Chapter 1
I stared at the
painting—the god-forsaken, horrifying painting.
It was the first
of an installation that I’d hoped would not only reap critical praise, but
would also sell like fucking crazy.
Or so my trusted
protégé/roving talent scout, Jill, had told me.
I stared at the
painting again.
I closed my eyes
and shook my head.
I was in hell…
Lance, my trusty
assistant and gay bestie, ambled up to me and cocked his head to the side.
“Zombie
turkeys,” he said, sotto voce.
“Interesting.”
Correction: I
was in Zombie turkey Hell.
I wondered if
there was an open bar in Zombie turkey Hell.
“Where is Jill?”
I asked. I was going to strangle her
with my bare hands.
Lance took a
slow side-step away from me. “You know I
hate it when you seethe like that.”
“I do not
seethe!” I looked at him and he’d
already taken another long side-step away from me.
“Jill’s in
Portland this week,” he said, “and yes, you are seething.”
I opened my
mouth to scream at him, but had to admit that yes, I was seething.
I wanted to yank
the zombie turkey off the wall, drag it outside, and torch it.
“You’re right,”
I said, turning back to the painting, folding my arms under my breasts—only the
flat-chested could cross their arms over their chests, and I had been blessed
with an ample bosom. “I’m sorry.”
Lance sighed,
cracked his long, elegant neck, and then stepped back toward me.
“Our Miss Jill
says this painter is the next hot thing… says they can’t keep his shit on the
walls in Denver.”
I rolled my eyes
and took another, closer look. The
detail was good, if not nauseating. The
image was strong and commanding.
Yeah, but the
subject matter was ridiculous!
Even if I could
sell this turkey, I’d be the joke of the Chicago art world, not to mention the
east coast.
No, this
couldn’t happen. I was going to have to
dump this…
Some workmen
toted in another painting, this one of a gaggle of zombie turkeys surrounding
one normal, non-zombie turkey.
This was
ridiculous.
“So,” I said,
looking over at a beguilingly off-centered couple standing by a still wrapped eight
by six feet painting leaning against the bank of front windows. “Which one is he?”
The couple
consisted of a slightly punky, devil-may-care faced lothario with a goatee,
distressed, practically painted on jeans, and some awesomely broad
shoulders.
The other was
about as interesting as dry toast: an almost handsome face that seemed
just out of focus... hair too neat… clothes right out of a J.C. Penny catalogue
and a rather impressive ability to blend right in with the potted plants.
Lance groaned. “The pathetically plain one? That’s Randy Crawford: the artist. The hot little slice beside him is his
boyfriend, Darius.”
Of course, it
had to be the boring one.
“God is a mean,
hateful bitch if a sad sack like that can land himself such a gorgeous piece of
ass!" Lance shook his head bitterly.
The
aforementioned Darius tore the paper covering from the front of the third
painting.
I gasped as the
motley tableau before me assaulted my eyes: a grisly depiction of a flock of
the zombie turkeys ripping apart a human corpse. The man, or should I say what was left of the
man’s shredded and blood-splattered body, was holding a cornucopia in one hand,
and a meat cleaver in the other.
The irony was
not lost on me, and yet I could not imagine what kind of mental imbalance or
chemical reaction could have caused any sane person to paint this
travesty.
Was the boring
painter a closet meth freak?
At least that
would be something interesting I could tell people at the showing.
Oh god, there
was going to be a show, wasn’t there?
I asked, “Do you
think we could just tell people that the hot one is the artist?”
“Not a chance.”
Lance stage whispered. “He’s already
posted his mug all over Facebook and Pinterest.
There’s even going to be a banner by the front door.”
“Fuck.” I put my hand to my forehead and tried to
relax.
But…
But I was
starving!
How could I deal
with a zombie turkey apocalypse on an empty stomach?
But nothing
sounded good.
“Lance, I think
we should order…”
He waved me off
with his perfectly manicured hand.
“Way ahead of
you, boss-lady. I ordered you pasta
fagioli from Roma’s, with those little crustinis you like so much.”
I sighed as I
gazed lovingly at him. “Did you, maybe…”
He smiled
devilishly, his perfectly symmetrical face a portrait of beauty, his warm green
eyes sparkling.
“I ordered
myself an Italian hoagie… you know I can never eat the whole thing!”
He sucked in his
fabulously ripped six-pack and acted as if he needed to diet.
But if he
ordered the hoagie, and I ate half of it, it didn’t count.
Girl logic:
perfect and insane.
“Which reminds
me, I’ve got to get the contracts for the Caron show out by noon!” He made a
show of looking at his shell pink Rolex—a gift from a thankful and filthy rich
art buyer that Lance wined and dined… and then did things to that I’m too young
and pure of heart to know about.
The buyer,
Churchill Walker, had been old and crusty, though truly charming. I’m sure Lance earned every spinning gear and
crystal facing of that twenty thousand dollar plus wristwatch.
He eyed me. “So you’ll have to stay up front to tip
Franco when he delivers the food.”
“Why didn’t you
add the tip to the company card?” I whined.
I hated handling cash. And though
Roma’s delivery man, Franco, was super nice… he liked to talk far too much
about the stupidest of things. He also
looked a hell of a lot like every Italian uncle in every movie ever made:
potbelly, a mustache, and a hooked nose.
“That’s why god
created Visa and Master Card… not to mention American Express!”
He shot me a
stern look. “If we tip using the credit
card, he has to claim the whole thing on his taxes, whereas—”
“Whereas,” I cut
him off, “cash leaves no paper trail. I
get it.” I reached up and tucked a lock
of his flaxen hair back behind his ear.
Lance twirled
his Ralph Lauren jacket over his long, well muscled arms and kissed me on the
head.
“I’ll be back
before you can say cunnilingus.”
I smacked him on
the ass as he sashayed toward the front door.
“You’re really straight, I know it!”
He blew me a
kiss, and then acted as if he were about to faint when he strode past the geek
artist and his hottie boyfriend.
I saw two more
very large paintings being hauled into the gallery.
Jesus… this was
turning into a nightmare.
Chapter 2
I settled in
behind the reception desk, sifting through the invitations that had stacked up
over the week. If I actually went to all
the parties to which I was invited I would do nothing else.
I usually picked
one, maybe two parties to mingle at per weekend. If I was lucky, I could fit both parties in
on one night, preferably Friday night.
That way I’d have Saturday and Sunday all to myself to depressurize.
All to myself…
I felt a
shuddering sense of dread—a familiar feeling that had sadly become the norm.
I dreaded
weekends.
No, not the
weekends, what they now meant.
For the last
three months I’d… well, it was embarrassing as hell to say out loud.
I hadn’t had sex
for three months.
Okay, I said it…
Sort of.
Some might think
three months was just a little dry spell, but not for me. It was the equivalent of a hundred and fifty
years in my years, and a decade accrued at the end of every night I spent by
myself in my lonely little California king—
Watching the
Cartoon Network.
I blame my best
friend, Susan Jacobs—formerly Susan Rhodes—sexy, though love-life-deprived,
architect extraordinaire.
She finally
opened her eyes and saw her hot, though ultimately boring, male best friend for
what he really was: husband material.
I don’t
recommend it personally, but wedded bliss totally suited Susan… so much so that
she and the hubby decided to procreate.
So Sara Marie
Jacobs was born.
What does all
that have to do with my sexual drought?
Well, I'm her
best friend in the world—and since baby Sara decided to come into the world a
full two weeks early, when Kevin was out of town on business, I was pulled into
the whole birthing drama. I’m talking
about driving Susan to the hospital, threatening the geeky ER clerk with rather
imaginative bodily harm if he didn’t get her in to see a doctor immediately,
fending off calls from Susan and Kevin’s parents, and then holding Susan’s hand
while she went through the screaming, crying, sweating, nausea, grunting, and
creative cursing.
I didn’t mind
when I lost feeling in the hand she was gripping. What are friends for? I didn’t mind running out of the room and
grabbing her socks for her—she was sweating like a whore in a church, but her
feet were cold!
What I did find
disturbing was when I re-entered Susan’s hospital room.
“She’s coming!”
Susan cried out in the throes of the mother of all contractions, her hand
outstretched for me to take. I started
toward her and slipped on the tiled floor.
It was a quick trip, I landed on my ass, clipping my shoulder on the
floor but thankfully missing my head.
It was the
scramble to my feet that set the sexual purgatory I’m currently in into motion.
The doctor and
nurses were busy, so no one noticed my slip slide to the floor. I grabbed hold of the end of the bed to pull
myself up from the floor, right beside the OBGYN stationed between my friend’s
legs, and I got an eye full of what the good doctor was looking at.
Christ on a
fucking crutch!
These kinds of
sights are best left NEVER seen.
Baby Sara’s head
was just crowning.
It was right out
of that movie Aliens.
Susan screamed
at me again and I tore my gaze from the gynecological front line and staggered
to her side again, welcoming the pain her desperate, bone crushing grip caused
when she took my hand again.
But that image
was burned onto my mind like a cattle brand.
Since that day I
have not felt even the least bit turned on.
No matter how
many precautions I take—condoms, spermicidal lubes, vaginal foam, the pill—I
just can’t stop thinking about the sight of my best friend’s girly parts
bloodied and distended in excruciating pain.
Like the blaze
of a strobe light flashing over and over and over again in my head.
No matter how
hot the guy is, no matter how much I want to—and good god, how I want to—as
soon as the kissing and the groping starts, I just go cold. My body switches off and my mind starts
running a horrifying baby-birthing loop.
I looked up when
the discreet chime of the front door tolled.
I blinked.
This was not
Franco.
No… it was so not
Franco.
This man had the
Roma’s delivery heated bag, and a Roma’s t-shirt stretched across his broad,
well-formed chest.
I smiled to
myself as he came closer. Dark,
penetrating eyes, long, lovely boy lashes, a pouty, kissable mouth, and the
longish, lustrous hair that made a woman want to run her hands through it—
Or have it run
over her breasts and down her body as he kissed his way down to her pussy…
Oh yeah, this
man was just what the doctor ordered.
He strode over
to me and winked. “Hey there… I’m
Franco.”
I laughed. “No, you’re not.”
He blinked,
confusion lighting in his eyes. Then he
smiled, a wickedly sexy smile, showing off a killer set of pearly whites and
sexy dimples.
“I’m Franco
junior,” he explained. “I’m filling in
for my dad for the week.”
“Are you?” I was already planning to have Roma’s
delivered for the rest of the week.
“Yeah, he took
my mom on a second honeymoon to Florida.”
He blushed as he talked.
Okay, enough
talk.
“So,
Franco. You look… hot.” I left the word and the innuendo floating in
the air.
He licked his
full lips and leaned against the counter, showing off biceps and forearms that
obviously took hours of pumping iron in a gym somewhere. “It is pretty damn hot out there. They say it’s ninety in the shade.”
I leaned
forward, smooshing my boobs together to show them off to my prospective dry
spell ender.
“I have a bucket
of ice in the back.”
His eyes dropped
to take in the sight of my décolletage—he sighed.
I stood and
started walking back to my office.
The gallery was
quiet, the delivery men gone, finished bringing in the horrific poultry
paintings, and the offending artist and his boyfriend off to “see the city.”
I headed into my
office and heard a gasp from behind me.
I turned and
found Franco Jr. staring at the zombie turkeys tearing apart the man with the
cornucopia. The look on his face was
disgust and revulsion.
Not the mood I
was looking for.
I clapped my
hands together.
“Franco?”
Franco blinked
and shook his head, his eyes slowly returning to me.
“Just keep your
pretty eyes right here.” I made a show
of patting my nicely curvaceous ass.
Franco’s eyes
darkened as he honed his gaze in on my perky bottom.
That’s better.
I led my Italian
stallion back into my office, and watched him sagely close and lock the door
behind him. I took off my jacket,
leaving on only my camisole, and then leaned back against my desk and felt my
flesh start to warm as he walked closer to me.
He dumped the
heated bag on a chair and prowled toward me.
With a practiced move, he reached over his head and tugged his red Roma
t-shirt off over his head, exposing one hell of a good body: rippling, bulging
pecs; tight, six-pack abs; and chiseled, rock hard shoulders.
His skin was
naturally tanned and there was a light dusting of black hair between his pecs,
and a happy trail leading down into his tight black jeans.
Yum…
He pushed his
long, black, achingly touchable hair back from his forehead with one hand,
causing all the muscles in his torso to dance.
If I wasn’t
mistaken, I thought my sex drive was making a comeback. My neglected vajayjay pulsed and I could feel
all the heat that was coursing through me start to build down below.
Good… very
good…
I reached out
and touched his chest. His flesh was
warm and soft, and as if by chemical reaction my body flared to life. I wanted him inside me, and now.
I pulled him to
me, our lips crashing into each other, my chest pushed hard against his.
And oh boy… was
Franco hard. I could feel the curve of
his thick erection against my inner thigh.
Something
flickered in the back of my mind, just a twinkle… but it made my fevered skin
cool about ten degrees.
Don’t you dare! I screamed at
the stupid bitch in my head. I NEED
THIS!
I reached down
and grabbed a handful of his young, perfectly hard ass and squeezed. Franco groaned into my mouth as his hips shot
up against my still throbbing oonie.
His hips
undulated as he pulled my hips tight against him.
I ran my free
hand though his hair.
He reached down
between us and started undoing his belt buckle.
Where are my
condoms?
That thought
flashed to all those hours I had spent clicking and googling contraception
methods.
And that made
the image of Susan’s wretched vagina light up like a sign in Times-fucking-Square.
And just like
that, I was cold as an ice cube, all the need and heat and frenzy evaporating
in less than ten seconds.
A tiny, sullen
voice cried, They are in the top desk drawer!
She wept,
sobbing and calling out plaintively.
We were sooooo
close!
I pushed my hand
against Franco’s chest. “This isn’t
going to happen.”
He licked my
collarbone and went head first into my cleavage.
I clamped my
hand across his forehead and pulled his head up out of my boobies until his
eyes defogged and he met my gaze.
“I said,
this isn’t going to happen. I need you
to leave now.”
He groaned. “Are you kidding?”
I wished. “I just remembered I have to be downtown in
twenty minutes.” That was at least a
thirty-five minute cab ride this time of day.
I could see
Franco doing the math in his head. Being
a deliveryman made you an expert on transportation time.
I saw the moment
resignation made his expression drop, so I threw him a bone… so to speak.
I reached over
and pulled my purse to me, deftly finding my emergency stash of cash and
handing him two fifty dollar bills.
“To make up for
your lost time,” I said and tucked the bills into the waistband of his jeans.
Franco
reluctantly pulled himself off me and started putting his t-shirt back on,
shaking his head the whole time.
“Sorry about
this.” I was more than sorry. This hot stud should have blown right through
my little problem.
Hell, he should
have been banging me up against the wall by now!
Franco pulled my
order from the heated bag and gave me another long look. I pretended to brush the nonexistent wrinkles
from my skirt.
“This is the
first time a woman has paid me not to have sex with her.”
Jesus…
I grabbed my
suit jacket and started pulling it on as he unlocked my office door and swung
it open.
As if on cue,
Lance was standing there, hand up as if he were about to knock. His eyes went wide, and an evil smile slid
across his face.
Franco said,
“Hey, dude,” and bumped his knuckles with Lance's as he walked past him.
Lance watched as
Franco left, his gaze running over him like he was scanning him for weapons.
When he turned
back to me I had myself pulled together and was reaching into the box with
Lance’s Italian hoagie in it, going for my half.
“Where’s
Franco?” he asked, his voice heavy with innuendo.
“That was Franco
junior.” I took a huge bite of the
hoagie.
Lance closed the
door behind him, pulled up a seat and grabbed the rest of the sandwich.
“So?”
I looked at him
with no expression on my face, simply chewing my sandwich.
“Don’t be a
bitch!” he crooned, and took a dainty bite of his half of the hoagie. “Tell me everything. Did he end your curse?”
Curse? “That’s a hell of
a way to say it.” God, I needed a cigarette!
But I quit six
months ago.
I reached for my
stash of Milk Duds.
I know, not the
most appealing of names for candy… but damn, they were good.
Just not good
for your figure, sweet cheeks…
Shut. Up.
“Well?” Lance
scooted his chair closer, the look of excitement on his face was priceless.
I sighed and
'fessed up. “No, nothing was ended,
slapped, or penetrated.”
Damn it…
His face fell
like a house of cards, his lip sticking out in the most adorable pout.
“Stop that,” I
scolded, throwing a Milk Dud at him.
“It’s not like he didn’t have sex with you! I’m the one not getting laid here.”
Lance caught the
Milk Dud and stared at it for a moment, lost in thought.
So unlike my
mighty gay assistant.
“Lance?”
He blinked and
then popped the sultry little chocolate morsel in his mouth, faking a
smile. I know Lance, and he was giving
me his best faux smile.
“Is there
something wrong between you and Churchill?”
He shook his
head, “No, everything is great.”
I gave him my Don’t
bullshit me glare.
He sighed,
reached across the desk and stole the box of Milk Duds out of my hand.
“I love him,” he
said, shoving a handful of the gooey candy in his mouth. “Mut… mee affen ad ex et.”
I blinked. “I’ll wait for you to swallow that load before
I ask you to repeat yourself.”
Lance gave me
the finger, and kept chewing. When he
finally swallowed he grimaced and then sighed again.
“We haven’t had
sex yet.”
I laughed.
Lance shot me a
scathing look.
I laughed some
more.
“Oh come on.” I
leaned over the desk and stole back my Milk Duds before he ate them all. “I thought sex on the first date was like the
gay standard. Like a hand shake.”
“That’s
stereotyping.” He reached for the Milk
Duds but I clutched them protectively to my breasts. “I thought you were above such things.”
I threw a Milk
Dud at his head and he deftly caught it in his mouth.
“I live for
stereotypes.” I upended the box of Milk Duds—empty. “So how many sexual partners have you had?”
Lance’s eyes
widened.
“Including
blowjobs and hand-jobs.”
He pursed his
lips and sat up straight. “How many have
you had?”
He knew how to
play dirty.
“Fine, we’re
both born again virgins. So how is it
you and Churchill haven’t done the deed?
It’s been, what—six months?”
“Seven…”
Oh…
Lance took a deep
breath and looked up at the ceiling.
“Okay, but you
have to promise not to let Churchill know you know!”
“I promise.” I
placed one hand over my heart and one up in the air, as if swearing it.
Lance bit his
lip, looking so young and naïve.
“Churchill can’t
get it up.”
I shrugged.
“And he’s too
ill to try… artificial means.”
“Oh…” I didn’t need to know that.
And yet you
asked, didn’t you?
“His physician
says that the surgery to put in an implant would surely kill him, if not the
act of having… you know, having sex at all.”
I got the
picture. If poor… well, if rich-as-sin
yet old-as-the-hills Churchill wasn’t healthy enough to take the erection
pills, or to undergo penile implant surgery, he certainly wouldn’t last long
while having sex.
I gave Lance an
appraising look.
Everything firm,
if not bulging—and I knew he was a yoga devotee.
Yep, five
minutes of Lance would certainly send old Churchill to the grave.
I nodded
vigorously, trying to get the picture of the two of them out of my head.
“So,” I said,
trying to hit the forward button on our little heart-to-heart, “Now you want to
go out and… get some? Well, I can
understand that, sweetie. Seven months
at your age.”
Hell, I was only
a few years older than him and I was ready to climb the walls after only half
that long.
Lance sobbed.
Sobbed.
His eyes were
brimming with tears as he slowly shook his head.
“I don’t want to
be with anyone if I can’t be with Churchill.”
Dear god…
“I had no idea
you felt like that. I’m so sorry.”
Lance tried to
take in a breath, but kept on gasping.
Just when he looked about to explode, he cried out, “He wants me to
sleep with other men!”
He melted into
tears, his pretty green eyes turning a watery bloodshot, his aquiline nose
turning puffy and red. He sniffled,
looking about to wipe his nose with his sleeve.
I couldn’t let
my best gay ruin his fine fashion standards. I reached in my bottom drawer for the boxes
of tissues I keep for clients—and Susan—and held one out to Lance.
He took three
and swiped his eyes, ending in a very dainty, elegant blowing of his nose.
“So he wants you
to go out and find someone to…”—How to word this?—“To satisfy your urges?”
“No…” Lance
grimaced as if he’d bitten into rotten fruit.
“He wants me to bring someone home so he can watch us fuck.”
Big oh…
“So, Churchill
is a… voyeur?”
Lance crossed
his arms over his chest, looking so beautifully lost.
“He feels I
can’t keep this no sex thing up, and wants me to stop it. But he also wants to see me happy.” Lance
gave me a beseeching glance. “Literally
see me being happy.”
I walked over
and sat on his side of the desk and took his hand in mine.
“And you can’t
go through with it because you love him.”
He nodded,
sniffling. “Plus, I’m afraid that he
might get excited and have a heart attack just watching.”
I looked over at
my window for a minute, gazing out on Hyde Park Boulevard.
“I’m not
qualified to advise you here.” I looked
back to him.
Lance
sniffled. “No shit.”
We both started
laughing. I dropped into his lap,
entwining my arms around his neck, and then kissed his blotchy, beautiful
face. He wrapped his arms around me and
we sat there for a moment, just holding
each other.
“Aren’t we a
pair?” I said.
“I can fuck
anyone, just not the one I want…” He kissed me on top of the head. “And you can’t get laid to save your life.”
I elbowed him in
the ribs. “Asshole!”
He held me
tighter. “Okay, I’m sure if it was the
fate of the world in the balance, you would pull a Hail Mary orgasm out of your
yoohoo.”
“You do remember
I’m your boss, don’t you? I think a bit
of respect is in order.”
Lance
scoffed. “Do I hafta?”
I spied the
lovely Howard Miller wall clock I’d bought the last time I was in San Francisco
and saw I was indeed late. I had a
meeting with a representative of the Chicago Arts Council, and he wanted to
meet at his office across town.
“I have to run,
so you watch the store while I try to get old musty pants to add us—finally—to
the council’s charity ball invite list.”
Lance
coughed. “That guy smells like rotten
cabbage doused with Brut.”
“But he’s the
only member of the council that’s even returned one of my phone calls.” It was my turn to sigh. I’d been a major art dealer in this town for
four goddamn years, and yet I couldn’t get invited to their twice yearly
charity ball.
The list was so
select that almost no one on the outside of it knew who was on it.
Like freaking Fight
Club.
I had to get on
that invitation list! The contacts, the
mingling… the future sales to filthy rich gajillionaires…
I hopped off
Lance’s lap and grabbed my purse and cell phone. “Call me if there’s a problem. I’m going to go home right after, so lock
up…” I thought of the collection of zombie turkey oils hanging on my gallery’s
exquisitely designed walls, like road kill in a Rockwell canvas. “Or torch the place, your call.”
I walked toward
the door to the now tainted gallery.
“Don’t forget
about tonight,” Lance said.
I stopped in my
tracks. “Tonight?”
I looked back
and Lance was standing there with a miserably dejected look on his face.
“You know, dinner
with me and Churchill at La Pampillon?”
Christ! Could this day get any worse?
Not that I
wouldn’t enjoy myself—Lance and Churchill were two of my favorite people… even
with my new personal knowledge of their sex life. Or was it their non-sex life?
Ah fuck it! I would probably need cheering up after
meeting with old musty pants.
“Of course! We agreed on eight, right?”
“The reservation
is for seven.” Lance had a wary look on
his face.
“That’s it,
seven. I’ll be there, dressed to the
teeth.” As I went through my office door I saw the puppy dog look on Lance’s
face.
“I promise!”
“Swear on your
shoes.”
I stopped
again. “What?”
“Swear on your
shoes that you’ll be there.”
“That’s
ridiculous.” I cocked my head at him,
hands on my hips. “I like these shoes,
but they’re hardly swear-worthy.”
Lance matched my
pose exactly, and the pissy look on his face was fierce.
“Swear on all of
them.”
All my shoes?
I could just see
him “letting himself” into my apartment and kidnapping all my heels. There had to be close to a hundred thousand
dollars worth of Italian leather in my walk-in closet. He’d need a U-Haul to transport them, but he
was a well-trained assistant. I put
nothing past his skill set.
“I’ll swear on
my Prada mules and my Dolce and Gabbana pumps,” I countered.
“The lace and
jewel bow ones?”
Damn, he did
know my closet inside out.
“Yes, those
pumps.”
He smiled. “Fine, I believe you. Now get out of here and charm the pants off
old musty pants.”
Chapter 3
Carson Gibson
III (aka old Musty Pants) not only kept me waiting in his reception area for
nearly an hour, but then had the nerve to tell me, once I was in his office,
that he only had five minutes to spare for me because he had “an early tee
time” at La Grange.
I siphoned every
drop of energy I had into making my smile and voice as sunny as possible. I just kept thinking, I really, really
want on this invitation list! I do, I
do, I do!
Even when he
decided to open his closet and pull out his golf clubs and practically take off
my foot when he dropped them beside me—a none too subtle hint.
The man was as
rude as he was smelly.
He kept picking
something in his teeth, and interrupted me twice by placing phone calls to his
golf cronies.
The third time
he interrupted me he said, “What is it you’re getting at, Miss Hartford?”
My hands
clenched into fists in my lap, well out of his line of sight.
You rude,
disgusting asshat!
“It’s
Hamilton. Liz Hamilton. And I own and operate New View Art Gallery on
Hyde Park Boulevard. My gallery has been
featured in the Sun Times, the Tribune, and Chicago magazine. I think I would be a valuable addition to the
Arts Council—”
Old Musty Pants
laughed: a rancid string of guffaws falling from his wrinkled, chapped
lips.
“Miss Hamill.”
He did it again! Was I an Olympic figure
skater now? “I’m sure your little shop
is… well, a quaint little venture. But
here at the Chicago Arts Council we strive to include only those who have left
an authentic mark on our beautiful city.”
“But Mr. Gibson,
I’ve shown major artists for four years running.”—not including the upcoming
zombie turkey showing—“And I’m sure that if you call around—”
“I don’t need to
‘call around’ Miss Hamill,” he cut across me.
“I have never heard of you, other than your persistent, desperate
attempts to get me to let you on the council’s charity ball invitation list.”
My face warmed,
as if he’d slapped me.
He opened his
mouth to continue but I stood up and stopped him with a raised hand.
“I won’t waste
anymore of your time then, Carlton.”
His wrinkly
mouth pursed in disdain.
“My name is
Carson Gibson the third. And if I were
you—”
I should have
been nice. I should have been diplomatic
and tactful.
Screw that!
“If I were you,
maybe you’d remember my name.
It’s is Liz Hamilton. Not
Hartford, and certainly not Hamill. And
I’d love to stay and listen to you pontificate on why I’m not Arts Council
material, but I have a business to run, and actual work to do. So good day, Mr. Gibson.”
As I marched out
of his office I received a thumbs up from his assistant.
Smart or
not—well, it had been pretty damn stupid of me to have told the old goat off—at
least I felt better.
And I’d feel
better until later tonight when it sank in that I’d not only burnt my Arts
Council bridge but ripped out the still smoldering support beams as well.
I walked about
ten blocks to cool off, and then stopped at a Baskin Robbins for a Chocolate
Chip Cookie Dough double scoop. Calories
be damned; I needed some comfort food.
I ate my cone as
I took a cab to my apartment building.
Quincy, the
doorman, greeted me with his usual mischievous smile. He was in his early fifties, over a foot
taller than me, and was a native Chicagoan.
He knew everything about the city and its sports teams. And he had lifted my spirits many times in
the last six years I’d lived here.
He took one look
at me and said, his smile only dimming a fraction of a degree, “You didn’t get
it, did you?”
I shook my
head. Misery dropped on me like a
hunter's net, and I felt my heart sink.
He placed his
huge hands on my shoulders and squeezed them in a fatherly way. My own father had always been too busy to do
the fatherly things, so moments like this always made part of me swell with
happiness.
“I know what
will cheer you up,” he said.
“I already tried
ice cream. Next will be vodka.”
He chuckled,
shaking his head. “No, no, no. Nothing like that.”
He looked over
his shoulder at the front desk area, and a shiny red wrapped box.
“You have a
present, from Mr. Walker.”
A present from
Churchill?
I followed him
to the front desk and he handed me the package.
There was a hand
written note: For tonight.
I pulled the
black ribbon from the box and lifted off the lid. After some tissue paper I found what was in
the box.
A dress.
It was no
ordinary dress: Blood red silk, exquisite beading around the throat and
bodice—vintage Dior most assuredly.
There was also a
matching silk clutch bag, and a to-die-for pair of red velvet Chanel cork heel
pumps.
Quincy was
right. I felt better just thinking how
wonderful I was going to look tonight.
“Can you do me a
favor and call me a cab at six-thirty?”
It was
official. I was going out tonight.
“Of course, Miss
Hamilton… where to?”
“La
Pampillon. I have a dinner date.”
Chapter 4
The cab pulled
up to the Lincoln Park based restaurant.
A valet opened my door—sighed as he watched me slip out of the cab—and
ushered me into the restaurant.
I never feel out
of place. Ever.
I’m always
dressed to the nines and feel comfortable in any setting, whether it be at a
biker bar or a five star culinary marvel like La Pampillon.
But tonight, in
this dress, with these shoes on my feet, I felt like the queen.
When I walked
into the lobby I heard a few gasps from the ladies seated on fainting couches,
and a few coughs and low whistles from the male clientele.
That made me
smile as I walked with a swing to my hips to the maitre d'.
I dropped
Churchill’s name and was magically whisked into the restaurant proper and to
the best table in the house. Churchill
and Lance stood the instant they saw me coming, and I felt like a fairytale
princess when Churchill kissed my hand.
“You look
smashing my dear.”
I blushed—which
is so not at all like me—and sat down.
They’d ordered a
red wine that smelled delicious. I took
a sip and… well, it was a divine experience.
“You really know
your hooch, Churchill.” I winked at him.
“Liz!” Lance admonished with a glowing smile. He knew Churchill loved it when I talked like
this.
Brazen hussy:
that’s me.
Churchill was a
man in his early seventies, tall and willowy, with long, hoary white hair that
looked both silky and perfectly coifed at all times. He always wore Brooks Brothers' suits and
lovely silk ties. Always with a broad
smile on his face, he sometimes made me think of him as an exuberant teenager.
And he always
wore Fahrenheit by Christian Dior: a rather sensuous cologne that always
brought on a shiver in me.
Maybe that’s why
he chose the Dior dress.
“So what shall
we be dining on tonight?” I asked Churchill, leaning forward.
His face turned
radiant.
“That’s a secret,
my dear.”
“Oh, Churchill.”
I wagged my finger at him as if he were a naughty schoolboy.
“He won’t even
tell me!” Lance complained.
I reached over
and patted his hand. “Poor baby.”
Being in their
presence always made me think of The Age of Innocence. Churchill was so sweet and proper—and my
campy, bawdy assistant seemed to change his spots to match him perfectly.
They were so
right together.
Well…
Thoughts of
Lance’s confession earlier snapped at that thought like an alligator in a
Georgia swamp.
I shook the
conflicting thoughts out of my head.
I wanted to
enjoy this dinner, enjoy their company, and most of all, to enjoy looking this
elegant and beautiful.
First on the
menu was a cool, tart asparagus salad with brown tomatoes and artichoke hearts. That was followed by a crown of the freshest
jumbo shrimp I have ever tasted, perched upon a small bed of savory orzo and
snap peas.
The side dishes
and matching glasses of dessert wines came at a dizzying pace, and I was
starting to fear my full belly might rip out one of the seams in my dress. I knew a fancy restaurant like this would
have a qualified restroom attendant handy with a needle and thread, but I
wanted to keep this dress as pristine as I could.
Then came the
entrée—as always, Churchill knew me so well.
I liked to eat, which meant I spent odious hours at the gym trying to
keep the fat off and everything firmly in its place—but without gaining any
Hulk-like muscles.
The plate held a
huge sirloin steak—broiled to a perfect well done, the edges crunchy with a
special rub I knew only he had the recipe to—garlic whipped potatoes and green
beans.
I know, I know… green
beans.
But when you no
longer have anyone to make them for you—like a mother—you start wanting them
all the time. Trust me, they’re a kind
of comfort food.
It was so sweet
of Churchill to remember. But that was
him in a nut shell. He never forgot what
you liked. That’s probably how he took
his family’s respectable fortune and through the decades drove it to gargantuan
proportions.
His family owned
a condiment empire: pickles, mayonnaise, ketchup, you name it. When Churchill took over as CEO in the
fifties he made the family tighten their belts and diversify their “expendable
income” in new directions. One was the
burgeoning computer industry—IBM, and then later Apple and Microsoft, and
lately Google.
Though the man
keeps a ridiculously low profile, he’s loaded.
I blew him a
kiss and then took up my knife and fork and cut into my steak. It was perfect, just the way I liked it, and
the crunchy rub all over it just added to the taste.
Good god, I had
no idea how I was going to walk out of this restaurant. They would have to ask for a wheel barrel to
tote me out in.
From the corner
of the restaurant I heard a laugh: male, hoarse, yet with a metallic ring. Touchable, as if it were caressing your skin.
And familiar…
The sound pulled
my spine up straight as if by a steel chord.
Lance’s eyes
went wide when he looked at me. “What’s
wrong?”
I didn’t really
know. My mind hadn’t caught up with the
rest of my nervous system yet… but my heart had. It thumped painfully hard in my chest.
Just then a
waiter appeared at my side and set a stemmed martini glass beside me.
I gulped looking
at the chilled glass and the ring of salt on the rim.
A margarita in a
martini glass—my flesh warmed as anger ignited in my chest, making my thudding
heart burn.
“Compliments of
the gentleman,” the waiter said, pointing to the corner of the dining room with
an elegant gesture.
My gaze followed
where he pointed and lit on a table of men in expensive suits. Dead in the center I caught sight of him, and
my heart skipped a beat—the traitor…
Jackson Burk.
I turned back
around and closed my eyes, feeling myself slipping into an emotional
rollercoaster.
Anger spiked with
joy, shame mingled with cold fear, and a long lost feeling of love coated in
black, sticky hate.
I'd never wanted
to see Jackson again…
Yet here he was,
just when my career and personal life were on precarious ground, looking…
Well, I’d only
stolen a glance before I turned back around and closed my eyes, but he looked…
Like a fucking
wet dream?
Thank you, so
very helpful.
I gritted my
teeth and pushed the shit-storm inside me back to the dark little corner of my
mind where I’d long ago banished it.
I would not melt
into a puddle of sniffling, tear soaked hurt.
No, this wasn’t
college, and I wasn’t the dewy eyed girl I had been.
The memory of
his walking out of my dorm room flickered through my mind, and the scorching
feelings of hurt, shame, and confusion that moment had caused.
And now, sitting
there in that restaurant, I saw for the first time that that moment, that
feeling, had been reverberating inside me all along.
I swear that
when I opened my eyes again everything was red.
I blinked a few
times and it went away.
I stood,
grabbing my clutch purse and the martini glass clad margarita, and headed
towards Jackson’s table.
Jackson’s eyes
were blue-green, like arctic ice, and they bore into me as I walked toward
him. I strutted around the table until I
was standing right next to him. He didn’t stand up. Simply sat there, staring at me with those
damned eyes of his, a slight grin on his handsome face.
Dirty blond
hair, cut short, the build of a college football star, and the sun kissed skin
of a native California boy—he was the very definition of masculine beauty.
I smiled at him
and his expression faltered.
Worried about
what I’ll do?
I looked down at
the martini glass in my hand.
“Liz,” he said,
and then he sighed and tilted his head as he looked at me. “You’re not really going to—”
I threw the
drink in his face.
Jackson wiped
the margarita from his eyes with one hand, and then looked at me with
irritation.
I leaned down
and he jerked back an inch or two. I
leaned in further, my smiling face so very close to his, and then ran my index
finger down the line of his square jaw.
He watched, his
mouth slack, as I put my finger to my lips and gently tasted what I’d taken
from his flesh.
I moaned as if
tasting something delicious.
I looked back to
him and he was biting his lip.
“I forgot how
much I enjoy those. Thanks for the
reminder.”
I turned and
started walking toward the front doors.
Lance and Churchill were still standing at our table and I waved
goodbye.
I needed out of
there. I needed away from Jackson Burk,
as far away from him as possible.
“Liz!” Jackson called after me, but I was already at
the front doors, pushing past the doorman.
Once outside I
gulped the city’s air as if I hadn’t breathed in years: desperate, halting
breaths.
I glance around. No cabs in sight.
I needed to get
away, so I started to run.
I was in four
inch heels, so I wasn’t setting any land speed records.
I heard his
steps as he caught up with me, and I felt it when he grabbed hold of my arm.
His hand was on
fire. That heat seeped through my skin
and made my blood boil on contact. I had
forgotten how his touch made me feel. It
was some scary chemical reaction… or magic.
No… I won’t do
this, not ever again!
I swung around
in his grasp and slapped him as hard as I could.
He winced, but
didn’t let me go.
I went to hit
him again, but he reached up and caught my hand in mid-air.
He was so
strong; I had forgotten.
I was trapped in
his grasp.
“Let go of me!”
My voice dripped venom.
“You need to
listen to me.” His eyes bore into me, and my traitorous heart skipped a beat
again.
“I’ll scream.”
“And I’ll break
something.” I looked behind Jackson and
found Lance standing behind him, his perfect face a blank mask.
Jackson glanced
over his shoulder and then back to me.
“This is a private conversation.”
Lance tsked as
he sauntered nearer. “It stopped being
private the moment you grabbed hold of her.”
I saw Jackson’s
face falter—he was thinking about how it looked, and about how he was holding
onto me.
He let me go and
took a step back.
“I’m sorry for
that, but we need to talk.”
Lance walked up
and stood beside Jackson. “I’m Miss
Hamilton’s assistant.” He handed Jackson a business card. “You can call me tomorrow and we can discuss
your manners and any future contact you may be granted.”
I saw the pissed
off spark in Jackson’s eyes. He turned
on Lance, his nostrils flaring, and reached out to shove him.
Lance caught his
hand and in a heartbeat had Jackson flat on his face on the sidewalk, his
muscular arm wrenched painfully behind his back.
I had always
thought that Lance was bragging on his résumé when he’d put that he’d won a
national championship in Aikido when he was in high school, but seeing him lay
a six foot two ex-football jock out in two seconds flat confirmed his
credentials.
I gulped and
stifled a laugh.
I wasn’t paying
Lance nearly enough.
Jackson groaned
as Lance manipulated his spine with his knee.
I winced just
from how painful it looked.
But… as much as
I wanted Jackson Burk in pain, I said, “Lance, I don’t like seeing him in pain like
that. Would you let him up please?”
Lance looked up
to me, his perfect mouth pursed in question.
“Are you going soft on me?”
Good question.
“No, I’m still
the bitch that hired you, but I don’t want you to end up in jail.”
Lance
scoffed. “There are plenty of
surveillance cameras on this street.
They’ll all show he went to touch me first. I was just defending myself.”
Jackson groaned
again as Lance rocked his weight a little more into the hold. I walked around
the two until I could look into Jackson’s face.
Even in pain, and pushed half into the pavement, the bastard was
gorgeous.
I bent down and
said, “I’m sure Lance here can be persuaded to let you loose if you promise not
to touch me again.”
Jackson shook
his head—quite a feat since his face was smooshed against the pavement.
“I can’t promise
that. I have all kinds of plans for
touching you… later on.”
I stood up and
frowned. Even in pain and pressed
against the sidewalk, he could still flirt.
That’s how he’d
gotten me to go out with him.
Susan had
manipulated me into volunteering on a blood mobile drive, handing out orange
juice and cookies to the student athletes while they gave blood.
The woman taking
Jackson’s blood was missing his vein repeatedly, and though he was a blotchy
red, and sweating, and cursing, he asked me out the instant he saw me.
I crumpled that
memory up in my head like a piece of paper.
“Well then,” I
said, stepping past him. “Lance can just
keep you there until I call him and tell him I’m safely at home.”
I took a few
steps and he called, “Wait! Don’t
leave.”
I didn’t look
back. I wanted him to give up and
leave—and to leave me alone forever.
“Just go to
lunch with me tomorrow. We’ll meet at
Chester’s.”
Chester’s…
I hadn’t thought
of that place in years. The best cheddar
cheese fries in the history of the world, and steak hoagies so mouthwatering
you never left any on your plate, or took it home.
“Is there one in
Chicago?” It had been a small new chain restaurant back when we were in
college. We used to eat there like
ravenous wolves, studying and kissing, and…
I was about to
say no… but then he’d just keep this up until Lance hurt him, and as much as I
wanted him to pay for…
I let my head
fall back and sighed, looking up at the sky, not seeing a single star due to
all the ambient light covering the sky like smog.
“Fine, if you
promise to go away now, I’ll meet you at Chester’s at noon.”
“Okay.” Jackson
looked over his shoulder where Lance knelt on top of him. “Will you get off me
now?”
Lance smiled and
gracefully stood up, letting go of Jackson in one elegant movement.
Jackson groaned
again, this time in relief, and rolled gingerly onto his back.
Lance leaned
down and offered him his hand.
After
scrutinizing the offered help, Jackson grasped hold of Lance’s hand as he was
heaved off the ground.
Lance was far
stronger than I’d imagined.
“Radioactive
spider bite?” I asked as my assistant circled around behind me.
He snorted. “I’m just glad he gave up so quick—would’ve
hated messing up something so pretty.”
The look Jackson
was giving me as he brushed off his suit was like a forest fire burning behind
his eyes.
“You may still
have to,” I said.
Lance blinked
and then rolled his eyes at me.
“Breeders. I just don’t get you
people.”
I turned to walk
away, but Jackson moved to follow me.
Lance cleared
his throat and wagged a finger at him.
Jackson stopped in his tracks.
He leaned into
me and murmured, “Churchill probably has his car ready for us, if you wouldn’t
mind bumming a ride from us.”
I looked behind
him and saw Churchill looking dapper, waving us over to his…
“Is that a
vintage Rolls Royce Phantom?”
I walked as if
in a dream toward the car… no, not a car, an automobile of the highest
order. All those curves and metal, all
covered by a perfect paintjob at least six layers deep.
“No,” Lance said
as we got closer. “That’s a 1955 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith.”
Jackson
was suddenly standing right beside me, staring at the four wheeled wonder
before us.
“It’s
an Empress Touring Limousine,” he chanted.
“Bruce Wayne’s butler drives him around in one of those.”
I
had to smile. Geek much?
I
looked over to Lance and saw my expression mirrored there.
I
walked over to where Churchill stood and accepted his hand as I slid into the
car. The Italian leather seats were so
soft I wanted to strip out of my dress and roll around on them… but I didn’t,
of course.
That
would have been tacky, though I’m sure Lance would have recorded it on his
iPhone and posted it on half a dozen social media sites before I even got home.
Churchill
followed me into the car, and then came Lance.
I
heard Jackson call out, “Remember, Tigger… Chester’s at noon. Don’t be late!”
Lance
turned and said, “Tigger?”
I
gave him my most deadly of glares.
“Don’t ask. Now shut the door.”
Lance
laughed one perfect Ha, and pulled the door shut. The Rolls-Royce sped off into the night,
slipping through traffic like it was made out of smoke and shadows.
As
Chicago slid past in our wake, my assistant placed his hand atop mine and
squeezed.
“You
alright, boss lady?”
No, I
wasn’t alright. I was so confused. I was
numb. My mind was a word jumble from
hell: hurt, hate, loved, abandoned…
I
suppressed the tears vying to course down my face, and wreck my makeup, and
took deep breaths instead.
“Would
you gentlemen mind dropping me off somewhere?”
