18. Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Ishook the man’s hand, a false smile hiding my real emotions. He looked at me with condescending eyes, like he could hear my thoughts.
Pleasure not doing business with you, prick.
“Sit down, gentlemen. Are we sure we can’t come to some sort of agreement?” Ethan was still seated to the left of me on our side of the cherry-oak table.
I shook my head in Ethan’s direction. This was done. The guy, still attached to my hand as we stretched from one side of the table to the other in this office I rented, didn’t want my offer. He wanted more and in truth...I didn’t feel he was worth it. I thought I was too generous to start with, and I would be lucky to make my money back on his knockoff shit.
The painted sunflowers, wilted and crisp, stared at me from across the room as I let go of Mr. Duyuck’s sun-damaged hand and penned a quick note.
We have another meeting, and I’m sure Mr. Duyuck has other business to attend to.
I granted the man another smile and gave one to the men on each side of him—his agent and lawyer. I sat back between Ethan and Damiano. The birdbrain and the brainless musclehead who never said a word at these meetings...easy to guess who was who.
A curt nod told the men opposite it was time to leave, and they did, with Ethan’s rehearsed speech following them as they collected the ugly painting and carried it to the door.
“Thank you for your time. We appreciate you meeting with us, and as it has not worked out here, we wish you the very best with your art. I’m sure it will end up where it is truly appreciated.”
I tuned them out before Mr. Duyuck started muttering beyond the door about lousy offers.
Ethan laughed, finding amusement in their change of attitude.
It was funny how someone could go from ass licker to asshole the second something didn’t go their way.
I hadn’t been in this business too long, and neither had Ethan. I’d achieved my dream and had gotten my doctorate in medicine, but that profession had been put on hold because it didn’t allow the flexibility of time so I could run around murdering the traffickers who’d wronged me.
Art was relatively new to me, but not the family name. Thanks to my grandfather, who used art to hide his real job, I already had a good name when I took on this hustle. Everyone wanted to work with me—the good artists and the bad people, which was what initially attracted me to it.
People like Damiano. Damiano who annoyed me beyond reason as he picked the scum from his nails. I stepped away, I had to before I fucking killed him. I stared out at the city of Boston. Buildings towered around us but didn’t seal us in. It was pretty if you liked the hustle and bustle of city life. I did, I guess. But, maybe, that was just because I was used to it.
Maybe that was how it went with things.
Maybe that was the case with Chandelle.
Maybe if I thought that was fucking true, I could let go of the guilt I held hands with every time I thought of Feebee.
Feebee.
Fiery little Feebee.
The sweet scent of her was all over me today. I smelled of mango, pastry, and innocence...what a concoction.
I couldn’t get her off me. I didn’t want her off me.
I wanted her all over me, and I couldn’t even deny it anymore.
The truth hung on to every smile I gave these artists. The lies on every sarcastic sneer I shot at Ethan because he dared, more than once, to comment about my flushed cheeks. I was hot and bothered, sweaty and needy. And I needed to be home. Needed to be close to her.
She looked so pretty earlier today, with her hair silky and scented of mangos, with her round, inquisitive eyes staring at me with something other than anger. With her hands in mine as I taught her how to knead pastry.
You’d think hands like hers would be capable of doing so many wonderful things and wouldn’t have needed teaching. But she did, and I was happy to acquire a student. Happy for a reason to touch something other than her pretty little toes...
Happy, for the first time in fucking months.
“What are you daydreaming about?”
I heard Damiano but ignored him as he flicked dirt from his nails to the powder blue carpet.
“Uh, hello! What are you fantasizing about over there?”
Too often, I missed my voice, purely because I wanted to tell this guy to shut up and mind his own business. Too often, my hands wanted to say what my mouth couldn’t. But him showing up to meetings with shiners and bruises on his face wouldn’t look professional.
But neither did the snow boots slotted under the table, not with suit pants tucked into them.
I had met him under unusual circumstances, ones I’d never shared with Nonna. She didn’t trust him. I couldn’t imagine her finding out I’d met him when he pulled a gun to my head, catching me in the act of hunting down the traffickers who took Chandelle. He was one of them, not personally involved with her kidnapping or death—or I’d have found a way to fucking kill him—but a trafficker, all the same.
The right amount of money and the promise of more put him on my side. And got me what I wanted—the blood of his acquaintances.
That was why he was here...getting paid for sitting at my side and doing fucking nothing. Tolerated when he shouldn’t be.
“Did you screw her again?”
I turned around, the frustration clawing through my veins, settling within the agitated expression on my face made it obvious I hadn’t had sex again.
“That’s a no then?”
My scowl grew, focusing only on Damiano and not whatever Ethan was doing on his phone. Probably checking with the next client who hadn’t rolled out of bed yet. The next guy was good, but his time management skills were as slim as my patience.
“Can’t imagine her being much fun...not that we need to imagine her skills.” Damiano leaned over to Ethan, giving him a nudge. “Catch my drift?”
“Shut up, man.” Ethan moved away, creating a bigger distance between himself and Damiano, his phone still in hand. He stared down at the mirrored screen protector, turning his back on us.
My eyes narrowed on Damiano...if only looks could kill.
“I mean, come on, she’s fucking paralyzed, and she looks nothing like your Chandelle. She’s got her heart, but you’re not dipping your dick into her fucking heart. You’re dipping it into her cunt, and she can’t even raise her hips to meet you. The girl has fucking nothing going for her.”
Steam flurried down my flared nostrils, so much of the anger he caused not fitting inside me
“Your ex-girl would be saying, what the fuck happened to your standards?” he said with a feminine voice, and fuck, it did sound like Chandelle.
From my pocket, I pulled out my pen and Post-it notes. Ethan’s eyes were on me as I stabbed the inky tip into the page, breaking it like I wanted to Damiano’s neck.
Three long strides got me back to the table.
I slapped the green note in front of him, my hand sliding off it to reveal tiny words he read quickly.
She probably would have. She was a right bitch, at times. But I’d tell her the same as I’ll tell you. To shut your fucking mouth because I don’t feel that way.
“She’s got nothing, man. Nothing you could like but a wet cunt and an organ that isn’t hers.”
Evil rushed through me; my hands twitched at my side. Fingers curled into tight fists, both eager to race to his temple…but it would be just my luck for the next artist to show up at that exact moment.
My feelings for Feebee were complicated but definitely there.
Definitely real.
And none of them were any of Damiano’s fucking business.
The desire to give him a heavy fucking punch grew, and as my fist tightened, my vengeance was interrupted by Nonna’s sweet voice as it blared from the call Ethan had been on for fuck knows how long. I hadn’t been listening, lost in thoughts and daydreams, no sound dragging me out but Damiano’s voice slicing through my peace and invading it.
“Ethan! Does your friend not realize how rude he is? How his words...”
I stopped listening to Nonna when a tap rattled the door. Business meeting number two was about to begin, and I couldn’t wait for it to fucking end.
God...that hurt. That hurt a lot.
Could I not be wanted because I couldn’t move half of my body?
Earlier today, I wouldn’t have said Mercer felt that way, not after he gifted me a little more freedom and these art supplies.
But when Trix called Ethan, failing to get ahold of Mercer on her prehistoric-looking cell to see what time they would be home for dinner, my stolen heart broke again.
My afternoon was ruined.
And it was a nice afternoon.
After Trouble had left, Trix awaited her turn on the stairlift, following me up to my room. She had helped me with my hair and painted my nails, and I enjoyed the pampering. She had been up here for hours, leaving once to take care of meal prep. She had returned quickly after another ride up, taking a seat at my wooden dresser, watching with bright eyes as my paintbrush glided across the canvas.
Mercer had put art supplies in a drawer for me, something to pass the time. To kill the boredom that wanted me dead. Trix was fascinated, her head resting on her hand as she watched me work, only moving to make that call.
Damiano probably didn’t know, or care, that I had heard the awful comments he made while Trix’s loudspeaker was activated, and I’d heard no retaliation of anger from Mercer, which really hurt.
Yes, he couldn’t speak. But that keypad was practically glued to his fucking hand.
He should have defended me.
He would have defended me...if he actually wanted to.
Who the fuck knew what he wanted.
Black paint landed in the center of my canvas in the center of the beating heart I painted...cracking it.
A tear landed there, too.
Damiano was right. Mercer didn’t dip his dick into my heart, but he had dipped his silence into my chest and crushed my heart.
And I captured all that pain with my painting in the shades of pink, red, and black…and real-life tears.