by Raine Miller
It was very easy for me to blame Garrick for everything. After all, my great shame was in part, because of him. Whenever I did visit my sister and brother in Santa Barbara, I couldn’t wait to get away from Garrick and back home to London.
Home?
Where was my home, really?
I had family in London and in California, but I lived in London now. I couldn’t see myself leaving it, either. There was too much back in California to hurt me. There was also nothing to tie my heart to California now my mom was gone. I missed Dani and Blake terribly, but for now my imperative was pretty simple.
Avoid the hurt at all costs.
THREE
London
6th July
MY do-over date with Maria would be handled a little differently than usual. We’d already met face to face, and so the typical dinner or date activity wasn’t really necessary. We could get down to what we’d started the other night. No need to drag out the inevitable. I was contracting for sex and she was providing it.
Business.
Just contractual business and nothing more.
So why did I feel like shit about the fact I paid women to get me off?
The truthful answer to that question helped me to realize my glass was empty and in desperate need of a refill.
I shrugged off my ugly thoughts as I mixed the Bombay and Schweppes, tossed in a lemon twist, and envisioned how Maria would look today when she showed up instead. To be honest, I couldn’t wait to see her again. There was something about her that had got to me the other night despite our untimely interruption. I knew one thing for certain.
I wanted to be with her badly, and that fact alone was unusual for me.
Mostly, I couldn’t stop thinking about her, or how she’d been so willing in my arms when I’d had her pinned against that gallery door with my fingers inside her. Maria was a born sexual submissive, I would bet my life on it, and I wanted to explore her further.
I felt my cock punch out when the buzzer went off. Maria was here, just on the other side of the door to my flat.
Mmmm…where to begin with her…was the delicious thought that slid through my mind as I put my hand on the knob and turned it.
I stared at the female before me wearing black stilettos paired with a pink and black trench coat cinched in tight at her waist with a bow. Probably the only thing standing between her and public indecency I imagined.
“Mr. Ivanhoe?” the too-thin blonde inquired softly. She was probably evaluating my frown and general puzzlement at her presence.
“But you’re not Maria.” I tilted my head at her.
“No, but please call me Maria if you wish,” she answered with a nod as she checked me over with a smile. “I am here for your pleasure, Mr. Ivanhoe.”
I guess she misread my shock at her not being whom I was expecting and took it for an invitation, because she swept inside and shut the door behind her. She walked into my living room and set her bag down on the coffee table. She turned back toward me and started unknotting the belt of her coat. The look in her dark brown eyes was predatory as she pulled the fabric of her belt out of the bow with a rasping draw.
Well, fuck.
This was definitely not who I’d been with in that store room. Not even close.
The lush goddess with the green eyes that had seduced me with her melting cries against my lips as I made her come, wasn’t here with me after all. I couldn’t remember more crushing disappointment than I felt in the moment.
I didn’t enjoy the sex, not really.
When my guest opened the coat and revealed what was underneath I might have had enough to motivate me to see this through, but my heart wasn’t in it.
Not when she dropped to her knees and wrapped her painted pink lips around my cock. And not when she sucked me off while pretending to love it. She hated sucking cock as much as Viviana had. I could tell.
She didn’t mind the fucking though. Yeah, as much as I wasn’t into her, I still managed to get her off and go through the motions. I was so getting drunk afterwards I decided.
The whole thing was messy and less than satisfying.
And it took too long to get her out of my house after I was done with her.
Donadea, Northern Ireland
5th August
“YOU’RE just not telling me words I want to hear right now, Paul. Sorry, friend, but no. I need this shit out of my goddamned house and I need it gone now!” The pause from him was to be expected, and I was more than used to it. In fact, this kind of reaction from others was pretty damn typical. I bark, and people move. Things get done the way they’re supposed to and the way I want.
Well, in theory they do.
Waiting for Paul Langley to respond on the other end of the line made me impatient and I started tapping the top of my desk. I studied the worn oak grain of the wood and realized something I’d never really thought about before. My ancestors must have sat here at this same desk. Even as far back as maybe two hundred years ago I supposed. But that didn’t change the fact that it was still just a desk. A useful piece of furniture. A tool to be utilized rather than just on display as a formal antique appreciated only for its aesthetic value.
“Hello? You still there?”
“I wouldn’t call it shit, Ivan.”
“Right. Let me rephrase it for you then. Paul, would you please get someone over to my house capable of archiving the very valuable shit I have a great abundance of? A graduate student perhaps? There must be someone who needs a job. The papers tell of gloom and doom for the pissing dreadful economy. A starving artist? Work with me here, please. I do plenty for your organization and you know it.”
Langley sighed heavily into the phone. “I’ll see what I can do. There may be a possible candidate, but I’m not sure. The student I’ve in mind is very busy and scheduling may be a problem.” He hesitated before letting me have it. “And you aren’t the easiest person to…ah…work for.”
“Are you trying to tell me I’m an arsehole?”
Langley laughed softly. “Yes. And I couldn’t pass up the chance to admit it to you either, especially since you asked.”
“Nothing new there. Right. Good. So offer your student a big pile of my money. I pay well. Get someone over here to do the job and you’ll get your usual toward the philanthropic health of the arts and all that crap, and I won’t be drawn and quartered for letting priceless paintings go to rot.”
He muttered something about expecting a bigger donation cheque this year if he managed to find someone to come out. “See that you do and you just might,” I told him as we ended the call.
I sent off an email to my assistant in London telling him to follow up with Langley per our conversation. Lowell would keep this item current and remind me again if no word came from Langley soon about assigning me a student from U of L. Gratefully I had some good people working hard for me.
Once I finished that business my eyes wandered around this stately room I’d inherited, to study the rich paneling carved by some master craftsman eons ago, over the valuable paintings hung atop it, past the antique furniture and the personal items which had belonged to my ancestors, to finally rest upon the best part of the whole room in my opinion. The view out the floor-to-ceiling window. The landscape of Donadea was stunning in all its green lushness—hills and dales dotted with trees contrasting against the blue skies above. Too bad I didn’t have the heart to enjoy it much. Not anymore.
I’d loved coming here as a kid even after Mum died. The best times of all had been the long breaks in summer. Riding, shooting, fishing, times at the lake, picnics. I’d learned to fly here. It had been magical. A place to forget the harsh bustle of London and the many responsibilities that came with this blasted life I’d inherited. But Viviana had taken even the peace of this sanctuary from me. Now Donadea reminded me of all that I didn’t have, which was symbolic for why I wanted this place cleared out.
The time had come to let the past go.
It didn’t serve me i
n any good way and I didn’t need any more bad. I’d had enough in my thirty-four years to last for a while. I didn’t like to complain about my life because it would sound incredibly ingenuous to anyone who might be inclined to quote me. Which they would do with the utmost glee. I could see the Fleet Street rags headlining me now—SUICIDE WATCHES FOR LORD IVAN.
I had money, of course, and fame to an extent. Infamous was more like it. I had some Olympic medals and even a coveted gold. I’d been born with the right name mostly. And because of the untimely deaths of others, I had so much when so many had so little. So yeah, I couldn’t complain about anything to anybody. I could only bear the hand I’d been dealt. Which sucked.
I left my study and walked across the west wing of the house to the portrait gallery. The walls were filled. There was too much here. It needed to be sorted and some maybe sold, donated, or stored for preservation even. I thought of the ironic twist of fate that had left me as caretaker of such goods. An art collection to rival the best in the world and I knew next to nothing about it.
My uncle Matthew, the twelfth Baron Rothvale, had not been much better, and my father? Fuck no, and fuck no a hundred times after that. His interests had been all over the place for the short time he’d been in line for the helm of this slowly leaking vessel. This estate had never belonged to him anyway, and that one small fact pleased me the most. Irony was cruel most of the time.
I took one last look around the room before going right back out again. No, the paintings in this house had been neglected for a great many decades and they were due some greatly needed attention. Even my ignorant arse knew that.
It was my desire to get the project started and then leave the expert to finish it. I shouldn’t have to stay here indefinitely, even though the thought of staying at Donadea was very appealing, besides I had work in London that required me there regardless. Always.
Work, or trying to stay off the paparazzi grid—something I never quite managed to do for very long.
The Olympics had gone off without a hitch until just after they wrapped. The events ran smoothly, and my announcing contract had actually been a refreshing change of pace for me. The Games were a smashing success despite Great Britain’s team performance on native soil in the archery competition. I’d loved every moment of it. Nobody had set off any bombs and I was still in one piece. Just when I’d felt like I might take a breath and let my guard down for two seconds, more shit was dredged up.
A ridiculous assumption on my part, of course, because my absence in the trash presses couldn’t be tolerated for more than a month before something sordid needed to be fed to the inquiring public. I sold them a shit ton of papers. I often wondered what my rank was on their “favorites” list. I had to be top five.
The blonde in the trench coat who’d come to my flat had been bought by somebody, and when she’d set down her bag on my coffee table, it’d been a strategic placement. A good portion of the blow job had made it onto video. And really, who should give two shits about who I fuck? Or how? But apparently some did.
The gossip headlines had been brutal and getting it taken down had cost me a horrifying amount of brass. Again. This fucking crap was becoming status quo for me.
The incognito escort service was off my list, too. I didn’t have a choice about that. They’d been compromised and my privacy couldn’t be guaranteed anymore. I’d miss the sex, but I’d survive. One doesn’t need to fuck in order to live. It’s nice, but not a necessity.
I knew what would make me feel a little better, though, so I headed outside for the field targets, stopping to collect my beloved Kodiak Recurve and a quiver on the way. I’d never be able to stop my shooting completely, and hopefully would never have to. The freshness of this place, the stillness, the peace, the goodness… It was what I needed more than any other thing.
I told myself this was the reason I’d abandoned London to come up to Donadea. But who was I fooling? This time of year was always the same for me. I had to get away from everything that reminded me of the past, and this was the only place I had left to go to where that was even possible.
10th August
THE sun was starting to dim when I decided I might as well admit to myself I was lost.
Really lost.
The perfect metaphor for just about everything in regards to my life.
I pulled to the side of the road and looked at the directions I’d printed out from my computer. Trouble was, this was a huge estate and most of the roads were unmarked, meandering peacefully in all directions over the rolling green. The GPS that came with the rental in Belfast wasn’t worth a damn in places like this. It was likely to have me driving over a cliff if I depended on it.
The words blurred together on the paper anyway. My reading glasses were in my suitcase, which was sitting in the trunk of the car, where they could do me absolutely no good at the moment, of course. My night vision sucked, so I was screwed there, too. I fumbled for my cell phone and dialed the number Professor Langley had given me.
After several rings voice mail picked up. “Everley. Leave a message.” The voice was curt and clipped, somewhat cold. No greeting. No other information offered. Nothing to make me feel even the slightest bit comfortable about showing up for a job at a gloomy Irish manor house, filled to the brim with god knows what. I highly doubted it would work anyway.
I was only here as a favor to Paul Langley, one of my academic advisors at the University of London. He’d pulled me into his office and basically said if I wanted to be recommended for the M.Phil. in Art History, then it would be prudent of me to accept this appointment, and thereby, please the patron. Professor Langley was fair, but he could be tough, too. He’d told me there was a substantial amount of funding riding on this job and that there was nobody better to take it on. Paul Langley was also on the boards for every art society known to man. One did not tell him no. Not if I wanted to get a job in my field someday. And apparently one did not tell Mr. Everley “no” either.
“This is Gabrielle Hargreave from the University of London. I—I’m having some trouble with the directions to find your place. It’s getting dark. I suppose...I’m lost. Please call me back.” I left my message and sank down in the driver’s seat. I figured the best thing to do was wait for someone to return my call. All of those survival shows always said so. If you are lost, stay put until someone finds you.
The sun slowly dipped below the horizon in a gorgeous display of red and purple. I watched the whole thing and waited. And waited some more. Nobody called me back. I checked for messages every few minutes but it remained silent. The idea of spending the night in this car, afield in the Irish countryside did not appeal to me either. How on earth had I ended up in such a mess?
I called the number again and left another message. I hoped my voice didn’t sound too pathetic on the recording. God, didn’t the man have some servants? He was an earl or a viscount or something, according to Professor Langley. Didn’t they have staff at their beck and call to handle every little problem that arose? How much longer would I have to wait out here in the dark? And it was getting colder. I needed the loo. Trying to get a handle on my rising panic, I got out of the car, opened the trunk and unzipped my suitcase.
My jacket would be a good start. For August, the weather was mostly mild but this was Northern Ireland and I was pretty confident rain was imminent. And of course, the temperature always dropped with the sun even if it did set late in summer. I retrieved my glasses, and put them in my pocket.
Truth be told, I didn’t feel at all well. I had a headache starting and my muscles felt stiff and achy. I prayed I wasn’t coming down with something vile. I couldn’t afford to be sick right now and try to do this favor for Professor Langley. Just—no.
Scanning the landscape, I looked for anything that might resemble a manor house. Nothing. It was so dark now that the only light was from the risen moon, glowing serenely above the fast-moving clouds. If I didn’t want to get soaked I needed to get back in the car. I mi
ght as well start driving again, too. Enough of this “staying put” bullshit. It was getting me literally nowhere. The dark, the rain, and the morose feelings of helplessness matched my life perfectly at the moment.
FOUR
I felt my jaw twitching as I checked my watch. This was bloody irritating and then some. Next, I re-read the email Lowell had printed out for me for the third time. Gabriel Hargreave will be driving in from Belfast today to assess your collection. – Paul Langley
Well, whoever Gabriel Hargreave was, he certainly couldn’t tell time. Or know how to use a telephone. Useless artsy twit.
I’d stayed home purposefully this evening in order to be here to greet the student Langley had found for my archival work. So far, Hargreave didn’t impress me in the slightest.
I was convinced that young people today didn’t have the drive to be successful. No initiative. Little commitment. It was pathetically shameful what I had to put up with. I refilled my drink and went to the window to look for the possibility of headlamps coming up the drive. Nothing. What a waste of time. The twit was probably one of those Bohemian art students who lived life on a whim with no idea whatsoever of keeping to a schedule or the job he’d agreed to. The job I was paying him to do. Christ, what did it take to get some help around here?
Seeing my mobile blinking on the sofa, I went over to retrieve it, realizing I must’ve set it down when I was watching ESPN earlier. I had a bad habit of doing that.
I checked and saw three new messages. I didn’t know what I expected but what I got was not it.
Shit! My grad student, who sounded very feminine, was lost and off the road in the dark apparently. I checked my watch again and grimaced. The first call had been left nearly three hours ago and it was black outside now. I grabbed my car keys and headed for the garage, hitting redial as I went.
