by Alice Ward
I didn’t want to give up the sex, exactly. We had our good days, and I always needed the physical release she gave me. My hand wasn’t better than her pussy, but her pussy wasn’t worth risking a chance with Caitlyn.
And I really wanted a chance with Caitlyn.
Lucas and I entered the ring. We started with some light jabs and footwork, which only inflamed my sense of shame and anger. I wanted real action. I didn’t want to dance around wearing boxing gloves. Without warning, I started hitting Lucas with all of the bottled-up anger inside me. I felt like my arms and legs were made of steel. Power flooded my system with adrenaline as I went after Lucas hard. To his credit, he was keeping up with my punches and only let a few land. One got him right in the gut.
“What the hell bro? Lighten up,” he said, winded.
“Sorry,” I apologized as I came at him again from the left side.
He blocked my punch to his face, and I started to seeth. I was going after an invisible enemy, punching, jabbing, throwing hits with incredible force. I was going after the demon within me, intent on knocking him out cold. I rushed at Lucas, delivering punch after punch. Fuck the rules. I wasn’t fighting a fair fight. I wanted blood. I wanted death. I wanted to kill the thing that was hounding me and prove that might was right.
I could see Lucas was getting tired, but his manhood was being challenged, so he kept fighting. Not one to back down, he became just as aggressive as I was. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t being fueled by embarrassment, humiliation, and shame like I was. I laid a punch so hard to Lucas’s face, he lost his footing and crumbled to the floor.
“What the fuck, KP?” he said, clutching his temple as blood poured out of him.
I just stared down at him, not even making a move. I watched him lay there, bleeding all over the mat. He was breathing heavily, and so was I. I was like a man completely possessed. It scared me, so I waited for his cue.
“Help me up, motherfucker,” he choked as he tried to get up from the floor.
I bent over and pulled him up, still feeling the sting of anger and revenge in my psyche.
“Where the fuck are you tonight?” he asked as he walked out of the ring to grab his towel from a chair nearby.
I just stood there as he attended his injury. He looked over while holding the towel to his head, and his expression changed from irritated anger to genuine concern.
“Let’s get out of here.” He motioned for me to follow him and we went to the men’s locker room.
He took off his clothes, wincing with pain as he pulled his bloodied shirt over his head.
“Don’t you ever do that again. You have some shit you can’t take care of, then you talk to me, but you don’t ever fucking use your fists on me like that. I’m not your enemy, and I’m not someone you can mess with. You don’t have many friends. Don’t screw up the friendships you do have.”
There was definitely a running theme coursing through my life. I was an asshole. He was right. I should never have taken my aggression out on him. To my horror, emotion hit me in the face, packing a serious punch. For a moment, I thought I might cry. What the hell was wrong with me?
The concern was back on Lucas’s face. “What’s happening? What kind of trouble are you in?”
“I messed up, I’m sorry,” was all I could manage.
“No, you’re going through something deep. What’s going on?” He was unrelenting.
“I need a minute. I’ll tell you, but I’m not ready.”
He looked like he was going to argue, then clapped me on the back. “Come on, let’s hit the showers. I’m taking you out for a beer.”
Fifteen minutes later, we walked to the pub near the gym and found a table in the corner. The place was dark, dank, and smelled of rotting beer. The perfect watering hole for my sorry ass. A place where no one would notice Lucas’ wound, nor would they ask questions. His left eye had started to turn black-and-blue, and the gash on his forehead was gnarly and deep.
“You should probably get that looked at,” I grunted.
“I will, and I’ll be sending you the bill. If I need plastic surgery, it’s all gonna be on you, bro.” He was trying not to be angry, but he was pretty pissed at me.
“Sure, whatever you need.”
“I’ll be fine, scars add character.” He popped a peanut in his mouth. “So you want to fill me in on what the hell happened back there?”
He watched me closely as the bartender came over to take our drink order. “Whatya having?”
“Cold IPA, whatever you got,” Lucas said, still eying me, “and some more peanuts or something, I’m starving.”
“We have a special on meat-loaded potato skins.”
“Yeah those.” Lucas nodded to me. “You?”
“I’ll have Macallan 18, neat,” I said and watched the bartender’s eyes grow wide.
“I think we have some in the back. I’ll check,” he offered eagerly.
“Find it,” I barked.
“Right.”
“I’m really sorry,” I told Lucas again.
He snorted. “You fucking better be.”
“It won’t happen again,” I promised.
He snorted again. “No, it won’t. Did you lose a big project? One of your films tank? You get diagnosed with something terminal, what?” He was being real with me, it was time for me to come out of my bastard closet and let him in.
I exhaled a long breath. “That girl, the one I told you about.”
“The chic from that dive diner?”
“Yes.”
He waved his hand. “Go on.”
“She refused me a second time.”
“Again?” he asked, astonished.
I gave him a feral glance.
“So you’re pissed off enough to kill someone, namely your best friend, because some chick in a shit restaurant won’t suck your cock,” he reasoned.
I was growing agitated again. “I said I’m sorry.”
He simply pointed to his head.
“You got into the boxing ring. You knew there was a risk.” I was only half joking.
“Boxing as exercise is a thing these days,” he reminded me.
“It’s only a scratch.” Well, it was a little more than that, but why buy into the theatrics.
“A scratch?” He barked out a laugh. “Really? You can see my brain, it’s so deep.”
“You can’t see your brain, you moron.” I thought we may have been good again. “Yeah, so um, I need your help,” I confessed.
He leaned back in his chair. “Okay. So how can I help you get into your little waitress’s pants?” he asked as the bartender brought our drinks.
“Found some,” the bartender said as he placed my glass before me.
“Goody,” I mocked.
The bartender looked at me and smiled. I could tell he recognized me after coming back with our drinks — must be an aspiring actor. New York was crawling with them. I waited for him to leave, and I took a sip, hoping to calm my nerves.
“Did you fuck the embalmer?” It was a crude way of asking, but I needed to know.
His smile lit up the planet. “She’s amazing. But we aren’t talking about me, we’re talking about you.”
I slumped forward and took another drink. “She thinks I’m this stalker, rapist, asshole megalomaniac. I’m so screwed.”
He chuckled. “Ah, I get it, you were being you.”
“Pretty much.” I felt like shit.
“Well, this is one of those times when you have to ask yourself, what would Prince Charming do?”
Was he serious? “What?”
“Well, it’s obvious that money doesn’t drive her, but what does? Do you know anything about her?”
I tossed back more drink. “She has paintings at an auction house and is working for a community outreach center for at-risk kids. Then there’s the shit diner, and, oh… she hates me!”
“She hates you now, she won’t always. At-risk kids, an art gallery full of paintings. Hello, you’
ve so got this. Donate money, like heaps of it to the place with the kids and buy all of her paintings at an outrageous price. Problem solved, you’ll be her hero.”
Hmm… maybe Lucas was onto something.
“I can definitely donate to the community outreach center, but the art gallery won’t let me have her paintings.”
“Well, did you tell them how much you were willing to offer for the paintings? They get a percentage of that shit. If the number is high enough, they’ll convince her to sell.”
My friend was a fucking genius.
“I didn’t name a price, just said I wanted them. Do you think a million would do it?”
He laughed. “A million would probably, most likely, definitely do it. Remember though, it has to be anonymous. She can’t know it’s you.”
Okay, maybe not so genius.
“Well, then how does that help me?”
“Trust me, if you make the donation to the center in your waitress’s name from an admirer and buy all of her paintings, don’t you think she’ll know who it is?”
He had a point.
“And I’ll add a note to her with the donation, like a confession or an apology.”
“A little less anonymous. It’s a bit riskier, but very Prince Charming. It’s perfect.” He raised his beer to me, and we clinked.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Caitlyn
I was exhausted after crying on my way home last night, but still needed to stop by the hospital to be with Gran. She didn’t look good at all. The hospital wouldn’t release her, and she didn’t really look like she wanted to leave. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about Mr. Preston, and there was no need, she never had to know. She thought my tears were for her, and many of them were. I felt overwhelmed by everything, so when I got home, I plopped down on the couch and stared at the wall.
I woke there in the morning, still exhausted and in a pain-saturated haze. It was my off day from both jobs, so I piddled around the house, alternately missing Gran and going outside to tend her crazy flowers. I was getting ready to go back to the hospital when my cell phone rang. I wanted to ignore it, but couldn’t because of any possible news about Gran.
“Hello.”
“Caity, it’s Miguel from City Gallery.”
“Oh, hey. I’m sorry I haven’t come by to get my paintings yet. Gran is in the hospital, and I completely forgot. I’ll come get them this afternoon.” Wow, I really let that slip my mind.
I had a gallery showing a few weeks ago and everyone I knew attended. It was an amazing night. I felt like I had accomplished something. It was an exhibition with other up-and-coming artists and was quite the affair with wine, cheese, and swanky, cool people. There was a lot of interest in my work, and some attendees were interested in a few pieces, but as it was an exhibition, the gallery wasn’t selling them that night. Besides, Gran made it quite clear to everyone that they were all hers. She owned all of my work. She did, sort of. She was obsessed with my work. I didn’t want to sell the paintings, but it felt good that people wanted to buy them. It gave me hope that I could sell them one day if I wanted.
“That’s what I’m calling about. We’ve had quite an interesting offer I’d like you to consider.”
“What do you mean by interesting offer?” I needed details.
“A patron has made a bid to buy all of your paintings.”
My heart sank. A patron? A patron with enough money to buy all my paintings. I groaned. The bastard.
“Sorry, they’re not for sale, Miguel. Please apologize to the patron.” I couldn’t bear to have Mr. Preston own the part of my soul I’d poured into those paintings.
“He’s willing to pay a great deal of money for them,” he coaxed.
“I’m sure he is.” Sarcasm seemed to be my new favorite hobby.
“Caity, he’s going to give you a million dollars for them and he’s adding a significant amount for the gallery. Can you just say you’ll think about it before you refuse flat out?”
Anger rose and my fingers began to tremble. “I can’t be bought.”
“He’s a patron, you’re a painter. Buying and selling art makes it possible for the whole system to exist. That’s what painters do, sell their works. Who cares who they sell them to, and for a million dollars. Do you really think you’re at the million-dollar mark as an artist? That’s the dream zone, get real. Think of what you could do with that money and think about what that money will do for the gallery.”
“He’s stalking me, Miguel,” I confessed.
He plowed right over me. “He’s one of the richest movie producers in the world. You should be flattered that he’s taking an interest in you. I mean, you’re gorgeous, but gorgeous is his stock and trade.” He paused, his voice growing softer. “I’m not asking you to have sex with him.”
That hit a nerve.
“But, he keeps asking in his smarmy, seductive, stupid movie producer way,” I complained.
“You never have to say yes to anything you don’t want to do, including selling your work. I’m just trying to help you see the opportunity you might be passing up here. How about I give you a day to sit on it. I’ll avoid his calls for twenty-four hours, and you think this over. There is just one more thing to consider. Promise you won’t go mental on me.”
“What is it?” I asked, concerned.
“He wants to commission you to do a painting for him as well,” he nearly whispered.
“Hell no!” I was being unreasonable, I knew, but… shit!
“Just give it some time. Ask friends and your grandma and see what everyone says. Again, you aren’t agreeing to anything other than selling your paintings for a lot of money and taking a job. Also, if you don’t like the painting he wants you to paint, just say no.”
He had a good point.
“I’ll think it over,” I conceded.
“Good, I’ll call you tomorrow, and we can talk about this some more.”
As the line went dead, I sat in shock. I couldn’t believe that Mr. Preston hadn’t gotten the message. I didn’t want him in my life. I wondered what I’d done to make him so interested in me, because despite the fact that I wanted to hate him, whatever he was doing was working. I felt my heart rush, and I was heated and sweaty. His pursuing me with such intensity actually felt amazing. I couldn’t believe I was reacting the way I was. I sat there on the couch numb, tingling with disbelief. He was going to pay me a million dollars. A MILLION DOLLARS. Most likely, I would never see that much money in my lifetime, and there it was dangling in front of my face. I would be an idiot to pass up this opportunity, and yet my body was raging with conflict and confusion. All I wanted to do was cuddle in bed with Gran and just talk about nothing or watch one of her terrible horror movies so I could forget that my life was such a mess.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe there was something more to this man. Maybe even my own subconscious knew more about him and his potential than I did. Perhaps Google and all the headline news that penned him as a monumental asshole were wrong. Or maybe I was an idiot. There was no denying the magnetic sense of attraction I felt when he came waltzing back into the diner. God, my heart raced, and I thought I was going to throw up. He came back. A rich, gorgeous, and sexy man came back for me. It was so romantic until he opened his mouth, then it all fell to shit.
He came in wanting to sweep me off my feet like this was Pretty Woman or something. I didn’t need rescuing. I didn’t need his money, and I certainly didn’t need to sleep with him or anyone to get it. I guess that was what made me so angry. He just assumed that I would be so thrilled and overjoyed by the fact that he liked me, I would do whatever he wanted. Why did he want me anyway? Did he have a bet with another one of his producer friends that he could bag a beautiful nobody? Boom, there I was hating him all over again. I had to stop.
Once I got to the hospital and saw the pitiful shape Gran was in, I couldn’t bring it up. Couldn’t burden her with my stupid lovelorn longings when she was lying in a hospital b
ed hanging onto mere life. I decided to do what any good Scarlett O’Hara would and not think about it anymore today. I would simply think of a way out of this mess tomorrow.
With that righteous notion in my head, I drove home and headed straight to bed. I considered taking one of Gran’s sleeping pills so as not to have a night of incredible sex in my sleep, but then the idea kind of made me feel hot. I sort of did want another raucous night of lovemaking. That way, maybe I could start to like the bullheaded billionaire.
When I woke up, I was sad to discover I only slept, nothing more. No hot sex, no princely gestures, no wet panties… just sleep. It was for the best. I looked at the clock and realized it was time for me to go to the art center so I took a shower, dressed, and pretended like I was someone else so I wouldn’t have to face my life.
I called the hospital to check in on Gran, and she was sleeping comfortably which made me feel sad, confused, and unsure. Sleeping comfortably meant they either had her well sedated, or she was really sick, because she never slept comfortably in the hospital.
I didn’t have to go into the diner that day, so when I was done at the center, I planned on spending the rest of the day with Gran. The thought hit me. If I agreed to sell my paintings, I would never have to go back to the diner ever again. I could spend all my time with Gran and still work with the kids. This bastard, unbeknownst to him, may have afforded me the greatest of luxuries. Time with Gran when her time on this earth was growing short. I wanted to cry; my thoughts were in knots. What was this man doing to me?
When I walked into the Youth Center for the Arts, I was greeted by the program director who asked me to step into his office. He seemed happy, almost elated. However, I had a cold sense of dread shiver up my spine. What could he possibly want? I didn’t think I could take any more craziness in my life at the moment.
“Is everything okay?” I jumped right into the conversation.
“Everything is more than okay. I just wanted to bring you in here and thank you personally for all you’ve done for us. You’ve been such an incredible inspiration to the students. I hear nothing but praise and admiration for you and all that you’ve accomplished with them. Many of the students have told me how much you’ve inspired them. I’ve been more than impressed with your work, and I value all you do here, but when I got the news today about what you did on our behalf…” He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “I have to confess, I am absolutely overwhelmed. I had no idea you were capable of raising this kind of money, and I wholeheartedly applaud you.” Tears actually welled in his eyes.
