I’m still drunk—I’m not a walking miracle who has the ability to sober up instantly—but even through my booze-soaked stupor and the afterglow I hear what he says, and more importantly what he doesn’t say.
He missed this, specifically sex, not me.
I don’t say anything, waiting instead for him to move and pull out before yanking my bottoms back on and shoving my feet into my heels. What’s there to say? Oh, thank you so much for ruining a great lay?
I’m honest enough to admit to myself what a colossal idiot I am, because seriously, who the hell lets her ex-husband, a man she’s divorced for a good reason, fuck her against the wall of a supply closet?
Me, apparently. The ditzy blonde idiot who can’t get over him. The stupid fool who’d come to the wedding stag while he’s brought a date.
“Dove?” he asks, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You okay?”
No! I’m a sap! A lovesick loser who can’t get over you long enough to keep her legs closed.
I feel so ashamed of myself I want to slap him a hundred times before kicking him in the balls just to share an iota of the pain I’m feeling. But I’m my mama’s daughter, and no amount of pain or humiliation can change that, so instead of breaking down and becoming a blubbering, drunken mess, I smile and shrug good-humoredly.
“If you’d excuse me, I think I can still catch the Jason.”
Chapter Thirty Six
“What do you mean it’s all gone? We haven’t even had an opening!” I yell into the phone, feeling my nerves go on high alert.
According to Vern, every one of my paintings had sold before they’d even hit the walls, something that many an artist would be thrilled about under normal circumstances.
Not me. This means that instead of having a little relaxation, Vern’s gonna be on my ass for the next month, asking me when he can expect some new pieces.
I love my work, really I do, but if I have to paint another brushstroke right now, especially when I’d caught myself eying the blacks and purples again—I’ve just managed to get out of that horrid gloom fest! —I’ll have a nervous freaking breakdown.
Plus, I really don’t freaking feel well, and all I want is a few weeks of daytime television and vegging on my sofa. Oh, and a chance to further my newest plan to get a pellet gun and take out Marty.
I’ve been brainstorming since the night after Parker’s wedding, after recovering from a major hangover only to find myself hanging out of the window at a precarious angle, desperate to pour out my woes to the scraggly feline.
Enough is enough. No sane person treats a stray cat as if it’s her own personal therapist, and I damn well know it. Marty has to go before I crack and start buying cans of tuna as a lure.
Every time I have the urge to go to the window at three in the morning, I remember Meryl Streep in that Into the Woods movie and I reaffirm my resolve not to end up looking like that with a stray cat perched on my shoulder.
“Sissy, you know I can’t reveal the buyers if they request it.” He sighs again, making my teeth ache in protest when I bite down hard.
“I’m not doing another series for at least the next three months. I already gave you everything I had by finishing the last one so quickly. I’m exhausted.”
“I know, darling. Take some time off and regroup. Anyway, a little time won’t make any difference; it will only increase your demand. I’ve already had pre-orders for anything of yours that comes out next.”
“Good. Look, I gotta go, my call waiting is going nuts.”
“Hello?”
Nothing. Not a sound reaches my ears across the line, and I pull the receiver away, checking the connection to make sure I haven’t mistakenly dropped it again, something I do when I’m not paying attention.
The little screen shows a live connection, so I put it back to my ear again, pulling a face at myself.
“Hello? Parker? Is that you?”
He’s been calling me every day—thank God Jules likes me enough not to be jealous—just to check up on me and make sure I’m not holed up in my apartment twenty four seven.
“Hello?”
The line clicks, going dead, and for the first time in months I feel the stirrings of fear creep back up. It can’t—
I cut the thought off and go back to cleaning my work area, something that’s easier now that I’ve moved my things into the apartment and convinced Park that I don’t need a whole separate space just to paint.
First of all, I’m way too lazy to trudge next door every time I wake up in the wee hours just to get an early start—I snort, because that’s a total ball of crap. I paint because sleeping is impossible at times. Another reason I’ve moved my stuff in here is because I miss the contact high I get from living with paint fumes.