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  He convinced the school to let me audit two art classes during my study halls, negotiating that if they allowed me do so for the credit that I would volunteer my time painting sets for the spring musical and construct and paint the decorations for the fairytale-themed prom. My father was not only getting me back on an academic path to graduation, but also forcing me to rekindle my love for art—and my mother. Through art, I grieved and grew, cried and laughed, and evolved into who I am today.

  I owe it all to my dad. We started eating traditional Sunday dinners together again, complete with manicotti, pork loin, and wedding soup every weekend. Jill was coerced into coming home from college every other Sunday to eat with her family, something she despised openly and loved secretly. We learned how to be a family again, how to love again, and how to move on. I owe my strength and courage to my father. I owe him.

  When I had the opportunity to pay off his new, downsized little condo, I took it. I wanted him to feel like he could come home more often from the butchery and not spend so many hours working to pay his bills. I wanted him to enjoy his life a little more and not isolate himself so much, not throw himself into his work. My father is a proud man, but my financial gesture brought him to his knees with gratitude and emotion. I know I’ve done some shady, unforgivable things in my life, but I’m on the road to redemption, paying my penance little by little.

  At some point, I’m going to need to get off the elevator. I’ve ridden the damn thing up to the 21st floor and back down again four times. Every single O’Donnell is terrifying, well, except for Adrian. He’s an angel—always has been. The realization that I’m about to come face-to-face with Chet O’Donnell paralyzes me. Last time, the last two times actually, I was fueled by an uncontrollable and inexplicable indignation that even I’d never seen in myself before. Jill calls it my “Hulking Out” time. I wish I could “Hulk Out” now, because my body won’t allow me to exit this fucking elevator.

  As the elevator opens on the 21st floor for the fifth time, Chet O’Donnell and his two security buffoons await me, sneering with contempt. “Well, well, well, the cameras do not lie. Little Miss Extortion has come to grace us with her presence yet again,” Chet snaps. “To what do we owe this displeasure? Did your Play-Doh and finger-painting put you out of business already?” The chuckles emanating from Chet’s lackeys propel me courageously.

  “Chet, I have a private matter to discuss with you,” I demand. Chet? Holy shit. I called him “Chet,” like we’re equals. Here I go. “Alone—as long as your apes know how to fend for themselves for a few minutes.”

  “Listen here—you can’t waltz in here and start making dema—”

  “Now we both know that I can; should I make it clear to everyone else within earshot as to why I can?” I ask, holding my head high, raising my chin with feigned aplomb. Praying that he doesn’t call my bluff, I tap my toe impatiently.

  I hope that he doesn’t realize that I’d never publicly tell all of O’Donnell Industries that Chet’s son raped me in a hotel. Or that I’ve been collecting money, large sums of hush money, ever since the alleged rape—especially since he never actually raped me—he was just too drunk to realize what actually did happen.

  Back then, my battered ego couldn’t take the confidence blow, so I decided to counterattack. All’s fair in love in war, right? Well, there was definitely no love, but a great deal of warfare.

  “Gentlemen, excuse me before this hellcat uses her claws on all of us,” he chuckles spitefully.

  I roll my eyes as he not-so-delicately shoves me toward his office.

  Chet O’Donnell informs his skanky-ass secretary to hold his calls seconds before he angrily slams the door shut. “Not one fucking cent. Not one damn dime. You’re not getting one penny little girl. I thought I was done with you and your shit.”

  He walks over to his mini bar and mixes himself a gin and tonic. His extra long pour of the Tanqueray lets me know he’s preparing for a fight—a fight he plans to win. However, it’s a hard to win a fight when your opponent isn’t willing to go into the ring with you.

  “You are. We are,” I acquiesce, politely nodding my head. “I… um… I just wanted to thank you… to uh… apologize… and to pay off my debt.” I reach into my satchel and grab the money order I secured at the bank. I knew Chet O’Donnell wouldn’t trust a personal or business check that came from me, so I covered my all my bases, prior to stepping foot into his office. I sure as shit didn’t want to ever step foot back into this office.

  I walk purposefully over to him as he eyes me scornfully, stirring his drink. I extend my hand, offering the money order. He takes a large, loud gulp of his drink, and walks back to his desk, not taking the money.

  Sitting down, he says, “Debt? Honey, you can try to sugar-coat it as much as you fucking want, but it was plain old, dirty blackmail.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Chet O’Donnell puts his hands behind his head and kicks one foot up onto his knee. “So what? Guilt getting to ya? Ya thought you could run and play with the big boys, but when the shit settled and you realized that you were just a money-grubbing whore, you decided to try to come clean and cleanse your filthy conscience? Is that it?”

  I know how to deal with men like Chet O’Donnell; years of being a bartender taught me how to one-up the rich and powerful. Want to know how? You just don’t play their game or try to battle them. You let them hold all the cards. Why fight a battle that nobody will end up winning anyway?

  “Pretty much,” I say, shrugging. “I needed money. I needed an investor. Your son gave me every opportunity I needed.”

  Chet nods, swallowing the final drops of his drink. “How do I know that once I take this check, you won’t turn him in to the authorities?”

  “I’m too far in this too, Chet,” I reply nonchalantly.

  Man, I love calling him “Chet.” Sitting down without being asked and tucking my knees under me in a childlike and carefree way, I say, “If I turn Tristan in, then I’m just incriminating myself in a blackmail charge as well. Keeping this all on the down-low is just as important to me and my gallery as it is to you and O’Donnell Industries.” And, I’d like to avoid false rape-accusation charges to boot, but I’ll keep that one to myself.

  “Ya know, paying back your extorted money won’t change anything,” Chet sneers.

  “How do you figure?” I ask.

  “When all is said and done, you’re still going to be just another tramp my son fucked and left,” Chet replies, shaking his head in disdain. “When you go home at night, you’re still gonna be a poor, dirty little Dago who isn’t worth the dog shit in the park.”

  “And… we’re done here,” I announce standing back up. I slam the money order down on his desk, feeling the painful surge throughout my entire hand, and in my heart, as well.

  “Good day, good riddance to bad rubbish,” Chet laughs. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you—probably not as pleasurable as the business Tristan had with you though.”

  For love of God! That man! He still believes that Tristan raped me, and he refers to it as “pleasurable.” What the fuck was wrong with these people? He’s right; good riddance to those two fucked up O’Donnells.

  Rushing out of Chet O’Donnell’s office, angrily and haughtily, I face-plant straight into a strong, hard chest, covered in a wool, cable-knit sweater, smelling of expensive cologne. People always say that the sense of smell is the most powerful sense, triggering memories and feelings clearer than any of the other four senses combined. Just one smell, one inhalation of that warm, sexy designer cologne and my insides burn, ignite with intense desire and longing. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. No. No. No.

  “I’m… I’m… I’m…” I stammer, backing up, dropping my head, and looking straight at the ground in humiliation.

  The door opens and Chet invades my space from behind. “Well isn’t this a precious little reunion? Ya know Leah,” Chet whispers in my ear. “They say it makes you stronger to confront your attacker.”

&nbs
p; “Dad!” Tristan says, looking around frantically, checking to see if anyone overheard him.

  “I’m… I gotta go,” I mumble, sidestepping out of their masculine, man trap and heading straight for the elevator. I push the button repeatedly, knowing damn well my actions won’t speed up the elevator’s arrival.

  Tristan runs to catch me, just as I eye the stairwell and bolt for the door. “Leah! Wait!” he yells; the “wait” is muffled by the sound of the door slamming behind me. I run down only one flight of steps and escape onto the twentieth floor, knowing that Tristan O’Donnell would chase me the entire way down the stairs—if seeing and talking to me were his goals. Tristan O’Donnell always gets what he wants. Always.

  Hoping that Tristan doesn’t check the video monitors, I walk down the hallway to the other set of stairs and down to the first floor, exiting O’Donnell Industries. Once I hit the street, the winter sun reflecting off the snow burns my eyes. I squint at the pain of the brightness, knowing the sting of my tears has nothing to do with the shining, searing light.

  “You should’ve snatched the money back, kicked him in the balls and left,” Samuel says, shaking his head disapprovingly.

  “You’ve only said that about ten times,” I say, shoving my makeup bag and curling wand into my carry-on. “I get it, alright. Can we drop it now?”

  Shrugging, he looks at me. “Are you bringing that hair curling thing?” he asks as his nose scrunches up.

  “Uh, yeah, that’s why I just packed it.” I reply.

  “Fine. Do what you want,” he remarks snidely. “Spend the weekend looking like Mrs. Garrett—no big deal.”

  “What? Who the fuck is that?” I ask, pulling the curling wand back out of my bag.

  “Diff’rent Strokes? Facts of Life?” Samuel explains. “Sitcoms in the 80s.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I groan, feeling my exasperation growing. “Samuel, I was born in 1984; I wasn’t exactly watching sitcoms in my toddler years,” I explain taking my dress out of the dry cleaners bag and placing it neatly in our garment bag. “I forget sometimes that I’m dating an old man,” I joke.

  “Hey now, 39 is not old, distinguished and wise, yes—not old,” Samuel jokes, playfully. “And shit, no, you wear that dress again, with those hips, and you’ll certainly look like Edna Garrett,” Samuel says, swapping out my favorite peach dress for my black silk sheath.

  Defeated, I sit down on our bed and thumb through my phone, perusing images of “Edna Garrett.” Feeling my face flush and heat rise, I take the peach dress back out of the closet and put it in the garment bag, as rage begins to overtake me.

  Glaring at me, Samuel says, “Again, do what you want. You always do—just remember—I’m the one that has to be seen with you.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me right now, Samuel?” I bellow, throwing my brush across the room. “If you don’t want to go, don’t fucking go. I’ve told you that about a hundred times.” He’s staring at me in disbelief. I rarely lose my cool, but my cool was lost somewhere in that stairwell today. My cool has escalated to boiling hot right about now.

  “Whoa—whoa, sweetheart,” Samuel says, coming toward me.

  “No! Don’t touch me,” I warn, keeping my distance from him. “I know you hate the South. I know you can’t stand Taylor Swift, Keith Urban, and whoever the fuck else pisses you off with their country twang and big smiles. I’ve heard it before.” I sit down on the bed as the tears start filling my eyes. “Just stop. Stop picking on me, nitpicking at all my shit. I can’t deal with it right now.”

  I feel the bed dip as he sits down on the other side. “I didn’t realize you liked that peach dress so much. You can wear it. It’s fine. You always look fine.”

  “Fine is the same word you used to describe the painting I made for Adrian and Kathryn, too,” I remind him through gritted teeth, rolling my eyes.

  “Well, it’s not your best work, Lee,” he explains. “I don’t get that quote on it either. ‘Home is where your hand is held and your heart is kept.’ Not sure what the fuck that is supposed to mean, but hey, they’re not art critics. It’s the thought that counts, right?”

  “Yeah Samuel, it’s the thought that counts,” I concur, standing back up to finish my packing. “Listen, you were right. Why don’t you stay here, keep an eye on the gallery? I’ll go solo to Adrian and Kathryn’s wedding. I’d like some time in Charleston. Get inspired, enjoy the culture, embrace the history, and just take it all in.”

  Walking over to me, Samuel wraps his arms around me. “Babe, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were so on edge. I’m going with you. We’re in this together. I can’t wait to see this place and meet these people. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit shit shit. I can’t believe she was at OI. I never thought I’d see her again, let alone at O’Donnell Industries. I wanted to pummel my father for the way he treated her. Hasn’t she been through enough already? Christ.

  I ran down the twenty-one flights of stairs, hoping to catch her. The fuck of it all is that when I was riding back up to my father’s office, I couldn’t figure out why I was so hell-bent on catching up to her. What the fuck was I thinking? I probably scared the total piss out of her. Nice job T. Scare the ever-loving shit out of the chick, so she can’t rest safely until you’re behind bars. Smooth. Real fucking suave, dude.

  I unloaded a barrage of questions on my dad when I got back to his office. Fucker wouldn’t tell me much—never does. I got the same shit I always get. I’m such a disgrace, a disappointment to the O’Donnell name. I’ve heard it all before.

  I was seventeen and playing in the state championship. Our lacrosse team was undefeated. Hadn’t lost or tied a game in three years. There were about four seconds left in the game; we were down by one. I had a clear shot and choked. I fucking choked, paused a second too long and got checked. Ball tumbled out of the stick. The mid-fielder swiftly scooped it up as the clock ran out. We lost 3-2, ending our streak and branding me the biggest pussy in school history.

  That night, my dad called me into his den. He poured himself a Scotch on the rocks and then poured a second one. Handing me a glass, he said, “Take it, son. Today, you learned what it is to be a man.”

  I couldn’t fucking believe it. I walked in to his office believing I was about to be admonished for choking in the game. To be called a man and to have a drink with my old man was a fantasy of mine. I wanted him to see me as a grown man, a confidante, and an equal.

  “Yeah, it’s tough lesson,” I said, nodding. “It’s hard to learn how to lose, how to take a loss standing up, confronting it head on.” I was damn proud of my depth, talking to my dad like I was deep and shit. I was pulling some profound crap right out of my ass.

  “Nah, everyone learns how to lose. That’s not becoming a man,” he said, rattling his glass. “Becoming a man is finally realizing why you were put on this earth. Today, you saw first hand why you’re here.”

  “I did?” I asked confused, not following him.

  “Sure fucking did,” he said, sitting down at his desk. “You, Tristan, were put here to fuck everything up. That’s all you ever do. Just fuck shit up, ruining everything good.”

  “But Dad—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. Get out. Get the fuck out of my office,” he said, pointing to the door. “I can’t stand looking at ya. Damn disgrace. Clear fucking shot. One goal. That’s all you needed. And what do you do? You fuck it all up, just like you always do. Just get out. Just get the fuck out.”

  That night two things happened. I swore I would do everything in my power from that moment on to prove to my dad that I could follow in his footstep and become a powerful, wealthy, intimidating man, vowing to myself that I would show him that I was just as good—if not better than he was. Secondly, I learned that Scotch and anything else hard made things in my life much much easier.

  “Sir, can I take your glass?” the flight attendant asks. “We’re preparing for
landing in Charlotte.”

  Tipping the glass back, I swallow the final droplets of my drink. “Thanks darling,” I reply gratefully, giving her my trademark, panty-soaking wink. Works every time.

  Eyeing her, I’m shocked that I haven’t been hitting on her for the entire flight. She’s smoking hot and her little stewardess uniform would look fantastic up around her waist as she rides me hard.

  “Excuse me, Hope,” I say, staring at her nametag and eye-fucking her breasts simultaneously.

  “Sir?” she asks, heaving her chest out a little further. Fuck yeah, sitting in first class always has its advantages.

  “Why don’t you blow off your next few runs and come screw me… screw around with me in the Bahamas?” I ask.

  “You’re connecting to Nassau?”

  “Yep, why don’t ya come keep me company,” I offer, tracing my finger along the button between her breasts. “I got a suite at the Altantis for the next ten days.”

  Visibly pouting, she frowns and stomps her foot. “Shit, I would love to, but I’m meeting my fiancé back in Houston tonight. Our friends are throwing us a couples’ shower,” Hope whines.

  “Your loss, baby,” I say, returning my seat to its upright position.

  “I’ve got an idea,” she says, checking for eavesdroppers. “I’ve got a layover in Charlotte. Wanna screw around with me in the VIP lounge before we take off?” she proffers seductively in my ear as she leans across my lap to open the blind on the window, rubbing her chest on my hands.

  “Oooooh Tristan; I hate that I can’t come with you and do more of that,” Hope says, kissing her way back up my chest and neck. “I wanna feel what your mouth feels like on me and take that guy there for a little spin.” Hope giggles as I pull up my zipper and tuck in my shirt.