Chapter 8
Charlie
I trace a rough finger along the course cream paper, eyes lingering distractedly on the drawing lying on my lap. “Sharon, this shit has gone on long enough. I need the damn demolition permit so we’ll be ready to start on the Silverberry project. Helena wants to play hardball so let’s play hardball. I need the name of her supervisor so I can get her decision reviewed.” I tear through my sandwich and dust off the crumbs that fall on the sketchpad.
Frustration bleeds into my tone and I find myself barking at my poor secretary. I know that this mess isn’t her fault. I guess I’m just mad at myself for the shit-show this thing is turning into. Deep down, I know that I’m to blame.
I shouldn’t have fucked Helena and that decision, like so many others, is coming back to haunt me.
Now Sharon is barking right back at me, reminding me that she’s not the one who fucked Ursula and got this nightmare started. I’ve got the phone tucked between my cheek and shoulder as I recline in the driver’s seat of my truck. I toss a glance at my workers carelessly hauling a fifteen square foot sheet of grass across the lawn. Those fucking idiots—if they break that damn window, I’m gonna blow my lid, I swear.
Sharon ends the phone call, promising that she’ll find the person who can go over Helena’s head and reverse her decision on the permit. I breathe out a sigh of relief. This morning has been shit and I need a few minutes to myself before I go back to work.
Actually, I’ve been looking forward to this all morning. No—not the dry ham and cheese sandwich on stale white bread that I slapped together this morning while I already had one foot out the door.
I’ve been looking forward to this…I turn the page over and examine the drawing on the next sheet. A cartoonish butterfly with puckered lips and an enlarged ass. She has wild hair and that glint of mischief in her expression. It’s the same butterfly tattooed to Nova’s shoulder. I smile.
When she dragged herself out my front door around midnight, she forgot her sketchpad on the armchair by the fireplace. I’m glad she did.
The nightmares came on strong last night. More vivid than usual. The visions of Leo, Archie and Johnson drowning in a their own blood because of an unforgivable mistake I made.
I gave up on sleep and padded into the living room, sat on the floor in front of the fireplace and spent hours perusing Nova’s art. It calmed me. Watching her designs is like getting a little peek into her soul. Her beautiful and deranged soul. I don’t know much about animation and that sort of stuff but her Love Bugs storyline is pretty compelling. She so talented. I wish there were something I could do to make the world see just how much.
I tried calling her already today and she hasn’t answered. When I try one more time and it goes to voicemail, I toss my phone into the cup holder and allow myself a few more minutes to enjoy her work and relax.
My head shoots up when the passenger’s side door of my truck swings open. In jumps Lorraine, the owner of the house we’re working on today. She’s dressed in a button-down blouse pushed up by her perky tits with ankle length pants and flats. She glides into the seat with the grace of a 1950s Hollywood starlet.
I think she’s an entertainment executive from New York or L.A., some rich, lonely, divorced lady with a good plastic surgeon and her tall stacks of cash to keep her company.
I fucked her once. That’s one of the things I’m regretting right about now. I may be a little paranoid because of what’s going on with Helena but right now, it feels like Lorraine has all the trappings of a crazed stalker. The touchiness, the lack of respect for personal space, the Fatal Attraction eyes. God help me.
"Why are you hiding out in here?" Her tone is flirtatious.
"Making with some business calls.” I try to look busy but that doesn’t throw her off.
"All work, no play, huh?"
I give her a tight smile. "Lots to deal with."
"Mmm. Why don't you come inside? I'll have my chef make you a bistrami while you and I familiarize ourselves with each other. We'll call it a working lunch.” She smiles suggestively.
Fuck! ”Oh, I'm sorry, Lorraine. I'd love to discuss your renovation home project with you—"
"Charlie, my home isn't the only thing I need you to work on."
“Look—you are a gorgeous woman but—"
Her expression falls with disappointment. "Let me guess—there's a special someone in your life these days, isn't there?"
Seeing a way out, I pounce on it even though it’s a lie. "Yes."
Lorraine pouts a little. "What's the lucky lady's name?"
"Nova. Nova Chester." I cringe on the inside as I say it because I know that Nova would kill me for this blasphemy to her name but I'm desperate here. I have more than enough trouble on my hands as it is.
"Hmm..." is all Lorraine says in response.
Her gaze moves to the drawing I’d forgotten was in my lap. “Who’s the artist?” she asks.
“A friend,” I say in an indifferent tone.
“Your girlfriend?”
“A friend.”
She bites down at the corner of her lip but says nothing. “You like her.”
I feel heat at the back of my neck. “I’ve got to go run a few errands before lunchtime.”
She throws her head back and laughs gleefully, all signs of jealousy gone. “Well, that was a not-so-subtle brush-off!”
“Lorraine, really,” I say insistently. “I have to go.”
Her laughter fades but her amused smile lingers. “Okay, you have to go.” She pops the door open and slides out of the seat.
He gaze moves to the drawing again. It lingers. “Nova Chester…” she says meaningfully as she nudges the door closed and brushes the grime from my truck off of her fingers. “Beautiful…”
When I glance down at the drawing in my hand, I see Nova’s signature big and bold, in sprawling cursive across the bottom. Shit!