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

by S. J. Blaze

  But these are my clothes, aren’t they? Is more of me here? I check the bathroom and sure enough my toiletries litter the shower and bathing areas. My toothbrush stands proudly next to Coen’s. My makeup lines the vanity area. When did all of this happen?

  I remember that Coen set up his garage codes in my car. He wanted me safe, and I understood that. I remember the house key on my key chain. He said he wanted me to have it, and the entrance codes for when he was running late. Oh my goodness....

  There is only one correct conclusion; I’m living with Coen Collins.

  Staring at the mirror in front of me, I watch the heat pool into my cheeks. I feel the panic beginning to boil. I am living with him. I am living with a man I’ve known for all of seven and half months. A man that was once my employer. A man that could potentially leave me at any moment. My hands rise instinctively to my throat, trying to coax the air into moving easier from my lungs. I can’t be living with Coen. I mean he’s wonderful but I am me.

  I am not a roommate!

  I’m panicking and can’t seem to force my breathing into submission. Coen is downstairs doing some last minute work in his home office, so when I see his reflection in the mirror, I’m further startled. Eyes wide, eyebrows raised, entire face and neck flushed, hands shakily white knuckling my throat, and I can see why he would be concerned.

  “What’s wrong, love. Talk to me!” he shrieks grabbing onto me and twisting me towards him. He pries my hands from around my neck. “Can you breathe? Do I need to call an ambulance? Charlie, talk to me!”

  “We…we…we live…to…gether?” It’s a whispered question as the air is still stalled along its pathway.

  His brows furrow and his icy eyes absorb me. I see him scan me over and over, searching for the right answer.

  “Charlie,” he begins softly, as if he were talking to an injured child. His hands cup my jaw and begin that soothing rubbing motion. “Yes, love, we’re living together. Is that what you needed to hear?”

  I look up to him. He’s so much taller in his dress shoes while I’m standing barefoot. Larger than life. “Coen, I still have my condo, my stuff?” I question it because at this point I’m not even sure.

  “Yes, I was deliberately moving you in at a gradual pace. I know you get overwhelmed easily, love. I was just trying to lessen any uneasiness.” At this point, everything sounds practiced, confident. He’s been waiting for me to notice. How long has this been going on?

  “But…but…” I begin to question still trying to calculate.

  “Ssshhh, love.” He kisses my forehead. “We’ll be late. You need to finish dressing.” His hands roam down my neck to the open back. “You look breathtaking, by the way. Can’t wait to see the finished product.” He winks, pecks my lips, and is out the door.

  I lean against the countertop for support as my mind recalls the conversation. Coen only confirmed what I had just figured out, but he never explained why. Why is a really big deal!

  The charity event was effective, though I don’t remember much of that evening. Well, other than I saw Andrew with Mandy Morninglane. Talk about sloppy seconds. Even Coen noticed and we had a good chuckle at Andrew’s expense. Just like at the yacht party, Coen always keeps me at his side. Charlie this, Charlie that. I did get a little frustrated when he told one gentleman that I was thinking of fronting the legal team at CC. I can’t wait for that one to hit the office tomorrow.

  I was so exhausted by the end of the night that when we got ‘home’ all of the pestering thoughts of cohabitating were lost. Pajamas, check. Nightly bathroom ritual, check. Climb into bed with new favorite pillow, check. Sometimes Coen will bring his tablet or his phone to bed, not quite finished with his work, but every night, he insists we fall asleep together. I have no doubt that I’m being conditioned. If I ever have to sleep without my pillow, I doubt I’ll get any actual slumber.

  I think at this point we act more like an old married couple than two live-in lovers, well, minus the lovers part. We touch all of the time. We kiss all of the time. But we have a PG rated sex life. If things start to get intense, Coen pulls away.

  This relationship is exactly the opposite of what I assumed men wanted. The commitment, married, live together, all in your business stuff; that was to be feared in Manland. The sex was what you hope to regularly achieve in Manland. And since the majority of my friends are indeed residents of Manland, I assumed this to be accurate. If this were the case, then where does Coen reside? Chickland? Either way, I have a feeling I’m screwed.

  Just like I had anticipated, the day started in the rumor gutter. I was in a conference with Brantley and Tom for nearly an hour trying to reassure them that I was happy. Happy, happy, happy. Gag!

  I receive a text from Tank asking if I had time to meet for lunch. We ended up around the corner at an outdoor eatery catching up. According to Tank, I’ve been Missing in Action. He’s right, too. I’ve been so MIA that I don’t even know what my address is anymore.

  During lunch, I realized that I haven’t properly trained since my last fight in March. I’ve never gone this long between fights. Tank was worried that he was the cause. I tried to explain that between going on tour and then trying to fully catch up, I’ve been neglectful. Coen has a well-equipped gym in part of his basement. I use the treadmill daily and lift weights when I have time. But now that seems like excuses. If I want to train, Tank will work with me. He says he learned some new techniques in Vegas that he is dying to show me. The prospect of having an advantage in the cage is too good to pass up. I promise to recommit and ask him to schedule a fight for me after Thanksgiving. That should give me plenty of time to get reacquainted with that punching bag...or person.

  Going through our nightly rituals; eating, discussing our day, getting ready for bed, I neglect to inform Coen of my newest fight prospect. It’s not that I was avoiding it, I just forgot. So when I wake that morning early, despite it being the weekend, Coen goes on alert.

  “What are you doing out of bed so early? We always sleep in on the weekend.” He’s still in bed, and without me in his arms he throws them over his eyes.

  “I promised Tank I’d meet him at Tornadoes at eight,” I respond while putting on my shoes.

  He sits up and glares at me. “What do you mean? Why do you need to go to Tornadoes? We have a perfectly equipped gym, here.”

  Agitated, I reply sharper than necessary. “Because I need to spar.”

  He throws the covers off and stands before me in just his boxer briefs. Hands balled on his hips, his lips thin, he growls, “Why do you need to spar?”

  “Because, Coen, I’M A CAGE FIGHTER!” I enunciate every single word to enforce perforation.

  “NO!” He shouts…at ME! “NO, you’re NOT a cage fighter. You’re a lawyer!”

  I finish tying my shoelaces and stand before him, my hands shaking in a painfully tight fist at my sides. But when I finally speak, I’m deceptively calm. “You’re obviously mistaken, Mr. Collins.” With that, I grab my cell and keys and head towards my car.

  I hear him following me and yelling at me. “No, you don’t. Don’t you dare Mr. Collins me! We’re beyond that! Charlie, you don’t get to walk away!”

  He reaches out to grab my arm and swings me toward him. I stop myself from falling into him with the momentum and jerk to a stop. I can feel the anger bubbling at the surface, dying to be unleashed. I need to keep it together.

  “Charlie,” he says softer this time. His eyes are begging for me to bow to his every will. Apparently, he thinks I’m his personal ragdoll.

  I purposely soften my face and crack a small smile. He thinks he has won me over and loosens his grip. “That’s my girl,” he whispers with a growing smile.

  I step back and respond with, “No, I really never was!” My right eyebrow quirks up and I feel my smile darken.

  I quickly make my way to my car and out to Tornadoes. By the time I get there, the shaking in my hands is mostly gone.

  Tornadoes isn’t what one might c
all a pretty gym. For one, when you walk in, you’re hit with a malodorous smell formed from layers and layers of man. Sweat, body odors of every spice, feet, a faint tint of male cologne and soap, and the under layer of cleaning products. It’s not for the faint of heart.

  There are varying types of punching bags hanging from exposed beams in the ceiling. The favorites have frayed edges and discolorations. There are a few cardio machines on the side wall too, but even those have seen better days. Nothing here is shiny. The free weights and kettle bells line the opposite wall and there are benches and bars nearly everywhere in between. There are mats on the floor marking the sparring areas but everyone wants to be in the cage.

  No yoga or pilates classes are held here. There is no glorified pool or tanning beds. There is a hot tub but I don’t go anywhere near it! There’s no ladies locker room, so I change in Tank’s private bathroom in his upstairs office. I usually don’t shower until I get home. The trade-off, Tank.

  Since I’m already in my workout gear, I head straight to the treadmill to run. I told Malice that I’d be here this morning and I spy him hitting the bags in the far corner. I can’t hear him but I can imagine all of the grunting with each punch.

  After twenty minutes on full speed, I see Tank hopping down the steps from his office. He notices me and nods his head encouraging me to move his way. Calmer and sweaty from my draining run, I grab my stuff and get ready for today’s lesson.

  He looks at my hand and frowns. “No way, Charlie. I aint gonna wrap your hands with that rock on there. Get rid of it or ya don’t get to play.”

  I look down and notice the Coen ring (I refuse to call it an engagement ring) on my left ring finger. I remember Coen insisting that I wear it. At the time, I didn’t think much of it but it certainly looks imposing sitting there.

  “Right…hold up a sec!” It’s never a good idea to leave jewelry of any type in a gym. But in this gym, with these guys, with this crazy expensive rock…I need backup.

  I walk over to Mal intruding on his pounding time.

  “Je ne peux pas porter ce. Pouvez-vous regarder pour moi?”

  I can’t wear this. Can you watch it for me?

  He takes the mini golf ball ring and stashes it in his pocket then angles his head for me to run along.

  Back on the mat, hands wrapped, Tank has me run through our start up routines and then goes to town. I learn his new techniques and fail repeatedly. I’m slower. I’m weaker. And by the end of nearly two hours, I’m completely drained.

  “What the hell is wrong with ya, babe? Where’s ya head at?” Tank grabs my puny weak arm and pinches the skin. “Ya got no muscle. Ya goin’ soft?”

  “Ouch!” I pull back. “No, I aint going soft. I just have some work to do. Which is why I’m here, nut job!”

  He continues pounding me for another hour. I’ve fallen or been flipped so many times that I know I’ll be covered in bruises. I can’t believe I’ve been so lax on my health regimen. I look down and pat my stomach, and notice that even that is softer. I used to have pure muscle, now I’m afraid to look. I could easily be taken out by a grandmother at this point. I’m an embarrassment to the sport.

  With my head low, I unwrap my hands. Tank stops me and throws his arms around me. “Sweetheart, we all go through periods like this. It’s no biggie. Ya gotta get up on that wicked horse and ride. Ya feel me?”

  He’s right. I have to get back in the swing of things. I play music for the guys. I lawyer for my mind. But this is for so many reasons. I never want to feel weak again. I never want to feel fear and not have my body respond because it’s too broken. It’s about staying strong in the mind as well as the body to allow them to fully connect. At least on my level.

  “I feel you, big guy. Consider me on my come-back tour.” I wink at him.

  He cracks a smile and starts belly laughing, his head raised to the ceiling. “Hell, yeah it is! That chick will never even know what hit her come November. You’re lightning babe! Swift and sharp, so let’s get ready to slice, milady.”

  He slaps my ass and sends me on my way. I’m so out of shape that we never even made it to the cage. Malice and I head to the door together. He showered and is back in his normal dark suit, navy this time.

  “Vous rentrer à Collins?”

  You heading back to Collins’?

  “Non, nous sommes dans un combat ce matin. Je besoin d'espace.”

  No, we got in a fight this morning. I need space.

  “Faim?”

  Hungry?

  Heck yeah! But I better limit my carbs if I’m going to tighten up. I’m craving meat and lots of it!

  I nod and he climbs into the driver’s side of my car. I see several missed calls and texts when I check my phone, which has been hiding in my bag all day.

  7:28 Coen: Charlie, answer your damn phone!

  7:42 Coen: Pick up the fucking phone, we need to talk.

  7:58 Coen: Ok, get your workout in and we will talk when you get home.

  10:37 Coen: When are you coming back?

  10:54 Coen: Please, love.

  11:07 Coen: You are coming home, aren’t you?

  Wow, I was thinking of returning later in the evening after my shower but now I think some time apart might do us some good. I dial his cell.

  “Love, where are you? What’s taking so long?” He sounds exasperated.

  “Coen, calm down. My workouts always last this long. I’m all sweaty so Mal and I are heading home to shower and then off to grab lunch.”

  “You’re on your way here.” His voice sounds chipper, suddenly.

  “No Coen, my condo.”

  I think I faintly hear a growl. I eye Malice to see if he heard it but he’s pretending not to listen.

  “Coen, how about I come by tomorrow evening and we can have dinner together? I will even cook.”

  “No, Charlie. That’s unacceptable! I can’t sleep without you. I need you here!” Talk about negotiations, Coen isn’t even trying to meet me halfway.

  “Just one night, Coen. Things are just…they’re moving too fast. I’m not saying throw the brakes on, I just need a pause. Can you try to understand?” My voice is soft and steady. I’m not angry, just confused.

  “Go have lunch. I’m at the office now. Father dragged me in and now I’m knee deep. When I’m done I’ll call you. Have your phone ON YOU!” He still sounds upset, though.

  “Ok, babe,” I answer even softer.

  “Charlie…” He groans and drags my name out. “You don’t know what you do to me, love.”

  With that, he hangs up. I relax my head back in the leather seat and wait our return. I’m going through the last months in my mind. August….September….October? What is in October? Did I do…? I sent that in? Bills? Florida family? No way! Trio family? Trio…Gunner? Trig? Bulllllll?? Bullet…oh shit!

  I jerk up and immediately dial Bullet’s number. No answer. I don’t bother leaving a voice mail, as he never checks so why bother.

  “Après le déjeuner, je me dirige pour voir Bullet.”

  After lunch I’m heading to see Bullet.

  It’s Saturday, so he’ll probably be working at his tattoo shop. He and a high school buddy of his, Lyle, opened it nearly a decade ago. Loaded Ink. I didn’t know Bully when I got my ink done on my eighteenth birthday, so he has never worked on me. But he’s extremely talented. If I ever decide to add more ink, I will definitely go to him.

  After a shower and change we are out the door. We tackle one of those cafeteria-style places for lunch and grab every meat product on display.

  With full bellies, clean bodies, and a renewed sense of purpose, we trek to the shop. Although, I’ve been here a boat-load of times, the last was before our tour, so it’s been a while. When the tatted chick at the door greets us, I’m not surprised she hasn’t recognized me.

  She eyes me, probably sizing me up. “Welcome to Loaded Ink, what can I help you with?” She’s cordial, but there’s an undertone. I eye her back. She’s seated behind the de
sk but from what I can see she looks like one of those retro forty chicks but covered in tatts and multiple piercings with large gages in her ear. Her cherry red lipstick and heavy eye makeup match my own and we are both sporting black clothing, but hers is more revealing.

  “Is Bullet available?” I know it came off as demanding but I don’t appreciate being sized up that way. Not in my Shooter garb.

  “He’s with a client, right now.” She smiles callously.

  “Do you know how long he’ll be?”

  She sighs and looks frustrated. “Why? He’s booked for the rest of the day. If you wanna make an appointment, I can check the books. But since his bay-and hit the top 100 his schedule is booked solid.”

  We made the top 100? How am I so oblivious?

  “Shooter?” I look over at the waiting area and spy a few guys hanging out. One guy stands up and walks over to me. “Holy shit, you’re her!”

  Malice immediately goes on guard and blocks the new guy’s path. He crosses his arms and stares down the newbie.

  “Mal, c'est d'accord.”

  Mal, it’s okay.

  “Hey.” I smile at the new guy around Malice. “You all waiting to get tatted?”

  The newbie beams. He has shoulder length red hair and a matching full beard. “Yeah, I’m actually up next with your boy.” I nod doing that weird head bob thing people do when they don’t know how to continue the conversation. Back to chick.

  I glare her down. I think she knows who I am now. “I’ll just let myself back there, good?”

  “Yeah…um, sure. He should be finishing up.” Oh, now she’s helpful.

  I walk down the hall checking the separated cubicles as I go. I know which one Bull hangs out in but I’m being nosy. Walking a few steps into his area, I quietly watch while he finishes up. It’s never a good idea to alarm someone holding a gun, even a tattoo gun. His machine goes silent and he wipes the excess ink away and then looks up at me. He’s working on a stunning replica of Ganesha, the Hindi deity of elephants, on a guy’s back. I can tell he’s been at it for a while.