Beautifully Damaged (Beautifully Damaged series) by L.A. Fiore (3)

The reply I had been both dreading and anxiously awaiting arrived one week after I sent my e-mail to Professor Smythe. He wanted to meet to discuss my book. We arranged a meeting at a local café and as I sat there waiting for him with clammy hands, my stomach was doing flip-flops. Maybe my book was so bad that he wanted to tell me in person so he could be there with a wastebasket when I threw up. We were only talking about what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, not a big deal at all.

Every time the bell over the door rang, I looked up with my heart in my throat. Just when my nerves had reached their breaking point, in he walked. He looked older, even though it had only been a year since I last saw him. His salt-and-pepper hair had become mostly salt, but the kind, pale-blue eyes were exactly the same. As soon as he saw me, a smile spread across his face.

I stood as he approached because I had lost feeling in my legs so was hoping to get the blood flowing through them again.

He hadn’t even reached the table when he said, “I liked it, a lot.”

All the blood rapidly left my head and I almost pitched forward. The professor grabbed my arm, steadying me.

“You still with me?” He knew me so well.

“Yes.”

He waited for me to sit before he followed. He wasted no time getting to the heart of the matter.

“I think your story is good, but I want to make it great. Tell me, Ember, have you ever been in love?”

I was surprised by both the directness and personal nature of his question, but I answered him. “No.”

It was true, I had never been in love. I had liked the Creep, liked him enough to sleep with him, but I hadn’t loved him.

“I knew that.”

I narrowed my eyes at him and asked, “How did you know that?”

“There is a fairy-tale quality to your story, but it lacks that edge of realism. Even in fiction, people want reality. Good doesn’t always win, love doesn’t always conquer all, and it’s the struggle to find the happiness in between that makes a story great. Your story could be great if you define that struggle.”

He regarded me a moment before he asked, “Are you with me?”

I liked fairy tales and happily-ever-afters. I didn’t read fiction for realism, I read it to escape reality, but apparently that preference was not in the majority. “Yes, I understand.”

“I think you’ll discover there’s just as many magical moments in real life, if you know where to look. You need to put yourself out there and in order to do that I suggest that you get a job writing for a local paper. This will not only hone your writing skills, but it will force you to see the world in a different light. I have a few contacts who I’ll pass your name on to if you’re interested.”

“Yes, please pass my name on. Trying to hone my style will be scary but I know you’re right.”

“It really is a lovely story and I’m proud of you for forwarding it to me. I know that was a hard step for you. I’ll send you the names of the people I’m contacting on your behalf and then we’ll see what pans out.”

“Thank you, professor, for helping me.”

“Like I’ve told you dozens of times before, I’m paying it forward. I see a bit of me in you and had I not been encouraged by a teacher I wouldn’t be sitting before you now.” He leaned back in his chair and took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with his shirt. “So tell me, what else have you been up to?”

For the rest of the afternoon my thoughts kept returning to my meeting with Professor Smythe. I understood his point and he was right that it would do me a bit of good to get more involved in the professional side of writing.

I was concerned about spreading myself too thin by trying to handle a journalism gig in addition to working at Clover, because I wasn’t about to give up my waitressing job. How I happened to get the job only weeks after arriving in Manhattan, I didn’t know. The tips were unbelievable and since it was expensive living in Manhattan, I needed the money.

That night Clover was sponsoring a benefit, this time for battered women and children. The menu included our most popular dish of each course and cost a thousand dollars a seat.

You can imagine my shock and confusion to look up at one point in the evening and see Trace enter. What did he do for a living that he could afford the two-thousand-dollar price tag for this dinner? Fighting couldn’t be that lucrative.

His beautiful black suit was clearly tailored just for him and, though he looked elegant, there was no denying the hard, muscular body underneath it. The suit was offset with a charcoal-colored shirt and silk tie and to say he looked exquisite wasn’t being fair to him.

The blond on his arm had sharp features hinting at a Slavic background.

I was filled with disappointment seeing him with her, but it was a good reality check. I naively hoped that our breakfast the other night might have been the start of something, but Trace didn’t play the game that way. I needed to remember that.

I wasn’t thrilled—actually I was downright annoyed that they were seated in my section, but, since the menu was fixed, I only needed to get their drinks and bring them their meals. As I approached, Trace’s head moved in my direction.

“Hello, Ember.”

“Trace, it’s nice to see you.”

I looked over at his date, who was watching me with very cold, pale-blue eyes.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Patron, neat,” she said before she turned her head. The meaning was very clear, I had just been dismissed.

“Dalmore, neat. Thanks, Ember.”

I looked over at Trace and saw the grin that was tugging at his mouth, making me smile before I disappeared to get their drinks.

The rest of the evening went the same way. His date remained a cold bitch while Trace was affable and polite. I wondered why he subjected himself to someone as cold as her, but as I watched them I realized that her coldness was directed only at me.

A commotion started across the restaurant where an older couple was being escorted to their table. I didn’t recognize them, but clearly I was in the minority because they were causing quite the stir. They were seated at one of my tables and as I approached them, I was struck for a moment by how very familiar the man seemed.

“Good evening. Can I get something for you to drink?”

“Aren’t you a pretty young woman?” the wife said. Her husband looked up at me as she continued, “What’s your name, dear?”

“Ember.”

“Hello, Ember.” I almost had the sense that they were dissecting me, and the sensation sent a chill slithering down my spine.

“Are you from around here?” That was an odd question and I wondered why she would care. “No, I’m from Fishtown, Philadelphia.”

“How lovely.”

“Vivian, order your drink.”

The man’s voice sounded hard and unyielding, and I noticed the woman reacted to it immediately, like a turtle moving into its shell. She barely glanced at me when she said, “Vodka and tonic, three olives.”

“Glenlivet, neat.” And then I was dismissed.

I moved to the bar for their drinks and happened to glance over at Trace’s table only to find him watching me. My knees went weak. With effort I pulled my attention from him and made myself busy.

When I did return to Trace’s table, I found him sitting alone. There was a hardness about him that hadn’t been there earlier. I couldn’t help looking at the empty seat across from him. “She’s in the ladies’ room.”

“Of course. Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

Before I could reply, his date returned and mustn’t have liked the way Trace was looking at me because she made a production of reaching for his hand as she glared up at me.

“He’s taken for the evening so you’ll need to find some other stud to scratch your itch.”

My jaw almost dropped at her rudeness as my eyes shifted from her to Trace, whose attention was directed solely on his date and from the look of him, he was pissed. I wanted to linger and hear the scathing comment that Trace was surely about to make but I chickened out. I placed the check on their table and hurried away.

It took will power that I didn’t know I had to return to Trace’s table to collect their check, and thankfully, the table was empty. I took the black leather folder to the register to close out the bill and had to lock my knees to keep from sinking to the floor when I realized that Trace had left me a 50 percent tip.

That night I couldn’t sleep, since my thoughts were on Trace. His tip was beyond generous and a part of me thought that I should return it. In truth, though, it wasn’t his tip but thoughts of him that kept me up and when I finally succumbed to sleep, I dreamt of him.

To clear my head on my story, I decided to take another run through Central Park. Though it was as muggy as every other day this summer, there was enough of a breeze that the air chilled my skin. My thoughts turned to Professor Smythe. It had only been a few days since we talked, but he’d already sent me an e-mail with the list of names he was going to contact. I didn’t think there was a chance in hell I was going to get a job with any of the impressive publications on his list but I was going to keep my fingers crossed.

I wasn’t paying close enough attention to my surroundings. I heard someone screaming and by the time I realized they were screaming at me, it was too late. I pulled my focus back just in time to have a head-on collision with a beast of a dog and we tumbled to the ground, our limbs flying everywhere. I attempted to draw breath into my lungs as the dog righted himself and loomed over my prone position. He then started licking me with his huge, wet, pink tongue. Fabulous. I turned my head to avoid the tongue and that’s when I saw two pairs of black, scruffy boots. I followed the legs attached to those boots and had a moment of clarity. Trace.

I turned my eyes to his friend, and, honestly, what the hell was in the water where they grew up? Long black hair framed a face of sheer beauty as eyes, green as summer grass, looked down at me with humor. I closed mine for a moment and willed the ground to open up and swallow me. Trace reached his hand down to me.

I couldn’t help the little thrill that worked through me. Trace knew I ran this route every morning. So this meeting was not a coincidence. What did that mean?

“Ember.”

I accepted the hand he offered and stood up. The dog sat at the other man’s side, as perfect as you please. I couldn’t help the glare I gave the dog, which only made Trace’s friend laugh out loud before he held his hand out to me.

“Rafe McKenzie. I’ve never seen anyone stop a dog like that.”

I narrowed my eyes and had to suppress the urge to stick my tongue out at him. “Ember Walsh, and I was more than happy to play speed bump, but you really should pay better attention to your dog.”

“He rarely runs off.”

“Really? So today’s an exception.”

I saw his look of confusion just as Trace started to laugh. Rafe’s dog was gone, again.

“Damn it.” We all looked to see as the large black blob ran down a path in the distance. I’d walked dogs when I was a kid. I’d have walked more if any of the neighbors had looked like Rafe.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Loki.”

I put my fingers in my mouth and blew a loud whistle, which brought Loki to a halt. In a commanding voice, I called, “LOKI, COME!”

Like magic the dog trotted back to us, stopping just in front of me. I rubbed his head before reaching for his leash.

“Good come, Loki.”

My eyes turned to Rafe to find him silently studying me. I handed him the leash as I smiled and spoke to him as if I was talking to a five-year-old, “You want to hold on to that really tightly.”

He was expressionless for a moment and then he threw his head back and howled with laughter before turning to Trace.

“I like her.”

I smiled. “It was nice to meet you, Rafe.” I rubbed the dog’s head. “Loki, be a good boy.” When I looked at Trace, I found him watching me with an expression that looked remarkably like affection.

“Nice to see you again, Trace.”

He reached out and touched his finger to a strand of hair that had fallen from my knot as he whispered, “Thank you.”

Being so close to him, I felt my pulse jump, and I knew he saw it. I nodded my head in acknowledgment and then turned without a word and jogged away. I hadn’t even made it out of the park when my cell phone rang and when I looked down, my heart skipped a beat.

“Trace.”

“Ember. Are you free tonight?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come for you around seven?”

“Okay.”

I hung up and a smile spread over my face as I floated, not walked, home.

A few hours later I was cleaning the apartment with a smile permanently affixed to my face. When Lena arrived home, I wanted to talk with her about Trace, but one look at her and I could tell she was in another of her moods.

I never knew what was going to set her off and it made things uncomfortable in the apartment. She was turning into a complete stranger and I knew the reason for it was Todd. I told myself I wasn’t going to say anything, but she was my friend and I wasn’t being much of one if I said nothing. I joined her in the kitchen as she sifted through the mail.

“Lena?”

She looked up at me and I saw the temper behind her eyes.

“What’s going on with you? You’ve been out of sorts lately.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me. Stop being so sensitive.”

I felt my temper stir as I held her glare. “You’ve been a bitch ever since you started dating Todd. If he makes you so fucking miserable, why are you with him?”

“He doesn’t make me miserable. I love him.”

“You barely know him.”

She leaned up against the counter as a nasty smirk covered her face. “You are going to give me advice on relationships? The twenty-three-year-old who has had exactly one sexual relationship and an unsatisfying one at that.”

“And that’s not a bitchy thing to say?”

“I don’t need your permission or your approval. Stay out of my business.”

“Fine, as long as you stop the catty bullshit, because your company lately sucks out loud.” And then I turned without another word and walked to my room. What a bitch to throw that in my face! The Creep didn’t want a girlfriend, he wanted someone to dominate. For someone like me already struggling with identity issues, when I finally found the strength to get away from him, I drew even more into myself.

It was one of the reasons I was so drawn to Trace: I actually felt almost bold when I was around him and that was not something I’d ever experienced before with guys my own age. Just thinking about him gave me the push I needed to get ready for my date.

Later, as I pulled the door open for Trace, he seemed to recognize something was off.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just roommate trouble.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I shook my head and he studied me for a minute before he asked, “Are you ready?”

“I am.”

He reached for my hand and the heat from the contact warmed me to my core. He walked me to his bike and placed his helmet on my head, then straddled the bike so I could climb on. I liked riding with him, liked having an excuse to be so close to him. I was pleasantly surprised when we arrived at a small cluster of galleries in Far West Chelsea.

“One of my favorite artists has a show,” he offered in way of explanation.

“Have you ever met him?”

“No, but I can relate to his work. It’s like he’s spent some time in my head.”

He pulled me into a little gallery and handed me a glass of wine from a passing waiter before we made our way to the first painting. The artist was without question very talented, but his paintings were all very dark. Looking at his work you could all but see the demons that haunted the man and how he tried to exorcise them through paint.

At one point in the evening Trace began studying a particularly disturbing painting that depicted faces, elongated in terror. The eyes were black voids and the mouths had been painted to look as if they were shouting for help. He had become so fixated on the painting that he was oblivious to everyone around him. The look in his eyes broke my heart, a vacant look similar to the eyes in the painting.

I stood there watching him and realized why Trace could relate to this artist. Trace Montgomery had his own demons. My eyes moved to his arm and the tattoo. What secrets was he hiding? I had the strongest urge to wrap my arms around him and just hold him. Who in his life offered him simple comfort? There was far more to Trace Montgomery than met the eyes and I wanted to know him, all of him.

“What do you think?”

“His work is beautiful.” And deeply disturbing.

“Are you ready to go?”

“I am if you are.”

He took my hand as we walked from the gallery toward the parking garage. Before we reached his bike we both heard something. It sounded like a muffled scream, but the garage wasn’t lit very well so it was hard to see anything. I felt Trace tense at my side as he walked me quickly back to the gallery.

“Wait here.” Before I could say anything, he turned and disappeared.

I didn’t wait and followed after him, but not before I alerted a passing waiter of the potential trouble in the parking garage. As I approached, I could hear the distinctive sound of flesh against flesh. And that’s when I saw another part of Trace. He was pounding on some guy; his fist was relentless as he hammered into the man’s face. I couldn’t move, couldn’t tear my eyes from the sight; the look on Trace’s face scared the hell out of me.

I noticed the woman then. She was hunched near a car and I immediately hurried over to her.

“Are you okay?”

“I am, thanks to him.”

I turned my head just as Trace dropped the now limp guy. When his eyes found mine, I saw a level of rage in him that was frightening.

“You were supposed to stay in the gallery.”

“I wanted to help.”

I watched as his fists clenched and saw that he was trying really hard to control his temper when he said, “I should get you home.”

Was he angry with me? Would Trace ever hit a woman?

At that moment the owner of the gallery came out to see what was happening. Trace walked over to him, and they spoke softly for a few minutes before the man walked over to the woman and helped her to her feet. Two others came out to watch over the unconscious man so he couldn’t run off after he came to.

“Let’s get you inside and call the police,” the gallery owner said to the woman before he turned to Trace and added, “I’ll see you when you get back.”

I heard the woman offer her thanks to Trace, but looking at him I could tell he wasn’t really there anymore. Whatever put that empty look in his eyes continued to consume his thoughts. He walked over to me and reached for my hand as he said, “This was not how I saw the evening ending.”

“Why does it have to end?” I asked.

He looked down at me and when he answered, his voice was whisper soft.

“I won’t be very good company.”

I didn’t think, only acted on impulse, as I stepped into him and wrapped my arms around his waist. “You did a good thing here tonight.”

I felt his hesitancy and then those arms wrapped around me and held me close. When he spoke, there was anger laced through his words.

“And you did a stupid thing walking into something blindly.”

“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. I was worried about you.”

That made him pull away from me so he could look at me incredulously.

“Why?”

I didn’t understand his question. “Why was I worried about you?”

“Yes.” He acted as if the very notion was completely unbelievable so I answered with all honesty.

“Because I care about you.”

He didn’t say anything, just continued to look at me like I had six heads. He pulled me back into his arms, pressing me as close to him as possible.

“I should get you home.”

“Thank you for tonight.”

His lips brushed along my jaw as he whispered, “Thank you.”