“I don't even know why I’m friends with you.” He curses before pouring himself a drink without offering me one. “Tell me what you’ve come to say, then fuck off. I’m spending the rest of my day with my girls, and I don't want your ugly mug here, interfering with that.”
I laugh, but sober up when I take a breath, delivering news that is sure to stun him. “I’ve found someone willing to play my fake fiancée,” I tell him without preamble.
“Jesus, that was quick, anyone I know?”
“Dawn, actually.”
“Dawn, as in your father's ex-wife?” he spits out in shock.
“One and the same,” I confirm.
“Are you crazy?”
“Possibly, but I want this fucking deal, and if that means putting up with Dawn for a while, then so be it.”
“You’re insane. I don't think this is what Peterson meant when he said that family is important. Nowhere in that speech did he mention fucking your stepmother.”
“I’m not gonna fuck her. Jesus, give me some credit. Besides, she isn’t my stepmother anymore.”
“Credit? You’re talking about getting engaged to one of your father's vapid vipers.”
“Fake engaged. And my father keeps his weddings low key, usually marrying them abroad probably already planning the anticipated divorce before their wedding night is even over. Most people won't have a clue who she is, and it isn’t like Dawn and Peterson are going to get together for a chat, now, is it?”
“She can't be trusted. You must know that.”
“Oh, I do, but if there is one thing she cares about, it’s money. With my father not supporting her anymore, she won't do anything to risk losing what I can offer her.”
“Christ, Asher, this has bad idea written all over it, but I can see you’re serious about this.”
“I am, and once she’s signed the NDA, I’ll get back to you with all the details. I’ve got it under control. Trust me, it will work.”
Famous last words.
Six
Linda
The picture begins to form. Swirls of black, hues of gray and silver, and slashes of purple. Abstract and yet unmistakable in its essence. A woman in shadows, her head bowed, her whole body bent and heavy with grief as she cries. Her tears are rivers of rainbow colors.
I sit up straight and stretch my back, working out the kink in my neck where I have been leaning over the canvas for the last few hours. Night has fallen, my rumbling stomach reminding me I’ve worked through dinner once again.
Standing up, I stare at the picture, happy with the way it has turned out, and move to the block of windows to close the drapes. My gaze drops to two teenagers chatting on the corner, glancing around, not being particularly discreet, before shaking hands with each other. Of course, they aren’t making friends, just exchanging cash for drugs before they both go off in separate directions.
Lovely.
I close the drapes and head to the kitchen area, rummaging around in the fridge for something to eat that requires minimal effort. Grabbing the milk, I decide cereal is the way to go. I snag the frosted flakes from the top of the fridge, pour some into a clean bowl from the drainer, and add a huge glug of milk before sitting at one of the two breakfast stools at the counter.
My life has drastically changed in the last year. Some of those changes are for the better, some are for the worse. Either way, I have never felt so free. I live in a not so great part of town, in a not so great open plan studio apartment, but it’s all mine, and I get to be exactly who I want to be while I am here.
My mousy brown hair is now a riot of rainbow colors and my array of tattoos are proudly on display in my black tank top. I have on short red shorts with the words bite me printed on the ass, and over-the-knee, black and white striped socks.
I look like a rebellious co-ed and not at all like the professional woman I once masqueraded as to keep my stepfather happy.
Needless to say, that isn’t something I need to worry about anymore. I tried to explain to him that my boss was an asshole who had fired me unfairly, but he wouldn’t hear it, assuming it was my behavior that warranted my firing. He then proceeded to tell me all the areas in which I was failing life, so I decided I’d simply had enough.
It hasn’t always been this way between us. Not when my mother was still here. My mother was a famous sculptor who was tragically murdered after attracting the attention of an overzealous stalker. Now my only link left to her is the man who took on the role of my father when I was still an infant.
The problem is, he blames my mother's artistic passion for her death. He spent years after she was gone trying to stamp out the same traits he saw in me in a misguided way to keep me safe. All he succeeded in doing was splintering our relationship, the cracks in the foundations widening under his expectations until the chasm between us became too wide to bridge.
Trying to be the woman he wants me to be left me feeling like I was living a half-life. I moved out of his house and haven’t seen or heard from him since.
With a sigh at my wayward thoughts, I toss my bowl in the sink and head to the bathroom for a shower, refusing to let myself ruin my one night off this week by feeling morose.
I currently work as a bartender at the recently opened bar, Illusions. It is a movie-themed bar and, as tacky as that sounds, it somehow isn’t. Tony, the owner, has managed to keep it classy and draws in clients far wealthier than a bar like this would usually attract.
The waitstaff all wear tuxedos—well, kind of. The men wear the black shoes, pants, and the bow tie, but they go shirtless, flashing ripped and toned stomachs, making women drool and men envious. The women wear fitted white shirts with bow-ties at the neck, and instead of pants, they wear black, high-waisted spanks that show ample butt cheek and an unobscured view of the black stockings with the seam running up the back of the leg. Completing the sultry look, they all wear torturous six-inch black stilettos.
I’m in complete awe of those women. They manage to glide around the room effortlessly in those things when I would be whimpering in the corner after an hour.
The bar staff, myself included, dress as movie stars, and I’ll admit some of them look uncannily like the person they were impersonating.
My hair and tattoos, as my stepfather has pointed out many times, could be a deterrent when it came to employment. Tony, however, took one look at me and hired me on the spot to play the part of Harley Quinn, and I have to admit, it’s fun.
And about as far away as you can get from secretary to the pompous ass Graham Morgan.
I dry off and slip into an oversized white t-shirt and snuggle down onto the ratty sofa with my big fluffy purple blanket and channel surf for a while, finally settling on a rerun of Friends. I only make it five minutes into the program before my eyes get heavy and I drift off to sleep.
“Tell me what you want,” he orders, thrusting inside me.
“Harder,” I implore.
He doesn’t make me beg, hammering in and out of me at a dizzying speed that leaves me gasping for breath as I arch up into him.
“Come now,” he roars, so I do.
I come so hard, I swear I can hear colors.
“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, making my eyes open to find him trailing kisses over the ink on my shoulder.