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

by S. J. Blaze

  Chapter Forty

  We are home for only a few days when I get my first visitor. It’s Monday and Coen finally decided to go into work today, though he swore it would only be a half day. As I’m currently unemployed, Coen even had Davis empty my office while we were away, I am left at home. I thought about going to my condo and bringing over some of my favorite pieces, but I’m not sure if I want us to live here or buy a new house. Maybe one closer to downtown.

  I open the door to find an enraged Bullet.

  “You’re fucking married?” he screams before even entering the house. I’m so shocked that I find myself stepping backwards leaving the door wide open. He barges through and slams the door shut. I’m guessing he read the announcement that Coen’s PR team put together publicizing our marriage.

  “Is everything okay, Mrs. Collins?” Marie asks from the kitchen area. She looks concerned and has a phone in her hand.

  “I’m fine, Marie, thank you. This is a friend of mine, and he’s just excited.” I attempt a smile.

  She takes a moment to study Bullet, then her sight bounces between us until she comes to her decision and ducks back into her cooking world. I instantly turn and glare at Bullet.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you? Coming into my home yelling at me? Fuck you, Bullet,” I whisper yell at the psycho asshole.

  “You’re home? This aint your fucking home, baby girl, and you know it. What game are you playing? Richie is going to slice you open.”

  “Don’t talk about my husband like that!” I forget to whisper and so instead I yell.

  “Your husband?” Bullet looks like he got punched, and takes a step back. “So, you did do it, then? You really married him?” His voice is broken and he looks pained.

  “No, no, no.” I vehemently shake my head. “You don’t get to do that. You wanted me to find someone. You said so yourself. Don’t fucking look at me like that.” I point an accusatory finger his way. How dare he! With as many times as he pushed and pulled, you’d think he’d be thrilled at the prospect.

  “Oh god!” he moans while digging his back into a wall. He throws his hands on his knees and leans forward. Is he going to be sick?

  “Are you okay? Bullet?” I’m afraid to get closer to him. “Bullet?” He stands rubbing his eye then chuckles darkly at nothing funny.

  “Jesus, Shooter. Or is it Charlie, now? Maybe it’s just Mrs. Richie, how about that? Whoever the fuck you are, whatever brainwashing shit he threw at you, maybe you remember that we were hanging out just over a month ago. Just the two of us in bed all night long together. Do you remember, baby girl? Or did that pompous preppy asshole take your memories as well as your fucking thoughts?”

  “Nobody brainwashed me. Maybe people ripped my fucking soul to shreds and tossed me around like a god damn yoyo, but all Coen has ever done is love me.”

  He grunts. “He don’t fucking love you. He’s gonna change you!” He’s back to screaming at me.

  “You change for the people you love. It’s what you fucking do!” I scream back with my fists balled up by my sides. Why is he doing this?

  “Why aren’t you at work, Char-leee? Did Richie make you quit your job? Oh, I know, he wants you barefoot, pregnant, and in the fucking kitchen like a good little housewife? Oh wait, he already has someone in the kitchen, so I guess that leaves you with the barefoot and pregnant part.”

  “Get out!” I scream. He hit a nerve and he knows it. “Get the fuck out of my house!” I’m so angry that the tears are nearly falling. My voice is cracking.

  “My wife said to get the fuck out of our home!” comes booming from the entryway. I guess he just got home, and I wonder how much he heard.

  “Your wife,” Bullet mutters looking down and closing his eyes.

  I feel a strong arm come around my waist and pull me in. Coen’s scent envelopes me and begins its usual calming effect. I close my eyes and try to push out the heartbreaking look that Bullet gave me moments ago.

  “Charlie...” It’s broken and hoarse. “You don’t have to do this, baby girl. You can…” He swallows audibly. “We can figure things out, you know.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you would refrain from calling my wife little pet names. I suggest you leave. It’s obvious you’ve upset her, and unlike some, I don’t like to see her unsettled.” Coen grinds out the last part.

  “Shut up, fucking Richie. I ain't talking to you. Shooter, do you hear me, baby?” I shake my head as the tears finally break free. He didn’t want me, he told me time and time again.

  “You’re wrong. I can see your thoughts all fucked up in there. He’s got you so fucking backwards. Just think for a second. Think of the band. Fuck, think of me, baby girl.” His voice keeps cracking but everything is blurred behind my tears.

  “I’m not going to ask you again. Leave.” Just then Davis makes himself known.

  “Charlie? It’s not too late.” With that Bullet walks to the door, opens it, and goes right through, slamming it shut behind him.

  Coen pulls me into his arms and tries to console me while I try to stifle the stupid tears.

  “You did great, love! I’m extremely proud of you.” He kisses me and carries me upstairs. “Do you want a bath?” He’s trying to comfort me, but I’m not in the mood. I shake my head while keeping my eyes closed. He lays me on the bed and crawls in with me. It’s just after two o’clock, give or take, hardly bedtime, but a brief reprieve in Coen’s arms feels promising right about now.

  I mull over thoughts of Bullet. Our relationship has been horribly strained for so long, I’m not sure if it’s anywhere close to saving. I try to focus on Coen’s even breathing, hoping it will lull me to sleep and ease my troubled thoughts. But nothing is working. Thanks to Bull’s impromptu visit, not only am I thinking of him but also that I need to tell Coen about the Rolling Stone’s shoot. The January issue should be out now and I’ve been so caught up in everything Coen that I neglected to tell him what happened.

  He’s going to be livid depending on what photos they chose. Bullet cupped my tits for the world to see. Oh yeah, Coen is going to love that. Feeling anxious and knowing that a nap is nowhere in sight, I try to gently extricate myself from my painfully warm and clingy husband.

  “What’s wrong’ Where are you going?” He wakes pulling me tighter to his chest.

  “Can’t sleep, I’m too upset.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Hhhmm, talking about my feelings for Bullet with my husband is a bad idea! Instead, I jump up and straddle him. Rubbing my hands up and down his broad naked chest, I try to strategize.

  “So baby, remember when I went to New York to pose and be interviewed for Rolling Stones magazine?” He nods while watching me. He’s relaxed but alert. “Well, the photographer had this lavishly brazen vision as to how he wanted to showcase the band. It was quite clever, if you think about it.” I continue my movements and then bend over to kiss his heart and sit back up.

  “As your wife, I would have approached things differently, but as your whatever-the-hell we were, it was sort of laissez faire. We were barely speaking, and although I’ve been a good girl, I assure you, the images are a bit…. Revealing.” I question that last part. Truth is, I haven’t seen anything. I left before we got to review the final shots. I don’t even know if they came out okay let alone what was used.

  Coen chuckles and grabs my hands, halting them from their now frenzied movements. “Are you talking about January’s edition of the Rolling Stones magazine where my wife is featured on the cover whipping a bunch of assholes into submission?” I nod slowly while mentally sighing in relief.

  Flipping us over so I’m on my back and he’s hovering above me, I yelp. “Co?” My hands are pushed above my head and he grabs them in one hand locking them there. With the other he slowly brings it down my body, stopping to knead my breast then carrying on down to my thigh, which is suddenly jerked up.

  “Yes, my naughty wife,” he moans while circling his hardening cock
into my pelvis. “I do believe that I bought a copy today. But don’t worry, I only read the article.” He waggles his brow as I laugh at his goofiness. “I certainly didn’t jerk off to the sexy images of any rock goddess in my office.” Leaning forward he licks the side of my neck and then nibbles on my earlobe. His hand smooths across my stomach, pulling up my tank as it climbs higher back to his favored breast.

  “Se-eh-xxee? You think I’m sexy?” I can barely breathe let alone speak as he assaults my body.

  “So fucking sexy, love. My wife is the hottest female on this planet.” He continues biting me as he grinds repeatedly into me. His boxers do nothing to hide his arousal.

  “But Charlie…” He glares at me, his darkened fire storm marginally receding. “That’s it, no more. The thought of any man beating off to you, to your body…” He shakes his head. “That fucking kills me. This, is mine!” He leans forward and bites my nipple through my bra. I whimper in both pain and pleasure. “And this, this is mine.”

  His hand dives down and glides straight into my panties cupping me and then shoving a finger inside of me. Instinctively, I arch against him and groan. Oh goodness. I can’t tell if he’s pleased or pissed with the magazine images. He releases my locked hands and roughly grabs my chin. “All of you is mine, Charlie Collins. Forever, you are mine, and those little friends of yours will never take you away from me.”

  He slams his mouth against my own. It’s teeth and tongue and he’s rough and relentless. It almost feels as if he’s trying to prove a point. When he finally releases me, I try a thought.

  “What?” I struggle to snap out of my daze but his physical onslaught carries me away. Coen wins in the end. He always seems to win.

  ******

  I text Bullet several times over the next few days with no response. I hate how we left things. I hate all of this fighting and this constant up and down he’s constructed. However, I do get in touch with Gunner. We meet for lunch early the following week and catch up. I know I have been MIA, but I can’t figure out how to balance things. He tells me that Bullet went to spend the Christmas holiday with his family and is staying at the BBMC compound for a while. Trig’s birthday is the day after Christmas, so he went back to Colorado, where he’s from, to celebrate with his family.

  Gunner is left here alone and when I asked if he wanted to join Coen and me, he said he already has plans. He didn’t expand, leaving me curious. We left on good terms and he swore that next year will be better for the group, as after all, we have now been together for four years. Another anniversary I missed.

  Later that week, I start back up at Tornadoes. Coen isn’t thrilled, and though I have Malice with me, he now insists I bring Davis, as well. There’s nothing like having two grown men, which stick out in their polished suits, follow me day in and day out. I feel like a toddler being watched by her parents, well, maybe gay parents.

  We end up in Coen’s log cabin in Aspen celebrating our first winter holiday season together and even stay to usher in the New Year. We received countless invitations to various parties, balls, and gatherings, but Coen insisted we’d be alone for our first holiday as a married couple.

  It was weird being so far away from my friends. I sent gifts to Gunner to pass out to the guys, and even one or twenty for Harley. I miss that little girl. I wish I could see her, but with the way things are going with Bullet, that isn’t likely to happen anytime soon.

  Later that month, Coen and I get into a heated argument over Tank’s next UFC fight. It’s in Dublin in early February and Coen refuses to let me go. He doesn’t even give a valid reason or attempt to compromise. I’ve never missed one of Tank’s fights. It feels traitorous to do so. He’s one of my best friends and it’s my job to support him. I refuse to bend on this one.

  The trio is going and insist that I join them. They are even talking about staying a week later to see the sites. Mainly they want to see the Guinness Storehouse, and they’ve never been to Ireland. I travelled to Dublin a few years ago with a company I was overseeing, but hardly left the hotel or the company’s building. Plus, anytime I get to hang out with the trio these days is an added bonus.

  With Joelle’s baby due mid-February, Coen claims we need to be available to fly down. Why does he care? My family couldn’t give a rat’s ass if I’m with them during any special ‘family’ event. He was there, and had a first-hand account of how they view my presence. The heir and the spare. They have their child, and then they have me. Why would I want to expose myself to that malignity? Hell, they barely cared that I got married. They never bothered to send condolences when they learned of Greyson’s death, they never called for any birthday, any holiday. Even my father, he’s so busy placating mother that he forgets me all together. If they wanted me with them during this baby’s birth, then it’s only to show off. To show me that they have this perfect family and how I’m not really a part of it. Or, they want money or elaborate gifts.

  For Jo’s wedding, she asked me to buy her a car as her wedding gift. At first, she wanted a Mercedes Maybach, an almost two hundred-thousand-dollar car. I laughed at her. She has ridiculously extravagant taste for someone on a teacher’s salary. Then she asked for something that she claimed was more reasonable, a different Mercedes sedan, the E class, which was less than half the price of her original demand. I eventually succumbed to her pestering. She is notorious at getting her way. She whined and called me daily until I gave in. Once the car was delivered, I no longer received any more calls. Nothing. Truthfully, I prefer it that way. Totally worth the sixty G’s I spent.

  I don’t know how to get around Coen. He still insists that we sleep together every night and as we lie side by side staring at each other, he tries to talk me out of my angry funk. I tried to convince him to accompany me but he’s having issues at work and is afraid to leave things, or so he says. If he can’t leave town, then I can’t leave town.

  On fight night, I purchase the pay per view ticket and watch my guy with a bowl of popped corn, a bag of chocolate kisses, and a huge bottle of wine. Coen was out late, due to a meeting and I was left alone. I gave up being with thousands of people, including some of those most important to me, to end up sitting home, alone.

  Naturally, Tank won. The man is a machine in the Octogan. Utterly phenomenal. I could get hypnotized watching his movements as he dodges and jabs. His floor work is intense; I am so jealous. At least on TV, I get to pause and watch things in slow motion over and over again. It’s simply amazing. In my humble opinion, he’s an artist. I can’t wait to give him a huge hug and tell him how proud I am.

  A week later, Jo has her baby. Mother doesn’t call me, she calls Coen. He has become her favorite son-in-law and he is enjoying being gushed over. I get it, as he never really had a mother. But hello, Delilah isn’t exactly mother of the year let alone mother of the minute.

  It turns out that my nephew’s Bris (Jewish circumcision) will be in a few days and mother insists that we will be there. Without even consulting me, Coen agrees. It’s funny, he couldn’t leave work for Dublin but has no problem leaving it for Orlando.

  We end up in Florida and I pretend to enjoy a Valentine’s themed Bris. While the mohel is snipping away, they pass out jam-filled chocolate penises. The room is decorated in pinks and reds and the entire morning is gauche and haughty.

  The only saving grace is that the luncheon is catered and utterly delicious. Lox and bagels on an empty tummy is sublime. I sit with my grandparents while Coen sits with mother and Joelle. All the seats were filled when I got there and my loving husband simply gave me a dismissive hug. He later said it was improper to grab me and throw me over his lap, so what could he do? He could have sat with his wife. He knew that I never wanted to go in the first place. On top of everything, later that night in the hotel, he tells me I’m too hard on mother. That I need to open myself up to her and see that she is really trying. Trying for what?

  On the flight home, I do my best to ignore him. I’m exhausted with fighting and trying t
o appease him. If I care about someone, he tries to push them out of my life, and if I don’t care about someone, he tries to pull them in. I can’t seem to get a firm grasp on his thinking.

  That night, when we’re finally ready for bed, I lie there facing the wall away from him.

  “Not happening, love. You know exactly where you belong and where you’ll stay.” He picks me up and twirls me around. I land on top of him and his arms brand me to him. “You can be mad at me but you’ll never deny me.”

  I’m pressed so tightly to him that I can’t even slide my hands between us. He sighs and loosens his grip. I slip off him and land on my side. “Charlie, I know we’ve hit a few bumps lately, but remember, they’re just bumps. We still have a long road ahead of us. Things aren’t always going to be smooth but do we give up? No! Besides, I’d never let you. I’d never let that happen to us.”

  “You don’t seem to understand me the way I thought. You pushed my friends away only to try to replace them with people who hate and hurt me. I won’t be going to Orlando any time in the future. Next time you accept an invitation without my consent, you can go without me.”

  “Charlie...” He snaps and climbs on top of me. “I was just trying to give you what you need. I thought…”

  “No, you didn’t think, you assumed. Incorrectly, I might add. What I need is to be surrounded with the people who actually love me. Who actually care about my feelings and my wellbeing. I thought you were one of them. Obviously...”

  “Don’t you fucking go there!” he yells a millimeter away from my mouth. The spittle flies all over my face and I shut my eyes tightly. “I worship the ground you fucking walk on. I’d do anything to…” My eyes slam open.