Sell my body to science?
Would that pay enough?
Gamble?
That could be an option.
All this thinking is making my head throb.
I try to clear my mind, but one image is persistent.Liv. Her beautiful face. Her expressive eyes. Her naked body.
I’ve been comfortable being alone for most of my life, but right now, in this instance, I would give anything to have her here with me. As much of a fuck up as I am. As much of a shitty situation as I’m in. I know if she was sitting next to me, everything would be all right. She would make it better, just by being.
I fantasize about last night, reliving every tantalizing interaction. Hearing Liv’s moans, feeling her baby-soft skin, tasting her salty lips.
I drift off, dreaming about her and what could have been.
6
Liv
“You’re. . . everything. Everything I could ever want, or wish for, or dream about.”
I can’t escape those fucking words.
I can’t shake the feelings that have cropped up over the last few days. The constant thoughts of him. The images and sensations from the other night that take me by surprise at any given moment.
I just want him out of my head.
I do not care about Damon fucking La Rue.
I mull over the details of my upcoming show, but all I see are scrambled words on the page. I’m a mess with emotions. The loss of my father was the biggest blow my heart has ever taken, then pile on the complication of Damon wedging himself into my mind, my brain might as well just explode.
Propping my face in my hands, I groan. When did life become so . . .problematic?
I don’t know why I’m even pining over it.Over him.I mean, yeah, he’s hot and sexy and rugged and rough, and every woman he comes in contact with drools over him, but that’s Damon. That’s always been Damon, the smooth-talker with the face of an angel and the spirit of a devil. I know exactly who he is. I knew who he was when I agreed to leave the cemetery with him. I’ve even seen his softer side, his vulnerable side. It made me fall head over heels for him in one second flat. It fooled me, like it has so many other women, and he’s only upped his game over the years.
But I won’t be his victim again. I won’t let him toss me away or tear my world apart. Nope, not this time.
I’m in control, and I will drive him out.
Eventually.
I take a deep breath and throw myself back into work. I have a busy day, and I need to focus.
I finally make sense of the schedule in front of me.
I have a photographer renting the space at eleven, and then an interpretive dance company coming in to rehearse at six. The beauty of my gallery is that it’s versatile. The exposed brick walls, natural light, and wide-open floor plan attracts multiple kinds of professionals. But my pride and joy of the place are the showcases. I love art and photography, and my dream is to build a global reputation. I want artists from all over the world to display their work here. I want to establish Animar as a brand. A trusted name. And this next client may just help me do that. It took months of persistence on my part to convince Alaric Fletcher to show here. His provocative, racy, boundary-pushing portraits of the human body are incredible. He has a vast and rabid following, and I need to make sure every detail is perfect prior to his arrival, during his show, and after his departure. Everyone fromARTnewsto theLA Timeswill be here critiquing his newest photos for his next coffee table book. It all has to be perfect. Go off without a hitch. So that means no distractions. No ghosts of boyfriends past, or panty-stealing poltergeists of present day.
I lose track of how long I’m planning and plotting before I hear a bang on the front door. I glance at my phone, expecting the time to read near eleven, but the clock informs me it’s only nine forty-five.
I check the security feed. I don’t have any packages scheduled and it’s way too early for the photographer. My office is tucked away in the back of the studio, so I can’t see the door unless it’s through the camera lens.
I gasp when I see the leather cut and an angry, bomb-faced logo with the words Baum Squad patched around it. “Sonofabitch.”
Then the visitor turns, and I get a glimpse of his face. “Fuck, fuck, fuck me.” It’s Damon.
So much for avoiding distractions.
