Tonight, I’m going to go in there and leave with her on my arm. I shudder as I think of all the things I’ll do to her when I get her home. More than anything, I want her legs wrapped around my neck as I feast on her pussy.
Spent, I prop a hand against the wall of the shower as I catch my breath.
Around nine that nine, I pull my car into the parking lot of Johnny’s. I take the last spot available, my Maserati sandwiched between a Ford and a Kia.
I stroll into Johnny’s by myself. I still get a kick out of walking into a restaurant that doesn’t take reservations. The smell of barbecue sauce makes my stomach rumble. I think I’ll go for the ribs tonight. I figure I’ll hang around until closing and take Skye home.
“What do you want?” The idiot manager who broke up our kiss last weekend snaps.
“A table. In Skye’s section.” I don’t put up with any attitude from anyone.
“She doesn’t work here anymore.” His words are a blow.
“Why not?”
“She got fired for inappropriate behavior at work.” Fuck, I didn’t mean to get the poor girl fired. That’s okay, I’ll buy her her own restaurant.
“What’s her number?” I demand.
“Can’t tell you that, it’s personal information.”
“I need to know her number,” I say, rising to my full height with my shoulders rolled back.
“You can ask all you want, I legally can’t tell you.” Pissant. Figures he’d be all by the book. I exhale through my nose.
“Will you be talking to her again?”
“Dunno.”
“Tell her I’m looking for her.” I say pulling my card out of my wallet and shoving it at him.
He picks it up and examines it. His eyes half pop out of his head when he sees my name. That’s right, asshole, I’m Lawson Heywood. I turn on my heels and stride out.
I flop back into my Maserati and slam the door. After revving the engine a few times, I tear out of the parking lot, knowing damn well that asswipe manager is watching.
What the fuck am I going to do now? All my plans for the evening are ruined. Not just the evening: I’d envisioned having Skye in my bed for months. I slam the heel of my hand on the top of the steering wheel.
Now what? I head toward Julie’s house. I’ll get her people to track down Skye.
Without knocking, I walk into her house, through the grand entrance with its sweeping staircase and into the kitchen, I grab a beer from the kitchen and head down the hall and into the family room.
Julie’s sitting on the sofa with her feet propped up on the ottoman. She looks at me and rolls her eyes as I flop onto the couch beside her.
“What the fuck are you doing here? I thought you were chasing that waitress tonight.” She mutes the movie she’s been watching.
“She doesn’t work there anymore. I need you to track her down for me.”
“Did you get her fired?”
I don’t want to think about that. “Fuck off and find her for me.”
“You’ve got that backwards, you mean ‘find her for me so I can fuck her’.”
“That too.”
“How about a please?” She gives me a wide grin. The same one she always gave me when we were kids and she wanted to annoy me.
“I’ll give you a thank you when you find her.”
“Have you tried the internet?”
“Haven’t had time yet.”
Julie sits forward and grabs her laptop from the far corner of the ottoman. She opens it and leans back on the couch.
“What’s her name?”
“Skye.” Just saying her name makes me ache.
“Skye what?”
“Beats the fuck out of me.”
“How on earth do you expect me to find her?”
“I don’t know. Her name’s Skye and she’s an artist. There can’t be that many of them.”
Julie’s fingers fly over the keyboard. My eyes fix on them, willing an answer.
She looks at me after a moment and says, “You’re a moron. All I did was type in ‘Skye artist Santa Barbara’ and this gallery came up.”
I grab the computer out of her hands and look at the screen. It’s says Piek Gallery and has a photo of Skye along with photos of some of her paintings and a bio. The bio reads:
An exciting new artist, Skye is inspired by the increasing wealth divide and the plight of the ninety-nine percent. At first glance, her work often seems to be intriguing landscapes, but a deeper look usually reveals her hard stance against the one percent.
I can’t help but laugh. So my sweet Skye is against the one percent. It certainly lines up with all the anti-rich comments she made to me when we first met. At least I know I’ve found the right Skye.