"You told Ivy on the phone last night that you were bummed about a woman." He picks up the paper cup of steaming coffee and brings it to his lips. "The last time I heard you talk about a woman it was Liz."
I follow his lead and pull the lid off the cup of coffee he brought for me. It's strong. The aroma hits me instantly and I'm grateful for it. I need a jolt of something to help get my mind back into focus. "It was someone else," I offer only because I don't want to spend the rest of the afternoon working my way through a maze of questions about Liz. She's a part of my past I'll never revisit. I need to start seeing Alexa that way too.
"Who then?" He tips his chin towards me. "What's her name?"
It's sitting there on the edge of my tongue but sharing it with him now is useless. Alexa married a man who used to be one of my closest friends. She walked down the aisle towards a future with Noah Foster. On top of that, I read online that they'd adopted twins. They have an instant family. I have absolutely no right to want her, or to even talk about her at this point. She's my past. Noah is her future. That's the end of that story.
"It doesn't matter." I feel my jaw tighten. "It's over, Jax."
He rests his elbows on the table. "I have to go home and explain to my wife why you needed to talk to me so badly last night that you called and woke her up."
I knew she sounded sleepy. I was in the middle of a self-imposed pity party so I hadn't bothered with consideration. When I called Ivy looking for Jax it had to have been after two this morning. No wonder she was worried. "I lost track of time."
He cocks a brow before he crosses his legs and leans back in the white leather chair. "You're a mess, Brighton. You haven't worked in months. You need to pull yourself together."
I look to the left, taking in the expansive chef's kitchen I had insisted on when the contractor came over to meet with me right after I returned from Europe. I don't know how to cook. The only thing in the refrigerator is a bottle of water. I've never turned on the stove. The entire apartment is immaculate because it's just the place I live. It's not a home. I don't have one of those. I can't honestly say that I've had one since I was a child.
"You think I don't know that?" I ask without turning my head towards him. "You think I like who I am right now?"
Silence is the only response. I can't blame him. It's the first flash of honesty that I've shown in years. I hide behind the veil of being one of the most successful artists of our time. People hand me things because of the art I create. It's fucked up. It's always been fucked up but the difference now is that I take advantage of it. I know it. I use women who want me for my name. I get invited to events because people think a spark of some unseen genius I possess is going to land on them if we're in the same room. They don't get it. No one does. I'm a pathetic guy who happens to know how to apply paint to a canvas. That's it.
"Have you given any more thought to that show at the new museum they're opening in London?"
The question comes out of left field. My assistant brought it up months ago and I relegated it to the back burner. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to care about my career. "I haven't," I confess. "I need to consider it."
"Consider it?" Jax pulls himself to his feet. "You need to do it. If you don't, people are going to stop caring about who Brighton Beck is."
Chapter 3
Zoe
"Do you have any idea who Brighton Beck is?" I push my hair behind my ears before picking up a box filled with file folders.
"Brighton Beck?" Norman, my volunteer partner for the day, taps his foot against the carpeted floor. "I think I've heard of him. He's in a boy band, right?"
I giggle so hard that the box that I'm trying to balance in my arms almost topples to the floor. After my very lucrative shift at the pub last night I'd searched the browser on my phone for all things Brighton Beck related on the subway ride home. Bridget hadn't noticed because she'd been too busy dozing off on my shoulder. The man who gave me the five hundred dollar tip is a celebrated artist. His paintings have hung in some of the most prestigious galleries and museums in the world. He's a big deal even if I don't understand art. I can appreciate talent and from the accolades written about him online, he's brilliant.
"He's an artist," I offer before tipping my chin towards an open office door down the hallway.
"What kind of an artist?" Norman calls from behind me. "Does he do street art?"
It's an obvious question given that we both had to walk past several street performers on our way from the subway stop to this office in mid-town this morning. It's Tuesday and that means I spend my morning volunteering for a non-profit that helps women who've been living in the city's shelters get back on their feet by providing training on how to re-enter the job market. I'd like to think I'm selfless but it looks good on my application for law school. Getting into one of the law schools in the city won't be easy, but I'm determined. I have a scholarship and an almost flawless undergraduate transcript in my back pocket. This is the place I want to settle down and start the next chapter in my academic life.
"He does watercolor paintings."
"You don't strike me as the watercolor painting type, Zoe." He can't contain the muted chuckle that seeps into the words. "I mean, you may be a closet art expert, but I haven't pegged you that way."
I should be offended but I've pigeonholed Norman just as much as he's secretly labeled me. I'd bet money on the fact that Norman is a virgin even though he's two years old than I am. I can't say that I've ever met a twenty-six-year old virgin before but then again, I don't randomly ask the people I cross paths with what their sexual history is. I'm not worth a second look to most men, but Norman generally can't keep his eyes off of me. It's flattering and creepy, and if I didn't see the blush that flashes over his cheeks every time I catch him checking me out, I may feel objectified. He's harmless and talking to him makes the mornings that I am here pass by that much faster.
"I met him at the pub I work at." I turn around after placing the box on a rectangular wooden table near a wall of filing cabinets. "He gave me a huge tip."
"Is he rich?" Norman's goal in life is to be a real estate investor. He works part time at a bank as a mortgage advisor and volunteers here the rest of the time. "He has to be rich if his paintings are being sold in galleries."
"I guess." I shrug. "I don't know anything about how much art costs."
He brushes his arm against mine as he lowers the two cardboard boxes he carried into the room onto the table. "I'm going to check it out."
I turn just as he pulls his smartphone out of the pocket of his black pants. I stare at all of the manila folders poking out from the top of the cardboard boxes. Each one represents an archived file that has been transferred to an electronic format. We have to file the hard copies for future reference if needed. It's our job for the next three hours so I might as well get started.
"Zoe." Norman shifts his stance and leans towards me. "Look at this."
My eyes float over the screen of his smartphone. I can't distinguish anything mainly because Norman's hand is shaking nervously. "What is it?"
"It's one of his paintings." He shoves the phone closer to my face as if the added proximity is going to help me focus. "It just sold at an auction."
"That's good," I offer meekly in return. I'm curious. I'm damn curious about the price but I'm not about to jump all over Norman to give me the details. I should have paid more attention to the information online about Brighton Beck's actual career as opposed to the dozens of images of him captured by the paparazzi. I spent ten minutes staring at one of him walking down Broadway a few months ago in a white t-shirt, his toned, tattooed arm on full display.
"They don't say exactly how much it sold for." He leans so close to me that his breath rushes across my cheek. "All they say is that it was in the mid six figures."
"What?" I take a step back as much to absorb the number as to gain distance from Norman. I doubt he'd try to kiss me, but my lips aren't about to take any chances.
"That's not the only one that he's sold for a small fortune." His eyes and fingers are focused back on his phone's screen. "This guy is making bank with his paintings. It's no wonder he left you a huge tip."
My gaze darts briefly down to his phone before I turn back towards the cardboard boxes. "It's no wonder..." I repeat under my breath as I feel a welcome sense of relief overtake me. I'd felt so hesitant about the amount of the tip that I'd hid it in my dresser drawer back in the apartment. Now that I know that he can afford it, I'm going to deposit it in my education account the first chance I get.
***
"You do know that even though Elliott insists that we wear those ugly t-shirts that we don't have to, right? You'd get better tips if you wore a push up bra and a tank top."
It sounds like a subtle insult, but it's Bridget and she's just looking out for my breasts and me. Apparently, they are the secret golden ticket to more tips. I glance down at my chest that is hidden beneath the same black t-shirt I wear to the pub for every shift. "I don't own a push up bra."
She scratches the top of her head as if she's trying to comprehend the statement. That can’t surprise me. Bridget is notoriously bad at picking up after herself and she's unabashedly comfortable being nude. I'm never surprised to come home to find all kinds of lingerie and clothing splayed out over the floor of the apartment. I've finally given up trying to pick up after her. She likes nice lingerie. I do too but I like to keep mine under wraps.
"You can borrow one of mine." She touches the edge of her breast. "You're bigger than me but a little will just spill out the top. It won't matter."
Yes. It will matter. I'm trying to establish myself as a potential candidate for a prestigious law school. I can't walk down the street in Manhattan with my nipples peeking out of the top of my shirt. With the luck that life gifts me with, I'd run straight into someone from the law school admissions' committee and they'd remember me as the girl with the uncontrollable tits.
"I think I look fine," I say with no conviction at all. I need to work on my delivery if I hope to be arguing cases in court one day.
"Give it a few more weeks and you'll be begging to wear my bra."
"She'll be what?" Elliott, the manager of the pub, steps into my peripheral vision. "Zoe wants to wear your bra?"
I close my eyes, shaking my head from side-to-side to try and ward off the fact that he just overheard that part of our conversation. Elliott is Bridget's ex. I haven't asked for details but I've heard enough of her disjointed stories about him to know that it ended amicably and they both have regrets.
"No...I don’t want...no, " I stammer as I try to string together a cohesive response.
"I was giving her tips on tips." Bridget laughs at her own pun. "I told her that you don't expect her to wear that ugly shirt every time she works."
His eyes scan my chest and I suddenly feel self-conscious. "Zoe looks great. She's adorable."
It's a word I've heard before from the lips of a man. Given the fact that I'm voluptuous, it's not surprising. Beautiful is reserved for women like Bridget. I'm more the attractive, adorable and cute type. I'm completely fine with it. When I look in the mirror, there's nothing about myself that I'd change.
"Thanks Elliott." I flash him a quick grin.
"I mean it." His mouth curls up into a sly smile. "I'm not the only one. There was a guy in here earlier looking for you."
I feel the panic rushing through me so rapidly that I don't even have time to steady myself. This can't be happening. There's absolutely no way Tim knows where I am.
"What guy?" Bridget interjects. "A guy came in here looking for Zoe?"
I cover my eyes with my palm. I don't want details. I have no idea how I'll react if Elliott mentions Tim's name or if he describes his short grey hair and brown eyes. I left Philadelphia to escape Tim's wrath. My hope, when I moved to Manhattan, was that he'd finally realize that he had to let go of the past.
"His name was..." he hesitates and my hand instinctively balls into a fist. The tension I feel inside is thick and vast. It's swallowing me by the second.
I move my hand to the top of my head, smoothing it across my long brown hair. It's the only motion I can think of that will mask the quivering I'm feeling. I know my hand is shaking. My knees are buckling. I'm very close to pushing Elliott to the side so I can sit down at one of the stools next to the bar.
"Beck," he blurts out quickly. "That's it. The guy said his name was Beck."
"Holy shit, Zoe." Bridget's hands grab tightly to my shoulders and I'm instantly grateful for the support. "Brighton Beck is looking for you."
I nod slowly as if the news is expected. I'm still stuck back in the fear induced frozen state I was in when I thought Tim had found me. I'm so relieved that he isn't here that I'm on the brink of tears. I bite my lip to ward off everything I'm feeling, hoping Bridget will keep moving the conversation forward.
"He said he made a mistake when he was in the other night." Elliott's dark brow cocks. "Was there a problem, Zoe?"
I lock eyes with him. This has to be about the five hundred dollars. I move my head from side-to-side hoping that he's not aware of the amount of the tip. I gave the required percentage to the bartender that night and I took the rest home. It's my right. I don't have to be an aspiring lawyer to know that my employment contract with Elliott clearly states that my tips are rightfully mine.
"He said he's coming back to talk to you." He motions towards the entrance. "We're opening soon. Get things set up."
Bridget and I nod in unison as she throws me a coy smile. "Are you sure you don't want to borrow my bra, Zoe? If his tip was good, there's more where that came from."
I toss her back a grin as I nod towards my chest. "I'll pass. Why mess with a good thing?"
Chapter 4
Beck
She wasn't there. I'd dropped by the pub too early. I was too anxious to see Zoe again and I'd arrived before the place even opened. The guy, who answered the door after I'd tapped on the glass for more than a minute, was cordial enough. I could tell he was curious about why I wanted to talk to her. It wasn't the type of curiosity that's there when a man comes around asking about your woman. This was more brotherly concern. He's protective. For some abstract reason, I like knowing that. I like feeling as though someone is watching out for her, even though all I know about the woman is her first name and the fact that she doesn't take shit from assholes like me.
I peer through the foggy glass of the pub. It's past ten now and I've sat in a sandwich shop for the past few hours wasting time by playing mindless puzzle games on my smartphone. I should have gone home or to my studio. I should be working on new pieces and planning what I'm going to show at the London museum. I should be anywhere but here, but I'm not.
I step into the crowded pub and the buzz of the near capacity crowd hits me immediately. Normally, I'd revel in this and introduce myself without hesitation to the first attractive woman I laid eyes on. I'd do that over and over again until someone recognized my name. I'd let them spread the word that I was in the space and before long, women would be buying me drinks, slipping me their numbers and whispering promises of unbelievable sex in my ear.
I pull the collar of my jacket closer to my neck as I scan the room for Zoe's face. I spot her instantly. She's almost clear across the room, her hip jutting out as she teeters on her black stilettos in front of a booth filled with young men. The faded jeans she's wearing accentuate her hourglass frame. Her long dark hair curls over her shoulders as she tilts her head to the left. A few days ago, I wouldn't have given her a second glance. I own that. I know that the only thing that initially draws me to a woman is a toned body and ass, but this one is different. There was something in her eyes when she spoke about loss that connected with me.
"Hey. You're Brighton Beck, aren't you?" The unmistakable fragrance of expensive perfume assaults me before I feel the delicate hand of a woman touch my back. "I'd know that handsome face anywhere."
I dart my he
ad to the left to catch a glimpse of the woman attached to the touch just as she comes into full view. She's breathtaking. Her blonde hair pulled back tightly into a high ponytail. Her make-up is impeccably applied and the blue dress she's wearing is doing little to hide the myriad of pleasures that waits beneath it. I should be all over this. I should be steering her out the door and into a cab headed straight for my bed.
"I'm not him." I shrug my shoulders slightly.
"You're not Brighton Beck?"
"I've never heard of the guy."
She glances down to her smartphone, her elegant, long fingers skillfully racing over the screen before she holds it up towards me. "Look. You're seriously telling me you're not Brighton Beck?"
I stare at the picture of myself. It's not a great one. It was taken at the opening of one of my shows more than two years ago. My hair is shorter, I don't have a beard and I actually look like I care about the colorful canvas I'm standing next to.
"You're him." She turns the phone quickly back towards her. "I know it's you."
"That guy looks nothing like me," I say convincingly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to talk to someone."
***
"You didn't have to wait until my shift was over." She pulls a short, black wool coat around her body. "I don’t have all the money with me. I have some in tips tonight. Let me count how much and then I can get you the rest tomorrow."
My eyes fall down to her hands. She's rifling quickly through a stack of small bills as numbers fly off her lips in a hushed tone. What the fuck? She doesn't actually think I want the money I gave her back, does she? "Zoe, what are you doing?"
Her hands stop in place as her eyes settle on mine. I study her face as I wait for her to answer. Her features are delicate, her eyes wide and brilliant. Her full lips move slightly as if she's readying herself to speak.
"I don't want the money back," I interject. "I didn't come here to take it back."
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