Torment Me (Rough Love 1)
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said. “You weren’t on the guest list.”
“I’m still not on the guest list,” he replied with a quirk of his lips. “In case you’re thinking about looking through it to find my name.”
“I don’t care about your name.” I hadn’t even been thinking about that. “I just don’t understand. You make this big deal about privacy, about your boundaries, and then you show up at my boyfriend’s art show.”
He gave a lazy shrug, his shoulder brushing mine. “I do what I want.”
“You shouldn’t be here. You’re one of my clients.”
“Are you ashamed of me?” he asked, joking.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I repeated. “And you shouldn’t be standing here talking to me. It’s not respectful to my boyfriend.”
He gave a half-laugh, half-bark, and rubbed his forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ, Chere. Number one, your boyfriend is higher than a kite at the moment, and he hasn’t looked your way all evening. Number two, I only respect people who deserve it.”
He was talking about Simon, but I thought he was also talking about me. I wondered how long he’d been here, if he’d been watching me run around arranging everything, supporting my boyfriend who didn’t give a shit about me.
Humiliated tears rose in my eyes. I took a sip of champagne to mask them, and it tickled my nose. “I know it’s not…it’s not… I know my situation is shitty. I know he’s shitty. I told you, it’s just for now.”
“Peace, Chere.” He held up a hand. “You can do what you want, and Simon can do what he wants. It’s a shame, though, his addiction. He might have been great, one of those artists who lived on down through the ages.”
The chatter rose around us, or maybe it was the pounding of my heart. “He might still be great,” I said.
“He’ll be dead in a year,” he replied. “You know the kind of shit he’s using, and you know what he spends on it. I guess the silver lining is that dead artists’ work brings higher prices. So keep him painting, if you can.”
I knew W was cruel and sadistic, but it amazed me that he could say those words without a glimmer of empathy. I raised my hand, I don’t know why. To punch him. To slap him. He grabbed it and pushed it back down at my side.
“Listen,” he said in a low voice that was nonetheless perfectly audible above the craziness of the crowd. “I’m not saying anything you don’t know. I thought that’s why you were staying with him. For the end. The payout. If that’s so, you’d better marry him if you can.”
“You’re an asshole.” I angled my body away from him. “Why don’t you leave?”
“Why don’t you leave?” He turned the question back on me with urgent emphasis. “Why the fuck don’t you leave him?”
He nodded toward Simon, the barest nod, but I already knew what he was trying to show me. I saw the way Simon fawned over Rachel in utter disregard for my feelings. I blamed myself. I wasn’t worthwhile.
“Do you use drugs?” W asked.
I hunched up my shoulders. “No. I never have.”
“Why did Simon start?”
“His friends got him into it.”
“They’re not your friends?”
“No.” Bitterness closed my throat, and brought on a second flush of humiliation. “I’m not an artist. I’m kind of shunted to the outside.”
“You’re the money,” he said, parsing the situation perfectly. “But I’m surprised you never caved to drugs yourself. Your life must be miserable.”
I glared at him. “Some people make me more miserable than others. Why did you come here?”
He rubbed his lips, took another sip of champagne and thought a moment. “I don’t know. I’m not sure why I’m here. To watch the train wreck, I guess, like everyone else. Now I wish I hadn’t come. I prefer to see you in other settings.” He reached under my flowy skirt and touched the back of my leg, drawing his finger across my flesh as if he traced an invisible welt. “I’ll see you Wednesday at the Mandarin Oriental.”
“I know.” I wanted to throw my champagne in his face and tell him to fuck off forever, but this party wasn’t coming cheap, and W was my only paying customer.
He stared at me a moment, then looked down at my glass. “You don’t like the champagne?”
I gazed past him, at the back of Simon’s head. The crowd was growing larger. It was so hot. “Not tonight,” I said. “I don’t like it tonight.”
“Come here.” He took my hand and led me to the bar, and barged his way through to the front as people made way. He had a commanding presence, even here in this overcrowded room. His gold-blond hair looked even blonder in the gallery lights.
When we got to the bar he took my glass and set it on the counter. I felt a tap and heard a squeal, and turned to find an old friend from Simon’s earlier days, when he was the next great thing. Her eyes flicked past me. I couldn’t blame her. It was hard not to look at W—he was just that hot.