4. Othelia
Chapter four
Othelia
After not nearly enough sleep, an air hostess wakes me. With the seatbelt sign now blazing overhead, I shuffle back to my seat and buckle in. Dragging the warm blanket over me, I snuggle back in, not quite ready to wake up. It’s not long before wheels touch down and for the first time in months, I’m back on American soil. Heading to a private luggage area, we collect our bags and I say a quick goodbye to the guys.
“Don’t miss me too much.” Jericho squeezes me as Dom speaks into his earpiece asking about my car’s arrival.
“That will be impossible. The smell of your post-show socks is burned into my nostrils.”
He covers his heart like I shot him. “Look after yourself, and give Sloane a massive hug for me. I miss that pocket rocket.”
“What about Rian?”
He clicks his tongue. “My boo already knows I miss him.”
Dom interrupts, “ETA two minutes, Til. We gotta move.”
The boys head off with their security details and I adjust my beanie, making sure all my hair is safely tucked away. I slide on my sunglasses and wait for Dom to give me the signal. Scanning the area, he nods, giving me the all-clear, and we make our way across the busy terminal with little issue.
As long as my hair is tucked away and I don’t have the guys with me, I can usually sneak through places unnoticed. If no one looks too close, I’m just another tattooed girl strolling through the airport.
We exit the terminal to a blacked-out sedan idling on the curb. Dom opens the door, ushering me inside as paparazzi notice the car and begin swarming to glimpse the celebrity inside.
I dial Clay’s number and wait eagerly to hear his voice, but once again, my heart sinks when his voice mail picks up instead of him. I hang up without speaking and opting to send him a text.
Hey baby, I’m here!!! Tried calling but you must be busy with a client. Can’t wait to see you 3
“We should be at the gallery within the next forty-five minutes, depending on the traffic downtown,” Dom says over his shoulder before checking in if the guys made it out okay.
As head of our security, he handles the logistics of all our security details, but he remains my private guard, even when we aren’t on tour.
Pulling out my small makeup bag, I grab a brush and make quick work of smoothing the tangles and bed hair from the airplane. Once it’s tangle free, I braid it to one side, letting some strands fall free.
I have dressed for comfort today in some high waisted leggings and an old oversized Motley Crue tee tied at the front, my favorite denim jacket covered in patches from various bands I’ve performed with over the years.
I swipe on some mascara and lip gloss. Clay likes it when I make an effort with my appearance. He thinks I should try to look like the millions of dollars I’m worth.
When so much of my life on stage or behind the camera requires me to dress up and be Othelia from Hopeless Mercy, it’s nice to just be Tilly too; with no makeup and sweats, sitting on the couch.
I spend the rest of the drive listening to music through my earbuds, lost in the sights of LA. Unbelievably tall skyscrapers tower over the bumper to bumper traffic, reflecting the blistering sun. I still remember how it felt to move here as a seventeen-year-old scared out of my fucking brain, but it’s still the best decision of my life.
Leaving Chicago felt like my only option after my dad died. Moving away from my mother and her toxic behaviors freed me in a way I didn’t realize I needed. Though I wish choosing to live without that negativity didn’t mean being thousands of miles from my brother and best friend.
An hour and a half later, thanks to LA traffic, we pull up out the front of the gallery and Dom rounds the car, opening my door.
His eyes flick from the red brick warehouse, a scowl crossing his face before they come back to mine. “Would you like me to come with you?”
Though I know for my safety he would rather follow me in, he’s still respectful, knowing I’ll probably want privacy to jump Clay the minute I see him.
“That’s alright, Dom. I won’t be long.”
“I’ll be right here if you need me.” He nods before moving to the gallery door and punching in the code, unlocking it for me.
The reception area is empty as I pass. The gallery is open by appointment only, but it’s not unusual for last-minute clients to pop up. I continue through the expansive space, weaving between artwork, admiring the new pieces that have been added since I was last here.
Half unpacked boxes lay scattered around the showroom, preparations for tomorrow night’s showcase well underway. I’m looking forward to being on display for it, but it’s only fair that I support his career as much as he does mine, and having me there will help coax LA’s elite out of their champagne comas.
Impressionist music swells through the space, a fast-paced rhythm that makes my pulse pick up with anticipation. It’s not unusual for Clay to have a variety of music playing in the background to add to the atmosphere of the exhibits.
Gliding my hand up the railing as I ascend the staircase to the second level where the office areas are located, I look out over the show space and admire Clay’s work. Hopefully he’s finished his part of the setup and we can spend the rest of the night together.
Muffled voices echo from behind Clay’s office door. I can just make out him talking to someone, but the words aren't clear enough to understand. I recognize the sound of Natalie, the gallery manager’s, voice as she answers.
From behind the door, a loud crash is followed by a drawn out, “Fuck.”
Instinctively, I move, bracing for the impact I know is coming. Sliding open the metal door, I still freeze at the sight before me. Like a slow-motion train crash, I know I should look away, but I can only stare as my world shatters into a million pieces.
Natalie stands completely naked, her perky breasts staring directly at me as she holds onto the side of his desk. Her petite hips slam into the metal siding of the desk as she’s forced forward.
Clay stands behind her, pants around his ankles, driving into her from behind. Natalie’s sleek brunette ponytail is wrapped tight in his fist, while the other grips her hip for leverage. His head is tipped back, eyes closed as he jackhammers into her. I recognize the look on his face; he’s getting close.
“Oh fuck, fuck,” Clay moans as she continues to bounce on his cock. The sounds of skin slapping against skin fills the air and the smell of sex and sweat permeates my nose.
“Clay, you're so fucking big. That’s right baby, fuck me so hard.” Using his grip on her hair, he slams her face down into the desk. Her glasses now crooked on her face, she squeaks in pain from the force. Clay either doesn’t notice or care.
“Shut the fuck up, I didn’t tell you to speak.”
I’m still totally frozen, no idea how neither heard the door slide across the rollers or why the fuck I’m even still standing here.
Clay is cheating on me.
I can’t believe what an idiot I’ve been.
The metal legs scrape across the concrete floor with the force he’s putting behind his thrusts. Deciding it’s well past my time to go, I attempt to shuffle back out of the doorway, but my elbow smacks into the door as I make my retreat. Clay’s crystal blue eyes fly open, locking onto me.
“Oh shit. Fuck, Tilly,” he stumbles out, but the asshole continues to slam into her, and with two more pumps, eyes still on me, he grunts, body shuddering with his release. He pulls out of her but his cum still drips, creating a string that connects them, as he tries to grab his pants, yanking them up.
With that image firmly burned into my memory, I say nothing as I sprint for the exit.