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I stormed past him, my grip on my coffee cup so tight, I was worried I’d pop the lid off. “Piss off, Brady.”
He followed close behind me and then punched the down button on the elevator panel with the side of his fist. “You’re not going back. End of discussion.”
I flared my eyes up at him. “Excuse me, but who gave you power of attorney over my life? Just because we screwed a couple—”
He hooked his pointer finger under my chin and pressed my lips closed with his thumb. His eyes had gone onyx black. “You’re. Not. Going.”
I wrenched my face away from him, and as the elevator doors opened, I jammed myself into the corner of the gilded box, clutching the coffee to my chest and glaring at him. He ignored me, and as the elevator dropped along with my stomach, he typed out a text to someone. It was on the tip of my tongue to say that he had better not tell Katherine to deny me a ride to Archer’s house, but I didn’t want to give him any ideas.
As we weaved through bumper-to-bumper traffic, I ignored my coffee and breakfast, and I stewed. The infuriating aspect of the whole thing was that Amos was partially right. I had clearly felt uncomfortable about Archer and his house, and if I were shrewd, I’d listen to my gut and back out.
But Amos was also wrong. Dead wrong. I was willing to bet that women in medical school faced the same discomforts if not worse when it came to their male peers. If women backed away from achieving their dreams every time a man tried to dominate them, intimidate them, or abuse them, then women would have remained as impotent as the past had forced them to be.
And no, my completing a mural wasn’t the hill that feminism needed to die on. But it wasmyhill. It wasmypassion and my future, and it was the hill I was willing to die on. If I had been a biologist on the verge of a breakthrough, and my colleague had made me uncomfortable, Amos would have offered to help or talk to the man who made me feel that way. He wouldn’t haveforbiddenme from finishing my work. But because it was art, he hadn’t bothered to support me. He had tried to control me. That was his shortcoming, and it wasn’t one I was willing to tolerate.
* * *
Katherine stood next to me, and with a wary glance, said, “He’s going to fire you for this.”
“Probably,” I agreed.
“He’s going to firemefor this.”
“I won’t let him,” I told her honestly. “He won’t. He’s mad at me, but he won’t blame you for being a good friend.”
“Fuckin’ hope so,” she muttered.
We were standing beside her car, and she had an armful of paint quarts that we had picked up on our lunch break. I knew I needed to start the cotton candy sky and possibly some of the dark undertones in the background, so we’d stopped by the art supply store to grab the colors I would need. She already had the bulk of my other supplies in her car because I’d forgotten to grab them yesterday.
Ahead of us, the storybook manor rose up the hill and cast a shadow over us like a hungry giant. The air felt muggy today, full of smog from trapped emission gasses and thick with pollen. Amos had utilized the in-center pharmacy to get me new corticosteroids and an inhaler, and he’d literally stood over me while I took them. Like a fucking marshal. I’d wanted to kick him in the balls, even if he had been late to his first surgery to make sure I got my medicine.
Overbearing bastard. Which was why I had texted Archer and asked if I could paint this afternoon instead of over the weekend. He’d agreed quickly, and I ignored my twinge of discomfort at that, too. Because, I’d decided, I was going to be firm. I wasn’t going to let this loon and his leering bullshit ruin my mural. I just had to be assertive. I could do assertive. I was feisty as hell.
I filled my lungs with empty courage and adjusted the strap on my oversized art tote. “Alright. Here goes nothing.”
Katherine followed me through the gate, her full figure swaying her black, gypsy-style skirts around her. “Remind me why he doesn’t want you to do this, again?”
“He’s an ass, Kat. Why do you think?”
“Okay,” she said, unconvinced. “Guess that makes… no sense at all.”
When we knocked on the door, a young woman opened it. She blinked at us in surprise and adjusted a pair of round, gold-framed eyeglasses. She looked about my age, and she immediately contradicted her soft, sweet features by asking, “Fuck, seriously?”
I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.Wait, what?
She sighed and twitched a lock of her short-cut, brown hair away from her dark eyes. “Let me guess—you’re here to paint ‘my’ room,” she said with air quotes.
I tried to make a sound. I really did. But I was too surprised.Thiswas Bridget?
Annoyed, she opened the door wider. “Come in, I guess.” She dropped a glance from my head to my toes. “I hope they’re paying you well.”
“Uh, yeah,” I finally managed to get out. “You’re… you’re Bridget?”
“Unfortunately,” she said in monotone.
“Bridgie?” Archer’s voice called from beyond the foyer. “Was that the door?”
Still staring at me with hooded eyes, Bridget raised her voice to shout, “Yeah. Artist is here.”
