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"Keep your wank-off thoughts and your fucking gaze to yourself, mate." Knox pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wraps it around his palm, before he shoulders his way through the crowd. I watch him as he makes his way over to my wife. He kisses her on her cheek, and whispers something in her ear. She pulls out her phone from her little bag, and whatever she sees there has her glancing past him in my direction.
Guess she knows. It’s not a secret. I suppose it was too optimistic of me to hope she'd learn of the news after her show, so she could focus on her event this evening?
Our gazes connect. As always, a hot sensation stabs at my chest. These unspoken conversations that we have when our eyes meet carry a gut punch. I can’t quite make out the expression on her features, but whatever he told her causes her to excuse herself and make her way over to me.
"Here she comes." Felix turns and pretends to straighten my tie. I knock his hand off. "Behave," he murmurs with a sly smile on his face. "Or not. I suppose you’re old enough to understand the consequences of your actions?"
He turns to greet Raven when she reaches us. He drops a quick peck on her cheek, and with a last look at me, heads in the direction of the exit.
I look down to find she’s looking at me with tears in her eyes. "What have you done?"
53
Vivian
My phone buzzed non-stop in the little evening bag I knotted around my wrist. Pretty evening bags and I don’t go together. The only reason I agreed to buy it was because its design was part goth-princess, part emo-artist and it, somehow, seemed to complement the outfit I’d chosen for the evening. All those gowns in the boutique, and I hadn’t liked one of them. Finally, Q drew the stylist aside and whispered in her ear.
She returned with the clothes I’m wearing now. I was bemused and befuddled. How did he know exactly what I wanted to wear for my opening when I, myself, had no idea? And when she slipped the little clutch over my wrist, I balked. But he coaxed me into buying it, saying I could carry my phone in it. Which put me off the idea further, until he said it reassured him he could reach me wherever I was tonight.
So, I agreed to slide my phone into the bag and hang it over my wrist. And when it didn’t stop buzzing all evening, I ignored it. Until Knox showed me his phone.
When he told me the news, I pulled out my phone and, sure enough, there were messages from Zoey and Summer, and our other friends. Now, I understand why they kept darting looks at me across the floor while the critics and reviewers swarmed around me and made a fuss over my paintings. Almost all of which were variations of the same theme.
Ravens and bleeding hearts and his eyes.
Some of them feature the outline of his profile. None of them have enough of his features for people to make a direct connection to him. But there are enough questions from them, asking who the mystery person in the picture is. To which I merely smiled and changed the topic. Easy when you’re speaking with a bunch of shallow, self-obsessed, commentators who love to pontificate about their opinions on what I painted. Oh, the irony. And why had it seemed so important to get their approval in the first place?
Now that I have it, I realize it doesn’t make an ounce of a difference to how I feel about myself. I'm my own worst critic. I compete with myself, and… for his attention. His approval is what I crave when it comes to my body and my emotions. When it comes to my creative endeavors, though, while his approval makes a difference, my own satisfaction with my work is more important. I also realize how much my art means to me. That it occupies as pivotal a role in my life as he does. And that his role as CEO within the Davenport Group is as much a part of his identity as being a former Marine.
All of these thoughts rushed through my mind as I absorbed the news headlines. And then, I elbowed my way past the woman with the painted face and botoxed lips who’d been insisting I was the future of the artistic community. The owner of the gallery tried to stop me, until she saw the look on my face. Then she beckoned to me to leave and managed the other woman, leaving me to slip past them and make my way through the crowd to him.
I barely notice Felix kiss my cheek before he leaves. I’m too taken in by the purposeful gleam in Quentin’s eyes. He knows I found out about what he did. When I open my mouth to ask him again, he places his finger on my lips. I look at him in frustration, then grab his arm and urge him to follow me—out of the gallery, down the hallway, to a storeroom at the end where my paintings were stored before the showing. It's empty now, and temperature controlled enough that the cool air embraces me like a friend when I step inside.
I release his hand and hit the switch on the wall. Warm LED lighting casts a golden glow over him. I beckon him in, then shut the door and lock it before leaning into it. He arches an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. I look at him in frustration, then cross my arms over my chest. It’s a defensive gesture, but whatever. The silence stretches.
I may have taken the initiative by bringing him here, but he's not going to make it easy on me. He’s waiting for me to tell him what’s on my mind, when he already knows what I’m going to say, and… Gah! I squeeze my eyes shut and draw in a breath. Another. When I open my eyes again, I’m marginally calmer.
He slips a hand into his pocket, his stance relaxed. He’ll stand there until I tell him why I pulled him in here.
I sigh. "You’re incorrigible."
His lips twitch.
"And you vex me,” I fume.
The smile morphs into a smirk.
"And I shouldn’t, but I find that hot.”
He chuckles.
"And you shouldn’t have done that.” I scowl.
The smile fades. He takes a step toward me.
I hold up my hand. "No, let me finish, before I get distracted."
"Do I distract you, baby?" he asks in a tender voice, which is almost my undoing. As dominant as he is, and as much as that turns me on, this caring part of him is what lights a fire in my chest.
