Three days later….
I STEP OUTSIDE MY DORM and pop open my umbrella. The rain started three days ago and hasn’t let up since. I sigh at another day wasted knowing I won’t be able to capture the shots of the arboretum in the park for my photography class. I look at the time and realize I only have twenty minutes to make it across campus to the communications building in time to sign out a rental camera. The good thing about the art program is the option to rent their equipment. The bad thing is I’m not the only poor student depending on the school to get my work done. I’ve thought about taking the expensive dress hanging in my closet and pawning it for money to buy my own camera. I’m sure I could find a nice refurbished one to get the job done.
I get moving, fighting my umbrella. The wind in Chicago is fierce. If I make it to class without it flipping inside out under a billion times, it will be considered a success. The campus is quiet, students smarter than I, staying in their dorm rooms, instead of venturing out in the monsoon. But the weather out here is less gloomy than being in my room.
Christine is still barely talking to me, and by barely, I mean not at all. After Damien dropped me off without a goodbye, I tried calling her to confess everything. That didn’t go as planned since she didn’t answer my calls or texts. I just wanted to lay all my cards on the table and be honest about what had been happening. I’m sick of hiding behind this blackmail and abiding by a contract that’s far from who I really am, with a man who’s becoming a headache. He dropped me off without a word and that was that. Three days, and nothing but silence. But I’m fine with it. I’m done playing games. He may see me as weak. But I know who I really am. And that’s why I’m done hiding behind the contract, the lies, and the blackmail.
Now, I just need Christine to speak to me.
Hurrying past the union, I make it to the communication building and take the steps two at a time. The building just opened, so there’s no way all cameras have been checked out this quick. Down two hallways, and I knock on the rental office door before twisting the knob.
“Hello?” I call out to the student services staff.
“Oh, hello there, Jensen.”
“Hey, Will,” I greet him with a smile. “Here to check out a camera.” I beam. Today’s gonna be my day.
His smile falls. “Yeah, about that…”
He has to be kidding me. “It’s like exactly seven forty-five. How can all the cameras be checked out?”
He shakes his head. “No idea, but they are. I came in this morning and not a single one is here. I’m sorry. I was even going to hide one for you. I know you’ve really been wanting one.”
Wanting one? He means needing one. I can’t do any of my photography work without one. “Maybe use your camera on your phone. They have some cool apps nowadays. Mr. Harrison probably wouldn’t know the difference.”
He’s trying to be kind, but it’s not helping. I try to mask the disappointment in my face. “Yeah, I’ll try that. Thanks anyway, Will. See you in class.” I wave him off and leave. Go figure the wind has picked up and the rain is coming down even harder than before. The moment I step outside, my umbrella flips inside out.
“Goddammit!” I wrestle with it until it’s lipped back, just for it to get caught in another gust of wind and flip outward again. “Why didn’t we apply to somewhere like California?” I ask myself as I hold my umbrella down with one hand and start to book it across campus. When I finally make it to Haller Hall, I’m soaked. I debate on just blowing off class and going home—getting into warm clothes and sleeping the day away. But I skipped Pysch on Monday, for no reason other than to avoid Sylvia. I need to go today.
I run up the stairs just as my umbrella takes one last pop and the lining breaks. I try to save it, but the wind wrestles it out of my hands. One bad move and it’s gone. “Seriously. California…” I mutter, turning and heading inside.
I’m wiping the rain off my soaked face when I hear giggling. “Oh my God, you’re like a drowned mouse.” More obnoxious giggling. I bring my eyes to Sylvia and her entourage.
“The phrase is actually a drowned rat, but…” I reply.
“Excuse me?”
“The saying. It’s a rat, not a mouse. If you’re going to make lame attempts to insult people, you should use the correct terminology.”
“Seriously? What, did you get that out of your book of nerd facts?” Her posse starts laughing again as if she just said the world’s funniest thing. Ignoring her, I shake my head, trying to get rid of some of the excess water in my hair. I sidestep her and don’t have time to process what happens before she sticks her foot out and my backpack flies off my shoulder and slides across the hall as my hands go out to catch myself before my face meets the ground.
“Wow, Jensen, you really need to be more careful,” Sylvia says, pulling her heel-clad foot back toward her before they all walk past me into class. I’m fighting not to cry as I reach over and grab for my bookbag. Two hands beat me to it.
“Hey, let me help you.” I look up to see Jake holding my bag. Great. “Here, give me your hand. It’s slippery.” I want to tell him to just leave me alone—especially since the last time I saw him, I was deep in a fight with Damien on the dance floor of his sex club.
“I’ve got it. Thanks, though.” I lift myself up, sliding a bit as I steady myself.
“Don’t pay attention to Sylvia. She doesn’t know how to be anything but a bitch.” He hands me my backpack.
“She doesn’t faze me,” I lie. “Thank you. I’ve gotta get to class.” I move to walk past Jake when he stops me with a gentle hand on my elbow.
“Hey, I wanted to apologize for Friday night. I…uh…I should have never left you with that crazy guy. It was a dick move.”
In all the drama with Damien, I never put thought to him feeling bad. I was more worried about how it looked watching us fight like two lovers in a quarrel. “Oh no, it’s cool. No problem. I don’t know what I was even thinking going there.”
“So, you’re not mad at me?”
I offer him a small smile. “Not at all.”
He looks relieved. “Good. So, maybe I can make it up to you? Unless, that was, like, your boyfriend or something. I didn’t know what to think of you two.”
At that, I laugh. Damien Cross, my boyfriend? He doesn’t have a single boyfriend material bone in his arrogant body. “No, Jake, he is most definitely not my boyfriend.”
“Oh, okay, ‘cause it kinda looked like—”
“It looked like we all got caught where we shouldn’t have been. I guess he just singled me out. Trust me, I got tossed out just like you did.”
I fail to tell him I got tossed onto his bed and fucked until I couldn’t see straight. But that’s beside the point. It’s also history, so it doesn’t matter.
“Well…cool. I’m glad. I was bummin’ out thinking I didn’t have another chance.”
We stand there, silently offering one another a kind smile, until I look at my watch and realize class is starting. “Shit, we better get in. We both know Ms. Phillips is a stickler on tardiness.”
He waves his hand out, offering for me to go first, and steadies my waist when I almost slip again on the wet floor.
“…so be prepared to have a quiz on the scientific investigation of mental behavior and how it is analyzed by environmental causes.” Ms. Phillips writes the page numbers to read for our assignment. I’m still finishing the notes she put up on the board when a knock comes from the classroom door.
Everyone turns their attention to the door, including me, and I wish I hadn’t. Through the window, I spot Fredrick. A ball of nerves forms in the pit of my belly. After the way things ended on Saturday, I didn’t know if I would hear from Damien again. Everything between us always seems to be a struggle. I spent the last three days at war with what I really wanted. If he thought I was this helpless girl who couldn’t fight my own battles, he had another thing coming. It was my silence if he ever attempted to call on me again. But then, at night, while I laid in bed thinking about him, I secretly hoped he would call me, demand I come to him. But he didn’t. And now, I don’t know what to feel. I don’t have to look at Ms. Phillips to know she’s most likely wearing a frown when she walks over to address Fredrick.
I’m not sure how, but they seem to know each other. A question I don’t dare to ask right now. They make small talk once again, and he hands her a box, medium in size. She says her goodbyes, then her eyes are on me.
Shit.
She walks up to me and not so kindly drops the box on the desk. “Will you be expecting anything else today, Ms. Stone? Or should I keep the door open, just in case?”
The classroom laughs, and a few low whistles sound out.
“No, sorry. I’m not sure who even gave that guy a job at the post office. But I’ll make sure to let a manager know as soon as possible.” Her unhappy glare says she clearly doesn’t believe me. Or she knows he doesn’t work at the post office. Another question I’m curious to get answered.
The remainder of class is torture. I’m too afraid to open the box or even the card attached to it knowing it may send my professor over the edge. I’m certain Sylvia is just as curious. The second class ends, I pop out of my chair and stuff my things into my bag. I make the mistake of catching eyes with Jake, who smiles and looks to be heading my way. I wave, giving him the universal “see ya around” smile, and jet out the door. I head down the hallway, stopping in the bathroom on the other side of the building so Sylvia doesn’t find me. Once the stall is shut, I toss my bag to the ground and tear the card off the box.
I don’t realize my hands are shaking until I pull the small notecard from its casing and read the handwritten note.
Meet me at this address tonight at 9 p.m. Do not open the box until then.
124 Michigan Ave.
-D
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until sudden waves of dizziness strike me. I let out a gust of air and refill my lungs. The anticipation of what’s in the box kills me. It can’t be clothes. It’s too heavy. Unless he has a ball gag and chains inside. Probably is, since it may be the only way he’ll ever get me to comply. A spark of defiance sets fire to me. I press my fingernails into the crease of the wrapping but stop.
“Oh, come on. Just open it.”
But my hand doesn’t move.
“Dammit!” I stomp my foot and bend down, grabbing my bag. Opening it, I stuff the damn box inside, barely leaving room to close it, and leave the bathroom, keeping an eye out for my enemy as I race to my second class.
“You have got to be kidding me!’ I growl, feeling duped. I stare up at the place where the Uber driver dropped me off with anger seeping out of my pores. The Museum of Art.
“Nice joke,” I grumble, feeling like a fool for actually obeying him. I should have sent him a text, telling him to piss off. I was not going to take his orders any longer. I didn’t care about the contract or what was going to happen to Christine’s life of sisterhood. The more time that passed, the more I realized it wasn’t worth it. Here I am, doing God knows what to help her, when she can’t even pick up the phone and talk to me. Clearly, I was wrong about how strong our friendship was to begin with.
I toss the card with the address on it and turn to hail a cab home when Fredrick pops up out of nowhere.
“Ms. Stone.”
“What, you here to snap a pic to take back to your leader? Show him I fell for this shit? Well, have at it, pal.” I lift both my hands and give him two middle fingers.
“If you can follow me, please,” he says, then walks back to where he came from.
“What? Why? Where are you going?” I yell to his back. In typical Fredrick fashion, he doesn’t wait for me, or respond. He gives me no choice but to leave or follow. Of course, I follow. It takes me a few steps to catch up to him. By the time I do, he’s opening a door at the side entrance and waiting for me to walk through.
“Where are we going? Isn’t this place, like, closed? Or is this a setup? A way to get rid of me? Set me up for trespassing?” He looks like he’s debating it. I stop. Yeah, I’m not going in there.
“If I wanted to get rid of you, I wouldn’t put this much effort into it. Now, please. He’s waiting.” That answer does not settle the uncertainty swirling in my stomach. “Will you be coming in or not, Ms. Stone?”
Run or take my chances… Run or take my chances… “Oh hell, I’m coming,” I say, surprising myself. I step inside and listen as the door falls shut. Fredrick is once again on the move, and I’m struggling to keep up with him.
“If this is your idea of wearing me out so it’s harder for me to struggle later, it’s not working. I have the stamina of a bull,” I say, semi out of breath. Where in heavens is he taking me? We walk through a bunch of back hallways, and I try to memorize the way just in case. Finally, he opens a door, and we pop out into a large open room. Dozens of lit candles illuminate the room, a warm flickering glow hitting the artwork displayed against the walls.
“Where are—?”
“Thank you, Fredrick. I won’t be needing you the rest of the night.”
I whip my head to the left, spotting Damien. He’s standing just a few feet away, in his typical suit attire, his hands hidden within his pants pockets. Goosebumps splay over my skin at how damn delicious he looks.
“Jensen.” My name falls from his perfect lips, his deep voice causing my traitorous nipples to perk. I want to deny the way he makes me feel, stick to the fact that he’s an arrogant jerk, but my body doesn’t seem to want to stick to the plan at all.
“Why am I here? What are you up to now, besides illegal entry of a famous art museum?”
He takes a step toward me. “I have a friend who owes me a favor. Did you bring the box?” Another step closer, and my cheeks start to feel hot.
I pull the box out of my bag. “This one? What is it? Something to help me comply? Be a better pet?”
Another step. “Depends. Do you want to be my pet?”
Goddammit. My thighs begin to tremble. I will be no one’s pet, but…to be his, all his… “Not a chance,” I reply, an unfamiliar hoarseness in my tone.
My false words don’t go unnoticed as he smiles, taking one last step, leaving barely a hairsbreadth between us. “Open the box.”
I want to rebel. Tell him no just to spite him. But my body wants to do anything to please him. His smile widens. He knows he’ll win. He waits while I give in and begin to unwrap the box. When I get a peek at what’s underneath, my breath seizes in my lungs.
“What…what is this?” I barely get the words out as I tear the final piece of wrapping away from the box. I look up. “Damien, this is a—”
“Do you like it?”
I look back down at the box, and the Leica M10 Digital Rangefinder Camera stares back at me. Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve been in love with photography. I would make my dad take me all over town to the electronic shops to play with all the models. My dad would smile as I pretended I was famous, taking my still shots. He would fill my heart with promise, telling me my own work would hang in a famous gallery one day. Back then, we couldn’t afford an expensive camera, but when luck struck, my dad would bring home an old camera someone was selling at a garage sale. It wasn’t the new flashy model I had just played with at the store. It was better. It had history. When the time came when I could afford one on my own, I wasn’t going to put my money on the newest models. The fancy ones with the fastest shutter speed and memory. I would go in search for the old fashion models. The ones that took photos just like in the olden days, capturing life’s moments in its purity.
I raise my head back to meet his. “Damien, these are, like, ten-thousand-dollar cameras. I can’t accept this.”
“I didn’t ask if you could. I asked if you liked it.”
“Of course I do. This is…I’ve dreamt about one day owning one of these.”
“Well, now you do.” He takes the box out of my hands and sets it down on a table holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
“I can’t accept this.”
He brings his open palm to my face, caressing my warm cheek. “You can. Because it’s my way of saying I was wrong for the things I said the other day.”
“You don’t need to buy me anything to say you’re sorry.”
“I didn’t say I was sorry. I said I was wrong for the things I said.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
His hand lowers past my chin to my neck, his fingers gently teasing my skin. There is never a time where he doesn’t radiate dominance, even now. His fingers halt at the baseline of my neck, and his eyes locked onto that spot. I want to ask him what he’s doing, thinking about…if he wants me as badly as I want him.
“Take a walk with me.” He finally speaks, breaking the spell. His fingers release me and fall to his side. Disappointment strikes me, but I do my best to hide it. I follow in step with him as he walks us through the low-lit gallery. A few minutes pass before he stops in front of a painting. “Do you know who this is?”
I observe the artwork. “No,” I reply, not familiar.
“His name is Caio Fonseca. Formally from New York, but now spends most of his time in Tuscany where he has his current studio.”
I continue to stare at the abstract design, confused where he’s going with this. “His father was a painter. And his father before that. It was his legacy to follow in their footsteps. He studied in Paris and Italy. Quite talented. Made a name for himself before returning back to the States. There was an article published about him. He spoke about his life and his career. He called himself the painter with two lives.”
He pauses for a moment. “He explained not everything is as it seems. We may all look perfect on the outside, but on the inside, we may be living a different life. Everyone has two of them. The life they allow people to see, and the one hidden deep inside we as humans all crave. He considered his paintings the same way. Like a two-sided mirror. What one sees might not be what another one does.” He ends on that and turns to walk away.
“Wait. I don’t get it. What does all that mean?”
He stops to address me. “It means not everything, or everyone, is as it seems, Jensen.” Then continues to walk, forcing me to follow.
Only a few more steps, then he stops at another painting. “Do you know this one?”
I look at the artwork. “No.”
“I thought you were a lover of art?” He smirks, then dodges my slap to his shoulder.
“I am. Just because I don’t know two paintings doesn’t mean I don’t love art.”
“Fair enough. Tell me what you see.”
I look at the painting. It’s of a woman and a man, both wearing a cover of some sort over their heads. They seem to be kissing. “They look sad. Unsure. Maybe unaware of who they really are.” I turn to Damien, who offers me a nod of approval.
“Very good. It’s titled The Lovers. Painted by René Margritte in nineteen-twenty-eight. The meaning behind it suggests imprisonment of the couple. Possibly a lonely relationship. They may seem to be kissing, but their lips never touch. A masterpiece of sexual frustration, one might say.”
“And why the art lesson on this specific piece?” I ask.
“It’s telling you, or more like showing you, the inability to expose the true nature of your most intimate desires. Possibly companions.” He winks at me and walks off.
“Wait! You’re seriously confusing me right now. I’m not understanding all this hidden meaning crap.”
Just like before, he walks until he finds another painting to stop at. “Do you know who this is?”
“Damien,” I warn.
“Just humor me. And if you’re good, I’ll reward you with the answers you desire.”
I frown and turn to the painting. This one, I actually do recognize. “Of course, it’s Van Gogh. Who doesn’t know his work?”
Damien is quiet while admiring the painting. “He didn’t become famous until after his death. He had a hard life. Suffered from depression, mental illness. His work, though, is remarkable. Did you know he failed as an artist when he was alive? Barely sold his work. They say he went mad over the loss of love. The history books claim he only had his brother. His letters to his brother, Theo, are published. Sad, many of them. But you can feel the love he felt. Also, the loneliness in them. Vincent died in eighteen-eighty. His brother, six months later. Buried next to one another, as a matter of fact.”
I turn to Damien when he becomes quiet. I wait for him to continue, but it seems he’s lost in the way the painting of the flowers stares back at him.
“What are you trying to tell me?”
He turns to face me. His hands leave his sides to reach up and cup my face. His head dips, and his lips perfectly press against mine. I don’t expect this side of him. I wonder for a quick moment if this is all a dream. With the tantalizing scent of him surrounding me, the warmth of his mouth on mine, I know this is real. Too soon, he pulls away, his eyes glowing with what I’ve learned to be passion.
“Let’s walk.”
I don’t hide the grunted noise of frustration as he steps away from me again and proceeds to walk away.
“Damien. Stop.” He doesn’t, and I’m forced to pick up my step, almost running to catch up with him. When I reach him, I grab for his shoulder and tug for him to halt. He gives in with no fight and turns to me.
“Why do you let those shits speak to you like that?”
“What? Sylvia? This is about me—”
“Answer the question.”
“I don’t know. It’s just easier to ignore than engage. I won’t play their games.”
“But aren’t you? You’ve found yourself in bed with a man who’s no good for you because you engaged.”
This sudden change is confusing me. The naive part of me feels like he wants to tell me something very personal. Open up to me. But the logical part warns me to keep my guard up. A man like Damien softens for no one, and his mind games might be worse than anything Sylvia can throw at me.
“Okay, fine. You’re right. I let my guard down and they won. But I’m done playing her games. Being afraid of her threats. If she wants to ruin my friendship, she can have at it. I’m not sure the real friendship was there in the first place.”
He steps closer to me. “And our contract? Do you not feel abided to adhere to it then?”
My skin shivers at the way he’s looking at me. His eyes are intense. He’s not just patiently waiting for me to reply, he’s mentally eating me alive. He licks his lips, and my belly tightens. If he even attempted to touch me right now, I would combust. I’m not sure what sort of game he’s trying to play with me, but there’s a strong feeling I’m going to lose it.
“You don’t own me. No one does. I’m here because I choose to be. Not because you have any control over me.”
His arm is up, and his hand clasps quickly and tightly around my neck. With all his strength, he pulls me to him, and his mouth lands roughly against mine. He fuses his lips to mine and kisses me hard, showing no sign of releasing me until he’s taken what he wants. But I’m okay with that. I kiss him back with the same fervor. In no time, his free hand wraps around my butt cheek and he’s lifting me with one arm up, my legs wrapping around him.
“I find your boldness sexy as fuck, Ms. Stone,” he hums into my mouth as he backs us up against the wall. I worry about knocking into a painting. I rip my mouth away to twist my head in fear. “Oh my God, is that a Cézanne?” I panic, staring at the famous piece hanging next to me.
“Ah, yes, the Table, Napkin, and Fruit. One of his most famous works.” He drops his lips to my neck and sucks on my skin.
“Damien, if we knock it over…”
He pulls us off the wall, and I feel instant relief knowing I won’t have to live out the remainder of my life in guilt over ruining a hundred-year-old masterpiece. He carries us down an unfamiliar gallery hallway as I sneak peeks at the famous paintings. Never in my life would I have pictured myself in such a famous museum, late at night, about to do extremely inappropriate things.
I wait for us to pop out in the cafeteria or somewhere more appropriate, but when he enters a new room, my breath catches as I take in my surroundings. “Damien, are we in the Leonardo Da Vinci exhibit?” Holy shit, we are. As much as I’m loving how turned on and sexy Damien is right now, my urge to threaten him to put me down so I can appreciate the paintings may be taking over.
“See something you like?” Damien chuckles and with two short steps, he has my back implanted against the wall. His lips are warm and smooth on my skin. He runs his mouth across my shoulder blade, stopping at my collarbone. Heat builds between my legs as his tongue glides down the center of my chest until he latches on to my hard nipple through my thin shirt. I planned on answering him that set of portraits of Isabella d`Este are fantastic, but my words are lodged in my throat. His teeth bite down, and the sensation of pure pleasure stifle a soft moan from my lips.
“Tell me what you feel right now,” he hums, squeezing my breast through the fabric, kneading my flesh. My hands thread into his scalp, holding his head closer to me.
“I feel empowered.” Because I do. Being in this room, with such exquisiteness, it makes me feel just as beautiful.
“You belong on these walls, you know,” he says, moving to my other breast. “Displayed for the world to see, such purity and beauty.” He releases his tight hold on my breast, skimming down my side, past my ribcage, and working at the hem of my leggings. “But behind every piece of art is a hidden message.”
“And what would mine be?” I moan as his hands find their way into my pants past the barrier of my underwear.
“You aren’t innocent. You crave defiance. You want me to take you up against this wall and fuck you right next to one of the most famous drawings in the world. You want to lose yourself in my touch, my fingers, have me fuck you as you scream, my name echoing off every single piece of history in this room.” A single finger dips into my sex, pumping slowly. “Tell me, Jensen, how do you feel?”
“Alive,” I moan.
He pulls his finger out, then roughly thrusts two back in. “You are empowered. You have more control than you realize.” He replaces two fingers with three. His movement quickens. I’m losing focus on anything but the way his fingers feel. So deep. The fullness of them brushing against my inner walls.
“I need to fuck you,” he growls, pulling free of me. He’s wild with need, tearing at my leggings, bringing them down past my hips. He works his cock out of his pants and plunges inside me.
He’s not gentle. He doesn’t keep a consistent pace. I experience a side of him that’s new. Wild and uncontrolled. He isn’t the man who holds the power. I do. I can’t help but lose myself in the thought that maybe I’m changing him. Showing him life isn’t always about being in control. Having the upper hand and feeling in charge, I tangle my fingers in his hair, gripping to a point of pain, which only causes him to lose more restraint.
“Damien,” I moan his name, feeling full and at the brink of my orgasm. Just weeks ago, I didn’t know what it could be like to feel such emotion, but now, I couldn’t imagine never knowing just how far someone sexually, psychically, emotionally can be pushed. “Oh God, I can’t last much longer. I’m going to… Oh God, I’m…” I fade off as my walls crush around him, and my eyes close as the blast through every nerve ending explodes throughout my body.
“Goddammit!” Damien growls, slamming into me three more times, and I listen in fear a painting will detach from its anchor and crash to the ground. He expands even larger, then loses himself inside me.
We’re laying on the floor of the museum, my head resting on his bare chest, enjoying the silence and comforts of one another. Damien has yet to fully dress, at ease in only his slacks and muscled chest on display. There’re no complaints out of me since it allows me to admire just how sexy he is. His arms are stretched above his head, his biceps flexed and inviting. Running my fingers down his ridged stomach, I’m tempted to pinch myself to see if this is a dream. Never in a billion years would I think I would be laying with a man of his stature chasing the highs of the best orgasm ever. In a historic museum at that. Feeling bold, I place my lips to his chest and spread small kisses over his heart.
“I was just like you once, you know.”
I lift my head. “Like what?”
“Ambitious.”
At that, I laugh. “I’m pretty sure you’re still ambitious.” If the soreness between my legs doesn’t prove so, I don’t know what does.
“I don’t mean that, you dirty girl. I mean in life. This wasn’t my dream.”
I push off him, fully sitting. “What do you mean?”
Damien adjusts his elbows to prop himself up. “This life. The club. It wasn’t my life. I didn’t choose it. My father did.”
His confession brings me back to the first painting. The man with two lives. One who is living a life on the outside, but on the inside, in his heart, he lives another.
“The painting. You were relating to it.” It’s more of a statement than a question. “Ask me how I know so much about art.”
Huh? He smiles and sits up, grabbing me and flipping me so I’m now on my back, his body hovering over me. “Ask me.”
“How do you know so much about art?”
“I went to school for it. Studied in Paris for two years. I wanted to travel, learn about architecture, photograph the entire world the way I saw it.”
“And why didn’t you?” I ask, already saddened by his upcoming answer.
“I was next in line to take over my father’s legacy.”
“Why didn’t you just say no? It’s your life, not his.”
He brushes a loose strand of hair away from my face. “I did.” He doesn’t continue with the rest of his answer. He seems to disappear into his head for a quick moment before realizing his actions. “I was technically never meant to step in line to take over Exquisite. My brother was.”
His words shock me. I didn’t realize he had a brother. Not that we’ve gotten into any deep conversations about ourselves. “And why didn’t he? Did he not want it? Where’s he now?”
“Dead.”
I gasp. “Oh, Damien, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says, raising his lips to mine for a sweet, short kiss. “It was a long time ago.”
Time or not, it’s still a moment in his life that will forever affect him. His brother and his dad, both gone. My heart aches to know he has no one. I lift my hand to caress his cheek. My open palms brush against the growing stubble on his face. “Still, I’m sorry you had to endure such sadness.”
There is no hiding the pain in his eyes. He may think he’s over it, or mastered hiding the emotions, but they still live deep inside him. “I was nineteen when it happened. I was overseas in Prague, a three-month graffiti and urban art tour, when my instructor was notified to send me home. My brother and father were in an accident. My father was drunk. So was my brother. They had no boundaries when it came to rules. My father lived and died Exquisite, and James was just like him. We were close. He practically raised me while my father raised his club. When my father refused to pay for my schooling, telling me I was a fairy for wanting to explore art, my brother secretly paid for it. He allowed me to do what I truly loved. But when they died, it left only me to step in.”
Jesus. I don’t know what to say. There isn’t anything that can justify all the hardship he bared. I want to tell him how sorry I am, but now I see how petty those words are. Then it hits me. “The camera. It was yours.”
He nods. “My father died instantly, from what I was told. Motherfucker wasn’t wearing his seatbelt and went right through the windshield into a tree, snapping his neck. My brother didn’t have the same fate. He suffered. Spent weeks on a ventilator. If he ever woke up, he would have been paralyzed. His brain activity was dead. The hospital tried to convince me time and time again to let him go. He was already gone. But I refused. No way could the one person I loved be gone. In time, I realized what they had been trying to tell me since the moment he was wheeled into the hospital. He was gone, and I was alone.”
The first tear slides down the side of my face. I want to be strong and listen to his story, but I can’t stop them. It’s as if I’m experiencing the pain all over again with him. Suffering the sadness through his tormented eyes. It suddenly makes sense about the Van Gogh painting and the mention of the love he shared with his brother. “You did the right thing. It was time to let his body rest.”
“I wasn’t given much of a choice either way. The hospital wanted payment, and…well, I had no means to pay. Fredrick was my father’s right-hand man, so he stepped in and took care of everything. He brought me to Exquisite and basically sat me in my father’s throne, telling me it was my job to adhere in my father’s wishes.”
My emotions are rapid as my sadness turns to anger. How dare Fredrick do that to a grieving boy. Nineteen may be old enough to be on his own, but to throw a sex club in his lap after losing his brother and father is just wrong. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t like Fredrick,” I spit out, angry for him.
Damien shows me a small smile. “You getting all feisty on me, pet?” He laughs, sitting up and kissing the bottom of my chin.
“I’m getting mad at a guy who shouldn’t have taken advantage of you. Why didn’t he run the club?”
“Oh, trust me, I’m sure he wanted to. He didn’t spend half his life being my father’s dog, just to become mine. But you have good instincts, same as me. I didn’t trust him. I wasn’t convinced he didn’t have something to do with their death to win over the seat. It took me years to drop the theory. But now, he’s learned his place. In the past few years, he’s made some poor judgments, but soon, he won’t be an issue for me.”
“Why?”
He seems to stall, unsure if he’s willing to answer my question. He looks at his watch, then stands, sticking his hand out to me. “We have to get out of here. Let’s go.” Disappointed, I take his hand, and he assists me to my feet. He doesn’t let my hand go as he directs us through the gallery. When the main door Fredrick brought me out of appears, Damien turns to me.
“I’m selling Exquisite.” My mouth drops as he continues. “I’ve been researching investors for months now. I’m done with it. I have been for years. You asked me why I had you look at the numbers? Because I wanted to see if there was a chance to salvage it. Turn it into a legit club instead of all the shit that goes on there. I’m done with it all. I just needed a good reason to walk away.”
The way he’s looking at me, I feel like I already know the answer before I ask the question. “And what is your reason?”
“You.”