Chapter 3 Kensie
KENSIE
Six hours into my shift, and I swear I’m about to become permanently cross-eyed. I guess that’s what happens when you spend those six hours staring at a computer screen reading without so much as a break.
My boss, Gemma, is planning the next exhibit for the gallery.
It’s my job to compile as much research on her chosen theme as possible before she starts making decisions on who to feature.
This time, she’s also given me the task of actually suggesting some of the artists.
It’s a huge step up for me as her assistant, and I’m determined to knock her socks off.
It’s also incredibly stressful. I’m putting a lot of pressure on myself to get this right. Hence the endless amount of reading I’ve been doing—and the subsequent bleary eyes.
Of course, the fact that I barely slept last night probably isn’t helping. But I’m trying not to think too much about that, because remembering my reasons for poor sleep is definitely off-limits for work time.
Or anytime, really. I need to be doing less thinking about Grant Anderson—and the things he does to me at Club Wyld—in general.
But I’m finding that more difficult with every week that passes. As much as I hate to admit it, the man has gotten under my skin and I can’t seem to shake my preoccupation with him.
It’s just because the sex is so good, I tell myself, removing my reading glasses to rub at my tired eyes.
“Okay, that’s enough,” a voice calls from the doorway to the back office, making me jump in surprise. My boss, Gemma, is standing there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “We’re taking a break.”
“What?” I hurriedly shove my glasses back on and turn back to my screen. “I don’t need a break! I’m fine!” My voice is way too bright, way too fake, and I know there’s no way Gemma is going to fall for it. Sure enough, her hand appears over my keyboard a moment later, forcing me to stop my typing.
“You’re allowed to take breaks, Kensie,” she says softly. “No one is expecting you to work like a machine, here.”
“I know.” But I can’t quite tamp down the swell of embarrassment that she caught me in an exhausted moment.
Gemma giving me this job literally changed my life.
I came into her gallery with little experience and zero confidence, but she still took a chance on me.
I owe this woman more than I can possibly express and the last thing I want is for her to regret, even for a moment, giving me a shot.
“Well, I need a break,” she says in her posh British accent, closing my laptop before I can argue. “A gallon of coffee also wouldn’t hurt. So come keep me company, yeah?”
“Oh, I could go grab you something,” I say quickly, reaching for my purse. “Or I could stay and hold down the fort while you go out?”
She sighs, reaching for my elbow and physically pulling me from my seat. “I want to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee with you, you numpty.”
I nod, not meeting her eyes. It’s still a little hard to believe that people might actually enjoy my company. Yet another gift from my asshole ex.
I feel bad all over again when Gemma flips the sign on the glass front door from open to closed.
She must catch sight of my expression because she hustles me through the door before I can argue.
“It’s Friday afternoon. We have no appointments for the rest of the day,” she reminds me.
“The gallery isn’t going to shut down just because we close to walk-ins for a half hour. ”
She slips her arm through mine and we set off down the street.
A few months ago, that simple act of casual female affection—a girlfriend grabbing my arm for a walk—would have felt completely foreign to me.
One of the many things my husband took from me was any kind of female friendship.
Isolating is a favorite tool of abusers, I’ve come to understand.
But I hadn’t realized how much I missed platonic, warm contact until I met Gemma.
Not that I’d had much choice in allowing her to shower me with that kind of affection.
Gemma is a commanding figure in both the art world and her personal life.
She has a unique ability to charm anyone into just about anything.
If she wanted to be my friend, I’m certainly not strong-willed enough to refuse.
Our favorite coffee shop is only a block away, and we hurry to avoid the bite of the spring breeze. The place is busy on a Friday afternoon, so Gemma sends me off to find us a table while she waits in line to order at the counter.
Once I’m sitting waiting for her, without any work to distract me, my mind immediately goes back to Wyld last night. Had Grant really asked me out on a date? It was the same question that had kept me tossing and turning all night.
We don’t do things like that, him and I. We don’t meet up outside of Wyld for any reason. Our entire relationship consists of the very dirty and depraved things he does to me—at my specific request—inside the walls of the sex club.
He probably didn’t mean anything by it, I tell myself, for the hundredth time since leaving him in that booth last night. It was probably just one of those casual, throw-away invites a person says just to be polite.
But it hadn’t felt casual or polite. In fact, polite is hardly the word I would ever use to describe Grant. Intense. Demanding. Controlled. Hot as the summer sun. But not casual. Not polite.
He’s far, far too filthy to ever be called that.
And why on earth is there a part of me that doesn’t want it to be a throw-away invite?
Dating is the last thing I want or need right now.
That’s why my arrangement with Grant has been so perfect.
He gives me what I need at the club and then we both go off to live our lives.
The man has done more to help me figure out all the broken pieces of myself than I ever could have imagined, without even leaving that building.
It’s more than enough, what the two of us have. And it’s not like I have more to offer someone anyhow. I barely have enough for myself these days.
“Here we are,” Gemma says, setting two mugs on the table before sliding into the seat across from me. “A respectable Earl Grey for myself and for you, whatever rubbish sugar concoction you Americans try to convince yourself is coffee.”
I roll my eyes as I pick up my mocha. “It’s not rubbish, you snob.”
“That thing is practically a milkshake, Kensie!”
I swipe a dollop of whipped cream off the top with my tongue. “You’re missing out. Chocolate and sugar are life.”
I don’t tell her that my affinity for sugary coffee drinks are somewhat of an act of resistance for me.
Fred hadn’t allowed them, not even on occasion.
In fact, he would regularly track my sugar intake when he felt I was filling out too much.
I had lived way too many years deprived of sugar and carbs to ever opt for boring tea over the warm deliciousness currently in front of me.
Gemma looks like she wants to argue some more, but her phone beeps with a text. She looks at the screen and sighs. “It’s a no on the Barton, too.”
I groan. “Seriously? What’s their problem with the Barton?”
“Apparently, it’s ‘too colloquial.’” She does air quotes. “Whatever the bloody hell that means.”
I drown my frustration in another sip of creamy chocolate goodness. This is the same client I’d been complaining about to Grant last night. No matter how much research I do for Gemma, no matter how impressive the pieces we find, they just aren’t satisfied.
“I’ve half a mind to drop them,” she mutters, tapping away a response. “Everything is either too common or too unique for them. How does that make any sense?”
More money than taste, Grant had said last night.
My core immediately heats at the memory of him leaning towards me over a glass of wine, asking about my job, scolding me for being self-deprecating.
He looked so good sitting there, his big body sprawled in the leather booth with that confident ease that had attracted me from the very beginning.
Grant Anderson was all man and he knew exactly what he wanted—
Stop, I order myself. Again.
“Anyhow,” Gemma continues, still tapping on her phone. “Now that I have my phone out…” She pushes it toward me so I can see the screen. So I can see the man on the screen.
“What am I looking at here?”
“Your future lov-ah,” she says slyly, and it’s a good thing I already swallowed my last sip of mocha. I practically choke on air as it is.
“No,” I say immediately, pushing the phone away. “Not interested.”
“Kense,” she whines, trying to dodge my hands to get the screen back in front of my face. “Just look at him! He’s attractive, kind, completely loaded—”
“I’m not ready to date.” Even saying the word makes my insides clench. “I might not ever be ready to date.”
Her face falls. “Don’t say that! You’re such a catch!” She sets her phone down and reaches across the table to take my hands. “You can’t let what that asshole did control the rest of your life.”
I close my eyes. I want to tell her that she wouldn’t understand, but we both know that’s not the truth.
Gemma and I share a very shitty title—ex-wives to abusive, bastard men. But as bad as my husband was, Gemma’s ex made him seem like a saint. While Fred had been controlling, manipulative, cruel, unfaithful, and verbally abusive, Gemma’s husband had made a habit of beating the hell out of her.
She was a client of Gina Afton as well, which is how we met in the first place. Our divorce attorney is the best in the state for many reasons. Fierce, wickedly smart and willing to fight ceaselessly for her clients.
Underneath that pit bull image, she’s also a fairy freaking godmother. She does a lot of pro-bono work for women in abusive situations, and she helps support many of them in the aftermath of divorce—like how she’d recommended me for this job.