Ash to Steele

by Stewart, Karen-Anne

  “What is it, Emma?” he asks, his voice so soft and gentle.

  Not able to find the words to describe how I’m feeling right now, I just smile, glancing up at his expectant eyes through my lashes.

  A very needy groan rumbles up his throat as he stares at me, shaking his head, “Damn, Emma, watching you just now, watching you come undone, was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” His fingers find my chin, tilting it so he has my full attention, “There are so many things I can show you, when you’re ready.”

  Before I can even process his words or begin to come down from the exhilarating high, Breck takes the helmet and places it on my head, latching it before sliding the jacket back up my shoulders. He scoots back, throwing his leg over the side of the bike and mounts it again. The engine revs to life as he grabs my limp wrists, wrapping them tightly around his waist before driving me home.

  The air has turned frigid as all traces of the sun have long since faded. Shivering, I scoot closer to Breck, relishing in his warmth but feeling guilty at how he must be freezing as well, especially since I’m wearing his jacket.

  He leaves the engine on as he takes my hand, helping me off the bike. Giving me his sexy as hell grin, he pulls me into his arms, “You can ruin my plans anytime you like, Emma.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “There’s a private tour tonight for the donors, and I need you to work it, Emma,” Mr. Styles, my boss at the gallery tells me. He never asks, just demands, even when it’s not my usual shift, which Saturday night is never my shift.

  “Yes, sir,” I reply, biting back a groan.

  I had plans with Breck, more plans that I’m going to have to break with me working extra hours. The sweet scent of the late afternoon air refreshes my senses, easing my irritation that I have to come back to work tonight. Watching the breeze gently blow the blooms on the redbud trees makes me think of home, and I call Dad, but he doesn’t answer. Late April is always busy for him with the farm. This is my favorite time of year, the flowers, the fresh warm air, and the feeling of newness, like everything is possible. “Collide,” by Howie Day, starts to play and I answer my phone, smiling at the voice of the man whom I’ve collided into head on, and I’m loving the feel of the beautiful wreck that only Breck can cause.

  “Hi, Beautiful, I have some special plans for you tonight,” Breck teases, knowing I hate and adore surprises, and my ambivalence seems to give him great pleasure.

  “I have to work,” I groan, “Mr. Styles just let me know, but I’ll be off at 8:00 p.m.”

  “8:00 it is then, I’ll meet you at your apartment.”

  “Does it involve your bike?” I ask, not able to hide the grin that spreads across my face.

  Breck laughs, “Not tonight, but I plan on having you on my bike soon, and naked, this time.”

  “Promises, promises,” I tease, giving him hell over his long streak of no sex since he’s not playing fair about not telling me what he’s planning.

  “You’re such a brat,” he rebuttals.

  “Only to you and you love it,” I tell him, holding my breath.

  “Yes, I do,” he replies, and I wait for three more words that never come.

  Slowly exhaling, I try not to let that bother me but, dammit, it does. “Okay, I’ll see you there,” I concede, keeping my disappointment out of my voice.

  I spend the remainder of the afternoon painting with my windows open wide and music blasting in my ears. I should be finishing the last painting in the series so I can call Mr. Mazers, but I’ve been working on something else, a little surprise of my own that I plan on giving Breck. My birthday is in three days, and I promised Breck I would finally show him my works. Closing my eyes, I picture Breck. Inhaling deeply, I can smell him on his shirt that I’ve confiscated, using it as my muse.

  My phone buzzes, letting me know I have to be at work in an hour when it feels like I’ve just started painting. I’m known to get lost in my work, but with this painting, I lose all track of time. Closing the spare bedroom door, I lock it so Breck won’t find it before it’s ready. Taking a quick shower, I leave my hair wet, braiding it before rushing out the door.

  The gallery is fancier than usual; no expense has been spared on catering or flowers for the donor’s tour. Mr. Styles pulls all of the employees aside, giving the rules and consequences if they are broken, his head swelling at the power he feels dangling them over our heads. I trace the edge of the candle holder, watching the flame dancing inside, daydreaming. I hear Mr. Styles greeting the guests as he meets them at the door, and I pull my eyes away, smiling at the group of impeccably dressed men and women as they walk my way. My smile and entire face falls when I see Elise.

  Her haughty gaze shows me that she isn’t surprised at all to see me. Grinding my teeth, I force myself to smile at the other guests and do my best to ignore the woman whom I haven’t seen since the night we beat the hell out of each other at the bar.

  “This is Emma Jones, she will be your guide tonight,” Mr. Styles states, “if you have any questions, she is very knowledgeable about each work of art here, so feel free to ask.”

  I’m a little taken aback by his unexpected compliment as I offer champagne to the guests before the tour begins. Elise makes her way to the front, being sure to stay next to me as I show the abstract works of art by Kandinsky, Rothko, and Pollock, among the other brilliant artists, first. Elise peppers me with questions that show she has no clue about art, mixing up styles and artists, all of which I answer professionally.

  “What’s your favorite painting?” she asks, a cruel smile curving her dark red lips.

  “Not wanting to share anything personal with her, I hesitate before answering, “La Scapigliate.”

  I can tell that she’s clueless about the mesmerizing painting by Leonardo Da Vinci. I can stare at the mysterious peace on the woman in the paintings face for hours, enraptured with the sweet innocence and soft tranquility Da Vinci captured, but I don’t tell Elise that. I will do my job but I won’t allow her to taint my world; she’s doing enough of that by being in my territory right now.

  “Oh,” she starts, her smirk infuriating as she tosses her long, straight raven hair over her bare shoulder that her strapless designer dress doesn’t cover, “Is that painting at Edith Mason’s gallery?”

  My eyes cut to hers, and she slowly smiles, knowing she has my full attention.

  “She is very close friends with my father. If she doesn’t have the original, I will have to ask her to purchase a print to show me.” Leaning close to me, her eyes gleam, “She’ll do anything I ask.”

  It takes every ounce of self-control I have, but I remain calm despite how I want to punch her straight in the mouth again. Now I know why Ms. Mason cancelled our meeting to see my paintings.

  “Is something wrong, Emma?” Elise asks with her sickeningly sweet voice.

  “Not at all,” I reply, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing how much that hurt.

  Her disappointment is evident. It’s clear why she came here, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of that, either. Turning to the rest of the group, I leave her standing there as I lead them down the Postimpressionism hall.

  Breck told me that Elise has tried to hook up with him several times, but he always turned her down, something that she is obviously not used to. From the little he’s told me, it’s clear she gets what she wants, and she can’t handle it when something, or, in this case, someone, gets in the way. When the tour is almost over, I let out a sigh of relief. My relief is short lived.

  As I’m taking the glasses from the guests, Elise waits until I’m directly in front of her, then, right as my hand goes for her glass, she tilts it, spilling the full glass of champagne down her dress. I would swear she took acting lessons as she lets out a loud screech, backing away from me as she drops the glass, letting it shatter against the floor as she holds her hands out defensively.

  All the color drains from my face when Mr. Styles comes rushing towards us and Elise accus
es me of ruining her original designer gown. She throws herself into the act, even forming tears, as she dramatically sweeps her hand down the length of her dress in full blown diva mode, “Who is going to pay for this?”

  “We will take care of all expenses, I assure you,” Mr. Styles tries to soothe her so she’ll stop causing a scene. Taking my arm, he pulls me to the side. “What were you thinking, Emma? You have to be careful,” he scolds, his voice low but cutting.

  “I-I didn’t cause that,” I stammer.

  Elise storms towards me, her shrill voice up a few octaves, “Are you accusing me of lying?”

  Mr. Styles glares at me as I try to come up with a way to defend myself without losing my job. “Maybe it slipped from her grasp,” I mumble.

  “My father is very generous with this gallery,” Elise sneers, “he would not appreciate my being called a liar by one of your - hired hands!”

  Mr. Styles glare cuts through me as he grits his teeth, whispering, “Apologize, Emma.”

  Closing my eyes, I know this isn’t going to go over well. “Mr. Styles,” I begin, inwardly flinching at his angry stare, “I did not spill the drink on her.”

  “That’s it, I’m calling my father,” Elise screeches, pulling her cell phone from her purse.

  I watch in horrific amazement how her little cliché of a fit seems to be working perfectly, suckering Mr. Styles as he pulls me further to the side.

  “You have one more chance, Ms. Jones. Apologize or you are fired,” he warns.

  Looking at Elise and the taunting grin she gives behind his back, I slowly shake my head, “I’m sorry, Mr. Styles, but I will not apologize for something I didn’t do.”

  Letting go of my arm, he thrusts his finger at the door, “Gather you personal effects, Ms. Jones, I will mail your final check.”

  “Yes, sir,” I rasp, trying to ignore everyone staring at me as I head towards the door.

  As I walk past Elise, she lets out a low laugh as she whispers, “I’ll ruin you, bitch.”

  Knowing I should just ignore her and keep going, I can’t seem to make myself take that evasive high road when I see a tray of glasses. Ah, what the hell? Grabbing the champagne, I pour it down the front of her dress as she lets out an ear piercing shriek. Handing Elise the empty glass, I turn towards Mr. Styles, “You can go ahead and keep my final check.”

  I know that I will regret what I did tomorrow, but, for now, it feels so good! Stripping the black polo over my head when I step outside, I toss it in the trash, walking to my car in my white tank top and khaki dress pants. Breck’s Hummer is parked in front of my apartment building when I arrive, and I can’t wait to get lost in his arms and forget about tonight.

  “You’re a little early,” he smiles, greeting me at the door, giving me an inquisitive glance when he sees me in my undershirt.

  “I endured the wrath of your friend,” I grimace.

  “My friend? What are you talking about, Emma?”

  “Elise was one of the special guests, and she decided to unleash a little pay back from the bar.”

  Breck’s jaw twitches, “What happened?”

  “She tried to rile me up all night, even go as far as basically admitting she is the reason why Ms. Mason cancelled the appointment.”

  Pulling me into his arms, he brushes his lips against my hair, “Damn, Emma, I’m sorry.”

  Sinking into his embrace, I wrap my arms around his toned waist, sliding my fingers against the hard ripple of his muscles under his shirt, “It’s not your fault.”

  Taking my arms, he gently pushes me back, “She’s going after you because of me, so that makes it my fault.”

  “No. It makes it hers.”

  Sighing, he slips his finger underneath the strap of my tank top, “And, why are you half dressed?” His eyes light up as he slides his finger a little lower, “not that I’m complaining.”

  “I was fired.”

  “Are you serious?” he asks, his anger quickly rising, “why were you fired? What did she do?”

  “When I didn’t let her get me riled up, she upped her game and spilled her drink on herself, blaming it on me. Mr. Styles asked me to apologize, but I explained that I didn’t do it. He didn’t believe me.”

  “I’m going down there,” Breck spits angrily.

  I grab his arm, “No, you’re not!”

  “You didn’t do it, Emma, you didn’t deserve to get fired.”

  Biting my lip, I give a little shrug, “Maybe not at that moment, but I did after that.”

  “Why?” he asks, his eyes narrowing as he studies me.

  “She pushed my buttons too far with her snide remark as I was leaving, so I decided, since I was already fired for dousing her in champagne, I might as well actually do it…so I did.”

  “You poured champagne on Elise?” Breck doubles over in laughter. “Damn, Em, I wish I was there to see that,” he manages between his whoops and howls.

  Pouting, I smack his arm, “Glad you are finding my loss of employment so amusing.” Unable to suppress it, a grin spreads across my lips, “It was pretty funny, though.”

  “I know of something that might make you feel better,” Breck states when he catches his breath. Grabbing my arms, her jerks me towards him as his tongue traces the edge of my ear, “Take your cute ass to your room and throw on a shirt so we can go and I can show you.”

  “Go where?” I ask, wanting to just curl up in his arms and feels his lips on me all night.

  “To get you a tattoo.”

  “What?” I spout, staring at him like he’s lost his mind.

  “You’ve been talking about my tattoos for months.”

  “That’s because they are hot on you,” I cock my brow before taking his arm and admiring the art on his skin.

  “I called Damon, the artist who did mine, and made it worth his while to come to Boston,” Breck states before quickly adding, “he doesn’t live here now.”

  Breck doesn’t know Jess told me that he grew up in Detroit and I don’t call him on it, but a dull ache tugs at my heart each time he lies to me.

  “He’s at Jason and Jess’, waiting on us.” Breck leans back, grabbing my chin as he raises his brow, “Unless you’re scared.”

  “I’m not thirteen, daring me isn’t going to work,” I counter, knowing he knows that I’m lying through my teeth. I can’t seem to back down from one of his challenges, and he loves to use that to his advantage, and, I really do want a tattoo; he knows that, too. “You do realize that my father is going to kill me,” I groan.

  “I’ll protect you,” he grins, playfully popping me on my backside, “now, go change.”

  My stomach is in knots as I sit on Jess’ couch, my knee bouncing nervously as Damon finishes laying his tools out and takes a long chug of his beer. Grabbing Jess’ hand, I yank her towards me, “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea since he’s been drinking. He might make the tattoo lopsided or something. Besides, I don’t even know what I want.”

  “Stop being such a baby, Em,” Jess chastises, squeezing my hand. “I’ve already told him what you want,” she grins slyly.

  “And how would you know that since it’s my body that’s going to be permanently marked and I don’t even know.”

  “I took a picture of your angel. Well, just the broken wing.” Jess glances at Breck, then back at me, “I think it’s perfect and romantic, in a weird twisted way. Your art inspired by Breck will be etched on you by the same artist that inked your muse to begin with.”

  “Breck’s not seen my paintings yet, Jess,” I remind her, snatching the picture she pulled from her purse.

  “It’s one wing, and you’re showing him your paintings in a few days, anyway.”

  Biting my lip and grazing it between my teeth, I shake my head, “I’m showing him all of the other ones, but not those two paintings.”

  “Why?” she cries, glaring at me.

  “You know why, Jess. He does everything he can to avoid religion, and depicting Breck as an angel will
not go over well with him.”

  “A broken angel, Em, and you made it where you can’t see the full resemblance. You should show him, he would love them.”

  Damon grabs my hand, pulling me off the couch, saving me from a response, but inducing a flock of rapid butterflies dive bombing my stomach. “Ready?”

  Looking at Breck, he gives me his infuriating smirk as he leans against the wall, folding his arms across his chest, silently challenging me. Awww, I hate that!

  Jess pushes me towards Damon, “Oh, she’s ready.”

  Gavin laughs at my panicked expression when Damon removes the needle, “Where are you going to get inked, Em?”

  “I have no idea,” I mumble, staring at the needle that’s getting ready to brand me.

  “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, Emma,” Breck states, biting back a smartass grin.

  “I know I don’t,” I retort, but he knows I want to, and I’m too much of a wuss to do it on my own for multiple reasons, my father being disappointed being the most pressing. I share the same beliefs as my father for the most part, but I don’t see the difference between piercings and tattoos. People pick and choose which parts of religion they want to believe. I guess I’m no different. I can’t see the harm in a tattoo, and I really do want one. Having a depiction of my own art injected into my skin by another artist is too tempting to pass up, and I will think of Breck every time I see it, not that I need anything to help me do what I do all the time anyway. Jess is right, there’s something twistedly bonding about that.

  “My arm,” I spout before I change my mind, rolling my short sleeve up higher, “just below the shoulder.”

  “That’s my girl,” Jess squeals, clapping as she jumps up and down. “Need a shot of tequila?”

  “Give her the bottle, Jess. We should just go ahead and make this a night for debauchery on so many levels," Breck jokes, his smile gleaming wickedly as he winks at me.

  “Shut up!” I snap, biting back a grin at every debauching thing I want him to do to me.

  Jason pours a shot and hands it to me. “Drink up, Emma, and you better not get any blood on my couch,” he teases.