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.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
I
don’t even know where to begin this entry, and I only have an hour to get to work at the restaurant. I just know that I don’t want to forget any details and I need to write them when I’m fresh. I’m certain I’ll look back at this at some point and crave the feelings and memories as clearly as they were in my mind tonight.
To start, Mark had me change clothes and then meet him at the gallery before the party. The entire staff knew I was attending the party with him and Mary was just plain mean. She popped into my office and said, “I guess it takes the right skirt to climb the ladder around here.” I assume she was calling me a slut; her tone said she was. It wasn’t easy to remind myself she was probably feeling threatened and bite my tongue, but I did.
Mark and I rode to the party in his Jaguar. I don’t even HAVE a car, so it was a luxurious ride for me, for sure. And being in that car alone with him was impossibly intimate. I swear, when I am with him, I feel him in every part of me. I think he feels it, too. Or maybe not. But even if there is an attraction between us, it can’t work out. He’s my boss and he has another woman.
Ricco’s home is in a ritzy area of the city and it’s elegant in every possible way. And Ricco himself is not only fabulously talented, he’s striking in person. Not beautiful like Mark, but there’s something about the way his sharp features and deep-set eyes come together. Very arrogant and regal, almost hard. But I also sensed a softer part of him that I think is part of his creativity. I really bonded with Ricco and he stayed by my side most of the night; he even invited me to have coffee with him next week. I thought Mark would be pleased, but for some reason he wasn’t. He kept watching me with Ricco, and more than once, he appeared in the middle of our conversation and just listened. Maybe he was evaluating how I handle clients. I can’t be sure.
Despite Mark’s irritation with me, when the night was over he offered to drive me home. He walked me to my door and I swear he wanted . . . something. Not a kiss. It’s not that simple with Mark. Maybe he wanted to fuck me, but I didn’t let my mind go there. I just stood there, trying to figure out what it was he wanted.
What was it that I wanted? The only word that comes to mind is “more” for me. For him, I had this uneasy moment of thinking “too much.” Mark would want too much, and somehow it would never be enough. I have no idea why I feel this, but I do. It’s insanity for my mind to be in this place anyway. He’s my boss. He might be able to separate whatever that “too much” is, but could I? Would I end up ruining my dream for mere hot sex, over and done with?
Yes. I’m beginning to think that is where this could go, and I won’t let it. Or maybe I’m imagining the whole thing. Mark still calls me Ms. Mason and I call him Mr. Compton. He hasn’t touched me. He hasn’t made one remark that is even remotely sexual. I have no reason to believe we are headed toward naked and starving for each other, unless it’s in my dreams. And that is one dream that I’m confident I could recall in vivid detail . . .
Sunday, January 2, 2011
T
oday I had coffee with Ricco at the coffee shop next door to the gallery. I was shocked when I arrived early to discover that the gorgeous brunette I’d seen with Mark at the restaurant is Ava, the woman who owns the place. Not only that, she wasn’t rude or snotty at all this time. She’s probably closer to Mark’s age than mine, and carries herself almost regally, maybe too much so—like it’s a way to hide what she doesn’t want seen. She seemed to want to build a friendship, but I couldn’t quite feel right about it with the conflicting impressions I’ve had of her. She laughed and joked with me, and asked me how I was handling Mark being so controlling. I wondered if she was trying to get me to say something she’d then repeat to Mark. That’s so cynical of me, but it’s what popped into my head and I never say anything I don’t want repeated. She even whispered a warning about how temperamental Ricco can be. (But I’d heard the same from Ralph and Amanda.)
She did enough talking for both of us, and it turns out she’s known Mark and Ricco for years and they are all friends, though I’m not sure how this many gorgeous people are ever just friends. Some people would say that is small-minded of me, but it is what it is. I was surprised that I liked Ava. I’m not sure what to make of her. I’m going to be cautious with her, that’s for sure.
I didn’t say much about Mark or Ricco to her. I don’t even share things with the people I know well. There were too many years of my mother working double shifts at the hotel she managed, warning me not to talk to strangers while she was gone. Not to tell people whom I knew things that they could let slip to someone else, who would know I was alone. She was so crazily insistent that I learned to write stuff down. It’s better that way, I’ve found. I’m the only one judging me or influencing my own thoughts. I think most people let others decide who and what they are too much.
As for Ricco, he was amazing to me, and I saw nothing that screamed of his reputation for being temperamental. I warmed to him immediately, just as I had at his party. He’s one of the few people I’ve ever felt this comfortable with this quickly. He has this protective vibe about him that I found surprisingly appealing. Maybe it’s because he’s a good fifteen years older than me and almost fatherly, though he’s far too sexy a man for me to ever think of that way, and I feel no deep, burning need for a father figure. I don’t need or want to be taken care of. He tugs on some deep part of me, though. Really, he and Mark both do, but for different reasons. With Mark, I think it’s all about raw power and just plain lust. With Ricco, maybe there’s friendship? I just don’t know.
We were about to leave when I saw Ava talking to a man at the counter dressed in Harley boots, jeans, and a leather jacket. The look on her face said she was in lust. I sure hope I’m not that obvious when I look at Mark. Then the man turned around and I took in the sweeping whole picture he made, including collar-length mussed-up blon
d hair that screamed “wild and wicked rock star delicious,” and I could see why she was looking at him that way. Ricco followed my attention, and the two men waved at each other.
Then the next thing I knew, I was meeting the “rock star,” who was the incredibly famous Chris Merit. The man’s art sells for scary, wonderfully big price tags. As for the wild part I’d assumed, he didn’t come off that way. He was all business, about to head to a meeting with Mark, and Chris wanted to confirm that Ricco was still donating a painting to the next Riptide auction for a children’s cancer charity he supports. Despite the two being cordial, I didn’t get the impression Chris and Ricco were all that fond of each other. I think Ricco has a problem connecting with most people, but I think he’s just artistic and misunderstood. I’m going to his private studio this weekend to preview the work he’s willing to let me show to special customers, and I’m beyond thrilled.
I returned to the gallery and was called into Mark’s office. The power that man oozes from behind his desk is enough to make me forget every other man and my name. He then proceeded to drill me about Ricco and to warn me that artists could use my eagerness for success to manipulate me. He said it was his responsibility to protect me. I told him I didn’t need protection. His reply: My gallery. My employee. My protection. Those words were laced with possessiveness, and the way he’d looked at me . . . I felt more naked than I have felt with my legs spread wide for any other man. The air thickened with awareness between us. And then, in a snap, it was gone as if it had never happened, and maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was my imagination.
Mark proceeded to test me on the material he’d given me to study. I’m pleased that I passed with flying colors despite my crazy work schedule. I’m not as pleased about being tested every afternoon in his office, but that’s his plan. Until I convince him I’m ready, Mark won’t put me on the showroom floor. He was quick to tell me that he plans to push me to my limits.