Smirking, I tried and failed to insert some humor. “You sound like a girl.”
“Whatever, Sutton,” he laughed humorlessly. “I’m done here.”
My mouth fell open in shock as he pushed open the swinging door and left.
I sat down for a moment, unable to move.
Normally Emery’s words would have gone in one ear and out the other. I did what I wanted and I didn’t need someone else’s judgment. But this time, it hurt to know that Emery didn’t think very highly of me.
I pushed myself up, rushing to the restaurant area to apologize, but he wasn’t there.
I looked around and around, but he was gone.
Griffin spotted me and grabbed my arm. “Are you looking for Emery?”
I nodded.
“He left.”
I’d deduced as much.
“He looked upset,” Griffin continued, “and asked for the night off. I called Angela, she’ll be here in an hour.”
Great.
Emery was pissed at me and I was stuck with Angela—at least I was on the day shift today, which meant we were busier than at night, and I could avoid her.
Knowing that work was exactly the kind of distraction I needed—from Emery, from Memphis, and from Caelan who’d managed to pry some information out of me—I grabbed my pen and notepad and settled into the monotony of taking and filling orders.
???
Caelan
I opened the door and let Monique inside.
“Hello Cael,” she purred, gliding her finger down my chest.
I grabbed her hand and placed it back by her side.
She was undeterred though. She was a pushy lady and I’d grown used to her advances. She was my best client though. She always requested a new commission piece. Despite the fact that her husband was rich, and she had kids, she was always eager to let me know that she’d be more than happy to pay me for other services. I was an artist, not a fucking male prostitute. I guessed every woman wanted to bang a bad boy.
She adjusted her very large, very fake, breasts and smiled.
“You’re looking better than usual,” she remarked, standing a bit too close for comfort.
“I’m not drunk,” I stated, “although now, I’m questioning whether or not sobriety was the best decision for this meeting.”
She let out a high-pitched cackle that made me think of a witch. Swishing her overly dyed blonde hair over her shoulder, she followed me over to the easel.
“You know,” I started, “you don’t have to come over every week to check on the progress.”
“I know,” she swatted playfully at my arm. She was laying it on thick today. “But I like to.”
“It’s annoying.” Yeah, I said it, but it was true.
She laughed again, tossing her head back. I hated looking at her face. It was all bloated with that shit women put in their faces. What happened to aging gracefully? Did women really think men cared if they had a wrinkle? No matter our riches and possessions, we all get old and we all die. It’s the way the world works.
“Oh stop it,” she smiled, running her fingers down my arm. “I know you like my visits.”