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That is the question beating me to death whileIbeat a treadmill to death with a fast, hard run, the torment of her question lessened only by my fantasy of beating the shit out of Macom. Though another part of me wants to shake the man’s hand for being stupid enough to lose Faith. I’m the winner in this one, but he also hurt Faith, and that part of me that isn’t a nice guy really wants him to pay.
I finish running, and the idea of Faith upstairs waiting on me has me flipping out the light and skipping the weights. And when I would normally stop by the kitchen for a bottle of water, I continue onward, up the next level of stairs and into the bedroom, where Faith is not. Certain she’s forgot the time and is still painting, I walk down the hallway to her studio and step through the doorway. Sure enough, Faith is painting, but from the silky sheen of her loose blonde hair and the faded jeans peeking from her cover-up, she’s already showered and is completely unaware of my presence.
Being absorbed with her work, she doesn’t look up, and God, she’s beautiful when she’s this focused on her art. The graceful way she moves. The way her brow furrows randomly with the strokes of her brush. The way her teeth worry her bottom lip as she tilts her head to study another angle of her work. Curious myself about what is newly developing on her canvas, I ease several feet deeper into the room behind her, keeping a distance so as to not break her concentration, but still she doesn’t seem to know I’m present. Bringing her canvas into view, I’m surprised to find red as her master color, rather than her favorite black or gray, the image created appearing to be some sort of skyward half-moon with a circle beneath it. I don’t know what she’s creating, but the red tells me that she’s doing what we discussed and unleashing a different part of herself.
Several beats pass, and she remains immersed in her work, which is my signal to get lost and let her work. I’m about to exit the studio when Faith laughs. I glance back at her, and she grins. “You’re pretty easy to fool, Tiger. Did you really think you were that stealthy?”
I laugh and take a step toward her. She points her brush at me. “Stop right there. You go shower and get focused on your game, counselor. That’s the point in this little exercise. You motivate me to paint. I expect you to keep being a badass attorney who doesn’t lose.”
“I don’t knowhowto lose, sweetheart,” I say, giving her a wink and heading down the hallway, and I hit the shower, following Faith’s order. I’m 100 percent focused, but that focus is on her. She’s worried about my career. She’s worried about paying me back. She’s a good person who deserves the world. I’m an asshole who plans to give it to her, when I would give it to no one else. Maybe that’s the definition of love. Heartless bastards like me grow hearts. Whatever the case, I’m her asshole, and she’s stuck with me. I’m going to make sure of it.
…
Twenty minutes later, not only shaved to the fully outlined goatee I prefer when headed to court, as I will this week, I’ve dressed in a gray pinstriped suit with a vest and a pressed white shirt. I’m standing at the mirror, fitting the black tie I’ve chosen to match the pinstripe around my neck, when Faith not only appears but scoots between me and the counter.
“I’ll do it,” she says. “If that’s okay with you?”
“Sweetheart, if it’s on my body, you can touch it.”
She laughs. “That is such a you thing to say.” She works the tie with expert technique, and I dislike the idea of her doing it for Macom, and I don’t even care how possessive that makes me. “How did you learn to do this?” I ask.
“My father,” she says. “He always wore a tie at the winery, and I had this obsession with artsy ties even before I started painting. I’d pick his tie and then tie his tie.” She patsmy tie. “Done, and you look good in this suit. Powerful. But then, you always have that alpha-power thing going on.”
“Do I now?”
“You do. It’s very sexy, but I’m pretty sure you know that.”
I stroke the hair behind her ear. “And I know you didn’t know I was there until the end. I watched you with your paintbrush, and, sweetheart, that is what I call sexy.”
“I knew,” she says. “I always know when you’re close, Nick, but I was finishing one little spot that I didn’t want to screw up, and then you were leaving.” She reaches for my arm and glances at my brown Cartier watch. “It’s seven. You have to be at work at eight.”
“I’m the boss. I won’t get fired if I’m late.”
She pushes to her toes and kisses me. “The boss of everyone but me. I’m going to change shoes and touch up my makeup, and I’m ready to go.”
She tries to move away, and I bring her to me, my hand tangling in her hair as I drag her mouth to mine. Taking a long, good morning drink of this woman before I say, “Sometimes you like it when I’m the boss. At least when we’re naked, and that’s not a bad thing. You like it. I like it.”
“I know that.”
“Just in case youdon’t know. I’m never going to hurt you, and I damn sure willnevershare you. You know that, right?”
“I already told you. I like when Tiger comes out to play. And don’t start thinking I’m some shrinking violet, Nick Rogers. I told you some stuff. You know. Move on. And if you underestimate me, I’ll end up on top every time that way. And sometimes I preferyouon top.”
“As long as I’m inside you, sweetheart,” I say. “I’ll be on top, bottom, sideways, or any which way.”
She shoves against my chest. “Go make coffee or whatever you do before work.”
I laugh and step away from her and leave her in the bathroom, taking a path toward the stairs, but once I’m there, I pause, my curiosity over how Faith’s new work is developing winning me over. Walking in that direction, I enter the studio, cross to the painting, and stare at what has become a dramatically changed image that downright punches me in the gut. I’m looking at two eyes that I know represent “An eye for an eye.” Words she connects to Macom’s betrayal. Macom, who she dreamed about last night. Suddenly, I feel like the fool, on my knees for a woman who’s on her knees for another man. I don’t want to believe that’s true, but I don’t know how else to read this, either.
I cross the studio and don’t even consider the bedroom. I have a job to do and, as Faith herself said, a focus I need to maintain. I gather my work from my office and end up in the kitchen, where I set my briefcase on the island bar. Faith hurries down the stairs, her blonde hair bouncing right along with her beautiful fucking breasts in a light blue V-neck t-shirt, her purse on her shoulder. In this moment, I do not want to want her, and yet, as she nears and I watch the sway of her hips, my damn cock decides to stand at attention.
Where the fuck is my discipline?
“I thought you’d be on cup number two by now,” she says, stepping to the counter directly across from me.
“I took another look at your painting,” I say, deciding my focus is important. And she’s distracting the fuck out of me.
“And?” she asks, sounding almost hopeful.
