Shameless

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Would you?”

  “Never. Not even if you asked.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re mine, Faith, and I don’t share. And for the record, in case you forgot already: I’m yours, too, in all my arrogant glory.”

  I’m his and he’s mine. “It was about Macom,” I say. “The nightmare was about Macom. And oddly, my mother.”

  “I’m listening,” he says, his expression unreadable.

  “I relived the first night Macom tried to share me at the club.”

  “Tried?”

  “Yes. There was a man who’d always flirted with me, and Macom wanted to watch me with him. I was furious. I left him there to do what he would. I walked home and at first I said that I’d never go back. But then I decided that everyone at that club was smarter than me. They knew that pleasure was pleasure and expecting fairy tale endings was pain. That’s how I went back. That’s how I became truly involved. And that’s how I survived Macom. That’s how I convinced myself we were the best I would ever have.”

  “Where does your mother come into play?”

  “The images shifted and I was in my mother’s garden. I watched my father kiss my mother and then my uncle showed up, and he backed away. He gave her to him. I was screaming at my father, but he couldn’t hear me. It’s like I wasn’t there. He settled for my mother. He convinced himself they were the best he would ever have. I decided before I ever met you that I was done settling. I just didn’t know where that would lead me or how to get there. Just that I needed to go.”

  “And you needed to tell me this why?”

  “It led me to you, and while I do not want you to be controlling, I needed you to be the man you were tonight with Macom.”

  “Explain, Faith. I need to understand.”

  “We have the clubs in our backgrounds. I think I needed…When you took that phone, you made it clear we are just us. I needed to know that we are just us. That you will protect us, not give us away.”

  He cups my face, his voice low, raspy. “I will always protect not just us, but you, Faith. And everything I do, I do for you. I need you to remember that. Promise me, you will remember that. Tell me you know that.”

  “I do now. I know.”

  He pulls away and looks at me. “Don’t forget,” he orders, and on the surface his warning is all alpha male, but beneath it, in his deep blue eyes, there is something more. He lets me see that he is not unbreakable—that perhaps I alone could break him. The way he could break me. Something shifts and expands between us in those moments that I have never felt before. A bond forming that creates a need between us. We need each other. It is wonderful. It is divine. But long minutes after he’s departed for the gym and I stand at the easel with a brush in my hand, I cannot help but wonder—when two people become this vulnerable to each other, when we need each other to keep from shattering, does this mean together we are weaker, or stronger?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Nick

  “Would you ever take me to your club?”

  That is the question beating me to death while I beat a treadmill to death with a fast, hard run, the torment of her question lessened only by my fantasy of beating the shit out of Macom. Though another part of me wants to shake the man’s hand for being stupid enough to lose Faith. I’m the winner in this one, but he also hurt Faith and that part of me that isn’t a nice guy really wants him to pay.

  I finish running, and the idea of Faith upstairs waiting on me, has me flipping out the light and skipping the weights. And when I would normally stop by the kitchen for a bottle of water, I continue onward, up the next level of stairs and into the bedroom, where Faith is not. Certain she’s forgot the time and is still painting, I walk down the hallway to her studio, and step through the doorway. Sure enough, Faith is painting, but from the silky sheen of her loose blonde hair, and the faded jeans peeking from her cover-up, she’s already showered and is completely unaware of my presence.

  Being absorbed with her work, she doesn’t look up, and God, she’s beautiful when she’s this focused on her art: The graceful way she moves. The way her brow furrows randomly with the strokes of her brush. The way her teeth worry her bottom lip as she tilts her head to study another angle of her work. Curious myself about what is newly developing on her canvas, I ease several feet deeper into the room, and behind her, keeping a distance so as to not break her concentration, but still she doesn’t seem to know I’m present. Bringing her canvas into view, I’m surprised to find red as her master color, rather than her favorite black or gray, the image created appearing to be some sort of skyward half-moon with a circle beneath it. I don’t know what she’s creating, but the red tells me that she’s doing what we discussed and unleashing a different part of herself.

  Several beats pass and she remains immersed in her work, which is my signal to get lost and let her work. I’m about to exit the studio when Faith laughs. I glance back at her and she grins. “You’re pretty easy to fool, Tiger. Did you really think you were that stealthy?”

  I laugh and take a step toward her. She points her brush at me. “Stop right there. You go shower and get focused on your game, counselor. That’s the point in this little exercise. You motivate me to paint. I expect you to keep being a bad-ass attorney who doesn’t lose.”

  “I don’t know how to lose, sweetheart,” I say, giving her a wink and heading down the hallway, and I hit the shower, following Faith’s order. I’m one hundred percent focused, but that focus is on her. She’s worried about my career. She’s worried about paying me back. She’s a good person who deserves the world. I’m an asshole who plans to give it to her, when I would give it to no one else. Maybe that’s the definition of love. Heartless bastards like me grow hearts. Whatever the case, I’m her asshole and she’s stuck with me. I’m going to make sure of it.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, not only shaved to the fully outlined goatee I prefer when headed to court, as I will this week, I’ve dressed, in a grey, pinstriped suit with a vest and a pressed white shirt. I’m standing at the mirror, fitting the black tie I’ve chosen to match the pinstripe around my neck when Faith not only appears, but scoots between me and the counter.

  “I’ll do it,” she says. “If that’s okay with you?”

  “Sweetheart, if it’s on my body, you can touch it.”

  She laughs. “That is such a you thing to say.” She works the tie with expert technique, and I dislike the idea of her doing it for Macom and I don’t even care how possessive that makes me. “How did you learn to do this?” I ask.

  “My father,” she says. “He always wore a tie at the winery and I had this obsession with artsy ties even before I started painting. I’d pick his tie and then tie his tie.” She pats my tie. “Done and you look good in this suit. Powerful. But then, you always have that alpha power thing going on.”

  “Do I now?”

  “You do. It’s very sexy, but I’m pretty sure you know that.”

  I stroke the hair behind her ear. “And I know you didn’t know I was there until the end. I watched you with your paintbrush and, sweetheart, that is what I call sexy.”

  “I knew,” she says. “I always know when you’re close, Nick, but I was finishing one little spot that I didn’t want to screw up, and then you were leaving.” She reaches for my arm and glances at my brown Cartier watch. “It’s seven. You have to be at work at eight.”

  “I’m the boss. I won’t get fired if I’m late.”

  She pushes to her toes and kisses me. “The boss of everyone but me. I’m going to change shoes and touch up my make-up and I’m ready to go.”

  She tries to move away and I bring her to me, my hand tangling in her hair, as I drag her mouth to mine. Taking a long, good morning drink of this woman before I say. “Sometimes you like it when I’m the boss. At least when we’re naked and that’s not a bad thing. You like it. I like it.”

  “I know that.”

  “Just in case you don’t know. I’
m never going to hurt you and I damn sure will never share you. You know that, right?”

  “I already told you. I like when Tiger comes out to play. And don’t start thinking I’m some shrinking violet, Nick Rogers. I told you some stuff. You know. Move on. And if you underestimate me, I’ll end up on top every time that way. And sometimes l prefer you on top.”

  “As long as I’m inside you, sweetheart,” I say. “I’ll be on top, bottom, sideways, or any which way.”

  She shoves against my chest. “Go make coffee or whatever you do before work.”

  I laugh and step away from her and leave her in the bathroom, taking a path toward the stairs, but once I’m there, I pause, my curiosity over how Faith’s new work is developing winning me over. Walking in that direction, I enter the studio, cross to the painting and stare at what has become a dramatically changed image that downright punches me in the gut. I’m looking at two eyes that I know represent ‘An eye for an eye’. Words she connects to Macom’s betrayal. Macom, who she dreamed about last night. Suddenly, I feel like the fool, on my knees for a woman who’s on her knees for another man. I don’t want to believe that’s true, but I don’t know how else to read this, either.

  I cross the studio and don’t even consider the bedroom. I have a job to do, and as Faith herself said, a focus I need to maintain. I gather my work from my office and end up in the kitchen, where I set my briefcase on the island bar. Faith hurries down the stairs, her blonde hair bouncing right along with her beautiful fucking breasts in a light blue V-neck t-shirt, her purse on her shoulder. In this moment, I do not want to want her, and yet, as she nears, and I watch the sway of her hips, my damn cock decides to stand at attention.

  Where the fuck is my discipline?

  “I thought you’d be on cup number two by now,” she says, stepping to the counter directly across from me.

  “I took another look at your painting,” I say, deciding my focus is important. And she’s distracting the fuck out of me.

  “And?” she asks, sounding almost hopeful.

  “And what, Faith?”

  “What do you think? If you hate it—”

  “You dreamt about Macom and now you’re painting about Macom.”

  She blanches. “What? No. That is not at all the case.”

  “It seems pretty damn clear.”

  “Then it’s you who doesn’t trust me, Nick. You who don’t trust us. Because I told you about the dream and I told you that dream was about us. And I did what I told you I was going to do. I’m getting Macom the hell out of our relationship. I’m facing the past. I’m owning it. And I own things by painting them.”

  “Is that painting going in the show? Is it to get his attention?”

  “Oh my God. Did you hear anything I just said to you?”

  “Answer the questions,” I bite out.

  “You’re being a complete asshole right now, Nick Rogers. That painting is for me. For us. It’s not meant for any other eyes.”

  I stare at her several beats, and she stares right back at me, not a blink. And I believe her. “I’m an asshole,” I say.

  “Yes, Nick Rogers, you are. You really are.”

  “Because you make me crazy.”

  “So, it’s my fault that you’re an asshole? Considering you were an asshole the night I met you, I’m pretty sure you mastered that skill long before I met you.”

  “I’m apparently practicing that skill right now. How am I doing?”

  “Exceptionally well.”

  “I might end up in jail when I meet this guy.”

  “At least you’ll have Abel to represent you.”

  I laugh, never a step ahead of this woman. “Indeed. At least I do. Will you visit me in jail?”

  “I’d prefer to just keep you out of jail.” Her mood shifts, darkens. “He’s not worth it.”

  “But you are.”

  “Is that your way of apologizing for being an asshole?”

  “If I want to apologize, I’ll apologize,” I counter.

  “So, you don’t want to apologize?”

  My cellphone starts ringing and I grimace. “And so Monday begins.” I grab my phone from my pocket and glance at the caller ID, then at Faith. “A client that never uses my cell,” I say, answering the line. “Devon.”

  “Holy hell, Nick. The Feds want to talk to me. I have a deal that went sour. I’m scared man. I need help.” When a hedge fund billionaire sounds like he might just start crying like a baby, you know he’s in trouble.

  “What the fuck did you do, Devon?” I demand, and then quickly say, “Don’t answer that on the phone. Meet me in my office in twenty minutes.” I end the call and dial Abel. “Heads up. Devon Stein. He’s getting a visit from the Feds. I need you to consult.”

  “When?” Able asks.

  “Now. My office. Can you do it?”

  “I have court. I’ll call you when I get out, but make sure he keeps his mouth shut.” He hangs up and I end the call. “I need to run, sweetheart.”

  “I can take an Uber, no problem. Go. Do you job.”

  “You’re not taking an Uber,” I say, reaching in my pocket and setting a key on the counter. “Take the BMW.”

  “No, I—”

  “Sweetheart. Take the BMW. I’ll drive the Audi. The code to get into the house is 1588 in case you need to come back here. I could have a late night. I hope that I won’t.” I round the counter and pull her to me. “I’m sorry and I said that because I want to say it. And I meant it when I said that I’m crazy for you, woman.”

  “You said that I’m making you crazy.”

  “That too,” I say, kissing her. “Enjoy today. You belong in the art world and you belong with me.” I release her and head for the door, and as I step into the garage, eyeing my custom BMW, my pride and joy, Faith will be driving today. And I no longer care if Faith drives it as well as she rides me. I’ll let her keep the damn keys and the car, for all I care. If Abel heard me say that, he’d already be planning a wedding. And it might just take something that dramatic to make sure she doesn’t leave me.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Nick

  I arrive in the financial district and to my office in fifteen minutes. I’m on my floor in another five to find Devon pacing in front of Rita’s desk and looking like he’s slept in the wrinkled mess that is what I know to be his standard ten-thousand-dollar suit. A symptom of his excess, and while I enjoy luxury, there is a point where money starts to control you, not you it, and that can lead to trouble, which I saw coming a year ago with Devon.

  Rita spots me moments before him, her relief palpable, her red hair worn long today, while her patience is eternally short. Devon follows her gaze and rotates to face me. “Nick,” he breathes out, and he really looks like he might implode if he doesn’t spill out his confession here and now.

  Exactly why I need him out of this lobby. “Have a drink in my office, my man,” I say. “I’ll be right there.”

  The minute he’s gone and my door has opened and shut, I step to Rita’s desk and she lets out a breath. “He’s guilty of whatever he’s here to talk about. He’s a guilty, walking-dead mess.”

  “Which is why I need North on standby to file an action, if it becomes necessary,” I say, speaking of my associate “And get him on the response to the bank on the Reid Winter Winery that needs to be done today.”

  “He already has the documents and is working on them now.”

  “Any further information on the inspection?” I ask.

  “A team of five will be there any minute and they plan to finish by tomorrow night.”

  I grab a sheet of paper and write down Faith’s number. “Faith isn’t at the winery. She’s here. Kasey is in charge, but text myself and Faith when the team arrives. If you have any trouble at the winery, call Faith. She knows who you are, but I left quickly this morning and didn’t tell her you might be contacting her.”

  “Left quickly? As in she’s at your house?”

  “Drill me about my
personal life later when you can really dig your nails in and do it with full, irritating force. I need to see Charles tomorrow after that inspection is complete,” I say of my banker. “Get him on the schedule and if anyone from SF Bank calls, put them through.” I consider a moment and write down instructions for North before handing it to Rita. “Have North ready to file these documents with the court the minute we receive the new evaluation of the winery.”

  She glances at the information. “This will put you in court Wednesday. I’ll move your morning appointments. What else?”

  “If Faith calls, put her through. And I need Frank Segal, an attorney practicing out of Sonoma, on the line.”

  “Now?” she asks incredulously.

  “The minute you can reach him,” I say, pausing at my door, “so yes. Now.”

  “You are clear on the fact that one of your largest clients who’s about to wet his pants is in your office, correct?”

  She’s right. He’ll melt down if I take a call when I’m with him. “Get Segal on the line the minute Devon leaves.” I turn and head for my office.

  “I really deserve those donuts, Nick.”

  I pause at my closed door. “Which is why you will have them as soon as you send someone to get them that is not you or me,” I say, before entering my office.

  And holy hell, the minute I shut the door, Devon spews a mess of shit out at me, that all but guarantees he’ll be needing Abel a hell of a lot more than me. I listen to him, and despite all I have seen in my years of practice, this man manages to blow my mind. He’s brilliant, with a wife and kids, and a hell of a lot to lose, and yet he made stupid choices. When he’s finally done, and we have a plan to connect him to Abel, I watch him exit, with my father in my mind. Greed catches up to people and I tracked my father’s business dealings. When he wasn’t banging a new woman, he was banging a new payday, and usually at the price of others. And that shit catches up with you. For some, it lands them in jail. Others in a grave.