I blink a few times, trying to understand the source of the annoying bright light before I realize it’s the morning sun pouring through my window. I sit up long enough to gulp an entire glass of water at my bedside and throw myself back on the bed with a groan. As I recall snippets of my late evening free-fall, I face the humbling realization I’ve hit bottom. Theoretically, things could be worse in the battle of the sexes, but it doesn’t help my mood.
I allow myself to wallow for a few more minutes and then give myself a talking to . . . it’s time to move onward and upward. And although I’d love to walk away from the project and never humiliate myself in front of Max again, I’m going to be adult and get the book done.
I get in the shower and plan my strategy for the day, remembering that Sean needs me to work in the printing studio.
I’m glad to work the press that day, the mindless repetitive motion, the beauty unfolding as we apply one color at a time on paper until the image forms. It’s good to spend the day around Sean. Despite his occasional bossy moods, he’s someone who makes me laugh and feel like I’m worth having around.
As I’m changing to meet Jonathan for dinner, I realize I didn’t have all my wits about me this morning. If I had, I would’ve never brought this outfit. The black pants are too fitted, although I have to admit they make my ass look great, the lavender sweater’s almost a second skin. My Agent Provocateur bra prominently defines my cleavage, adding to the effect.
I suppose by most girls’ standards, my outfit isn’t a big deal, but for me it is. I should be serving drinks in Vegas, not having a serious business meeting.
But if Jonathan is surprised when I join him in the bar at Chaya Brasserie, he doesn’t show it. He greets me warmly, kissing me on both cheeks.
“You look lovely in that color, Ava,” he says with a smile.
We start the conversation talking about an event Art+trA is holding for the opening of a Women in Photography show at the L.A. County Museum of Art. Jonathan has a particular passion for fine art photography so he’s very enthusiastic. As he talks, his expression’s warm and lively. It prompts me to pay more attention to the details about him.
I appreciate his handsome face and the way his sandy blond hair sweeps back off his forehead in waves. He must be in his late forties, but he’s obviously taken good care of himself. His body appears very fit with a flat stomach, strong arms and broad shoulders. But the detail that always delights me most is his tortoise-shell glasses. I love the cool retro style.
I feel a subtle shift while I study him, and I catch myself flirting more as we talk. When we go over the outline, he gives me specific directions for the interviews I’ve lined up. He seems pleased with how things are progressing. His compliment of my writing style is particularly gratifying.
He offers me dinner when he hears I didn’t have a proper lunch. He even stands and pulls my chair out for me when I return from the powder room. After the ambivalent messages from Max, it’s a boost to my ego to have a man of Jonathan’s caliber showing interest in me.
After dinner, we have a couple of drinks and loosen up.
“Ava, you may not know this, but it’s unusual for me to be so hands-on with a freelance writer on a project. Normally, this type of thing is handled by one of my associates.”
“That thought’s crossed my mind. I just assumed you were involved because you had a personal interest in the subject. I know using me wasn’t your idea.” I bite my lower lip and narrow my eyes. “Did you take a greater interest because you weren’t sure what to do with me?”
I see a spark flicker in his eyes. “I know exactly what I want to do with you.” He lightly runs his finger along the inside of my wrist. A thrill echoes through me. His bright blue eyes smolder as his professional demeanor falls like ancient Rome.
I’m surprised by the wave of desire that washes over me. It’s not the all-consuming fire I have when I let my guard down around Max, but it’s still exciting. I wonder what he’s like in bed. I imagine this man knows how to take care of a woman.
My alcohol haze creeps in, and I decide to end the evening before I do something impulsive. But I’m still feeling frisky, so when we walk out of the restaurant, I step off to the side and turn to Jonathan.
I give him a coy look. “Mr. Alistair, my curiosity is getting the best of me. What exactly do you want to do with me?”
He looks at me and he tilts his head and lets out a long sigh. “Ah, Ava.” His quiet smile and heated look get me all stirred up. He steps to my side and brushes his lips right up to my ear and begins to speak quietly, so only I can hear.
“First, I’d pull you into my arms,” he whispers and slowly runs his fingertips down my side and grasps my hip. “I’d kiss you like you’ve never been kissed.”
I’m too stunned to speak. Did he really just say that to me? I knew he liked me, but this is something else, and it’s so unexpected and hot that I’m losing my power to resist.
“You’ll like the way I’ll make you feel, Ava. I promise you . . . you’ll like it a lot.”
My heart’s pounding, and I’m still frozen in place as I blink and bite my lower lip. Desire is surging through my body.
He pulls me closer and I feel where he’s hard pressed against me.
“You must know what you do to me.”
Oh my God. I’ve never had a boyfriend talk to me like this, let alone someone I barely know. I can’t decide if I should be completely freaked out or thrilled I can evoke such passion in a man like Jonathan. My cheeks feel hot as I teeter between dark desire and social restraint.
I snap out of my shock-induced stupor and look directly at him. His eyes are wild with lust, but it seems like he’s completely in control. I find this unbelievably sexy. I sway and he places his hand in the center of my back to steady me before leaning closer.
“Tonight, Ava, when you’re in bed I want you to think about all the ways I could please you. I promise you, I’ll be thinking about that too.”
In perfect contrast to the verbal foreplay he’s just performed on me, he walks me to my car, takes my hand and kisses it. I’m undone, completely undone. I sit in my car for several minutes, calming myself before I’m able to drive.
I’m supercharged as I drive home. I can’t believe I managed to rise from my bottomless pit this morning to experience a day that ended like this. Even if I never see Jonathan again, his seductive story restored my faith that I can be desirable to a dynamic man.
I feel like a phoenix just beginning to rise from the ashes until I reach the landing at the top of the stairs to my apartment. Something’s horribly amiss. Our front door is open and it’s dark inside.
My stomach takes a free fall and panic sweeps over me. Other than my pounding heart, I’m still as a mouse listening for any sounds of movement in the apartment. There’s complete silence. I tentatively take two steps closer to the door and peer inside. From the cast of the streetlights and porch light, I can see that the TV is gone. With greater dread, I look at Riley’s desk and see a gaping hole where her computer was.
Oh my God, we’ve been robbed!
I run downstairs to our neighbor’s apartment, but she isn’t home. I’m still on her porch when I call the police on my cell phone. After the dispatcher confirms with me that the robbers appear to be gone, she warns me they are extremely busy tonight and it may take a while for the cops to get there. She instructs me not to wait alone.
After I hang up, my mind races. Whom should I call? Not Riley. She’s an hour away in Orange County at an executive meeting. She’s going to flip out when I give her the bad news. I hope she backed her computer up before she left, since she has a lot of design work on it.
Jess and Laura are in Palm Springs. I call Sean, but his phone goes directly to voice mail. My hand tightens over the phone in frustration. Half the time Sean doesn’t even turn his phone on.
With my hands shaking I start to call Brian, but I remember that he and Thomas were meeting Adam and Katherine for dinner a
t the Saddleback Lodge for Thomas’ birthday. If I had Jonathan’s cell phone number, I’d call him.
Damn! Tears of fear and frustration roll down my cheeks, and I do the thing I least want to do. I dial Max’s number. The phone rings once, twice and after the third ring, I panic and hang up. It’s eight-thirty, which means the Kesters are probably still at the restaurant, but I try Brian anyway because I’m getting desperate. An automated voice informs me the number I’m trying to call is in a zone with no service.
I dial Sean again, but again it goes directly to voice mail. I don’t know when I’ve ever felt so alone.
I call Max again and let it ring until his voice mail comes on, and I start to leave a message, but right after I say his name, I panic again and hang up. At this point, I crumble into the chair next to my neighbor’s door and start to cry.
A few minutes pass when my phone pings, and it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard. I slide it open before checking to see who it is.
“Ava?”
“Yes,” I sob into the phone.
“Are you okay? I just noticed you called twice, and it’s so loud in here I didn’t hear my phone.” I can hear pounding music and a woman asking Max something in the background.
I’m too freaked out to even respond to his question, so I just cry into the phone.
“Ava! What’s wrong?” The growing alarm in his voice is strangely comforting.
“We were robbed, and I’m too afraid to go into my apartment.”
“Oh no. You were robbed? Damn! Where are you now?”
“Downstairs on my neighbor’s porch, but she isn’t home, and I can’t get a hold of anyone to help me.”
“Well, you did the right thing by calling me. I’m in West Hollywood now so I can be there within ten minutes. Hold on a sec.”
The sound is muffled like he has his hand over his phone, but I can vaguely hear him speak to a woman. She doesn’t sound happy, and he barks something back in response.
He speaks into the phone again. “Okay, I’m back. What I want you to do is get in your car and lock it and wait for me. Is your car out front?”
I sniffle. “Yes. You’ll come?” I sound pathetic.
“Yes, Ava. Just get in the car and I’ll be there in ten.” The phone clicks off.
I get in my car, fold my arms across the steering wheel, bury my face in my arms and continue to cry. Part of me dreads seeing Max, and the other part is incredibly grateful he’s coming. I’m going to need support to face my apartment. A moment later, there’s a gentle knock on the window, and I look up. His face is etched with concern.
I unlock the door, he opens it, and gently pulls me out of the car and into his arms. My crying gets louder, and he rocks me slowly, running his hand over my head repeatedly until I calm down. He pulls away and looks at me.
“I’m going to go into the apartment and make sure no one’s there and it’s okay to go in. I want you to lock yourself back in the car while I do that.”
“Can’t I go with you?” I plead.
“No, just let me do it.” He puts me back in the car and moves quickly up the stairs. The lights of the apartment snap on one at a time and then a few moments later he comes back out and down the stairs.
“I’m sorry, Ava.” He shakes his head as I step out of the car. “It looks like they were pretty thorough.”
A new wave of dread overcomes me. “Is your painting still there?” I’m not sure what I’ll do if they took my angel painting.
His expression softens and he takes my hand and squeezes it. “Yes, it’s still there.”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “Thank God. Stupid robbers left the most valuable thing in the house.”
He fights back a smile, but then looks serious again. “I’ve already called a locksmith. Have you called the police yet?”
“Yes, but they have no idea when they’ll get here.” He puts his arm around my shoulders and calls the police again while we slowly move back toward the apartment.
When the police come, Max holds my hand as we walk room to room and assess what’s missing. Every drawer is open, many overturned. My mind is a jumble, so the realization comes in waves. I remember my camera full of recently-captured memories. I keep looking at the shelf where I always kept it, hoping it will magically reappear. My iPod’s no longer on my bed stand where I left it this morning. Someone has my playlists and something about that and my photographs feels intimate and wrong. It’s a violation. My mourning begins for things small and large.
My only gleeful moment is when I remember that my laptop is safely in my bag at work. I had hoped to steal some writing time instead of taking a lunch. On a normal day, I would’ve left it at home. I’ve been working so hard on his story that the relief that my words about Max haven’t been stolen is palpable.
I share that with him, and he smiles sadly and rubs my shoulders.
As the police officer wraps up his report, he informs me it’s highly unlikely we’ll ever see our stuff again. We also have to be careful because it’s not uncommon for them to return for a second round—even clothes. I feel myself sway as the blood drains from my face. Come back? The idea is more than I can take.
Max assures me we’ll get the place secured. The locksmith he called is a childhood friend, and he’s asked him install an alarm on the door and the window that faces the porch. His clear thinking under pressure is reassuring.
“Okay, let’s pack your bag. You’re staying at my place tonight.”
As much as I know I can’t stay in the apartment alone tonight, I have no idea how I will navigate being alone with Max in Malibu in this state of mind.
“Don’t worry. I have a guestroom.”
His locksmith friend shows up with his equipment, and Max assures me that he’s completely trustworthy and we can leave while he does the work. We’ll get the new keys, alarm code and instructions in the morning.
There’s nothing good left to steal anyway, I think sadly.
Packed and numb, I follow Max to the door, but something suddenly occurs to me, along with a feeling of dread. My heart’s pounding, fear overtaking me, and I pray that the one thing I can’t be without, the thing that can’t be replaced, is still here.
I stop and Max looks back concerned. I rush back to my bedroom with him on my heels. I look at my bottom desk drawer overturned on the floor, papers and folders scattered everywhere. I flip the drawer back over and desperately rifle through the worthless contents. It’s not here. My heart sinks . . . It’s not here.
I fall to my knees and crawl around the floor, frantically lifting up everything and throwing it back down again. I sift through the drawer again, and when I do it a third time, Max reaches down and puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Ava, you’ve got to stop. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, having no idea what I’ve lost.
I jerk away from him and crawl around some more, my breath now heaving, a shrill shriek tearing out of my chest. “No, No, No!”
He reaches down again, takes me by the shoulders and pulls me to my feet. He holds me up and speaks firmly, “Ava, you’ve got to stop. It’s gone, I’m sorry, but it’s gone.”
The sound that comes out of me next is unlike any I’ve ever heard, something between a sob and a cry of complete and utter despair. Nothing, not Max’s strong arms, not the love I’ve received from the Kesters, nor the recognition from Jonathan can restore what’s lost. I feel myself float away, and Max reaches out just a moment too late as I crumple to the floor.
Chapter Twelve / Stolen Memories
Just remember–when you think all is lost, the future remains.
~Robert H. Goddard
I have the vague sensation of Max picking me up and carrying me, followed by the muffled sound of his conversation with the locksmith while I press my face into his chest. I’m trembling and I can’t find words to speak. Max and the other guy continue to talk while we’re moving forward. It feels like we’re going down some stairs, but I’m too afraid to ope
n my eyes to be sure.
“Tommy, put her bag in the trunk. Thanks, man.”
I hear a car door opening and then I’m being lowered into a seat. Behind me, I can hear the trunk popping open.
Why is he trying to let go of me? I don’t want to fall down the rabbit hole! I cling to his shirt desperately.
“Ava, sweetheart,” he murmurs gently. “You’ve got to let go so I can drive.” He peels my hands off his shirt and as soon as the connection is broken, I start to sob again.
The drive to Malibu is endless without a word spoken between us. When I finally open my eyes, I see the pained look on Max’s face. I’m sure this is a lot more than he bargained for. After he parks, he helps me out of the car, tucks me under his shoulder and walks me into the house.
Once he gets me settled on the couch, he takes a chenille throw and wraps it around me and quietly moves through the house, turning on low lights and starting the fireplace. He pours a glass of red wine from the bar. When he gives it to me, I take several large swallows in a row.
He finally joins me on the couch and sits close to me. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I nod, despite how weary I am. I feel ravaged inside, my spirit broken.
“What was it you couldn’t find?”
I need him to understand that what I lost was a part of me.
“It was a box. I still can’t believe it’s gone.”
He nods with great empathy. “I could tell it meant everything to you.”
“My family, my past, all that was precious to me . . . the letters my dad wrote me from Iraq before he was killed . . .”
Max’s expression is one of profound sadness. “How old were you when he died?”
“Fifteen.”
“Oh, baby,” he whispers.
“The poem my grandma wrote for me before she passed.” I close my eyes and picture the poem and my eyes well up again. “Why didn’t I make a copy of the poem? I just never thought . . .”
“Oh, Ava. How could you’ve known?” He rubs my shoulder to soothe me.
Work of Art ~ the Collection Page 12
