not, it’s been years, but as I said, I’m not that honest with myself to admit that… yet.
I walk over and grab my keys from my desk, then lift my jacket from the coat rack by the door, slipping it on. I pick the vase back up, knocking all the protective packaging to the floor, and walk out. “I’ll be gone the rest of the afternoon, Tricia.”
Her eyes are wide, darting down to the vase in my hands then back up. I’ve never left early. I’ve never even left on time. I always work late, so I understand her shocked expression. “Yes, Dylan. Have a good evening.”
“Thank you. You can go ahead and leave now too if you want.”
I hear a quiet and happy, ‘Thank you,’ as I walk out the company doors to the bank of elevators. I hail a cab, which at this hour is a breeze, and head across town.
The cab driver pulls over a few doors down from the gallery. I pay him and walk, no, more like storm with purpose toward the large artsy entrance. I swing open the door and look around. There’s no one in sight, so I glance to the left. Jules’ office door is open, but no one is in there.
Then I hear her. Her voice chimes through the barren white-walled space. The smell of paint is heavy in the air, drop-cloths down on the floor. The moment of pause is making me rethink my purpose and I stop, unsure if I should be here. The earlier passion I felt is fading until I see her again. She riles me up like no other. With her phone in hand, her eyes go wide. “Dylan?” she says, surprised.
Our eyes only meet for a brief second before she glances down at my hands and sees the vase. She looks away. Turning her back to me, she goes into her office. Dismissing me.
