The Art of Me (The All of Me Book 1)

by S. J. Blaze

  He clears his throat, places a long rectangular box on the table, and walks over to me. Toe to toe, yet again. His eyebrows furrow and his lips pinch to the side. Then he seems to make his mind up and leaves.

  Of course, the second he’s out the door I run to the box and open it, dying to see what’s inside. I know by the shape it’s a bracelet, but I had no idea it would be a bracelet. Damn, this thing is stunning. Cartier. It has four strands of yellow gold that synch into diamonds and black onyx, creating one perfect creation. It is both light and dark, and I have no doubt ridiculously expensive.

  I wonder if he picked this out or had one of his harem members fetch it for him. Either way, I can’t have it.

  I grab the bracelet and box and run after Davis, hoping I can still catch him. He’s just entered the elevator. I’m running and yelling, with as much professionalism and sophistication as I can muster. “Davis, take this back.”

  The doors close as I spy the smallest of smirks.

  Oh, hell no! Time to recruit backup.

  Chapter Nine

  I have a temper.

  In general, I do my best to preempt any potential blowouts. I do breathing exercises. I write music. I run. I lift weights. And my personal favorite, I get to punch people or bags if nobody is willing.

  Cocky tests my ability to preempt my hysterics with his shitty attitude and his annoyingly acute presence.

  Earlier today, Malice swung by my office to collect Coen’s unwelcomed offering. He claims that although he hit some roadblocks, mainly a nasty secretary, the bracelet was returned personally to Coen, along with my message.

  Done.

  End of story, right?

  No way…not with Coen feasting on his usual breed of cocky.

  I was having a quiet, relaxing dinner with Andrew at Ostra before catching a show at the Wilbur. Despite not checking in on me after the charity event, he eventually called on Saturday. He claimed he never got my text and things were rather chaotic with his father at the helm.

  I’m not sure if I believe him. He’s a politician after all, and lying is part of their nature, like a receding hairline. It’s already in their genetic makeup, waiting to come out.

  Since he was stuck in Washington all week, this is the first opportunity I’ve had to see him.

  Then out of the corner of my eye, I see Davis. Dammit! I can only imagine what is coming next.

  Ignoring this new impending obstacle, I check in to catch Andrew whine about what he plans to do in regards to his constituency’s stance on Social Security funding and why they are wrong, why we are all wrong, when my mind takes a detour.

  Toast. I’m staring at him thinking, toast.

  I remember watching My Big Fat Greek Wedding, and the adorable dad kept crying about E-yan Miller’s family being dry and boring; toast. Plain, dry toast.

  I guess Andrew is my toast. Only not.

  He’s a graham cracker.

  Although, tasty, nobody ever craves a dry, flavorless, graham cracker. Not even pregnant women.

  Toast, though dry, is the first thing you eat after being sick all night. It’s the baseline on the journey to rebuilding daily health after an empty stomach has rebelled. It’s even part of the BRAT diet, almost like a necessary evil.

  But a graham cracker is a different monster altogether.

  By itself, it’s easily forgettable. But crush it and use as a crust for pie…then it becomes an essential part of the dessert. You want that crust in each sweet bite.

  Or get even louder with a smore. Two graham crackers, with a decadent piece of chocolate paired with a gooey melted marshmallow…and you have firecracker magic. No longer is the cracker deemed mundane, but rather masterful. Artistic while touching a genre of flavors and textures.

  Andrew is a graham cracker.

  Is that why we are together? Am I so chocolate, so loud, and so audacious, that I need dry graham crackers?

  I’m completely lost in my world of toast and crackers that I neglect to notice a waiter appear adding a full place setting and a superfluous chair, which seemed to be immediately occupied.

  Coen sits down and starts discussing his order with the waiter while another brings him a glass of Scotch. He unfolds his napkin, places it across his lap, and politely smiles at Andrew before his gaze returns to the waiter. “What are tonight’s specials?” he asks.

  As the waiter goes over his spiel and collects Coen’s order, Andrew sends me a hard glare, his hazel eyes looking darker, greener, accusingly, like I had something to do with this.

  “Andrew, did I mention how handsome you look tonight?” I ask trying to distract him. Andrew has a big ego that responds well to people feeding it, although he truly does look handsome. He’s wearing a charcoal grey slimming suit, I think it might be a Hugo, with a collared buttonup in a soft teal. His tie black.

  “Thank you, my dearest. You look quite spectacular yourself. The color is stunning on you. It reminds me of the ocean off the Agiofili Beach in Greece. Maybe we should vacation there soon. Take some time away from the city.”

  Tonight I opted for a more casual take on evening wear. A Tadashi Shoji cap sleeve gown in mystic blue with nude lace cutouts. I have to confess; I love this color on me. It gives my grey eyes a bluish hue. It feels elegant, but feisty in a subdued way. My dark hair is curled into a forty’s top reverse roll, at least that’s what my stylist, Fernando, told me. It’s curled softly and tucked in with a few diamond barrettes.

  I wanted to make sure I left a lasting impression.

  “Sounds wondrous. I think some time away from the city is exactly what I need.” Andrew looks pleased with my answer, despite Coen’s proximity.

  The waiter returns. “Would you like more wine, ma’am?”

  Hell yes, fill her up, my good man. I smile politely and nod. “Thank you.”

  “You look like quite the vixen, love.” Coen smirks at me.

  Andrew questions, “How do you know each other? And why the hell are you disturbing our dinner, Collins?”

  “Did I neglect to tell you, Andrew? I’ve teamed up with Collins Corp on their next merger. Negotiations are currently underway with our estimated deadline in early May.”

  “Sounds trying, dear. Those Collins’ men can be distressingly difficult.”

  “You have no idea.” I snicker.

  “Yes, Carpenter. We can be difficult, though I like to think of it more as persuasive,” Coen adds, sticking his nose into our private conversation.

  “Collins, when are you going to step up and let Greyson retire? He’s getting up there in age and deserves to have a little fun,” Andrew questions.

  Coen and Andrew banter back and forth, mainly on which is more stressful, politics or running a multi-trillion dollar corporation. I fall reticent. My carefully orchestrated night derailed at the first crossing.

  The food arrives and the boys silent their conversation in an effort to enjoy their meal. Somehow, the addition of Coen to our table is acceptable. The interruption forgotten.

  “Excuse me, I hate to bother you while you’re eating, but are you Shooter?” I hear from a gentleman behind me. I shift to see the inquirer. He looks to be in his mid-twenties and has a short goatee.

  My lips quirk to the side and I try to look confused. “Shooter? Are you asking me if I’ve shot someone? I assure you, I don’t have a weapon.” On me right now.

  He flushes in embarrassment. “No, of course not. She’s a guitarist for my favorite band. You look so much like her. I apologize for the interruption.”

  I chuckle, like this little mishap is amusing. “It’s quite alright. She must be quite good if you came over here hoping to find her. I’m sorry to disappoint.”

  Andrew chimes in. “My girlfriend gets that all of the time. She must be her doppelganger. Maybe I should look up this Shooter musician.” Yeah, I bet you’d like her…darling.

  Goatee smiles broadly. “She’s seriously hot! And she totally shreds, man. Your girlfriend here, freaking looks just like he
r. You’re one lucky man.”

  Coen decides to jump in and add an extra heaping of tension spice to the mix. “I think rock stars are incredibly sexy. If you find that Shooter, send her my way.” He chuckles. He already knows exactly where Shooter is but he’s figured out that Andrew doesn’t and he thinks he’s one upped-him.

  “Really, Collins? I had no idea you were into such debauchery. I thought you were out hunting that perfect debutant, not some tattooed rocker. The rumor mill has placed you and Mandy Morninglane on the list of up and coming couples. She’s quite the catch. You need to lock that down before another steals her away.”

  Mandy? Maybe she’s Non-Boobs Betty? Please, please leave Coen. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I can feel the heat pooling in my cheeks as thoughts of yesterday bubble through my veins.

  I interject quickly while smiling broadly at asshole-de-ville. “Yes, Mr. Collins. She sounds like a fetching catch.”

  Half a millisecond later, Coen grabs my hand in his, like we’re long lost lovers united and smiles proudly at Andrew. “You must have heard wrong, Congressman. I have my sight on only one starlet and I do plan on locking her down sooner than later.” He shifts triumphantly while turning to look at me. “Oh, love. I nearly forgot. In your haste to get to work on time this morning, you forgot your bracelet.”

  He gracefully pulls it out of his breast pocket, no box this time, and locks it on my wrist. Then brings my inner wrist to his lips and kisses it, his gaze returning to a perplexed looking Andrew.

  “Charlie, darling, would you like to explain?” Andrew asks with raised brows.

  This would be one of those times when my temper might flare up. Where I envision thirty-six ways to dismember Coen. Or thousands of explicatives that would make the entire restaurant blush.

  I’m about to elucidate, when Coen feels the need to continue his ridiculous ruse.

  “Carpenter, don’t play dumb. It’s unbecoming.” He swirls the glass with the amber liquid in his other hand then takes a calculated sip. “You already know she’s a catch and yet you’ve neglected her needs. I’ve simply stepped in to fill the void.” He brings my hand, which has been nestled in his, to his lips again, smirking at Andrew.

  I can’t help but laugh. Coen is telling Andrew that he’s neglecting my needs. What’s with this guy? This pissing contest has gone stale.

  Coen turns to look at me, confused by my amusement, then chuckles along like he’s in on the joke. Only, I have no joke. I’m just dreadfully tired.

  “It’s funny, isn’t it love? That Carpenter, here, thinks he can hold onto a woman like you while having fun with his kept women in DC. Did you know about the apartment he rents for two of his little toys? Or that he gives them a monthly stipend and pays their credit cards.”

  Andrew shifts nervously. “Ignore him, darling. He’s obviously fabricated a fantastic story. I have eyes only for you. Surely by now you’ve figured out my feelings for you.”

  Pulling in vain to release my hand, I finally slip it through. Exasperated, I turn to Coen.

  “Do you think me naïve?” I glare at Coen’s furrowing brows. He thought he came here to change my stance on Andrew, thought he was dropping a detonated bomb on my lap. He thought he would push me away from Andrew.

  “You’ve severely miscalculated the situation yet again, Mr. Collins.” I turn my focus back on Andrew. “I believe he’s referencing Shaylen Turner and Brittney Messing. Hardly a fabrication.”

  My voice is hollow.

  Andrew makes a choking noise and pales. His shoulders sag and his lips tremble in confusion.

  “Charlie,” he whispers.

  I dig into my purse and pull out the keycard I was planning on using later, but Cocky has forced my hand. I place the card on the table and slide it across the white linen cloth towards Andrew.

  “Room 606 at the Boston Harbor Hotel. I took the liberty of using your credit card.”

  Andrew smiles menacingly, seemingly unconcerned with my usage of his card. Clueless. “Oh thank goodness. Yes, a hotel.” He tries to capture our waiter’s attention, using hand signals to let him know we’re ready for the bill.

  I’m saddened by the entire situation. I clear my throat and stand. Both men are looking a bit lost.

  “I’ve already taken care of the bill.” I then move to Andrew’s side of the table and lean over. I run my fingers through his hair, enjoying the last time I will be able to touch this man. I press my lips softly to his. Then pull back and slowly stick my tongue out and lick up his mouth. Instantly, Andrew’s eyes dilate and his breathing grows heavy. He moans.

  He attempts to reach out to me but I pull back, tsking. “Darling,” I purr. “I don’t like to share.” I continue running my fingers up and down, caressing his face.

  “The hotel is for you and your DC strumpets. They’ve been eager for your arrival.” I kiss his lips one last time. Despite this ending, I did enjoy his company. He was easy. Not at all like the tension and confusion I’ve felt when I’m with Coen.

  I close my eyes savoring this last sweet moment. Then whisper into his mouth. “Goodbye, darling.” With that, I straighten up and nod a silent farewell to the table. Coen pouts angrily, his arms tightly crossed. I’m guessing he didn’t like seeing me kiss Andrew. I kind of know that feeling.

  I take my path towards the front, where Malice has been keeping his eye on me. I usually wouldn’t have him accompany me on a date, even in his shadows, as that would be unnerving. But he insisted. He wasn’t sure how Andrew would handle things.

  Neither of us, however, anticipated the monkey wrench that is Coen.

  But I gladly leave them both behind me.

  Chapter Ten

  The last three weeks have been uneventful. Both men are now background noise. They are no longer a compulsory part of my world, but their presence still exists, mainly in the form of texts and calls, and the daily gifts of flowers, or food, or jewelry. I’ve contacted a local charity that passes out flowers to the elderly and gifted the flowers to them. I returned the jewelry via Malice, and I eat or share the food goodies. Chocolate dipped strawberries, cakes confessing various forms of affection, fruit baskets, and sometimes full meals.

  Olivia and Lori climb into my office every day at lunch time hunting for a piece of the daily spoils. As a result, they are much more pleasant around the office and all too willing to copy, file, or do anything to assist with my cases. Needless to say, I’ve had to hit the gym extra hard to keep up with all the sweets and fatty foods.

  Tank doesn’t seem to mind, though. During the week, when the weather permits, I would simply run around the area for my daily exercise. But with the spiking of caloric intake, I’ve had to add extra workout sessions at Tornadoes.

  I can’t gain an ounce right now. My older sister is getting married in two weeks and my bridesmaid dress has already been altered to my exact measurements. Mother has warned me that if I do anything, anything at all, to mess up this wedding, I’ll be officially disowned. Sadly, I don’t believe this to be an idle threat. She means it.

  My sister, Joelle, is three years older and very much mother’s mini-doppelganger while I remain the ‘freak’ of the family and the bane of mother’s existence. I know she doesn’t hate me; she just doesn’t understand me, which complicates our relationship. My father has more patience and tolerance, but mother rules the roost.

  I’m dreading going back to Orlando for this wedding. What’s worse is that I can’t even bring one of the guys with me for backup. Not even Malice. Mother would nearly die in her Prada heels if she saw me bring a tattooed menacing looking bad boy to the ceremony. So no Tank, no Mal, and no temptation trio. I’m blindly going into the world of Paz alone.

  We are heading to BedHead tonight for some fun. I haven’t been out in a while thanks to all of the work on the CC case and avoiding Cocky and the Congressman.

  Tonight, I’m in full force Shooter mode. Black painted on ripped jeans hanging low on my hips, and a tight black long sleeved shirt w
ith the entire back made of sheer netting. It stops just above my belly button. I’m on full display tonight and looking for fun.

  Being the owner of one of the hottest clubs in town definitely has its benefits. I climb onto the center bar stationed along the backend of the main floor. The DJ turns off the music as the lights hover over me. One would think that with my history I’d be the shy introvert in the corner, afraid of attention. But I love to push myself.

  I screech into my earpiece. “Hello fellow Head-anites. How the fuck are you?”

  All eyes fall on me as people scream and wave while others pull out their cellphones to film or shoot pics. They crowd in closer to the bar.

  “So, I have a very important question; has everyone gotten HEAD tonight?” They scream wildly encouraging my shenanigans. “Oh no…that doesn’t sound right. I said…has everyone gotten some HEAD TONIGHT?” More screams crescendo.

  I chuckle into the mic attached to the headset. “That’s what I want to hear. Now, who wants to meet the sexiest mixologists in Boston?”

  My six bartenders climb onto the bar. By now the bar is clear and people have grabbed their drinks. This is a pretty regular thing, at least in my bar. I wait as they line up, then begin the introductions.

  “Starting with my right, we have the lusty Lola, next is the bombastic Babs, killer Cosmo girl Kelly, followed by Debbie does drinks, Sassy Sammy, and lastly sweet as sunshine, my girl Savvy.” The girls bow or wave as I go through each name and then jump off the bar.

  “Who am I?” I wait as people scream my name. “That’s right lovers. My name’s Shooter. Welcome to my playground!” I open my arms widely as I grin haughtily.

  “Hmmm,” I pout while popping my finger on my lip. “I notice that my bar is looking a little dirty tonight. Who thinks it needs to be cleaned?” People scream and chant, “Clean it, clean it, clean it.”

  I walk to the end of the bar and hand my earpiece to Savvy then walk to the other end as the girls hold up a bottle in their right hand. Next, a towel that has been folded a few times sits on the bar. I run to build up momentum then drop to my knees on the towel as it goes flying across the bar.