by Julie Kriss
“And so I went online,” I continued, letting the words gush out, “and there’s a gallery on Market Street. Just a small one. And they had a listing for an open job as the head of their graphic design department. So I applied.”
“All right,” he said. “So what are you going to do when they hire you? Because of course they’re going to fucking hire you.”
I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. “They haven’t even called me yet. But I just think—even if this doesn’t pan out, I’m going to keep trying. I’m going to find work that makes me happy, even if it takes some time. This time I’m not going to settle.”
“Don’t settle,” he said. “Not ever.”
I pressed my fingertips against my mouth. I heard the front door open—Mom was home from her grocery run. I couldn’t have this conversation with her in the room. “I have to go,” I said.
“We’ll talk,” Devon said. And then he hung up.
Late that night, I texted him. I was alone in bed in my mom’s spare room, the sheets cool against my skin. I couldn’t get the news story out of my mind—that boat, full of drugs, floating in the harbor for the cops to find. I have work to do, Devon had said when he’d left that morning. I hadn’t known what he had in mind. I hadn’t even been able to imagine it. It had been unsettling and thrilling at the same time, that I had no idea what the man I was in love with was about to do. And I had run from the feeling—from the fear it gave me, but also from the excitement it gave me. The feeling like I was on a roller coaster that was going over the top.
I’d thought maybe he would beat someone up. Instead, he had somehow sent that boat floating in the harbor so he could take down almost every drug dealer in San Francisco in one perfect cut. He was amazing. He was fearless.
Still, guilt wracked me. I have a question, I wrote him.
His reply was immediate. What is it?
I licked my lip. Why did you do it?
Why do you think? he wrote.
I blew out a breath. He couldn’t have just done it for me. You could have been arrested. Killed.
The dots moved on my phone. Both true.
He wasn’t getting it. How much did it cost you? I asked.
Whatever the price was to keep you safe, he answered.
I rolled on to my back. I was here in LA, and he was in San Francisco. A situation of my own making.
I’d needed space, time to think. Time to heal from my wounds, and time to rearrange things in my head. All of that was true.
What was also true was that I was still afraid. Terrified, actually.
Because Devon Wilder wasn’t a halfway sort of man. He was all or nothing. And when it came to him, so was I. I had run because I couldn’t just stand by and watch him get hurt or killed, then shrug my shoulders and move on. I had run because if whatever we had didn’t work out, it would crush me, rob me of everything even more than failing art school had. The intensity scared me. Devon Wilder had the power to break my heart so hard it would never heal again. That had scared me—it still scared me. And yet right now he was very much too far away.
I scrubbed my palm over my forehead and texted him again.
I should return your car, I wrote.
Again, there was no hesitation. I only want it back if you’re in it.
This man. This man. Are you sure? I asked him. I can’t take it if this doesn’t work. I can’t. Are you sure it’s me you want?
There was a pause. I put my phone down and stared at the ceiling.
My phone pinged with a text. I took a breath, picked it up, and read it.
I would burn down the world for you, it said.
I blinked hard, my eyes stinging. And I realized what I already knew: It was time to go home.
Twenty-Nine
Devon
I was watching the work in my back yard when my phone rang. I was in one of the spare bedrooms, the one that gave the best view of the back, sitting on the end of the immaculately made bed and looking out the window. I was wearing a t-shirt, boxer shorts, and nothing else.
The back of my property was a mess, pilled with dirt and gravel and mud. A backhoe worked industriously, its engine grinding, as a dump truck backed in with high-pitched beeps. I’d decided I didn’t want to re-landscape back there after all. Instead, I’d decided to tear it all out.
I didn’t want some artful scrub and some perfectly planned trees. I didn’t want a fucking koi pond, scum or no scum. Who the hell used a koi pond? I wanted a pool, a multi-level deck. Places to sit. A space I could use. I’d never been a guy who spent even ten seconds of his life thinking about decorating, and I had no idea why my back yard—a back yard I hadn’t known existed a month ago, when I was sitting in a prison cell—was suddenly so important. It was only while the landscaping contractor was showing me his plans that I realized it was because I planned to spend a lot of time in this house. Because I planned to make it some kind of a home.
I’d never had a home before. I’d faced down cops and drug kingpins and dirtbags of all kinds in my life, but it was the idea of having a home that made my stomach queasy with fear. What the fuck did I know about it? I’d probably fuck it up. But I wanted a place that maybe people could come to and feel comfortable. Max, if he wanted to get out of Shady Oaks. Ben, if he wanted to hang out. Cavan, if he ever came out of hiding. Olivia.
I tried not to think about the fact that it had been ten days since Olivia had driven off in my Mercedes.
Ten long fucking days. She was back in San Francisco now; she had told me that much. She was back at her apartment in Shady Oaks. And still she hadn’t offered to see me. Still she’d stayed away.
I would have felt panicked about it, if I was capable of feeling anything at all. Instead, the knowledge that Olivia was here, in this city, and didn’t want to see me made a dead numbness creep through me. Some kind of protective instinct, maybe, that comes when the only woman you’ve ever wanted turns you down. The protective numbness was accompanied by a persistent voice deep in my brain. You never deserved her. You’ve always known it. Now she knows it, too. Why would she ever want a lowlife piece of shit like you?
I told the voice to go fuck itself and I rebuilt the back yard anyway. But late at night, when I was in bed alone, I wondered if the voice was right.
I didn’t have to go to bed alone. That was one thing I’d discovered about having money—suddenly you never had to go to bed alone if you didn’t want to. The news items had brought all kinds of people to my door, just like Ben had warned, and many of them were women. Money, it turned out, made some women willing to overlook a man’s prison record and other obvious faults. It suddenly made a man sexy in some women’s eyes. When I’d cashed out my twenty million, my banker’s assistant, the woman with the pouty lips and shiny hair, had licked her lips at me when the boss wasn’t looking. What are you going to buy with it? she’d asked in a low voice.
I’d looked at her and felt nothing. Not a single fucking thing. I’d suddenly graduated from hard-luck waitresses and divorcees, and I didn’t care. She could have been a bag of dried-up hay for all the desire I had to fuck her.
I’m going to make some investments, I’d said, and left it at that.
If Olivia didn’t want me, then I didn’t want anyone. I’d been celibate before. I could do it again. Without Olivia, it was no big fucking deal.
On the bed next to me, my phone rang. It was the phone from my new life, which was the only phone I had anymore. I’d thrown the phone from my old life into the ocean.
Reluctantly, I picked it up. It was Max. “Yeah?” I asked when I answered. I had an idea already of what this would be about. He was going to rip me a new one.
“What the fuck, asshole?” he nearly shouted at me, proving my point.
“Take the money, Max,” I said.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He was good and steamed. “I get this notice from the bank that I have a deposit of five million dollars, and I’m supposed to just take it?”
&nb
sp; “Yeah, you are,” I replied.
“You’re out of your fucking mind!” He was ranting now. Max had always had a temper—it was hard to get going, and it burned slow, but it burned hot, like mine. “I don’t need five million fucking dollars!”
“You have medical bills,” I said. “I know for a fact that you do, and that there are leftover debts from when your piece-of-shit dad died. I also know you’ve cut back on your therapy because your veteran’s pay can’t afford it.”
There was silence on the line. “I was dealing with it,” he said. “I was paying the debts down.”
“Max, you were going to be a million years old before those medical debts were paid off. You’ve been my friend since we were six. What would you do in my place? If you were sitting in this house, and I had medical bills to pay? Tell me. What the hell would you do?”
The silence was choked. I was right, and he knew it, and he hated it. “It’s too much,” he managed at last. “I don’t need this much money.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you do with the rest of it after your debts are paid,” I said. “Invest it. Donate it. Give it to some other vet to pay his bills. I’m sure you know a lot of guys who could use the help.”
“This is bullshit,” he said again. “I should just leave that money to rot in my bank account.”
“Fine,” I said. “Then when you kick the bucket, your kids will get it.”
“I don’t have any goddamn kids, you moron!” he shouted again. Once he was mad, it was hard to cool Max off. “I’m missing a leg and I haven’t even been laid in four years!”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Max had never talked about his dry spell, but it would take an idiot not to figure it out. When your best friend never mentions a woman, barely ever leaves his house, and is grumpy as a bear all the damn time, it’s sort of obvious. “No wonder you’re so pissed off,” I said calmly. “Maybe buy some nice clothes and go get yourself a girlfriend.”
“You’re an asshole,” he said, but the fury was draining out of his voice. “Jesus, Devon. You could have warned me or something.”
“Okay, fine,” I said. “Sorry.”
“And now I feel like a jerk, which makes me even more pissed off. So I’ll just tell you about Olivia and then I’m going to go work out until I feel better.”
I felt my back straighten. “What about Olivia?”
“I just saw her leave her apartment across the way. She was dressed nice.”
“Nice?”
“Yeah, nice. And I know she got that art gallery job, but it’s after hours, and she had this nice dress on that has these thin straps, and it kind of clings to her ass—”
“You are so dead.”
“Okay, okay. So I chatted up one of the neighbors and found out that Olivia was on her way to a cocktail party at the gallery she works at. Some kind of swanky fundraising event.”
I licked my lip, ideas churning in my head. “Swanky fundraising event, huh?”
“Yeah. So I’m thinking that if anyone can probably get into one of these things, it’s San Francisco’s latest billionaire. Am I right?”
I stood from the bed. “Forget probably,” I told him. “I’m getting in.”
“Well, at least one of us can get laid,” Reilly said. “Jesus, man. Go get your woman back.”
Thirty
Olivia
The Pedersen Gallery was small but up-and-coming, specializing in artists who hadn’t yet hit it big enough to get into places like SFMOMA. It was a small space on Market Street, half dedicated to the permanent collection—which was growing—and half dedicated to time-limited special collections.
I’d been here less than a week, and I already knew I was going to love it. The staff was small, the ideas creative. I was head of the graphic design department, in charge of creating the ads, brochures, gallery maps, and guides to the special collections that were handed out to ticket holders. It should have felt like a career disappointment, doing graphic design for a living instead of creating art, but it was just the opposite. My job, my whole job, every day, was to promote great art alongside people who were as passionate as I was. No more Jelly Bread or l’Orifice. I already felt inspired when I got home every day, itching to create and to try out the new ideas I was being exposed to. It was like a free master class every day, with pay.
Tonight was a fundraiser, the first I’d been invited to. It was featuring a hot new artist who worked with oils. I’d bought a new dress for the occasion, new heels. I’d taken care to tame my curly hair. I’d put on makeup. And I’d picked up my phone at least ten times to call Devon Wilder and ask him to come with me.
In the end, I had chickened out. What if he was mad at me? What if he thought I was just after his money? I hadn’t offered to see him since coming back to town. What if he was looking for someone else? What if he wasn’t interested in a boring art gallery event? What if he said no?
So I’d gone alone, my gut hating every second of it. And within ten minutes I knew I’d made a mistake.
As nice as everyone was, I didn’t want to float around a cocktail party alone. I didn’t want to look at the art with no one to talk about it with. I didn’t want to circulate like I was hoping someone would talk to me. I’d never been all that good at it, and I was lonely. I wanted someone with me. I wanted Devon.
I stood in front of a painting—a few striking slashes of red, supposed to represent something about the artist’s tortured childhood—and pulled my phone from my clutch. I’d text him to come and at least stand here with me, even if he was mad. This was stupid. I was just trying to figure out how to word it when I heard a small commotion at the door.
People were murmuring excitedly. My new boss, Grace, was smiling from ear to ear, striding forward, her elegant arm outstretched to offer someone her hand. “What a lovely surprise,” she said, her voice a little thrilled. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Grace Hellen, head of the Pedersen Gallery.”
“Hey there,” said a low voice. And there was Devon Wilder. In a suit.
I stared. Devon was immaculate—this suit was dark gray, with a green and black tie that set off his eyes—but he was still Devon. His hair was brushed back, curling slightly behind his ears. He had a dark beard on his jaw. And that tattoo, peeking from beneath his shirt cuff and the gleam of his watch.
Everything stopped inside me. Slowly, I realized that I wasn’t the only one staring. His presence commanded the small room, tuned everyone in to him without even trying. Grace was chatting with him animatedly, because he was a billionaire and this was a fundraiser. But she wasn’t immune to his looks, either. I could see it in the way her eyes danced when she looked at him. Grace was in her forties and had been married for nearly twenty years, but she wasn’t blind and she wasn’t stupid. Even toned down and behaving, Devon Wilder was a hot piece of man flesh. You should see him in jeans, I suddenly wanted to tell her. His ass will give you dreams for a week.
As if he could hear my thoughts from across the room, he turned his head and looked at me.
And that was when it clicked in my head why he was here. It wasn’t a random coincidence. He wasn’t feeling generous with his money—though he probably would be. He was here for me.
I briefly wondered how he knew I was here. And then I forgot the question as he made his excuses to Grace and came across the room toward me.
Everything went warm in me as he approached. He was zeroed in on me, his gaze unwavering. He stopped when he got close, but not too close, and looked down at me. “Why are you holding your phone?” he asked.
I tried to make my brain think past the sexy sound of his voice and stared down at the phone in my hand, which I’d forgotten about. “Oh,” I said. “I, um, was about to text you.”
His eyebrows went up as I shoved the phone back in my clutch. “What were you going to say?”
I could see Grace, far behind Devon’s shoulder. Her eyes were wide and she gave me a look that I easily read: Why the hell didn’t you tell me you know
Devon Wilder? I ignored her and looked back at Devon. “I was going to tell you to come and be my date,” I said. “I thought I wanted to come alone, but it turned out I was wrong.”
“Hmm,” he said, and oh, I wanted to jump on him in that moment. I wanted to put my hands on him and lick his skin, right in the middle of an art gallery. I actually curled my fingers so I wouldn’t touch him. He was such pure suit porn and so dirty at the same time. “Your boss is nice,” he observed.
I flicked a glance at Grace again. She was talking to someone else while still managing to watch us obsessively from the corner of her eye. “She looked like she wanted to eat you with a spoon,” I said, conveniently ignoring the fact that I was probably looking at him the same way.
He shrugged. “Maybe, but she’d probably prefer to spoon some money out of my wallet. For the good of the gallery, of course.”
I swallowed. “Are you used to that yet?”
“Getting there.” He watched me for a minute. “So does this mean you’re done running from me?”
I bit my lip and tried to turn and look at the painting, but the red slashes hurt my eyes and I looked back at him again. “I think so. I’ll return your car.”
“Keep it,” he said, his voice low. I could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell the clean, sexy scent of him. “It suits you.”
“What does that mean?”
He reached up and brushed my neck—just his fingertips tracing briefly across my skin, then gone again. I felt my bones melt. I was surprised the oils weren’t melting off the painting four feet away. “It’s classic,” he said. “Well made. Beautiful. Not meant to be locked up in a garage. Meant to run.”
If there was a woman on earth who could withstand talk like that, I wasn’t her. It took me a minute to formulate an answer. “That’s good,” I finally said. “Because I really fucking love that car.”
He smiled at me. It was slow, and secretive, and I knew exactly what it meant. “We’re done here,” he said. “Let’s go.”
