Floating (12 page)

When Ronnie goes back to work in a few days, I will go in and try to change my hours to match hers. I won’t tell her that, but it is what is going to happen. I don’t want her driving on her own. Hell, I don’t want her going anywhere on her own, if she doesn’t have to.

“I’ll sort it out, Babe. Probably when you do I guess.” She knows what I am doing; I am being intentionally evasive. I have good reason to be. There is no need for her to know I am going to turn into her glorified, bodyguard/stalker for the foreseeable future. She will find that out soon enough and lose her ever-loving-mind when she does.

There is no more conversation over dinner. We eat in comfortable silence, clearing our plates and doing dishes in an easy rhythm. It’s like we’d been doing this for years, living together, playing house. I can see now, that all those years ago if we’d stayed together, this is how it would have been every night. It fucking kills me that we didn’t have that chance.

Ronnie goes off to bed a shit load earlier than usual tonight; it is only nine o’clock. Most nights, we usually sit in front of the TV watching some bullshit show she likes or put in a movie, not heading to bed until at least eleven or twelve. I have been dying to ask her if I can see the tattoo Kendall did for her today. I can’t help but feel disappointed she’s gone to bed without showing me.

It isn’t just that I would like to get another, I say another because I was the one to help her change her dressings and put antibiotic cream on her tattoo when she needed it, look at her fucking phenomenal tits. No, I want to see what I know will be fan-fucking-tastic ink, splayed across my woman’s chest.

She might not see me as her man, or herself as my woman, just yet but; it is only a matter of time before she realises that her and I are inevitable. We are destined for each other.

Two people don’t go eight years without seeing each other, nine years not speaking and have the sort of connection we do. They don’t fall back into the same heated debates about whether baseball or football was the better sport or which beer reigns supreme, if there is no history to be built on.

Ronnie has no idea the measures I’ll take to ensure we get back to that place we’d been headed to, originally. The lengths I’ll go to, to make sure she is mine again. I will not be giving up on us this time.

There is not one single fucking thing that will stand in my way.

Famous last words…

CHAPTER SIX

Veronica

              Being back at work sucks. It’s not that I don’t like my job, I do. It’s also not because I don’t love the people I work with, because nothing could be further from the truth.

Getting to work with Kendall, who’s funny, sweet and full of sass every day is amazing. Toby is a prolific flirt and the pick-up lines he uses on his female clients are not only corny but hilarious. I never laugh harder than I do when he gets shot down.

Then, there’s Max, or Reaper, depending on who you are. He takes some getting used to, but I can’t imagine him not being in my life, now. For a man that’s intimidating just to look at, and scarily silent most of the time, he is also one of the most protective, caring men I’ve ever met. If it’s dark outside when I leave work, he walks me to my car, not going back into the shop until I’m safely tucked inside, driving off down the street. More than once, he’s bought me lunch if he notices I’m too busy to take a break. He was so patient with me while I was first learning the ropes at Skin Fusion, where a lesser man would have snapped days before.

No, my problem is I have gotten far too comfortable spending, day in and day out with Nate, for the month before I came back to work.

Where I should have been wary and guarded around him, I found myself relaxing into a comfortable companionship with him. I enjoyed spending time in front of the TV or reading in the recliner while he did, whatever it was he did. We didn’t talk a lot.  We barely left the house, other than two trips to Boulder for me to do a bit of retail therapy and Nate to pick up some parts for Chasers that had come in.

The silent way Nate showed concern for me: checking I wasn’t hurting too badly, bringing me extra pillows, brushing my hair when I couldn’t lift my arms above my head; made up part of what was causing the noticeable cracks in the walls around my heart, however. I could see in every pained look Nate gave me, the remorse for what he’d done with Verity, years and years ago. I saw the hungry looks directed at my chest when he was changing my dressing or helping to apply the tattoo aftercare cream Kendall had given me. There was no mistaking his desire for me, that much was obvious. But not even that was strong enough on its own to break me down completely.

What was destroying the armour I created, so quickly, were the subtle little things he did every day that most people would take for granted. I didn’t have a chance to prepare myself for the inevitability that Nate would break down every one of my defences. Things like: buying my favourite soda when he went to the store, making sure the ingredients I used to make my favourite dessert were always in the pantry, going to my apartment to collect my painting supplies and easel, simple things like that, but things that meant so much to me.

For years I’d been on my own, fending for myself, having to meet my own needs and it was HARD. I had no one to look out for me, run to the store if I needed milk, make sure I had clean towels after I showered, bring me medicine and make me chicken soup when I was sick. You never understand how much these things matter, the impact they have, how much easier your life is, until you no longer have them. It’s when you are a hundred percent alone and responsible for doing everything for yourself that you start to reflect on the difference it made to your life and by then, it’s too late.

It wasn’t like I lived a hard life the few years I’d been in Texas after graduating. If anything, I had done pretty well for myself. Well, I thought I had. My job was nice, my apartment was nice, my bank balance was nice, everything was… nice.

But that’s all it was, nice…

I made a few female friends while I was living in Dallas. However, they were more like acquaintances than the type of good friends that Kendall, Lou, Priss and Tilly have become. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I just hadn’t felt a connection with any of them that would make me want to put in the extra effort to befriend them further. I suppose people that love and support you unconditionally like Kendall, Lou and Priss do, don’t come along every day, so I shouldn’t be too hard on myself.

What made me feel even more alone was that I hadn’t dated once in the years since I left home, not since Nate. I hadn’t had physical contact with another human being for so long that; I think in some ways, my body was starving for it. There was one small problem with this, however…The thought of anyone else touching me in the places Nate had, even the simple act of someone else kissing me, turned my stomach to the point I wanted to throw up. It wasn’t that I hadn’t met and been asked out by some very attractive men, I had been. More than once a good looking, power suit wearing, wealthy man, came into the gallery and showed interest in me, somehow. From casual flirting and lingering suggestions of getting to know each other better, all the way through to direct invitations to dinner or the theatre these offers weren’t uncommon.  I turned each and every one of them down.

Clinton, the very stylish, highly knowledgeable about everything, or so he thought, not in a superior way though, he just happened to know a little about a lot, uber, uber gay man that I worked with at Artesian, told me often, he was appalled that I was letting the gay men of the world down by not snagging one of the last remaining sexy hetros, his words not mine, that approached me.

I never told him and I never would, well that’s what I thought at the time, that there was only one man for me. A man that was handsome beyond belief, a perfect mix of strong, commanding, and sweet. A man that literally swept me off my feet, so hard, that he was why I was still floating through life.

As the front desk manager of Artesian, Clinton saw to scheduling private viewing appointments, contacting potential artists we had sourced to display their work, taking payments and arranging shipping of purchased pieces. Not particularly demanding work, but it satisfied him and his need to be the centre of attention, if only for a minute.

Like most galleries we were not inundated with clients on an hourly basis. A lot of people were viewing online collections now, only coming in when they had already decided to make a purchase. This left Clinton and I a lot of time to chat, drink frou-frou coffees, I call them that because honestly, I prefer mine black, and for him to “educate” me about the ever-changing world of dating and what I was missing out on being a “born again virgin.”

He was sweet, kind, and a little pushy, but Clinton quickly became my closest friend. I learned that he hated it when people abbreviated his name to ‘Clint.’ He said it sounded too much like another C-word that he would never say because he didn’t have one. He liked iced mochachinos with no extra sugar, his partner’s name was Stephan and they had been together since freshman year of college. They started living together within five weeks of meeting and planned, one day, to adopt a baby or toddler in need of a home with two loving parents, regardless of their sexual orientation.

In saying that, I had managed to skirt around some of what would be considered the more important details of my life. It may not have been fair considering how open Clinton was with the more intimate particulars of his, but it was what it was. His nosy, prying nature, I say this with all the love in the world for the man, was the reason for it.

I refused his offers to go to wine bars, nightclubs, and dinner parties, which were frequent. I would be a third wheel. I didn’t feel like playing nice with the natives, his friends, that could be snobbish and judgemental, that knew nothing about me. I did however, have dinner with them regularly, every Thursday, alternating between their house and my apartment.

During these dinners, we drank wine, played Pictionary, and Clinton did his best to pry specifics of my former life from me. Stephan scolded him softly on many occasions when Clinton pushed too hard. He was a fucking nosy bastard ninety-nine percent of the time and those nights he was impossibly worse. Every time Stephan saw me getting ready to retreat into myself, he changed the subject as subtly as he could and gave me a secretive, well he tried, more often than not Clinton saw him doing it, wink of support and a one armed hug.

One night, after drinking far too many tequila shots; tequila is a nasty, spiteful bitch; she is NOT my friend anymore. For that matter, I refuse to commune with her after this latest outburst of verbal diarrhoea. I told them that I had my heart broken years before, and didn’t think I would ever get over it.

At the time it was true, and to be honest, it still is.

Thankfully I hadn’t discussed the details; that was my business, no one else’s and my tequila addled brain seemed to agree on this occasion, thank the goddess. I refused to answer their questions; again, my business is my own.

Needless to say, they both understood now, why I wasn’t interested in dating any of the men that they attempted to set me up with. Yes, I did figure out about eight months prior, that the men coming into Artesian asking for dates and flirting were arranged by the one and only, Clinton. 

It wasn’t long after that inebriated revelation, that Clinton and I were both informed by the owner of the gallery, Amanda Fairchild, a pretentious name I know, it suited her perfectly, was closing shop and moving to somewhere in the south of France with her fourth, or was it fifth, husband within the month. No real surprise there. Amanda Fairchild was nothing less than an uptight, snobby bitch. For a while there, I had tried desperately find something about her that would have been classified as redeeming, guess what? No such luck.

In her late forties and thin as a rake, she really needed to eat a burger, probably some fries with that too. Amanda dressed in perfectly tailored, designer knee length skirts, paired with fitted blouses whether she was coming to check on Artesian or take out the garbage, which I’m sure she had never done once in her life. There was no way in hell she would be seen communing with us “common people” on the gallery floor, no, Amanda watched from the mezzanine level above, probably stalking the customers for her next potential husband.

Clinton informed me, because he knows everything remember, that “The Fairchilds” were old money in Dallas. Her great, grandfather was one of the top three oil baron’s in the 1930’s and struck it rich, literally, overnight.

Apparently coming from money gave our dear Amanda a heightened sense of entitlement. She believed people should treat her like a queen, without her giving them an ounce of respect or consideration, as if they were the shit on her expensive stilettos. With her standing in polite society, she honestly BELIEVED she was royalty; it was laughable really. What also didn’t help was her being an only child and her parents giving her, her every heart’s desire, regardless of the fact, that they had created a raving bitch in the process.

For the most part she left Clinton and I alone to run Artesian, only coming in when she wanted to throw her weight around. We smiled and nodded like damn bobble head figurines, we probably looked just as stupid to people that bypassed the floor to ceiling windows too, just to get her to leave faster. Amanda loved a fight, I think she actually got off on the confrontation and proving she was right, not that she was, we just gave in and let her take the win. I was pretty damn sure she was extra catty toward Clinton, constantly mentioning his proclivities to see whether he would take the bait and retaliate.

He never did.

So, all in all, it wasn’t such a bad thing that Clinton and I would soon be homeless people, living in a cardboard box, in some stinky fish smelling, back alley, eating scraps from garbage bins if we didn’t find new jobs quickly. The art world was a small; there weren’t a lot of jobs going at the rate of pay I was currently receiving. Hell, there weren’t a lot of jobs going anywhere at the moment, let alone paying above minimum wage.

With only a month to find employment, I was shit out of luck. I hadn’t managed to find a damn thing that came close to covering the expenses I had. Clinton faired better, finding a front desk position at a larger studio gallery on the other side of the city after three and a half weeks of being told his services would no longer be required.

I trolled every local paper and online classified list daily. Still, there was nothing that suited my experience or college education, no matter how outside the box I looked. I even consider a damn job stripping for Christ’s sake; that was how concerned I was getting. Let’s just say, I don’t have remotely close to the coordination required to dance around a pole. A dying fish would be more adept than I am, when it comes to that sort of thing.

When I was almost past the point of desperation, worried that my meagre savings would expire and with them so would I, I found a listing for a front desk manager in a tattoo studio in what amounted to be the middle of nowhere and made a decision.