Being Me (10 page)

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Thank me by continuing to make sales, starting with a close friend of mine coming in later this morning. He has deep pockets I fully expect you to empty.”

A smile breaks unexpectedly over my features. “I’ll do my best.”

“From what I’ve seen, your best works quite well.”

I beam under his praise and it scares me how much I seem to need his approval, but I’ve done enough self-reflection over the past few years to know it’s more about me than him. About
a past with powerful men that I haven’t quite erased, no matter how much I’ve tried.

“I set a meeting with Alvarez for tomorrow evening.”

“We have an event here at the gallery tomorrow night,” he says, and I do not sense pleasure at the announcement of the Alvarez meeting I’d expected.

“I really think I can get him to do the private showing our customer wants and place more art here if I do this.”

He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers again. “Do you remember what I told you about Alvarez?”

“That if I got this meeting, I’d impress you. And from what I hear, I assume that’s because he pulled his work when Rebecca left. Are you going to tell me why?”

“He wanted her contact information after she left and I told him I didn’t have it and even if I did, I couldn’t legally give it out. He wasn’t pleased. He likes to get his way, which leads me back to—what else did I tell you about Alvarez?”

I replay our previous conversation in my mind.
We do not beg, and you do not let yourself get manipulated. Period. The end. These artists know I don’t tolerate that crap and as long as they believe I own you, they won’t believe you will, either. So when I say I own you, Sara, I mean I own you
.

Own
. Mark likes this word far too much. However, in analyzing what I’ve learned of him as a boss, I’m beginning to believe he has some odd sense of ownership equaling protection. He owns you and thus he is responsible for your well-being. It’s not the Kool-Aid I intend to drink, but I think of how he insisted all employees and patrons take cabs at his expense after a wine tasting at the gallery, and I do believe it is how he thinks.

“We don’t beg for his business and he doesn’t own us.”

He arches a brow, but thankfully, before he can push me into some mind game sure to leave my head spinning, the buzzer on his desk goes off and he punches it. He doesn’t immediately respond; his steely, steady stare is locked on my face. Adrenaline shoots through my veins and my fingers press into my legs. I do not know what to expect from Mark besides discomfort that is darkly addictive, and I know this is a part of how dysfunctional I’ve allowed myself to become.

Without freeing me from his scrutiny, Mark punches the button on the phone. “Ryan Kilmer is here,” Amanda announces. “He says he has an appointment.”

“We’ll be right with him,” Mark replies, then releases the button, and finally blinks away our connection. “That will be my close friend and your new client, Ms. McMillan. Hurry up front and greet him.”

He’s dismissed me but I don’t move. This conversation about my job has me thinking about the decision before me. Before I talk myself out of it, I blurt, “I have two weeks to resign my teaching job to give them time to replace me for the new year. That job offer has to come by then and so does my sense of a secure earning potential. If that’s unrealistic, we should deal with that now.”

“It’s only too soon if you allow it to be.”

“That’s a nonanswer,” I reply, but what did I really expect? Men like Mark do not allow themselves to be cornered or put on a deadline and I’ve done just that.

“It’s nothing of the sort. It’s just not the answer you wanted.”

“Right. And why would you give me the answer I wanted?”

“I gave you the answer you needed to hear, not the one that makes your life easy. Easy is not better.”

These head games do not sit well. I push to my feet. “I had better go meet my customer.” I turn and head for the door, wondering how many times I’ll replay “It’s only too soon if you allow it to be,” while analyzing the meaning in it before the day is over.

“Ms. McMillan.”

I stop but I don’t turn. I’m frustrated he’s ended this meeting with me on edge and him in control.

“I go for what I want but I respect certain limits. Tell me you belong to him and I’ll back off.”

No in between, he and Chris had both said it to me, but I can’t bring myself to say I belong to Chris, like I am his property. I squeeze my eyes shut as Chris’s words replay in my mind.
I want him to know you’re mine
. It’s the same thing really as belonging, but it felt different when it was just us talking and Chris had declared himself mine as well. It was a defining time of commitment in our relationship that shifted the dynamic between us and the expectations we have for each other.
Don’t let old skeletons destroy you and Chris. Think of how betrayed you would feel if Chris didn’t make your relationship clear in a similar situation
.

I turn and make sure Mark reads how much I mean my words. “I’m with Chris and that’s as close as he or anyone will ever come to me belonging to them.” I leave, not giving him a chance to reply, and am proud of myself. Now I will know that whatever happens here at the gallery is about my job performance only. And I haven’t let the past have an impact on Chris and me. At least not this time.

Ryan Kilmer nails the tall, dark, and good-looking playboy persona to perfection clear down to his expensive light brown suit, which matches the image and his eye color almost exactly. “So you’re Rebecca’s replacement,” he says in greeting, holding on to my hand a bit too long.

“I wasn’t aware I was being billed as her replacement,” I say when he releases me. “More as a fill-in.”

“Ah yes,” he replies, and there is a slight edge to his tone that has me wondering what it means. “Fill-in. Well, I’m hoping you will stay around long enough to fill my needs.”

I refuse to read an undertone to the comment, but he’s Mark’s friend, and I wonder if he’s also the other man in the journal. I choose my words carefully. “You have a project requiring artwork?”

“I’m a real estate investor and I’m involved in a high-rise going up a few blocks away. We’re ready to put together the
lobby and a few show units for viewing. We need them to impress a wealthy audience. Rebecca basically took control of another property for me a few months back.” He holds up a folder. “I brought you pictures of her work and the floor plans and pictures of what you have to work with now. I’d like you to come over and see the property as soon as possible.”

“Of course. I’d love to see what you’ve brought. Why don’t we head to my office?”

“Excellent.”

I spend the next hour reviewing the work Rebecca has done in the past for Ryan, and find out what he is looking for in the future. I am not beyond seeing this man as attractive, but unlike Mark, his lighthearted nature and easy humor are infectious and he sets me at ease. It’s hard to see him as a close friend to Mark, but then, maybe it’s his differences that make that possible. Maybe Mark and Chris are too alike, too in competition for control.

I close the folder. “I’m excited to see the property.” And about the extravagant budget that allows me to place some amazing pieces in the property, but suddenly I’m thinking about Mark and Chris and I wonder what caused the bad turn in their relationship.

“. . . and we should have the furnishings staged next week.”

I blink; it seems I have missed part of what Ryan is saying. “Ah yes. Staging is helpful. I’ll know what I have to work around.”

“I’m sure the decorator is going to want to have a say in things,” he adds. “But she worked with Rebecca and understands the idea is to impress the visitors with the artist as much as the design work.”

I’ve never worked with a designer and it’s a bit intimidating. I wonder if Rebecca had done so before she worked at the gallery. It hits me that I know nothing of her before her time here. How have I missed such an important clue that might help me find her?

“For now,” Ryan continues, “you can be thinking through options. The volume of pieces I need may require some outside purchases and I thought you’d need time to coordinate.” He rises and I follow, walking with him toward the lobby, but he smiles at Amanda and stops behind her desk.

The two begin making small talk, and I feel my schoolteacher motherly side kick in when I realize he is flirting with Amanda. This man is close to Mark and most likely a member of his club, and Amanda is a young college girl ten years his junior. I hover, unable to stop myself. When he’s done with his flirtation, I walk him to the door.

When I return to the office area, I stop at the front desk to chat with Amanda. “He’s very sexy,” she says, glowing from the attention. “And he’s never stopped and talked to me like that.”

“He’s too old for you,” I point out.

“No, he’s not,” she argues. “An older man is sexy.”

There is that word again. “And bossy,” I assure her.

She grins. “He can boss me around any day.” She lowers her voice. “Unlike Bossman, who makes me hot and bothered, like he does the entire female population, Ryan doesn’t scare me at the same time. No wonder Rebecca liked him so much.”

“He’s likable,” I agree, but I also think of how Rebecca saw the other man in the journal as an intrusion into her and Mark’s relationship and I cannot help but think it had been Ryan. I can
see how Ryan would be Mark’s choice in a ménage. A man who didn’t threaten his role as King.

“But?” Amanda prods when I say nothing else.

“But remember that sometimes the likable ones have the darkest secrets.” And on that note, I’m headed to dangerous territory I decide to avoid. “Is Mary in?”

“She’s still sick,” Amanda declares. “You’re on your own today.”

Mary doesn’t seem to like me much so my heart isn’t broken. I enjoy working the floor anyway. “Not a problem. I’ll be on standby in my office.”

A few seconds later, I settle behind my desk, and my drawer vibrates as my phone buzzes with a text message. Retrieving my phone, I realize the message was sent some time back and I find myself looking at a picture of Chris with a teenage boy I know is the leukemia patient. The kid looks happy but thin, and pale. And while Chris is smiling, I don’t miss the sadness lurking in the depth of his eyes. Being with the boy and knowing he can’t be saved is eating him up. Layers, I think. Chris has so many layers.

I text him:
You are amazing
.

He replies.
You can prove you mean that when I see you again
.

I smile and type.
How?

He answers with
Try to use my imagination
.

He’d accused me of being afraid of his imagination not so long ago. I’m not.
Maybe you need to draw me another picture
.

Yes
, he types.
Maybe I do
.

I am grinning when the exchange ends and I begin thumbing through my prospect lists, contemplating lunch. Frustratingly, my mind goes back to Chris’s relationship with Mark. They were
both control freaks. Both into the club activity. What if they had tried to share a woman and they’d clashed? This idea twists me in knots for all kinds of reasons, and I shove it aside. No. That isn’t what happened. That would mean Chris lied to me about his sexual preferences. Or would it? He told me what he favored. Had he ever said he’d never gone other directions? Chris didn’t lie to me, but is it possible that he didn’t exactly tell me the truth? I swallow hard. Who am I to judge where those lines are? I haven’t exactly been completely truthful with Chris and I don’t know if I can be. Not without destroying us.

•   •   •

My day is finally nearing an end just before seven and I’m about to gather my things to leave. “You ready to dart out of here?” Ralph asks from my doorway. “I’ll walk you and Amanda to your cars.”

As much as I don’t want to walk to my car, or rather Chris’s, alone, I don’t have the energy to answer the questions that would come when they discover I’m driving the 911. I regret driving it, for the complications it presents. And thankfully, the parking lot has cameras and Mark is still here. “I have to check in with Bossman on a couple of things so go on without me.”

Amanda appears in my doorway. “Tuesdays are supposed to be slow. That’s why we don’t have more staff scheduled, but today was insanity. What did you do to bring in so many customers? They were all asking for you.”

“Mark gave me a prospect list I called down. I guess the calls worked. Unfortunately, not one of them bought anything, but I have high hopes a few will be back.”

I chat with them for a few minutes until they finally depart.
I’m beyond ready to leave myself. My cold Chinese food between clients has long ago worn off and no sleep the night before has taken a toll.

“What exactly do you have to run by me?”

I look up to find Mark standing in the doorway, his tie loose and his hair rumpled. He’d had a meeting with several people today that had lasted hours and he seems oddly harried. “The prospect list,” I reply. “I was hoping you could tell me which ones own pieces that Riptide might contact tomorrow.”