Overlooked

by Lulu Pratt

“Maybe two, two-thirty?” Damn, time goes fast with her.

  “Should we get dressed?”

  “If you want, but I’m enjoying having you naked.”

  Skye shrugs and smiles. “As long as you’re happy to eat like that too. I thought it would make you lose your appetite.”

  “Fuck no, it makes me hungrier.”

  “For food?”

  I smirk and say, “There’s a million ways to answer that, but I’m going to keep my mouth shut.”

  “That’s not very suit of you.”

  “You said no sarcasm.”

  We make sandwiches, and sit to eat them at my kitchen island.

  “Does your family ever come from Michigan to visit?” Skye’s arms flop to the counter, causing the sandwich to drop onto her plate.

  “I’m an only child of only children, I don’t have much family.”

  “And your parents?”

  “We don’t speak anymore.” She shifts her eyes to the floor.

  Oh, right. I move to her side, brushing her arm with my hand. Tears fill the corners of her eyes, and I clear them away with my forefingers. The tenderness of my action surprises even me.

  “Sorry. I haven’t talked to anyone in person about it before, not even with Ava.”

  “No one?”

  “I Skyped and emailed my college roommate Amy a lot when I was first thinking about moving out here, but life moved on and now our discussions are on the other things going on in our lives, not the old news of my estranged parents.”

  “Is that, I mean, was that…” How do I phrase that question? I want to shout ‘what happened?’

  “They disowned me for using my grandma’s inheritance to move out here and pursue my art. After a lot of screaming and yelling and them telling me not to waste the money and that I was living in la la land thinking art can actually be a career, I stormed out and haven’t had any contact with them since.”

  I pull her off the stool and draw her against me. No longer able to hide her feelings, she weeps into my chest. It reminds me of how I felt about the loss of my own parents.

  “What hurts most of all, more than them not believing in me, is that the money mattered more to them than I did. And it wasn’t even their money — she left it to me.”

  “They’re the ones in the wrong. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, but why? Why did they do that to me?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “At least your parents wanted you. I’m not even good enough for my parents. Sometimes I think I was a mistake right from the start.”

  “But there’s still a chance, Skye, a chance that they’ll realize how wrong they’ve been and phone you. Don’t give up.” The way I had to give up on my parents ever walking back through the front door.

  We stand like that for several minutes. Though all my own pain feels like it’s suddenly rushed back, holding Skye in my arms calms me. Like she’s entered my life and finally plugged a gaping hole that’s been part of me for my entire adult life.

  I would give anything to have my parents back. It’s a fucking joke that her parents are alive and won’t talk to her. Over money, for fuck’s sake. Feeling her sob against me makes me want to rush to her parents’ house and shake them.

  “You were right to come out here and follow your dream.”

  “No,” she pulls her hand to her face and wipes her eyes. “They were right. It’s a stupid pipe dream. I’ve wasted all my grandma’s money and I’m a failure.”

  “That’s just stupid.”

  “I’ve been here months and, until last week, only sold one painting. I’m obviously not as good as I thought I was.”

  “You’re crazy good. It just takes time.”

  “That’s what Ava says, but it’s bullshit.”

  “So let me help you. I can get you publicity. Anything you need.”

  “No way,” she says, shaking her head.

  “Why? I want to.”

  “Having some rich guy I’m fucking pave my way isn’t making it. It’s just as big a failure.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  Skye looks at me, her eyes narrow. “I’m serious.”

  “Fine, but don’t ever think you’re not the best artist in the country.”

  It pisses me off that she doesn’t want my help. I tip her head up and smooth back her hair.

  Pressing my forehead against hers, I say, “Listen to me. You have an insane amount of talent. You will get discovered, I promise you.”

  She sighs. “I’ll never get discovered if I run out of money and starve to death.”

  “Why will you accept help from Ava but not me?”

  “Ava’s different — she’s a fellow artist.”

  “Oh yeah, what does she paint?”

  “She’s a professor of art history.” Her voice sounds exasperated, but I’m not stopping now.

  “So she’s not an artist, she’s a teacher? And you’ll accept her help but not mine?”

  “She’s still in the art community. You run hotels, that’s nothing to do with art. The only reason you’d offer my help is because I let you in my pants.”

  “There’s nothing legit a hotelier could do to help you?”

  Her lips tighten. “Nope. I keep saying, I’ll only take help from within the art community.”

  “And Kelso.”

  “That’s a commission.”

  “But I’m not allowed to commission something from you?”

  “I thought we were dropping this subject.”

  “Fine.” She’s getting annoyed, so I drop it. I don’t know what pisses me off more: her not accepting my help, or knowing what her parents did to her.

  Rumbled

  (Skye)

  Damn, I realize I didn’t text Ava to say I wouldn’t be home. Either Friday night or last night. I dig out my phone and text her.

  It hadn’t been my intention to stay over for one night, let alone two. But Lawson gave me no choice, he was impossible to walk away from.

  And it’s not just his touch. We stayed up late every night, talking and laughing until we fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion. I’ve never felt so connected to anyone.

  Throwing myself into my art at such a young age meant I never bothered much with friendships. In college I was at least surrounded by lots of likeminded people, and I count them as good friends, but our connection was always art.

  With Lawson, the connection is much deeper. It’s about me and him and nothing else.

  By the end of the second evening, I realized how silly I was being, thinking his money would’ve turned him into a bad person.

  Especially after everything he told me about his charity and his childhood. I can’t imagine how hard it is to lose both your parents so young, and so suddenly, but to also have to drop out of school and support your sisters is heartbreaking.

  We’re sitting eating the breakfast that Lawson made, again without even letting me help. It’s a clear, bright morning and sunlight pours through the breakfast room window. A beam of light illuminates Lawson’s tattooed arm, the Laughing Cavalier image in particular.

  “So, why the Laughing Cavalier?” I have to ask. “I mean, most people go for a Monet or Van Gogh, you have to be pretty arty to know of Frans Hals.”

  “I like the look on the smug bastard’s face.”

  “He reminds you of you?”

  “Very funny.”

  “But how do you even know about him? Are you going to tell me you have a degree in art history or something?”

  “No degree. I told you, I’m a high school dropout.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine. Don’t tell me.”

  “When I started opening hotels in Europe, I lived in London. My place was around the corner from the Wallace Collection, and I used to go in whenever I needed to escape Kelso’s bullshit.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Afraid so,” he says, arching an eyebrow.

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Europe to see the art collections and paint in
the light of Provence.”

  “Are you free next weekend?”

  “What?”

  “Let’s go. We can go to Provence or the Louvre in Paris, the Uffizi in Florence, your pick. I can only spare a couple of days this time, but as soon as the lawsuit’s over we can go for as long as you want.”

  My heart is pounding. It’s been my dream since I was a little kid to go to Europe and see all the art. I can’t even comprehend his offer being reality. Would going make me a hypocrite? I wouldn’t want Lawson to tease me the entire time.

  I can’t contain my excitement anymore. With a smile I can’t hide, I say, “I can’t imagine how awesome that would be. I mean, that’s something I’ve wanted for years, and now you’re offering it like it’s no big deal.”

  Lawson reaches across the table and grips my hand. “I can’t think of another way I’d rather spend my weekend than initiating you into the mile-high club.”

  “Oh, I get it now.”

  “Don’t say you don’t want it.”

  “So anyway, in college, my friend Amy and I took a Greyhound to New York. We spent all day in The Met, slept in the grottiest hostel ever, spent another day at The Met, then caught an overnight bus home.”

  “I can take you back there too, if you want. We’ll stay in the penthouse of my hotel and fuck all night.”

  I fold my arms and roll my eyes but still can’t help laughing. “You can’t just woo me with your money.”

  “I’m not trying to. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the kind of guy who woos.”

  “Well, whatever it is you’re trying to do.”

  “I’m trying to get in your pants.”

  “You are such an ass. But if you missed it, you already got in my pants.”

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t forget.”

  I’m now a day behind on finishing the scarecrow painting — two days if I don’t leave here soon.

  “I really have to get home now to work on my paintings.”

  “What car do you want to go in? The Range Rover? Maserati? SLK?”

  “Not that I care about overpriced cars, but let’s take the Maserati, I want to hear the noise.”

  Lawson revs the engine a few times, a roaring purr that grabs my attention. We take off down his street, the engine singing. I hate the effect it has on me, but I’m tingling between my legs.

  Laughing, he looks at me, “It’s good, isn’t it?”

  I want to call him an ass, but I shake my head. I’m not admitting what it’s doing to me.

  “You know, they’ve scientifically proved that the sound of a Maserati turns women on, biologically.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Though I’d never admit it, fantasies fill my head for the entire journey of him ripping my clothes off and bending me over the hood. I can’t help it.

  The feeling passes when we pull into Ava’s driveway. I hang my head, feeling like I’m fifteen all over again. Even though it’s my first, this is going to be the world’s worst walk of shame.

  “Do you want to come in?”

  Lawson responds by switching off the engine and opening his door. I guess that’s a yes.

  Ava doesn’t appear to be home. I lead him through to my studio.

  “Those are both incredible.” Lawson stands in front of them, his arms folded.

  “Thanks. I think you said that already.”

  “Are they for Kelso’s?”

  “His stuff is all being painted on-site. These are for private sale.”

  “I thought you weren’t going back to Kelso’s.” His arms drop first to his sides, and then he brings his hands to his hips and stares at me.

  “Of course I am, why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because it isn’t safe. I’m telling you. If he gets you alone, there’s no telling what he’d do to someone as hot as you.”

  “How naïve do you think I am?” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

  “You don’t know him. I do.”

  “Look, the creep is still away in Florida anyway.”

  “He won’t be there forever. Walk away before something happens.”

  “It’s fine, stop trying to stop me going. I am going. End of story. This is a job, and I am doing it.”

  “I’m going to get you an assistant.”

  “No way, no how.”

  Lawson lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. I expect him to do something: touch me, hug me, something, but all he does is stand with his hands on his hips, holding my gaze in his.

  I swallow. Part of me is on the verge of falling into line and doing what he wants. From somewhere within me, I find the ability to tear my eyes away from his. They fall on my half-finished paintings and the resolve to carry on at Kelso’s rages back through me.

  I throw my smock over the dress I’m still wearing from Friday, and start preparing my paints. Lawson leans on the windowsill, watching me.

  “I should paint.”

  “Can I watch?”

  “That’s fine with me.” When I’m creating, the whole world drops away. It used to drive my mother crazy that I’d never hear her calling me; she’d have to come and physically touch me to get my attention. It was the same for my teachers and classmates in college.

  Ava has it marginally better, she only has to walk in into the room, instead of touching me. Part of me sees that as a sign I’m losing my ability to focus.

  Now, with Lawson in the room, I struggle to find any focus at all. Not willing to make mistakes, I put everything down and rip off my smock in frustration.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “You distract me. I can’t focus.” My voice is playful. I like having him here, even if he does try to tell me what to do. But I have to finish these paintings so I can start generating ideas for the next ones.

  Ava told me Gordon had another new inquiry for my work, from a couple all the way in Texas. I’ve completely neglected my blog since I moved to California, so it’s a wonder they found me.

  What I really need to do is sketch out all the other paintings for Kelso’s so I can minimize my time there.

  Lawson moves to my side, drawing me against him. “I have to get home and do some work. You’ve been distracting me from it all weekend.”

  I look up at him and smile. He leans in and kisses me. When our kiss deepens, I break away. If we carry on, we’re not going to stop.

  Giving Orders

  (Lawson)

  Kelso is a piece of trash. I don’t trust him for one second with Skye in the same house as him. She might think she’s safe, but I know she isn’t.

  I’ve offloaded all my meetings for the day on my senior executives. There’s no way I’m about to let anything happen to her.

  My Range Rover is quiet as it coasts up Kelso’s driveway. I pull it out of the way to the side of his house and cut the engine.

  Skye’s banger is here, along with a handful of workers’ trucks. How trustworthy are his workers? Is Skye safe with them here? She might not want an assistant, but she has one for the day — me.

  The front door is ajar, a nice side effect of the workers going in and out all day.

  I step inside, but the entrance is empty. The easel with Skye’s half-finished painting is in the same spot, but there’s no sign of her. No paints or supplies are laid out.

  Watching for workers, I duck in and out of the ground floor rooms, looking for her.

  The rooms are all in various stages of being finished. Shaking my head, I take out my phone and snap some photos. This is just further proof of his uselessness as a contractor. What kind of man can’t even get his own damn house finished? He’s been building it for two years now.

  His office is the last room I check on the main floor. Still no sign of Skye. I’m tempted to start rifling through his papers, but right now the most important thing is to find her and make sure she’s safe.

  Dodging workmen, I make my way up the staircase, which is clearly based on my Madrid hotel. Madrid’s hotel was the first one I had
architects who weren’t following Kelso’s design. I should take a picture — could anything be more telling about his incompetence?

  Making sure I don’t run into any workmen, I nudge open a set of double doors. Skye is standing beside a round bed, absorbed in her painting. A round bed? Seriously, Kelso? I enter the room and shut the doors behind me.

  “Hey,” I say.

  Startled, she jumps. I close the distance between us and put my hand on her back, calming her.

  “You scared the fuck out of me.”

  “You’re lucky it’s just me, and not Kelso.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Is that why you came here?”

  Skye says something else, but I don’t hear. I’m too busy looking at her painting.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “The painting Kelso wants for his bedroom.”

  “It’s a pussy.”

  She shrugs. “It’s what he wanted.”

  “I can’t fucking believe he’s making you paint that smut.”

  “Look at the rest of the bedroom, it fits right in.”

  “I don’t care. You shouldn’t be painting it, it’s a waste of your abilities.”

  I close the distance between us. Her bright eyes flick over me in my suit. I’m close enough now to smell her floral shampoo through the paint. As outrageous as the painting is, seeing Skye painting something so erotic does something to me. She’s been thinking about pussy all day, and now all I can think of is hers.

  Taking the brush from her hand, I set it on her wooden tray. She’s wearing a smock that’s covered in paint. Fuck the eight-thousand-dollar custom-made Italian-cut suit. I grab the back of her head and pull her to my lips.

  The tension in her body melts from my touch. I want to hear her moaning and begging when I make her come so hard she’ll forget where she is.

  I step back from her, paint now marking my suit. I remove my suit jacket and drape it over the bed.

  “Strip.” I capture her eyes in mine, unrelenting.

  Her eyes widen. “But, here?”

  I remain motionless, my eyes penetrating hers. She blinks, and as she looks at me, a wave of understanding washes over them.

  “I see, it’s the prick here today,” she says, circling her finger around the button of my dress shirt.

  I smirk and say, “Yeah, the prick you’ll be thanking after I get through with you.”