Chapter Two
My pieces tend to run on the large side. Five by nine feet. Full wall murals. I do smaller canvases, but the portions of my soul I cast out into the world require more than an eight by ten inch page. It’s an expression and it’s a part of myself, and large pieces don’t make me feel stifled like the small ones do. Personal creation on a macro level.
I could go for the petty—hiding a key piece to his latte machine, or leaving a scratch directly down the centre of his 3-D glasses so he can’t watch anything without being annoyed, which I totally did before leaving the apartment because fuck him—but it wouldn’t be enough. If a great romance requires a grand gesture, a great break-up deserves a one of a kind blowout.
And I owe it to him to make it memorable.
I’m creative, but every Thelma needs her Louise. I need someone beside me in the front seat holding my hand as we burn rubber over the cliff of no return, but instead of the crunchy bottom of a ravine, we’ll find freedom and a happy ending. Or at least a happier beginning.
I think I know just the person to be my partner in crime.
Eric.
I wasn’t the only wronged party in this situation. Courtney has a boyfriend, and he is stop number three on the agenda. First up—Bobby’s office. Stop two—my studio.
Having cleaned up my tear-stained face before leaving the apartment, I walk confidently into Bobby’s office and stop at reception instead of strolling straight through.
“Hazel! How are you?” Amaryllis smiles at me from behind the desk, and for the first time I wonder if it’s genuine, or if she’s seen the business side of Bobby’s dick as well.
“I’m good. I can’t stay, but please give this to Bobby.” I hand the phone over.
“No wonder he was so tense today.” She stands and smoothes her skirt.
“Yeah, he left it at home.” I nearly choke on the word, knowing it isn’t my home anymore. “Anyways, if you could tell him I’ll call later?”
“Sure!” She clips down the hall on her stilettos, and I clop out of the building in my stompy buckled boots. I’m just pulling away from the curb when my phone rings. Bobby. Gee, I’d love to get it, but talking on the phone while driving is dangerous. He’s probably wondering where his Thai food is. As far as I’m concerned, his lunch is dangling between his legs, because he can eat a dick.
Noticing the scenery going by a bit fast, I ease up on Zowie’s gas pedal. The last thing I need is a ticket. At the next red light, I select a CD, crank it, and Aloe Blacc fills my ears with funky beats. Bobby craves order above all else; change is a bitter pill for him to swallow. As much as I want to scream in his face and throat-punch him, I know something that will have an even bigger impact.
The wedding will go on as planned, except for one tiny detail in our vows. The part he won’t be expecting is when I tell the priest, ‘I don’t,’ throw the bouquet in Courtney’s face, and walk down the aisle alone and free. If I break up with him this second, his first priority—when he realizes I’m not joking—will be cancelling the wedding and getting his money back. This way, not only does he get shown up at his wedding in front of all his family and friends, but he’s left footing the very expensive bill which I know will just chap his ass.
I know it’s expensive because he’s mentioned how much he’s spending on it about eleventy-billion times.
“Hazy, you know you should watch your spending a bit more. Things will be tight for a bit, what with me spending eighty-seven thousand dollars on our dream wedding.”
Your
dream wedding
, I’d wanted to correct him, but it did all sound very beautiful, if unoriginal.
It’s going to be driving him crazy wondering why I dropped the phone off and didn’t stay to chat about wedding plans. Or bring his food. This, the latte machine, and the 3D glasses are just the beginning of a thousand tiny annoyances I’ll be orchestrating in the next six days until the wedding.
The car behind me honks. I pull forward and call Bobby back, steeling myself for phase two.
“Hazel, where the hell are you? We’re supposed to be—”
“I know, Bobby.” My decision to do this by phone was the smartest thing I’ve done all year. My fists itch to punch the dashboard just from hearing his voice. “Something came up, and I had to run. Did you get your phone?” Will he be worried I saw the vid?
He sighs heavily, and I can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Obviously I did, or I wouldn’t be talking to you right now.”
Nope. The arrogance of the self-entitled. What a snuggly blanket of delusion that must be. “So, you’re not going to like this. But a huge piece came up with a really large commission.”
“What’s not to like about that? It will be nice to get some back after all the money I’ve sunk into the wedding.”
Change the freaking record, Bobby. “Exactly what I was thinking! But the only thing is that they want it in a week.”
“But the wedding plans—”
“I know, but I need to take this. I need to contribute something.” Like a boot to your nuts.
“I don’t know, Hazy.”
Now for the bait. “It would mean I’d have to stay at my studio all week. I’d barely see you. Maybe I should call them back and tell them no.”
“Well, now, don’t be hasty. It’s a lot of money, and you’ve your reputation to think of. We don’t want people thinking you renege once you’ve accepted a commission.”
He’s probably realized that he’ll have six Hazel-free nights to fuck anyone he wants. I press a little. “Are you sure? I packed a bag, but I can just come back. It is the week before our wedding, after all.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Might be kind of fun to limit contact this week. It will make it that much more amazing when I see you walking down the aisle in that gorgeous dress.”
The dress he picked out, with the corset top so tight I can’t breathe, with about ten pounds of beadwork weighing me down, and a mermaid-style bottom. The last cut I’d choose for myself. “It would be kind of cool if the next time I saw you, we were saying our vows.” For real.
He chuckles. “Let’s do it, then. I’ll see you on the altar. Make sure you call before stopping by the apartment this week. Just to be sure.”
Asshole. “Okay.”
“Love you.”
I can’t even force myself to say it back as a lie. “Bye!”
My hands start shaking, but I’ve reached my parking spot at the studio and don’t have to worry about traffic, or the general public seeing me break down. Emotions sort of ricochet around my chest. Anger, hurt, fear at my suddenly uncertain future, and even guilt at what I’m about to do to Bobby, war for dominance with no real victor. My heart is a lit-up pinball machine with a piece of metal bouncing around with nowhere to go. No release. Just points getting racked up, emotions ratcheting to impossible heights with no end in sight.
But that’s not true. The wedding. Six more sleeps and I’m free. Eyes on the prize, Hazel! Eschewing the elevator, I take the stairs two at a time to burn off some angry energy until I reach my sixth floor apartment breathing heavier, but feeling marginally better. But the moment I open the door, I can feel the taint, as though a mildly poisonous gas has filled it, and if I stay a moment longer than I have to, I’ll suffocate and die.
It still smells familiar, like paints, and lemon, and a hint of turpentine. But now that I know my creative space has been violated, the safety is gone. The warm, snuggly feeling that used to wrap me up when I walked inside has evaporated. The dark wood floors I used to pace when filled with the frantic, frenetic energy of a painting that needed to begin, but I wasn’t sure where to start yet. The window I’d stare out of, drinking in inspiration from the streets below. Even the couch that I designed, down to the stitches of the fabric.
Everything here was mine, long before I met Bobby. But now it’s theirs. They’ve taken it from me, and I’m left with nothing. If there were any doubts before, seeing the space that is no longer mine has solidified my resolve. I can’t let them get away with everything I have, everything I am, without avenging it. Without letting them know the sting of a wronged lover.
Bobby isn’t the only one who needs to pay. Love is fickle, but blood is supposed to mean something to even the most cynical bastards. Love means something to me, but apparently that’s a cheesy Hollywood dream, and not a reality. Well, things are about to get real up in this bitch.
I call the woman who, just a few hours ago, I’d considered one of my best friends, someone I’d have taken a bullet for. She answers on the second ring. “Courtney speaking.”
She always answers like that, even when she knows who’s calling. Thinks it makes her look more professional in public.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Zelly! How are you?”
How can she just talk to me like she hasn’t torn my life apart? “I’m good.”
“Awesome. You getting cold feet yet?”
Wouldn’t you like that?
“Not yet.” I chuckle with her. “What have you been up to?”
“Not a lot. It’s been so boring! Totally sucks.”
So I’ve seen. “Listen, I’ve gotten a huge piece commissioned, and need all the available time I can get my hands on this week.”
“Cool.” She’s always hated that I ‘get to spend a couple hours farting around with paints, and then get thousands of dollars for it.’ As if that’s what I do.
“The thing is, I’ll be really busy, and won’t have time for wedding stuff.”
She hesitates. “I didn’t want to say anything. Zelly, you really need to make a bigger effort. You don’t even know how lucky you are to have found a guy who can take care of you, so you can sit around and not have to work.”
“I work really hard, Courtney.”
“Whatever. You know what I mean. You’re not a slave to schedules like the rest of us.”
Is this what drew her to Bobby? Wanting to be taken care of? “The reason I bring this up, is because Bobby and I are trying to not see each other before the wedding, but I’m a bit worried that–”
“You want me to take care of him?” If I hadn’t known they’d slept together more than once, I’d believe the boredom in her voice. “What’s in it for me?”
Unfuckingbelievable. “What do you want?”
“A portrait. A big one.”
Not only has she fucked my fiancé, now she wants me to commemorate her beauty, at the cost of about four thousand dollars and a few weeks of my time, when I know she’s going to be humping him like a rabbit on Viagra until the wedding.
“Sounds good!”
“When we hanging out again? I miss your face!”
Yeah, right. I grind my teeth and force the scream back down my throat. “Soon.”
“And don’t worry about a thing, Zelly. I’ll take really good care of Bobby, and make sure he stays out of trouble.”
“Thank you.”
“He won’t even so much as look at another woman. Not on my watch!”
“Bye.” Times like this I hate my iPhone. What I wouldn’t give for an old receiver I could slam repeatedly into the cradle to let off steam. Instead, I hang up and hit the shower.
I’ve got to see a man about a whore.
Chapter Three
My legs are shaky, but my mind is set. I grip the bottle of champagne tighter, and knock on the door. I’ve tarted myself up a bit with a sweater dress a shade of blue that makes my eyes look violet, and a pair of white thigh high socks that you can’t see the tops of unless the dress rides up accidentally-on-purpose.
I’m scrubbed and shaved and smooth and scared.
Eric opens the door, and smiles when he sees me. “Haze. This is a nice surprise.”
“Is this an okay time?” God, I hope Courtney isn’t here.
He waves me in and closes the door behind me. “Perfect time.”
“Is Courtney here?”
“No.” I don’t realize he’s going for a hug until we’re already pressed together, and I’m wrapped up in his arms. I take my first real breath in hours, and relax into the embrace. Eric is all clean soapy man scent, whereas Bobby smells like expensive cologne sprayed with a heavy hand. Eric feels so different from Bobby, all sharp angles and long lines to Bobby’s shorter, more built frame.
I’ve always liked him. I think he found me attractive too, but it’s always been the detached appreciation of two people in happy relationships with other partners. I never understood what kept him and Courtney together. Her tastes run pretty shallow, and while his classic bone structure, melty brown eyes, and shaggy blonde curls qualify him in the looks department, he’s not exactly well-off. Courtney likes to be pampered. Eric works his ass off, but he’s a sous chef, and puts in long hours for not that much money. He does it because he loves it, and truly cares about food, wanting to own his own restaurant someday.
He and Courtney have been dating for five months.
Tonight, I’m going to seduce him.
“Champagne?” He gestures at the bottle.
“It’s a night for celebrating.”
He grabs two glasses, and we head to the couch. I unmute the television, and recognize one of Bobby Flay’s cooking shows.
“We don’t have to watch this, you can find something else.”
“It’s cool. I like the food network.”
He gives me a skeptical look. “You sure? Courtney hates this show.”
“Well, I’m not my cousin, and I like this show. I’m not a huge fan of Flay’s, though.”
Eric pops the cork into a towel, and pours champagne into the glasses without spilling a drop. “I’m not either! I watch hoping that he’ll lose.”
I take my glass. “He’s so predictable. Oh, sweet heat, Bobby, what a surprise from you.” His eyes sparkle. “Right? Like, hate to break it to you, but there are other flavour combinations out there, I promise.”
Hanging out with Eric has always been easy. Even now, while feeling like my arms and legs are four feet long and awkward as hell, smiles are easy to find. I clink glasses with his.
“What should we drink to?”
I pause. The thing about seduction is, I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing, or if he’ll even go for it. He’s seeing my cousin. Even if he’s interested, he might think it’s an elaborate setup Courtney and I concocted to see if
he’ll
cheat on
her
and turn me down. I’m sure another woman would know just the toast to make to have his pants on the floor in three seconds flat, but I go for what I really want. “Let’s drink to finding unexpected happiness.”
“That sounds good.”
The champagne goes down smooth, crisp, bubbly, and just a little dry. I cross my legs, and notice when he looks at the bare patch of skin above my thigh socks. Okay. Maybe this is doable. Were his eyes always this... I don’t want to say deep and delicious, but they’re so warm and rich, and framed with long dark lashes despite his hair being blonde. It’s a gorgeous contrast.
And that shaggy hair. Bobby’s is short, and he gels it, which doesn’t make for a great tactile experience. ‘Let me run my fingers through your crunchy hair. Yeah baby, that turns me on. You’re so hard for me, even your
hair
is stiff.’ What other differences am I about to experience?
Settling a little closer at an angle so I’m facing him, I take a sip of liquid courage.
And lose my nerve. I turn back and focus too hard on the cooking show, but at least it’s neutral ground, and Eric doesn’t seem to notice my blush.
Now that the filter of monogamy has been blown, ha ha, off my eyes, I’m a little flummoxed by how attracted I am to him. I haven’t been with anyone other than Bobby in two years. I’d come off of a bad break-up and was single for about a year before Bobby came on the scene, and unlike him, I was completely faithful. Even now, I feel guilt pulling at my stomach like a herd of teeny fishhooks, urging me to flee the apartment and go back home.
Home. I don’t have a home anymore, not after Bobby... Idiot me.
I slug back the rest of my champagne and look at Eric, whose gaze is already locked on me. I don’t know what to say, so I take his glass, and set it with mine on the table, and move closer, kneeling on the couch. I focus on his hands, because I can’t quite look him in the eyes yet, in case there’s rejection in his expression. A long scar runs the length of the back of his thumb, thin and white, long-healed. Another tiny one on the back of his hand, sort of basket-shaped, like a tic-tac-toe game with no x’s or o’s.
I give in to the urge to feel that scar with my tongue. Except for the gasp of air he breathes in, he’s completely still. Finally daring to make eye contact, I bite his knuckle and drag my teeth down his finger. His eyes are hungry, and he trails his free hand down my hip, and hikes the hem of my dress up a few inches, giving him access to my bare thigh.
More guilt, this time directed at Courtney. She’s family, and she screwed me over. But isn’t this just sinking to her level, going after something she loves? It never stopped her—not even when we were kids playing with toys at Christmas. Courtney never liked sharing her toys. She always stole mine, and I never tattled because it was wrong to do that to family. Even as a kid, I’d felt like we were best friends, but better. Sisters who didn’t have to live together, and didn’t have to fight for the same parents’ attention. It wasn’t a competition.
At least I never saw it that way.
Eric pulls me toward him, and with a tiny movement, I’ve straddled his lap, and his hands slide up my thighs, taking the bottom of my dress from modest to indecent. But I’m melting in the warmth of his eyes, and smiling back at him.
It should feel so very, very wrong when our lips meet. It should.
It doesn’t.
His kisses go to my head faster than the champagne, and soon it’s hard to breathe, but I’d rather suffocate than stop. I’d die in a compromising position, but happy as hell about it. His lips are soft, but the pressure is firm, and our tongues meet, lightly dancing across each other before delving deeper, exploring, devouring. Mouths aren’t enough. Hands grow envious and begin ranging, feeling, grasping.
His hair is gorgeous in between my fingers, and I give a little tug, unable to help myself. I want more so I pull him closer, stroking his tongue with mine, slide my knees farther up so we’re pressed together. Apparently it’s still not enough for either of us. Eric stands in one swift movement, and moves my legs so they’re wrapped around his waist. Such a masculine, authoritative move almost undoes me, but he pulls back and withdraws the hands that glide across my thighs and ass.
I squeak my disapproval.
He clears his throat. “I might end up kicking my own ass for asking you this, but are you sure you want to do this?”
I lick my suddenly dry lips and he bites his in response. Surprised by how sexy I find that, I nod. “Yes. I’m sure.”
“Thank god.”
“Put your hands back where they were!”
He does, and his lips too, and walks us into the bedroom. It’s cool and dark, and the blanket is cold against my back when he lowers me to the bed.
Is this Courtney’s side of the bed?
But he’s warm on top of me, and I urge him closer, wanting his weight crushing me into the bed. His jeans are rough against the sensitive skin on the inside of my legs when I wrap them around his hips. He moves lower, kissing a trail of
forbidden
kisses down my throat to my chest, pushing aside the collar of my dress. His mouth has me arching into him so hard that my back isn’t touching the mattress.
His fingers move up my legs. “This dress is one of yours, right?”
“Yes.”
“I love these socks.”
“Thank you.” I’m so glad I wore them, they totally worked. His hands move up and up, slowly, teasing my nerves to frenzied heights. His hands are so amazing. I never knew—of course I never knew. He’s Courtney’s. Not mine.
“How did you know the dress was one of mine?”
He traces the swell of my hips. “I can always tell. I love your art.”
Every cell in my body smiles. “Really?”
“Yes.” He pulls back a bit, and flicks on the lamp. “See?” He points at the wall and my breath leaves my lungs so fast my chest hurts.
One of my paintings. One of the few originals that actually sold from my online store. A lot of people buy prints, or the tiny artist trading cards I sell, but only a couple originals have sold. This was all blues and purples and warped buildings on a city street. Had sort of a jazzy vibe to it. It went a few months ago—would have been when he and Courtney first started dating. “You bought it?”
He nods. “The first time we all hung out, I found out you were an artist, which was cool, but whatever. Then we were all sitting around at the club, and you’d sort of stared off into space. Bobby said you were always doing that.”
“I remember that.” I’d been gripped by the reflections of the strobe on the half matte, half shiny walls.
“The way you described everything—just the way the light hit things—was amazing. Something none of us had even seen or noticed, and once you pointed it out, I couldn’t not see it. It made me insanely curious about how you saw the world. How it’s different from the way I see it. What it’s like from inside your mind.”
“So you went online and looked at my work.”
“Yes. Courtney was annoyed, saying it was just a painting in depressing colours with bent walls. But I love it.”
Maybe that’s why she wanted Bobby. She wasn’t interested in him until she thought her guy was into something about me.
And was he ever. I turn back and our lips meet again. The world is the same world for everyone, but our perceptions are all we have. They are what make us unique, and Eric wanted to share mine. He’s such an amazing man.
But I can’t do this! No matter what that skank and my fiancé did to me, I can’t be like them. I just can’t do it to myself, and I can’t lure Eric into cheating on her with me—no matter how much I think she deserves it. It’s wrong and feels dirty. And not the right kind of dirty.
“No, I can’t do this.” I plant my hands and push against his chest, when all I want is to pull him closer.
“What’s wrong? Did I do something wrong?” He moves right away and actually sounds concerned, not annoyed, which only makes me want to jump on top and ride him like the Kentucky Derby.
“I’ve taken it too far because you’re—I’m—I like you, and never expected to.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
I adjust my dress back down over my legs. “There’s something you need to know, Eric.”
“You don’t have herpes or something, do you?”
“What?”
He holds up his hands. “I’m not judging if you do, it’s just that I don’t, and–”
“Ew, no! I’m clean. Wait, that’s the first thing your mind goes to?”
“Can’t be too careful these days.”
“I guess.”
He shakes his head. “But what’s up? Just a second ago you were really into me. What changed? Is this about your painting? Does that seem stalkery?”
“Not at all.” It’s a good thing he’s sitting down for this. “I should have started with this the second I walked in. Maybe I shouldn’t have come over, I should have just phoned, I don’t know.”
He gently grips my shoulders. “Hazel, what’s up?”
“Courtney cheated on you. You deserve to know.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I’m really sorry.”
He frowns. “Why are you sorry?”
“Because I’m here now.”
“And? Sorry, but I don’t see what that has to do with you.”
Frustrated, I finger comb my hair back from my face. “She fucked Bobby.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah.” Now that I’ve said it out loud to someone, the full reality stings me like an Africanized killer scorpion. If they existed.
Do they exist?
Eric strokes my shoulders with his thumbs. “I can’t believe they did that to you. Especially a week before the wedding. I’m so sorry.”
“To us.”
“What?”
“They did this to us.”
“They didn’t. Courtney and I aren’t an ‘us’ anymore. We broke up last week.”
I shoot to my feet. “What?”
“Yeah. I thought you knew.”
“I had no idea you’d broken up! You were just going to
sleep
with me?” Diabolical.
“Yes?” He looks as confused as I feel.
Eric not being a cheating douche makes me feel better about him, and worse about myself.
He scrubs a hand down his face. “When did you find out about her and Bobby? I swear I had no idea or I’d have told you.”
“Today.”
“I mean, I broke up with her because I thought there was something going on, and I was tired of her not taking us seriously, but hell. Bobby? I never saw that coming. He’s way too... stiff.”
“I never saw it coming either.” Well, that’s not entirely true, but semantics.
He stands and pulls me into a hug, and I sink into his warmth despite myself. He smells so good. “I’ve never been cheated on before. That I know of.”
“I have. Once before. It doesn’t get easier.” His large hands stroke my back.
The simple comfort undoes me. Big, fat tears slip down my cheeks, and I hold my breath to avoid sobbing, but a strange honking wheezes from my chest when I inhale, as if my lungs have decided now’s the time to imitate a goose. The harder I try to stop it, the louder it becomes. “I’m so sorry!” I honk.
“Let it out, Haze.” He works wonders on the tension in my back and neck muscles, and I herd my feelings into submission in only a couple mortifying minutes. When I pull back, I notice the giant dark spot on his shirt—my blubbery ichor. Seduction: I’m doing it wrong!