Page 7

seven

Lucy

I’m standing in front of a large bedroom in Damien’s penthouse suite with just two duffel bags in my hands.

One has my sketchbooks, paints, pencils and a few canvases, while the other holds some face wash, shampoo bottles and my clothes.

He didn’t allow me much time to grab all of my belongings from Jenni’s apartment, and said he’d send a driver over to get them. In fact, he drove me over there late last night and stood outside the door to watch me pack with a sneer on his face. He hates my clothes, and he made that abundantly clear.

He also made it clear that I would write a letter to Jenni, detailing that I had finally decided to move in with my secret lover. That I had been sleeping with my sister’s husband for years and I’ve finally agreed to marry him now that they’re legally divorced.

I must admit that my hands trembled the entire time I wrote that letter. Because eventually, Megan will find out. And as terrifying as Damien is, I still don’t feel like I’m protected from her or my family’s wrath.

They hated me then. God only knows what they’ll try to do to me now.

I can kiss whatever hope I had for a reputation goodbye.

I walk into the large, luxury bedroom.

Like the main living area of the penthouse, the room is filled with windows that overlook downtown Manhattan. The bed is a king, dressed with plush, white linens and it sits against and upholstered, black leather headboard on the far right. All of those tall, floor to ceiling windows surrounding that one, upholstered wall.

There’s an elegant oak vanity area, with both an electric fireplace and closet doors and shelves surrounding the big mirror and white, wooden chair. To the right are the glass doors of a very white, marble-looking bathroom. And in the very center of the room is a small set of marble stairs that lead up to an alcove surrounded by windows. It’s the perfect area for an easel. For an artist.

If I wasn’t in the situation that I’m in right now, I might actually be excited.

Okay, I’m lying. I’m a little excited. But the threat of my death and the dark, asshole of a man standing in the doorway watching me has that excitement pretty much evaporated now.

I set my duffle bags on the bed, unpacking my limited clothes as he makes a sound of disgust in the corner.

“Something you’d like to say?” I ask, not bothering him to look at him as I grab my holy jeans and tee shirts to put away alongside a very short, skimpy black dress that I use for busy nights at the bar.

“Am I marrying a tomboy that works as a prostitute at night?” he growls, and I wish I could slap him right across his beautiful face, but my throat is still sore from when he choked me over an hour ago.

I’ve learned that defying him or being smart with him is not the wisest decision if I want to stay alive.

But I learned that long before Damien Reed entered my life.

I’ve been controlled by asshole men since birth.

The only thing new is that this asshole works for an international crime organization. One that I’d really like to dig deep into, but God knows when or how I’ll be able to do that.

“I told you, I don’t have much money,” I say simply, quietly as I fold my cheap clothes and put them away in the fancy armoire-style vanity that still has an obscene amount of empty space.

He’s quiet for a while, but I can feel his eyes watching me closely. They practically burn into my skin.

“Right, well. I can’t have the world thinking that I married a street rat,” he continues after he clears his throat.

Prick.

“Get some sleep. I’ll have Bruno take you to get some clothes in the morning,” he says, but he doesn’t leave.

I can feel him still standing in the doorway, watching me.

“Yes?” I sigh and a scoff leaves his lips.

“Maybe to the salon too. That hair is practically a rat’s nest,” he spits and I grab my hairbrush and throw it in his direction just as he slams the door hard in my face.

“Fucking asshole,” I mumble as I walk to the bed and collapse on top of it.

It’s soft. Too soft actually. I can’t remember the last time I laid on something this comfortable.

Which is probably why my eyes start to drift closed in exhaustion instead of fill with tears now that I’m alone.

I’m too comfortable to cry.

Which is both strange and unnerving to realize, but I don’t think about it for too long because sleep instantly pulls me into its arms.

* * *

I’m laying on a beach, feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin and the low, crashing waves wash over me when suddenly, something hard hits me in the face.

“What the hell-” I try to say as I’m jolted back into reality, the pillow that was just thrown at me now falling to the floor.

“Get up. Bruno’s waiting in the car outside,” Damien hisses as he stands above me in a fresh, dark blue suit.

Well, not a full-blown suit. He’s wearing a crisp, tucked in white collared shirt that’s once again unbuttoned at the top, showcasing the gold chain. He’s not wearing a blazer this time. In fact, that form fitting white shirt has the sleeves rolled up and my eyes can’t help but travel to the dark, tanned and muscled skin of his forearms before they glance at the dark blue, suit pants that are belted at his waist. His hair is slicked back once again and his beard looks both groomed and trimmed.

Once again, if he wasn’t such a monster, he’d be really beautiful.

And I hate that.

“Have you always been this big of an asshole?” I groan as I turn my head into my arm, my feet dangling off the bed still from when I passed out late last night.

I can hear him sneer at me.

“Have you always been this big of a brat?” he growls and for some reason, I want to smile, but I don’t.

Because he’s not only the enemy, he’s the goddamn devil.

And now, I am his little puppet that he gets to manipulate.

“Be outside and in the car in five minutes. No later,” he commands as he walks to the door.

“Are you coming with us?” I ask as I rub the sleep away from my eyes.

“No. I’ve got a meeting with my attorney,” he says in a clipped tone.

Thank God.

“Get up. Now,” he growls as he rips open the door and slams it behind him.

“Does he ever open the door like a normal person?” I huff as I haul myself out of bed.

I don’t have time to really shower, or marvel at the gorgeous penthouse bathroom. I rush inside of the glass, double-doored stall and rinse my body with the bar of soap that I fished from my duffle bag. I brush my teeth quickly at the floating sink and toss my hair in a messy bun before I throw on my baggy jeans and big, black Jack Daniels tee shirt. I slip my worn, dirty Converse on and rush out the door and towards the living area of the suite.

Damien is standing at the kitchen isle, drinking a cup of coffee as he leans against the counter. He eyes me as I reach the door, disgust etched all over his groomed, tan face.

“You told me to hurry!” I huff and he scoffs at me as he shakes his head.

“That door leads to the boardroom I had built. Use the elevator.” He points to the steel, elevator doors near the glass staircase on the opposite side of the room.

I can’t help but wonder where those stairs lead to-

“Go,” he barks, and I raise my hands in angsty surrender as I rush to the elevator and push the button.

When I step in and press the lobby button, I turn to look at him.

“Don’t even think about running either. I own this entire building and everyone works for me,” he growls out from across the living space before the elevator doors close in his face.

Ah, silence.

Blissful, peaceful, silen-

The elevator doors open instantly and the lobby comes into view.

I swear, time flies when you don’t have much of it to spare.

I walk out onto the shiny lobby floors and make my way through the crowds of busy New Yorkers.

There’s a large concierge desk with two women dressed in sleek black dresses, but it doesn’t look like a hotel desk. Actually, there are several plaques with room numbers displayed behind them which indicates this building that Damien owns isn’t a hotel or just his penthouse location, it more than likely is home to many of the businesses that he owns.

I’m walking out the door with my neck turned so I can look at all of the business names when someone slams into me.

“Watch it, bitch.” A young woman with sunglasses, a cell phone, and a latte in hand sneers as she brushes past me.

She looks like one of the many influencers that’s glued to their phones as they somehow seamlessly navigate the bustling city while snapping at people who enter their path or are in the way of their next basic selfie stationed in front of a store front or monument.

And that is New York in a nutshell.

Something I’ve had to grow used to since moving here for college. My entire life was spent at my father’s beach house in Connecticut, so navigating this city took some time. But now, as rude and busy as it is, I’m still in awe of it.

“Ms. Fairchild.” I hear my name called as I turn to look at the black Escalade that’s parked in front of the twenty-story building that towers above me.

It’s the same man wearing those dark sunglasses that’s standing in front of the very vehicle he shoved me into last night.

I want to be afraid, but to be fair I’m more nervous that he called out my last name in public.

I don’t want people to know who I am. I don’t want them to find out that I’m the daughter of Michael Fairchild.

Which I guess everyone will know soon, since Damien will be my new…husband.

Jesus, is this actually my life right now?

“It’s Lucy. Call me Lucy,” I say to the tall, broad-shouldered man with the black ponytail.

He tips his head down and lowers his sunglasses to the bridge of his big nose. Brown eyes bore into me and a small smirk lifts the corner of his full, pink lips. He smells like cigar smoke and whiskey and his chest is so massive that I swear it might burst through his tight, long sleeved black shirt that’s tucked into his suit pants.

“Lucy,” he says, his accent thick and Hispanic and something I’ve never noticed before.

This man is devastatingly attractive.

He opens the passenger side door for me and I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Not going to knock me over the head and throw me in the back during daylight hours, I guess?” I quip and he winks at me before he slides his sunglasses back up.

“Sorry,” he says as he pats the belt line of his pants that bulges slightly.

Because there is very clearly a gun hidden beneath it. And that’s probably what he hit me with.

“Boss’s orders,” he says as I sigh and climb in the front seat.

He shuts the door behind me and I realize then that he did it quietly.

“Vastly different from the boss I see,” I mumble as he hops in and starts the car.

“What’s that?” he asks as he shuts the door and buckles his seat belt.

I don’t know why, but that small seat belt strap that’s crossed over him looks ridiculous.

But he doesn’t pay any mind to my staring. He leans over the console and reaches above my shoulder, his face practically touching my breast as he does.

God, this man smells divine.

He grabs my seat belt and pulls it over my body, strapping me in as he buckles it.

“Safety first.” He winks before he leans back and puts the car in drive.

He peels away from the building and I look at it in the rearview mirror, a million questions fluttering through my mind.

I want to ask what Damien owns, what his main line of work is, slyly of course. I can’t just blatantly ask what types of drugs he traffics or if he’s the lead member of a Mexican cartel. I just want to snoop around a bit, but I know how much Damien hates snooping. Clearly. That’s why I’m in this position. So instead I ask, “Where are we going?”

“We have an appointment with Gabriella,” he says as he taps a finger on the steering wheel and leans back casually in his seat.

“Which is?” I ask.

“My girlfriend,” he responds.

Of course this man isn’t single. He’s a Greek god. Not like I would stand a chance anyway. I’m wearing jeans two sizes too big and there’s rips all over them. Not to mention, I’m supposed to marry his boss.

“Why are we going to see your girlfriend?” I ask, feeling like a child on a road trip.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t seem annoyed.

“She’s a hairstylist. Damien wanted us to meet with her first,” he says with a small smile.

Ah, that’s right. The rat’s nest on my head.

Such an asshole.

I let silence pass in the car, but I grow impatient. My head hurts and I want a cup of coffee, but I’m not sure if asking for that is on the table. Actually, I don’t know what is on the table. I just know I’m not allowed to talk back or escape. Basic conditions of any prisoner.

“So, how long have you worked for Damien?” I ask as I rub my sweaty palms over my denim clad thighs.

My question doesn’t seem to bother him. It seems to amuse him.

“A while,” he says and I nod as I chew on the inside of my cheek.

“Do you work all day and night?” I ask, remembering the time he took me from the bar last night.

“Not always. Sometimes I have some free time,” he says as he weaves in and out through traffic.

“And you spend that how?” I ask, picking his brain.

He shrugs then as he turns at the next light.

“By taking my woman to dinner and then fucking her after,” he says simply and I gasp as my face heats.

This makes him bark out a laugh.

“Oh, don’t be a prude, Lucy. You work at a sex club,” he teases and my face heats even more.

“I bartend at a sex club,” I clarify as he slows the vehicle along several store fronts.

“Same difference,” he says, and I shake my head as I look out of the tinted window.

“Not really. I’ve never even seen any of the rooms,” I say as we stop in front of Linclair Salon, one of the most luxurious spots in NYC.

Every celebrity stylist has rented this space out for their clients. It’s widely known and also incredibly expensive.

“Of course,” I sigh as Bruno hops out to open my door for me.

“Something wrong?” he asks as I step onto the sidewalk and stare at the gold and glass storefront.

“Nope,” I say as I walk to the doors.

He opens them for me and we are immediately greeted by a tall, slim and smiling brunette with golden eyes and beautiful makeup.

“You must be Lucille,” she says as she grabs my hands and greets me.

“I’m Gabriella. I’m going to be your stylist for today,” she says warmly before looking up at Bruno who bends down to plant a very passionate and seductive kiss on her lips.

I back away instantly, feeling both embarrassed and invasive.

“Enough with you!” She giggles as she swats his chest and playfully pushes him away.

“I’ve got work to do,” she says as she winks at me and pulls me over to the chair near the fancy looking hair drying stations and hair color wall.

I can’t help but wonder what a relationship like that must feel like. One with both passion and play, one with complete adoration. I haven’t really had the best examples of relationships except for Jenni and her soon to be husband. My parents weren’t really much of an example and clearly Damien and Megan both hated each other.

Damien…

God, I’m going to marry my sister’s ex-husband and I’ve never even really had a boyfriend before. I’ve had one kiss and that was in grade school. A boy felt me up my freshman year during a game of seven minutes in heaven at my friend’s birthday party and that was it until…that night I try to forget.

The night that Damien refuses to address.

“So, what are we wanting?” Gabriella asks as she throws the salon cover over me and pulls my long, messy hair from its bun.

It’s down to my butt now. I can’t remember the last time I had it cut. My mom never really took me to the stylist. Just wanted me to keep it brushed, braided, well-kept and out of my face. Mutable, palatable, hidden. While my sister got to have the sleekest bobs and most expensive manicures. In fact, the women in my family all have really short hair. It’s why I’ve liked mine long. They’ve always been for the old, sophisticated money look while I prefer messy buns.

“Highlights would be nice,” I say, always wanting lighter hair since I’ve been surrounded by dark brunettes while mine has been this light, mousy color.

“That would be pretty. We can always do a balayage,” she says and I frown at her.

“What’s that?” I ask but she’s already pulling out her phone and showing me the most gorgeous, wavy chest length brown and blond ombre style.

I nod instantly.

“Yeah, that. Exactly that,” I say and she chuckles at me.

“So simple and easy to please. I like you already,” she says as she brushes my long, matted hair out.

At least someone does.

“I’m gonna go mix the colors in the back. Do you want some coffee while you wait?”

“Yes, please,” I say as she smiles and nods.

Before she walks away, she opens a drawer to her station and hands me a large sized, cherry red bag that looks like a designer’s makeup traveler case.

“Bruno mentioned you guys would be getting some…new attire today. I just figured that a man wouldn’t know how to get you the right makeup or hair care, so I’ve packed some essentials from Mac as well as a curling iron, straightener and product. I’ll show you how I use it and everything. I gave you the same palette I’m using now too, so if you want any tips or tricks with it, I’d be happy to share,” she says with warm, kind eyes.

For the first time, I feel genuinely seen. This woman, who I don’t even know, just gave me something I’ve never had the guts to ask my own mother for. Everything has always been handed to me with heavy instructions on how to use it.

I’ve never…had this before and it’s overwhelming honestly.

I try to hold back my tears as I smile tightly and say, “Thank you,” as she nods and turns to walk away.

I allow myself to sit quietly in the chair, peace finally finding me as I sniff back the tears that threatened to fall.

But it doesn’t stay long. Because I find my reflection in the mirror before me and when I look into the eyes of the mousy, brown-haired girl in the mirror, I realize that already, she looks different.

Already, she is different.