One Year With Him Read online

  “Me and that creep. Can’t deny he’s a good-looking creep.”

  “Is he still stalking you?”

  “Cops had to come last week. He put a camera at my bedroom window to watch me sleeping. Isn’t that sweet? Oh, and he got my bank account information ‘to put Aaron’s child support right in there’ to save me the trouble of going to the bank. I said, man, I hope narcissistic personality disorder isn’t genetic.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I called you so you could help me with a little escapism, and so far you’re a big fail.”

  I knew she’d ask, and I had prepared boundaries, but she immediately broke them down by revealing the freak rumor. The thing was, I wanted to tell her. I had no one to talk to. Darren didn’t want to hear it. Gabby was dead. Debbie and Jonathan were friends. I knew some of my girlfriends better than Yvonne, but none of them had asked about the handsome man at my side at Gabby’s wake. They’d raised eyebrows and introduced themselves. I got phone calls, roundabout questions, and invites to parties and gatherings. I refused everyone but Yvonne, probably because she was very up front about demanding information.

  “We’re having sex,” I said. “Tomorrow night, we have a date, which we haven’t done yet.”

  She put a board book in front of Aaron and leaned toward me, folding her long, skinny arms. “You’re having sex? Who are you, grandma? Come on. I hear he’s into whips and chains.”

  I pressed my lips between my teeth. I would have to deal with the rumors at some point. “I’ve never seen him hold or use a whip or a chain. Nor have I observed either one of those things in his house or his bedroom. However…” I let my voice trail off and sipped my tea, leading Yvonne along. “I won’t deny there may be some truth to those rumors.”

  “Girl,” she said with no little excitement.

  I shrugged, wanting to play it off, but Yvonne had come to dish. She wasn’t leaving with generalizations and vague admissions. “How is it?” she asked.

  “It’s incredible.”

  “Tell me.” Her whisper was hoarse with anticipation.

  “I can’t,” I whispered back. “It’s not cinematic. It’s not exciting unless you’re in it. He speaks to me. He tells me what I want before I know it and before I can deny myself. I’m free with him, but not in the way you think.” I turned my teacup around in the saucer.

  I stopped. I could have said more. I could have told her he dominated me, and I submitted by letting go of everything I expected of myself. I ceded all control, all emotion, all physical boundaries, and in doing so, I found sexual honesty. I felt closer to him than I felt to anyone else because he saw parts of me I didn’t. The quivering, weak, fearful parts that I denied existed, he brought out and caressed. Thinking about his demands made me want him again. I crossed my legs, convinced Yvonne wouldn’t understand.

  Her expression told me I was right. Her face was still, disentangled from the drama surrounding my adventures with a rich man. She wasn’t exactly concerned as much as apprehensive. “So where’s it going? Serious? Steady thing? Just sex?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  She was definitely not getting an honest answer to that. “Taking it slow. I like being around him. I’m trying to not get too attached, but I don’t know if staying detached is working.”

  Aaron fussed, and Yvonne pulled him out of his chair. He rested his head on her shoulder. “You buy yourself the shoes and underpants?” she asked.

  “Of course not. The shoes alone…” I pursed my lips. I didn’t like where she was going, and I didn’t have the heart to slap her the way I’d slapped Darren.

  “I’m gonna ask you something because I like you. You can get your panties in a twist if you want, but you shouldn’t.”

  “I may not answer.”

  “He abusing you?”

  “No!” I cried. “God, Yvonne, what part of what I said makes you think abuse?”

  My reaction was offense, not for myself, but for Jonathan. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know us together.

  But I couldn’t hold her to my level of loyalty. The twisting web of rage in my chest surprised me, though. Was the rage caused by her implication that Jonathan was an abuser? Or because I’d just found out he had a reputation?

  Yvonne, who couldn’t see my neurons pulsing like machine gun fire, continued, “Kink is often a disguise for abuse and exploitation. I know it’s not that way yet. But if you get uncomfortable, will you call me?”

  “No.” Not only was I not calling her, I wasn’t calling anyone. What Jonathan and I did, and how we did it, was private. Having even one person know was making me very uncomfortable.

  “Sure, you will. Look, I know how a nice guy can turn into an asshole on the turn of a dime, so all I’m saying is…” Her expression changed, as if what she wanted to say fell dead on her lips. She smiled instead. “I’m totally jealous. If he’s not abusing you, I might have faith in men again. That’s all.”

  I exhaled a long, lung-emptying breath, as if I’d been holding it. I’d been unfair and insensitive. Yvonne’s history included a brother who fondled her and a boyfriend who locked her and their son in the house when he went to work. Of course she was attuned to possible abuse when I came along with bags of expensive clothing and a man who tied me up and spanked me for our pleasure. I pushed my cake toward her. “Eat, please. I have to stay skinny if I want to look good in this shit.”

  Chapter 4

  JONATHAN

  Long Beach was the absolute last place I wanted to be. The sky was the color of a handful of quarters. Without the sun to warm the air, the wind off the ocean hit cold and hard.

  I had to be quick. I had a meeting with the deputy mayor in Century City in two hours, and then I had a date. A real date, where I’d wear a suit and behave myself.

  At the Port of Long Beach, the Faulkner Coalmine was set to be cataloged, packed up, and sent to a warehouse in Europe, never to be seen again. I’d bought it the night of the Eclipse show. Eclipse shows only ran a week, so the minute the show closed down, my dealer, Hank, had a team in to collect it. Wainwright was surprised, but the check cleared nicely. He showed up at the closing to chat up my dealer, trying to sell more work. Fucking hustler. Obvious how he got her into bed.

  Lil pulled up to the warehouse. Hank strode out to meet me. He was six feet tall, early sixties, bald, and wearing a four-thousand-dollar suit. He could tell shit from chocolate, negotiate a deal, take up space at an auction, and determine true worth from hype. More importantly, he understood my taste, which was why he’d been so surprised I wanted that piece.

  “Jaydee.” He held out his hand. He had on a few big rings and a clunky watch, and his voice was thick with New York. He looked more like a truck driver than an art dealer, and that’s why I liked him. He snuck up on people with his knowledge and erudition, and by the time artists and agents realized they weren’t dealing with a rube, I had what I wanted.

  “Hank.” We walked through the warehouse. My companies used the space as a logistics hold for construction materials and imported food. The offices for the people routing it all over the world were inside the warehouse, too.

  Hank waved his arm dismissively. “What the fuck did you buy this piece of shit for? You want something to spend your money on, I got a girl with a studio in Compton. Tears in your eyes. Tears.”

  “You called me. And not to question my taste, I presume.”

  “I question your taste every day.”

  “Really? Never would have guessed.”

  Hank stopped outside a conference room door. “It’s good work, no question. But I don’t know how much of it you saw before you went overpaying while I wasn’t looking.”

  “Almost none.”

  “Fan-freaking-tastic. Can we not do that any more?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Fine,” Hank said, obviously annoyed. “Everything’s here. All the documentation, the sketches, inspir
ation, all the history and work that went into the installation. That’s what you bought, sight unseen.”

  “Can we go in now?”

  Hank remained in front of the door. “Look, artists are crazy. I never met one who wasn’t a little scrambled. Maybe they all got bit by a shithouse rat when they were babies. This? That I got behind this door? I’m thinking of calling the LAPD just so they can have a record of it. But I need your okay first.”

  “You’ve really intrigued the hell out of me, Hank.”

  He opened the door. The room was outfitted with a long table and black office chairs for impromptu meetings with the logistics staff, importers, and customs officials. Every surface was covered with sketches and tiny, three-dimensional mockups. Some cutouts, some collages, some mounted, all numbered to match the catalog.

  “I left the good shit on the table, under that black matte,” Hank said.

  I moved the black cardboard. It was about the size of a placemat, but it hid something bigger than its actual size.

  The top sketch was a black quill pen spaghetti scrawl, and only by looking at it carefully could I discern a woman with her throat cut and a blood-spitting dick coming out. The woman had dark hair. I knew who it was.

  Next in the stack: her face split open and a target inside.

  A gun between her legs. A dozen knives pinning her to the wall. Hands choking her. Squeezing her breasts blue. Pulling her vagina out. It got worse. The things he fantasized about doing to her body were sickening.

  “Is this actual blood?” I asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. The catalog says ‘mixed media.’”

  “Thank you for showing me this.”

  Hank slipped the black cardboard over the drawings so the violence didn’t take up the whole room. “Should I shove it up his ass?”

  “No. I want you to photograph it first. Then I’ll tell you when to burn it.”

  “Do you know what this cost you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He regarded me for a second. “You know the girl.”

  I held my hand out. “Thanks again, buddy. Make arrangements with your Compton girl if you think it’s a fit.”

  “Will do.”

  On the way back up the 710, I couldn’t think straight, much less work. I’d never wanted to hurt anyone as badly as I wanted to hurt Kevin Wainwright just for putting those images in my head. But he’d done nothing wrong. The purpose of his work was to exorcise his demons. He couldn’t be held legally or morally accountable for its content. If he was angry at Monica for walking out on him, he had every right to draw her slashed open if that gave him closure.

  So I couldn’t call the LAPD, and I couldn’t tell Monica. I’d have to admit I bought the thing behind her back, and she wouldn’t think well of it. Worse, I could scare her for no reason. I didn’t want to scare her. I wanted her to be the same, proud little goddess I knew. I was just going to have to watch her more closely in case they were more than just drawings.

  Chapter 5

  MONICA

  I wore one of my new garters, a purple so dark it could be black. Over that was the black lace dress I’d bought at Nordstrom’s. The skirt fell just above my knees and the satin lining stopped just above the hem. The neckline was modest, and the sleeves covered my upper arms. It was skin tight but comfortable and classy. He could take me anywhere. I was only a slut underneath the dress.

  I braided my hair. I tried to make it special, but I simply didn’t have Gabby’s skill, and my arms ached by the third try. I did my best, though, same as every day since she died. I wore my hair as a remembrance to her, as if I could call her back and whisper in her ear I loved you.

  I didn’t have a roommate to answer the knock at the door. Times like that made me feel gut-twisting loneliness. I ran out, winding a band around the bottom of the braid. Even though I knew it was Jonathan, I had to look out the window to check first. He leaned on the corner of the porch, looking at the opening of the crawlspace. His brown leather jacket hung over a suit and tie, and his expression was dead serious.

  “See something you like?” I asked when I opened the door.

  “Your foundation’s slipping.”

  “Have you noticed the hill? And gravity? How they conspire?”

  He glanced back at me without moving his body. Fuck, he was gorgeous. “I can get someone to fix it. I’m a real estate developer, you know. I’ve got guys.”

  I strode over to him and put my hands on his back. He looked at the foundation critically, as though he was doing calculations in his head. He looked at me again, and I put my fingers in his hair. We stood like that for a second as I drank him in.

  “You’re beautiful,” I said.

  “I was just about to say that.” He turned and leaned on the railing with his legs spread. I stepped into the opening. He slid his fingers up my thighs, past my hemline, leaving my skin tingling in their wake. When he got to the lace tops of my stockings, he put his hands beneath my ass and stroked me gently.

  I leaned down until my nose touched his, gasping when he fondled between my legs lightly. “Jonathan,” I whispered, “what are you doing?”

  “I just want to know what barriers I’m dealing with here.”

  “You always stick your hand up a girl’s skirt on the first date?”

  He caressed the insides of my thighs, keeping his touch soft. “I haven’t bothered with an actual date for about nine years.” He angled his face so his lips met mine. I put my hands on his neck and kissed him. The tip of his tongue found mine, and we weaved our mouths together until I was a ball of heat and desire.

  “I hate to break this up,” he said, “but we’re on a clock here.”

  I groaned. I had no idea how I would make it through dinner.

  “And you have to get a change of clothes,” he said. “Jeans and a jacket.”

  “Why?”

  “Can you let a guy surprise you?” He slapped my ass and pointed to the front door. “Go.”

  Still smiling from the delicious sting on my butt, I gathered up clothes, stuffed them into a bag, and ran back out to the porch. He’d parked the Jag in my driveway, right behind my little black Honda. He opened the passenger door for me and closed it when I got in. As he drove up the 101, I put my hand on his, stroking the top of it.

  “You working tomorrow?” he asked. “Because I have the day off.”

  “Work, then Frontage.”

  “Without your partner?” he asked, then waved his hand. “Sorry. Obviously.”

  “Yeah. I wanted her on the piece with me and the boys, too. But, shit, I miss her.”

  “What boys and what piece?”

  “I’m collaborating with Darren and Kevin.”

  The car swerved too far right, and he almost had an accident. A horn blared and a middle finger was raised. Jonathan waved in apology. “You were saying?” he asked.

  “Don’t have an accident.” He pulled off at Los Feliz Boulevard. “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Small place in the hills.” He turned up into Griffith Park.

  “You’re not just taking me to your house, are you?”

  “No, not just my house. I have things planned, and they include my place. Initially.” He glanced over at me. “I didn’t suggest a date so I could take you back to my room and pin you to the bed.”

  “Are we going to watch the game from your bed?”

  “Nope.”

  “Damn. Brad Chance is pitching.”

  “Why bother watching? He’s going to overuse his screwball and wear out his elbow by the third inning.”

  “It’s fun watching guys swing at them. Especially Den Adler. He practically falls over,” I snickered.

  “So,” he said definitively, stopping at a light, “you’ve avoided this ‘piece’ thing for exactly three minutes, and I’ve been very good about it.”

  I put my hands on my knees. “Kevin asked me to collaborate on a thing with him for the B.C. Modern. We’re on a tight deadline. I brou
ght Darren and Gabby in.” The light changed to green, and I was relieved of the weight of his stare.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because they’re family, and I like working with them.”

  “Not as a buffer between you and Kevin?”

  “No.” I wasn’t sure if I lied to him or myself.

  He pulled the car to a wide space on the side of the road and put it in park. He faced me. “Why did you agree to work with him after what he did at the Eclipse show?”

  Layers of emotion masked his face. The top was a cold calm, an understanding bordering on parental. Under that, something wilder, but laser focused and powerful, pushed to the surface. I took a nervous breath. He was pissed, and I’d never seen that before. Goose bumps rose over my arms, and I rubbed my thumbs against my forefingers. I wondered if he could hear the clatter of my heart.

  “Having music at the B.C. Modern could make my career. Everyone will hear it. Everyone will review it. It was like being handed a gift, and if I’d refused, I would have regretted it the rest of my life.”

  “Your ambition outweighs your sense.”

  I tried to match his anger with my own, but I felt puny and unjustified. “We were pretty clear that my work is my work. That hasn’t changed.” I kept my eyes level with his even though I felt the weight of his stare. He didn’t like Kevin. I knew that, but I wouldn’t abdicate my right to live my life as I pleased.

  “Everything’s changed, Monica.”

  “Not that.”

  With those few words, I felt two wills pressing against each other, hard, straight, still. Nothing moved. No friction was created between them. His hands clenched the wheel, and mine were wound into fists. I couldn’t bear it. I touched the top of his hand.

  He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled my face to his, drowning me in a kiss so hard and hot, I almost forgot what I’d seen in his expression. What had he seen in mine? That my heart could be broken? That I was falling in love with him, and if I tried to stop, the inertia would crack me in two? I pulled my face off his.