Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 1: The Seduction (2 page)

Friday, December 10, 2010

I
can’t get the man from the gallery out of my mind, but I thought at least the nightmares had ended. Then I had the same hellish one last night, on the same trolley with my mother. I spent the morning and afternoon haunted by it, and for once I was thankful that Friday nights are so chaotic. That meant I’d be too busy to think about it or him.

But it’s nearly ten o’clock, and I’ve barely had a break. I’ve been slammed with customers, yet that sick, horrible feeling when I’m plunging toward the water still suffocates me. It’s frustrating and upsetting that I cannot get this nightmare out of my mind. It’s affecting my job, and the tips I make to pay the bills.

I can’t get rid of this sense that something is wrong, something bad is going to happen. I haven’t felt like this since the week before my mother died. It’s driving me crazy, and all I want to do is make this feeling go away. But I can’t.

Monday, December 13, 2010

I
dreamed of the man from the gallery, but remarkably I can’t remember the details. I know it was dark and delicious, the way a man like that is meant to be dreamed about. Why can I remember the nightmare of being plunged into the bay by way of trolley car and my dead mother, yet the dream about a sexy, powerful man just plain escapes me? Truly, I don’t know what is going on inside me right now, but I feel as if I am spinning out of control. It was enough to push me over the edge today, and I did what I said I wouldn’t do: I found the man I had the encounter with at the gallery. I mean, what’s the point in thinking that he’s potentially life-changing if I avoid him?

His name is Mark Compton and he’s the owner and manager of the gallery, and part of the family that owns Riptide, a famous auction house. That’s who asked me if I was applying for a job. The owner. This feels like a sign, the reason he felt so important when I met him. Because he can hire me for the gallery and my dream job. And as crazy as this is for me to even think, let alone write down, I think he wanted me to apply for the internship. I think he wanted to hire me.

I want so badly to go apply now, even though it’s probably too late. These jobs go so quickly and the competition would be fierce. To apply for the job and not get it would be devastating, yet I went so far as to see if I could get my hours cut at the bar to accommodate a second job. After all my years there, the new boss’s answer was “no.” The job market is tight and there are plenty of people willing to do my job without special scheduling. So unless I can find a more flexible second job, I couldn’t even take the internship anyway.

This is insanity. I can’t do it. I just can’t. Damn Mark Compton for tempting me and making me think that maybe, just maybe, I can chase this dream again.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

T
his time the nightmare was worse. This time I hit the water, the icy cold ocean claiming me as I was submerged, struggling to stop the trolley from crushing me. The splintering pain of drawing water into my lungs and trying to get to the surface. Pushing to the top with all my might to find my mother there, shoving me back down. I am angry, more angry than I’ve been in a long time—and I’ve been plenty angry. Angry at her for leaving me. Angry at her for lying to me. Angry at her for shoving me back into the water, and . . . and what? What the hell does this nightmare mean? This feeling of dread, of death, just won’t go away.

I have to go to work and perform a job I hate. Maybe I just won’t go. But damn it, I have to go. How else will I survive?

Friday, December 17, 2010

I
’ve tried not to think about this being my first Christmas alone. I’ve tried to block out the trees, songs, and holiday cheer I used to embrace. It hasn’t worked. Next up, New Year’s resolutions. I’ve never made resolutions. I mean—why? Who really keeps them?

But I am thinking about next year, and my life in general. If life is short, why live it waiting tables at a bar? It’s all I can think of today. How did I become the one in my group of college friends who has done nothing with my life, when I was the only one who knew what I wanted to do with my life? Now all my friends have moved on to new things. Casey is married to a banker and barely has time for me. Darla’s in New York working for a television station. Susan is in Seattle working for a PR firm. Okay, there is Kirk, who still works at the Burger Palace and has absolutely no motivation to do anything different. Like me.

How have I become this? How have I let my dreams slip away? I have to do something. I have to fix this. I have to fix me. Being inside that gallery made me the happiest I have been in too long to remember.

Christmas Eve Morning

I
’m working at the bar tonight, a glad volunteer. Just call me the Grinch, because I’d rather skip Christmas this year. I haven’t had the nightmare again, though I still have that vague sense of foreboding I can’t get rid of. After careful thought, I think the death that I sense and fear is the death of my art dreams.

So I’ve been thinking. What makes one person’s dreams come true when another’s don’t? Determination. Action. Desire. Those are the things I once embraced, and I chose to do that again when I woke up this morning. I walked to the gallery’s neighborhood and went inside every fancy restaurant that pays big tips, and managed to score a job at a place right by the gallery. I then called the gallery and asked if the internship was still open, and it wasn’t. It was a hard answer to hear, but I was told I could still put in an application for the future. I did and wistfully wished Mark Compton was there. My gut tells me that seeing him again is my ticket to getting a job.

Now that I’ve decided to do this, maybe I can take an unpaid internship in hopes of proving myself. I’ll hang on to this new waitressing job and stop by the gallery once a week until I get a job there, paid or unpaid. I have to be brave enough to take risks. Besides, the new job pays better than my old one. This is a good move. I have to believe that.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

M
ovies alone. A huge tub of popcorn. A box of chocolate. A large soda. Stomachache. A stupid movie choice that made me cry like a baby in the theater and wish I’d brought my makeup to fix my face. Calls with friends. I told them I was with a hot guy I met at the bar. Bedtime. New job starts tomorrow.

Monday, December 27, 2010

I
was breathless when Mark sauntered into the restaurant, owning the place—tall, blond, and deliciously male in a custom-fitted gray suit—and turning heads, both male and female. Not many men make me breathless, but there aren’t many men who can claim the very air that exists around them, as he does.

Kim, the sweet hostess from Tennessee who I’m fast becoming friends with, seated him in my section, and I was ridiculously nervous as I headed to his table to take his order. I didn’t expect him to remember me. Okay, maybe I did. Or at least I hoped he would. I wanted to be right about what had passed between us. I wanted him to have wanted me to apply for the internship. I wanted him to ask me about it again now, and spare me walking into the gallery later and asking myself—especially after waiting on his table.

So I approached him, and the minute I stepped to his table, he arched a brow at me and asked how I could afford to work at the restaurant but not for him. I surprised myself by not missing a beat, but I’ve always been good under pressure with professors and even the artists whom I encountered through my studies, no matter how arrogant or sharp-witted. And Mark is arrogant. Oh, yes. It radiates off him, and somehow it’s sexy on him when it would be pompous on someone else. So it went something like this.

“I know how little internships pay,” I replied.

“How can you know how much my internship pays if you didn’t apply?”

“I know the industry.”

“How?”

“I went to school to be in it, which I’m sure you assumed or you wouldn’t be asking me this.”

His lips did this sexy, amused kind of half smirk. Oh, the mouth on that man. “Why don’t you apply and find out?”

“I already did.”

“Even though you can’t afford the dream of working there?”

“I had a moment of weakness.”

We stared at each other, and I got warm all over in a way I’ve never felt with a man. Not good with a potential boss, I know, but it happened. Slowly, his gaze lowered and he glanced at my name tag, and he might as well have been licking my nipples. I have no idea what happened. I had to squeeze my thighs together.

He returned his gaze to mine and softly said my name. Just “Rebecca,” but it was all soft and rough at the same time, and I melted into a big puddle right there in front of him. The look on his face was pure satisfaction, as if he knew what he’d just done and he reveled in it.

And so did I, because this is what a woman wants a man to be able to do to her. The feeling of him controlling my pleasure so easily was just mind blowing. I’d never experienced something so intense before, let alone in a public place.

The erotic, exquisite moment ended abruptly when a gorgeous brunette in a pencil skirt and low-cut red silk blouse walked up to the table and gave me a look that could have singed me. I was suddenly very aware of my hair pulled into a bun, and the simple light blue skirt and white blouse provided by the restaurant.

How had I thought for one moment this man wanted me, when he has a woman like this? But you know, after my initial embarrassment, it was almost a relief to know that his interest in me was business. I could take a job with Mark if it came about, and not worry about a conflict of interest between my hormones and my job performance.

And not an hour after Mark left the restaurant, I got a call for a job interview at the gallery. Not with Mark, but with someone by the name of Ralph, but who cares? It’s tomorrow and I got the impression it was almost a technicality. I assume that means they checked my references and I made an impression on Mark.

That probably means I’m working for pennies, but I’ve decided to go for it. I have a good feeling about this. This is the first time in weeks I don’t have that feeling of foreboding. So I must have been mourning the career I thought I’d never have.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

H
ired!

I got the job at the gallery, and the pay is better than I expected. Just a little, but every bit counts. There was a lot that was unexpected about this day, like how the interview played out. Ralph turned out to be this funny and charming Asian man. He took me to the break room and we sat and had coffee, which he seems to live on. The man is a hyper chit-chatter who loaded me up on staff gossip. Of course, he warned me that Mark—Mr. Compton to the staff—was tough as nails, but fair.

He made me laugh and put me at ease and was encouraging in every way. We were laughing, and I had let my guard down, when Mark walked into the room. I swear, it was like the room’s temperature rose ten degrees. Okay, I rose ten degrees, but looking at Ralph, I’m pretty sure he did, too. I’m pretty sure he’s gay (not many straight men wear pink bow ties, and it suited Ralph quite nicely), so we are of like mind where Mark is concerned. Mark is the definition of the word MAN.

As Mark filled his coffee cup, Ralph and I just sat there and soaked in the raw sexual power he oozed. After he was done, Mark leaned on the counter and fixed me with one of those intense gray stares I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to. Then he asked who my favorite artists are. I told him my favorite was always the one I have yet to discover. He just stared at me, and I have no idea if he liked the answer or not. But he clearly wasn’t satisfied that I knew my art, because the drilling began. He asked who was my favorite artist I’d already discovered in a number of genres, and then argued with me about why one of my choices wasn’t a good one. My nerves slid away. Art has a way of making the world slip away for me.

“That’s a rather shortsighted opinion,” he’d said dryly, “when there are artists in the genre who have achieved so much more.”

“That’s where I’d say you’re being shortsighted,” I’d replied. Ralph choked on his coffee; I’m guessing not too many people argue with Mark. I went on to explain how the artist I’d named had yet to show the world all he had to offer, while the more well-known ones he’d named had already reached their peaks.

Mark looked amused at that answer and maybe a little surprised. I’m not sure. Reading that man is pretty impossible. We went on to debate several artists he named and then just like that, he pushed off the counter and said, “You start tomorrow, Ms. Mason.”

And then he just left.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

I
worked both jobs today and I don’t know how I have the energy to write this, but my head is spinning and I can’t possibly sleep. I like the restaurant so much more than the bar, and I made double the tips that I’m used to in one night. That’s wonderful and all, but it’s the gallery I am in love with, the place I yearn to make my life.

Today was sensory overload, with the art I adore and my man-candy boss. He’s arrogant and demanding, and he intimidates everyone but me. I can’t explain it, but I feel challenged and excited around him, not like a wilting little flower. But then, I’ve never been a wilting flower. I guess being raised by a single mother who was tough as nails helped, even if she was as bitter as lemons at times about the father who deserted us. Of course, that was a lie, but I’m not ruining today by going down that path.

Back to Mark . . . Mr. Compton, that is. I think it’s kind of sexy, the way he calls me Ms. Mason, though I wonder why he calls the front desk intern, Amanda, by her first name. How many times did he say Ms. Mason today and send a shiver straight down my spine?

“Good morning, Ms. Mason.”

“This is your office, Ms. Mason.”

“Ms. Mason, you have homework and there will be testing. You must be cultured and able to talk about anything and everything your customer base might find of interest.”

And to that one I had thought, Oh, please, yes. Test me. Hey, a girl can fantasize. It’s almost safer when you know the man has some ridiculously sexy woman in his life, so it’s just innocent dreaming.

And finally, the point I’m getting to, the big-one whopper he threw me that sent my pulse into overdrive. “Ms. Mason, I expect you to attend a party at Ricco Alvarez’s house with me tomorrow night.”

Ricco Alvarez, as in the fabulous, talented, and famous artist. I can’t believe I’m not only going to his party, but I’m going with Mark! It’s business, I know, but the funny thing is that this sixth sense told me not to mention the party to the rest of the staff. Instead, I discreetly asked around and no one else is going to the party. Not even Mary, the sales rep I had the issue with the first night I visited the gallery. She and I are not off to a grand start as it is. Mentioning the party might have been the last straw for our working relationship.

So, hmmm . . . why isn’t Mary invited to the party? Maybe she’s on her way out the door and that’s why Mark hired me? But why not tell me to keep the party hush-hush if he wants to replace her? Then again, I can’t see Mark caring if Mary feels nervous or upset over what he does. He seems to box business into business with nothing personal involved. I’m an investment to Mark, I think. I can’t explain why, but it’s another gut feeling I have. Mary might have once been, too, but not now. He seems to almost ignore her. I feel kind of sad for her. Though I want the job, there’s no appeal in hurting someone else to get to the top. It kind of makes the idea of worrying about having nothing to wear to the party seem shallow, when her job could be on the line.