Hung:A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance(23)

"But what I want you to do is set up a profile piece on her in the next  Heywood magazine." We put a glossy magazine in all the rooms of our  higher end hotels.

"I'll get on that."

"And make sure they make it as glowing as possible. Have them include good photos of my pieces by her."

"Sure thing."

This time when I hang up, I'm actually smiling. I sit for a few minutes,  visualizing the magazine spread on her. Our clients are all loaded and  many love buying up new artists. If that won't be a boost for her, I  don't know what will be.         

     



 

I'm about to change and head over to my newest hotel when a thought hits  me. After a few minutes of Googling, I pick up my phone again.

"Hello," says a groggy voice. I know it's stupid early there, but I don't care.

"Hello, could I speak to Gale Simmons?"

"Speaking."

"My name is Lawson and I'm writing a feature article on your daughter  for Heywood magazine, and wondered if I could interview you for the  piece."

"You're what?"

"Skye Simmons, the artist, is your daughter?"

"Yes."

"She's one of the hottest artists on the scene right now. People all  around the country are on waiting lists to outbid each other for her  work."

"They are?"

"You're her mother, are you not aware of that?"

"I haven't spoken with her in a while."

"Why's that?" Will she admit the real reason? I doubt it, but I would like to hear it pass her lips.

There's a long pause before she finally says, "We lost touch after she moved to California."

"How sad. You must miss her a lot. I bet she misses you too."

"Yes, an awful lot. I just never … " her voice trails off.

"Well, what was it like having such a phenomenally talented child? What age did she start to show her promise?"

"She always loved to color."

"I've interviewed many artists over the years, and know how important it  is for the artist to be supported by family and friends. Was Skye able  to count on you?"

"Oh, uh, we've always been impressed with her abilities." Whatever, liar.

"Can you give me a soundbite for the article?"

"Let me think. Skye always had a crayon in her hand from the time she  was a toddler. Her whole life, all she ever wanted to do was draw and  paint. She had no interest in doing things like going to the prom, only  paint, paint, paint."

"That's great. I'm going to be interviewing her next, is there anything  you want me to ask her?" If she doesn't get the hint now, I'm going to  have to spell it out slowly for her.

"Just tell her how proud I am of her. And that she was right for following her dreams."

"That's the kind of thing you really should tell her yourself."

She is quiet for a few seconds. We talk for a few more minutes before I  end the call. Satisfied, I head over to meet with the manager at my new  hotel.





Chapter Twenty-Seven





On Display (Skye)





I'm utterly exhausted from being up all night. It's almost ten before I  manage to haul myself out of bed. I'd been content to lie in bed this  morning, half asleep and pretending Lawson was holding me.

It takes twenty minutes in the shower before I'm awake enough to know  for sure I can get out of the scalding water without crawling right back  into bed.

I drag on the first panties I pull out of the drawer. My hair is still  wet, but I don't care. I scrape it into a ponytail. It's hot out, and I  throw on a simple sundress.

Now dressed, I finally allow myself to turn on my phone. Nothing. Not a single text or missed call from Lawson. My heart sinks.

For whatever reason, I'd expected to have dozens of them. But zero? I  guess that means he's got the hint and given up, just like I wanted.  That is what I wanted, right?

So why does the lack of messages hurt so much?

The only thing I know to do is trudge into my studio. Without any plan, I set up three new blank canvases and prepare my paints.

In a repeat of yesterday, I take out my emotions on the canvases. Reds,  blues and grays are soon spiraling and intertwining with each other.

No paint gets on the floor or walls. Instead, the painting is more  delicate than yesterday. There's less anger and more sadness. The longer  I paint, the more despair ends up in front of me.

Am I romanticizing him because he was my first? Or is it because he was  the only person I've ever cared about as much as I care about my art.

Or am I right in thinking I've been duped by him? That he used me?

The more I think about it, the more angry red spatters begin appearing across my canvases.

Lawson cost me the commission with Kelso, just like he cost me my job at  Johnny's. Things like that just don't matter to the rich.

It's seems a little too difficult to believe he didn't come up to  Kelso's bedroom to have sex. And to be found by Kelso, as a way to score  points in the war between them.

But I don't want that to be true.

Kelso was a creep from the day I started working for him. There was no  surprise when he acted the way he did when I went back to his house.  Just remembering him touching me sends a wave of nausea through my body.         

     



 

At least one thing isn't in doubt: Kelso's a creep.

But he didn't do anything to me until he walked in on Lawson and I. If  that hadn't happened, I would've been able to avoid him and finish the  commission, collect my fat paycheck and put on a gallery show.

Why did Lawson come to the house that morning?

But the biggest issue of all is: Why doesn't Lawson care that I lost the  commission? He seemed relieved by it. Why doesn't he care how important  it is to me? That's what really hurts so much.

I glance over to the abstract paintings I did yesterday. I shake off my  smock and pick up the one I think conveys the most hurt. Even though  it's abstract, there's no mistaking the anguish I was feeling when I  created it.

Lawson won't be able to miss the way he made me feel. And right now, I  need him to acknowledge the way losing the commission hurt me. I lay it  in my trunk and get in my car.

After a couple of wrong turns, I find my way to Lawson's mansion. I get  the painting out and balance it on one arm while I ring the doorbell.

"Yes?" a man says as he opens the door.

"I"m looking for Lawson."

"Mr Heywood isn't home, would you like to leave that for him?" he asks, nodding toward the painting.

I pause, debating, deciding.

"No, it's okay. He asked me to deliver this into his hands. Do you know when he'll be back?"

"He's at work now, I don't know how long he'll be."

I have to try. "Oh, is he at the office?"

"I believe he's gone to the newest hotel for a meeting."

"Thanks."

I flop back in my car and take out my phone. A quick poke around on  their website and I have the address for the latest hotel. And it's  local! I'd figured it would be in L.A. Or San Francisco or somewhere  even further away.

A local hotel is easy. I drive to it, wondering how big of a scene my  presence will create. I don't want anything public, that'd be  humiliating.

The hotel is super fancy looking. The kind of place only the rich can  afford. It's way smaller than I'd anticipated, with a stylish Georgian  front.

Even though I shouldn't, I leave my car parked in front of the entrance, I'm surprised there's no valet parking.

I grab my painting, balancing it on both arms, like I'm delivering  pizza. My purse is slung over my shoulder. Halfway between the car and  the door, my phone rings. I ignore it and stroll inside.

The lobby is subdued. Vases of fresh cut flowers fill the room with their scent.

Busy rehearsing what I'm going to say, I only vaguely notice pictures in  heavy frames around the room. It feels more like walking into a home  than a hotel lobby.

Halfway to the front desk, I realize the painting hung behind it is one  of mine. A glance to the left shows me two more of my paintings along  that wall. I come to a standstill and shift my body to the right. Two  more of my paintings hang there, between the blue hydrangeas.

My jaw drops. I can't move, my feet are frozen to the ground.

Why didn't I know Lawson bought my paintings from Gordon? And why are they here, in the lobby of this beautiful hotel?

"Can I help you?" the receptionist says from behind the desk. Her voice sounds faraway, as if in a dream.

I don't move. I can't. Every part of me is frozen. No matter how long I  stare at my paintings, my brain simply cannot compute what they mean.

"Miss, are you looking for someone?" the receptionist says again.

Why are my paintings on the wall? Lawson bought them. He hung them here. But why?

Because, idiot, he likes them. He likes them enough that he bought them and put them on display in his newest hotel.

But why didn't he tell me? I would've accused him of only doing it  because I'm fucking him. He tried so many times to convince me to let  him help me and I'd always refused.

And then he went ahead and did it anyway.

The receptionist appears in front of me, a fake smile plastered across  her face. She gestures to the painting in my arms. "Are you here to  deliver that?"