Being Me

Eight

Ryan Kilmer nails the tall, dark, and good-looking playboy persona to perfection clear down to his expensive light brown suit, which matches the image and his eye color almost exactly. “So you’re Rebecca’s replacement,” he says in greeting, holding on to my hand a bit too long.

“I wasn’t aware I was being billed as her replacement,” I say when he releases me. “More as a fill-in.”

“Ah yes,” he replies, and there is a slight edge to his tone that has me wondering what it means. “Fill-in. Well, I’m hoping you will stay around long enough to fill my needs.”

I refuse to read an undertone to the comment, but he’s Mark’s friend, and I wonder if he’s also the other man in the journal. I choose my words carefully. “You have a project requiring artwork?”

“I’m a real estate investor and I’m involved in a high-rise going up a few blocks away. We’re ready to put together the lobby and a few show units for viewing. We need them to impress a wealthy audience. Rebecca basically took control of another property for me a few months back.” He holds up a folder. “I brought you pictures of her work and the floor plans and pictures of what you have to work with now. I’d like you to come over and see the property as soon as possible.”

“Of course. I’d love to see what you’ve brought. Why don’t we head to my office?”

“Excellent.”

I spend the next hour reviewing the work Rebecca has done in the past for Ryan, and find out what he is looking for in the future. I am not beyond seeing this man as attractive, but unlike Mark, his lighthearted nature and easy humor are infectious and he sets me at ease. It’s hard to see him as a close friend to Mark, but then, maybe it’s his differences that make that possible. Maybe Mark and Chris are too alike, too in competition for control.

I close the folder. “I’m excited to see the property.” And about the extravagant budget that allows me to place some amazing pieces in the property, but suddenly I’m thinking about Mark and Chris and I wonder what caused the bad turn in their relationship.

“. . . and we should have the furnishings staged next week.”

I blink; it seems I have missed part of what Ryan is saying. “Ah yes. Staging is helpful. I’ll know what I have to work around.”

“I’m sure the decorator is going to want to have a say in things,” he adds. “But she worked with Rebecca and understands the idea is to impress the visitors with the artist as much as the design work.”

I’ve never worked with a designer and it’s a bit intimidating. I wonder if Rebecca had done so before she worked at the gallery. It hits me that I know nothing of her before her time here. How have I missed such an important clue that might help me find her?

“For now,” Ryan continues, “you can be thinking through options. The volume of pieces I need may require some outside purchases and I thought you’d need time to coordinate.” He rises and I follow, walking with him toward the lobby, but he smiles at Amanda and stops behind her desk.

The two begin making small talk, and I feel my schoolteacher motherly side kick in when I realize he is flirting with Amanda. This man is close to Mark and most likely a member of his club, and Amanda is a young college girl ten years his junior. I hover, unable to stop myself. When he’s done with his flirtation, I walk him to the door.

When I return to the office area, I stop at the front desk to chat with Amanda. “He’s very sexy,” she says, glowing from the attention. “And he’s never stopped and talked to me like that.”

“He’s too old for you,” I point out.

“No, he’s not,” she argues. “An older man is sexy.”

There is that word again. “And bossy,” I assure her.

She grins. “He can boss me around any day.” She lowers her voice. “Unlike Bossman, who makes me hot and bothered, like he does the entire female population, Ryan doesn’t scare me at the same time. No wonder Rebecca liked him so much.”

“He’s likable,” I agree, but I also think of how Rebecca saw the other man in the journal as an intrusion into her and Mark’s relationship and I cannot help but think it had been Ryan. I can see how Ryan would be Mark’s choice in a ménage. A man who didn’t threaten his role as King.

“But?” Amanda prods when I say nothing else.

“But remember that sometimes the likable ones have the darkest secrets.” And on that note, I’m headed to dangerous territory I decide to avoid. “Is Mary in?”

“She’s still sick,” Amanda declares. “You’re on your own today.”

Mary doesn’t seem to like me much so my heart isn’t broken. I enjoy working the floor anyway. “Not a problem. I’ll be on standby in my office.”

A few seconds later, I settle behind my desk, and my drawer vibrates as my phone buzzes with a text message. Retrieving my phone, I realize the message was sent some time back and I find myself looking at a picture of Chris with a teenage boy I know is the leukemia patient. The kid looks happy but thin, and pale. And while Chris is smiling, I don’t miss the sadness lurking in the depth of his eyes. Being with the boy and knowing he can’t be saved is eating him up. Layers, I think. Chris has so many layers.

I text him: You are amazing.

He replies. You can prove you mean that when I see you again.

I smile and type. How?

He answers with Try to use my imagination.

He’d accused me of being afraid of his imagination not so long ago. I’m not. Maybe you need to draw me another picture.

Yes, he types. Maybe I do.

I am grinning when the exchange ends and I begin thumbing through my prospect lists, contemplating lunch. Frustratingly, my mind goes back to Chris’s relationship with Mark. They were both control freaks. Both into the club activity. What if they had tried to share a woman and they’d clashed? This idea twists me in knots for all kinds of reasons, and I shove it aside. No. That isn’t what happened. That would mean Chris lied to me about his sexual preferences. Or would it? He told me what he favored. Had he ever said he’d never gone other directions? Chris didn’t lie to me, but is it possible that he didn’t exactly tell me the truth? I swallow hard. Who am I to judge where those lines are? I haven’t exactly been completely truthful with Chris and I don’t know if I can be. Not without destroying us.

My day is finally nearing an end just before seven and I’m about to gather my things to leave. “You ready to dart out of here?” Ralph asks from my doorway. “I’ll walk you and Amanda to your cars.”

As much as I don’t want to walk to my car, or rather Chris’s, alone, I don’t have the energy to answer the questions that would come when they discover I’m driving the 911. I regret driving it, for the complications it presents. And thankfully, the parking lot has cameras and Mark is still here. “I have to check in with Bossman on a couple of things so go on without me.”

Amanda appears in my doorway. “Tuesdays are supposed to be slow. That’s why we don’t have more staff scheduled, but today was insanity. What did you do to bring in so many customers? They were all asking for you.”

“Mark gave me a prospect list I called down. I guess the calls worked. Unfortunately, not one of them bought anything, but I have high hopes a few will be back.”

I chat with them for a few minutes until they finally depart. I’m beyond ready to leave myself. My cold Chinese food between clients has long ago worn off and no sleep the night before has taken a toll.

“What exactly do you have to run by me?”

I look up to find Mark standing in the doorway, his tie loose and his hair rumpled. He’d had a meeting with several people today that had lasted hours and he seems oddly harried. “The prospect list,” I reply. “I was hoping you could tell me which ones own pieces that Riptide might contact tomorrow.”

“I emailed you a list of those prospects earlier this afternoon.”

“Oh. Hmm. I guess I should check my e-mail. I was slammed with people today.”

“And yet we had no sales.”

My spine stiffens and I am instantly transported back to my past, when my father, and yes, Michael, were quick to flatten me when anything went wrong. Anger begins to stir inside me and not at Mark. I thought I’d put it behind me, but I clearly have not. Choose success, Mark had said, and yet he’s here trying to make me admit to failure that doesn’t exist? My anger shifts, twists, and turns inside me. No matter what the outcome, I cannot lie down for Mark as I have others in the past.

“You know,” I say, and I am proud of how strong my voice is, how steady my gaze, “if you’re trying to get me to ‘choose success,’ assuming my failure isn’t going to help. No sales today might be correct, but I have several customers I feel will buy, and buy well.”

His lips twitch. “Good to see you feeling confident enough to put me in my place.”

My eyes go wide. Had I really just put him in his place? And he let me, even seeming amused when I barely think he’s capable of such a feeling. Self-doubt rips through me and I try to reel it in, to remind myself he doesn’t seem upset, but I can’t do it. He’s my boss. He’s my path to financial security. I have to justify my reply. “I’m just . . . trying to make sure you know I don’t like failing, either.”

“And I approve.”

A frisson of pleasure runs through me with his words and the light in his eyes. Pleasing Mark pleases me and it’s not sexual. No. Chris has that part of me wrapped up tightly enough that there is no room for anyone else. It’s that power thing Mark has along with his role of authority. The pleasure of seconds before begins to ebb and fade at the uncomfortable reminder that even after daring to stand up to him, I did not stand my ground, and I am not in full control of how my past influences me.

“You look tired,” he says. “And so am I. Why don’t I walk you to your car?”

“I look tired,” I repeat. “Compliments will get you everywhere, Bossman.”

“Ah now,” he purrs, his voice low and rough, “if only it were that easy.”

I swallow hard at the heat in his stare and quickly reach for my purse and briefcase, and words, oh the words I can never control, tumble from my mouth. “Somehow I doubt anything easy would hold your interest.” Oh shit. Had I just issued him a challenge? I didn’t mean to. My eyes jerk to his. “Not that I—”

Laughter rolls from his lips, deep and rough like his voice. “Relax, Ms. McMillan. I know you weren’t issuing a challenge, though if you have a change of heart that sways in my direction, I’ll be happy to take you up on one.” He pulls his keys from his pocket. “Let’s get out of here. I’m of the opinion we both had way too long of a night for a long day like this one.”

No, I think, as I push to my feet, already feeling the absence of Chris in his own apartment. Mine was too short considering Chris was gone for a few more days.

We exit the gallery, the dim glow of a streetlight illuminating the back of the building and parking lot, where our two cars are the only ones left, and that means by process of elimination, the sporty silver Jaguar is Mark’s. He glances at the 911.

“I see he made sure to stake his claim,” he states dryly.

“Or he just really hates my Ford Focus.”

His eyes narrow sharply. “Don’t get used to what he gives you or you won’t want to earn it for yourself. And that, Ms. McMillan, would be a problem for us both. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He has dismissed me but he does not walk away, and I realize he’s waiting for me to get into the car. He’s hit a sensitive spot with me and I level my stare at him. I hesitate and consider letting it go, but I don’t. “I come from money, Mark. I’ve had money, lots of it, and I could have it now if I chose to comply with the expectations. So Chris can’t get me used to anything I don’t already know and am already willing to walk away from. I want to make my own money. And . . . .” He arches a brow at my hesitation and I realize I don’t want to say more. I don’t need to say more. This is not Mark’s business. “And good night.” I climb into the car without giving him another chance to speak, and the regret I felt about driving the car is gone. I don’t want to hide my relationship with Chris or make apologies or excuses for driving his car. This is my life and I plan to live it.

I pull onto the road, and the adrenaline high is back and I love that it comes from my actions. My thoughts go to Rebecca and how she used the man in the journal for her highs, how easily another man who wasn’t Chris could have brought that out in me. My desire to find her and confirm that she has found a path to her dreams, and is safe and happy, becomes more powerful than ever.

The 911 is a smooth luxury ride I am familiar with from my father’s preference for the car, but it’s been years since I’ve ridden in one, and certainly I never drove one. That Chris has easily handed me the keys is far more meaningful than he understands. Not that I didn’t have a nice car. My father wouldn’t allow his daughter to embarrass him in a Ford Focus like I have now. I’d driven a conservative little Audi during both high school and college, traded in every two years, of course. I’d loved the first car, and hated the two that had followed, as I’d begun to see beneath the veil of the life my mother and I led. No veil now, though. I’m on my own and I’m in a 911.

My lips curve and I hit the gas and indulge myself for a blast a short half block long. The instant I ease up my foot, the car goes into an easy glide. The smooth ride after the wicked acceleration reminds me of the extreme shifts I’ve experienced in Chris’s moods and I decide the car fits him well. I also wonder if I’ve truly seen what lies beneath the surface to cause those ups and downs. I wonder what he would think if he knew what lies beneath my surface.

I shake off the place my thoughts are going as I pull up to Chris’s fancy high-rise only a few blocks from the gallery and the doorman opens my door and greets me. “Good evening, Ms. McMillan.”

Handing over the keys, I am reminded of Chris teasing this doorman as he had another at a hotel not to joyride in the car. “I didn’t joyride.” I grin. “Much.”

He grins back at me. “I won’t tell.”

“Thank you,” I say, giving him a small nod before I slide the strap of my briefcase over my shoulder and head inside the building, where I find Jacob standing by the front counter.

“Ms. McMillan,” he says with a nod when I stop beside him. “I trust the day was uneventful in a good way since I didn’t hear from you after our phone call this morning.”

“It was,” I confirm. “You know, I just didn’t want to risk bothering you if you were off duty this morning.”

“I’m always on duty,” he informs me. “I live on property and I made a special promise to Chris to look out for you. He doesn’t ask for favors, Ms. McMillan. He did for you. I don’t intend to let him down. You’re on my radar but I need you to communicate with me. If you’re going out, let me know.”

I have a flashback to the many years of my life my mother and I went nowhere without a security guard we didn’t need. I didn’t understand that in my youth, of course. Not until college, when I’d torn away my rose-colored glasses, did I realize we were like kept animals, pets to my father, controlled, not protected. Sheltered from the many lives he had led and the many women my mother had pretended she didn’t share him with.

“Ms. McMillan?” Jacob asks, and I snap my gaze up from the floor to his.

“Yes,” I murmur. “Thank you, Jacob.” And despite my walk down memory lane, I mean the words. Contrary to my actions the night before, I don’t make a habit of being stupid, no matter what my father might say otherwise. Someone was in that storage unit with me last night. Maybe it was teenagers, or maybe it wasn’t, but with my worries about Rebecca, I’m not sure I’m over the fear I felt inside the darkness.

His eyes narrow and glint with understanding. “I don’t care what time of the day or night, you call me if you need to. There is no reason too small. Better safe—”

“Than sorry,” I finish for him. “Yes, I know.” I incline my head. “I’ll call if I need you.”

A few minutes later, I walk off the elevator and into Chris’s apartment, taking in the twinkling skyline. Exhaustion begins to seep into my bones and I head to the bedroom, pausing at the doorway, entranced by the giant, unmade bed.

Baby, the ways I’m going to fuck you are too many to count, but not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to make love to you.

And he had. I have no idea if that means he’s falling in love with me, but I am falling in love with him. I have already.

I wet my suddenly parched lips and kick off my shoes before walking to the bathroom and finding Chris’s shirt, which I’ve saved to sleep in. After undressing, I pull the shirt over my body and inhale deeply. The scent of Chris is a little piece of heaven. I head to the kitchen and spend some time exploring, pleased to find a box of macaroni and cheese that I quickly whip into dinner. Once it’s ready, I cave in to curiosity and end up at the door of Chris’s studio with dinner, my laptop, and my phone in hand.

I flip on the light and I don’t see the gorgeous city surrounding me. There is only the roll of tape lying by the stool. I squeeze my eyes shut and I can almost put myself back on that chair with Chris’s mouth and hands on my body. I settled my things on the floor by the wall where I intend to get comfortable, but I don’t sit. Now, and only now, do I let myself think about what has randomly slipped into my thoughts today, to be dashed away. The painting.

Slowly, I walk forward, my pulse accelerating as I near Chris’s depiction of me, bound by the ankles and wrists, in the center of the studio. As I bring it into view, my throat goes instantly dry, and heat burns low in my belly. It’s a black-and-white image, which he favors, and well developed with fine details, too well developed to be a draft. He’s been working on this for a while and he left it in the open for me to see, this morning and now. Chris does nothing without purpose. This is a message or a challenge. I’m not sure which, or maybe it’s both. I’m not clear on either. And considering I’m both aroused and uncomfortable, I’m not even clear on what I feel. This is Chris’s sanctuary. What does it mean that he’s bound me in real life and on canvas?