Love Abstract (The Art of Falling Book 2) (13 page)

After a few minutes of silence, he lifts his eyes and looks at me in quiet defeat.

“You swore she was just a friend and nothing more!” I shout, not even bothering to control the rage that is brewing deep inside me. “What is she to you? Did you ever fuck her, Phoenix?”

“We had an arrangement. A friends with benefits type thing. Nothing more than that,” he says meekly looking at the ground. “But that was before …”

“Before what?”

“Before you. Okay? That was all before I ever met you. The day I got back from Madison I called it all off and ended things with her. We had a huge blowout and she threatened to ruin things between us, but I couldn’t get you out of my head and knew that ending things with her was the right thing to do.”

“How could she possibly ruin things?”

“I … I don’t know, Ivy.” He throws his head back and closes his eyes.

He
’
s lying.

“Did she mean anything?”

“To me? No. Though I can’t say the same about her feelings toward me.”

Lies.

“Who else knows?”

“No one.”

All lies.

Fury rages through me and I feel like I’ve been violated all over again.

I storm into the kitchen so I can have room to breathe. I throw open the dishwasher door with so much force it nearly bounces back up. Bowl after bowl, I stack on the counter, not caring if I break anything.

“Stop cleaning and talk to me, damn it!”

“Don’t you
dare
tell me what to do.” I take a plate out of the dishwasher and throw it at him, narrowly missing his head. We watch it break into several large chunks when it hits the wall behind him. He looks at me in disbelief. It’s no accident that I missed hitting him. I grit my teeth and reach into the dishwasher to pull out another plate.

“Whoa. Stop this, Ivy.” He closes the gap between us, gently reaches out and takes the dish from my hands, setting on the counter.

Instinctively, I step back. Just like the devil, love wears all sorts of disguises. And I have to be careful to not allow my heart to fool my mind.

I need space to sort through all of this.

“You need to leave me alone.” I feel the walls of the apartment closing in on us, suffocating me. I’m desperate for air.

Phoenix sighs, taking in the sight of me before he turns on his heel and wordlessly leaves the apartment, giving me the space I so badly need. When he shuts the door, he takes all of the air out of our apartment with him.

I fall to my knees as the sobs take over.

IT TAKES CLOSE TO AN hour for me to pull myself together. I’m not sure how or exactly when I got in the back of this cab, but here I am driving the streets of New York City in a torrential downpour. I take notice of the electric blue fuzzy dice swinging from the rear view mirror and run my fingers over the shitty leather seat, taking in how exceptionally clean this particular taxi is.

The mind works in mysterious ways, I suppose. I couldn’t bear to be left alone in our apartment with nothing but the buzz of the refrigerator, so my subconscious kicked in and dragged me out of there without a second thought. There is only one place I want to be right now, so I’m not at all surprised when the cab driver pulls up in front of Gallery 545. There’s nothing quite like throwing yourself head first into work on your day off to keep your mind from creeping into the darkest places.

I can hardly see the entry to the gallery through the deluge. There’s no way around it—I’m going to get soaked in the four-second sprint to the door.

I toss some cash in the front seat and pull the keys out of my purse. I make a beeline for the door and panic when the handle and pulls open too easily.

Why is it unlocked
?

Stepping inside the gallery, I’m assaulted by the sound of a German man screaming unintelligible gibberish in what I can only assume is some shitty death metal blaring through the speakers in the ceiling. It’s so loud that the floors are pulsating to the beat. I rush over to the wall and adjust the volume on the control pad.

“What’d you do that for?” a phantom voice calls out.

My pulse races at the strange voice and I rush toward the back of the gallery.

“Hello? Brock? Is that you?”

Brock appears around the corner. He’s dressed in all black though his fitted shirt reads
Honorary Lesbian
in thick pink letters. Ironic. I instantly regret the owner agreeing to give him a key for gallery access. My sanctuary has turned into a playground for the asexual Stifmeister, and I am undoubtedly going to be irritated as long as I’m here. Is there nowhere in this city where I can get away and get some goddamn peace and quiet?

“In the flesh,” he coos and opens his arms dramatically. I roll my eyes at the gesture. I’m emotionally drained after the past twenty-four hours and don’t have it in me to deal with his bullshit today. If he’s going to be working, he needs to be doing it at his studio and not here.

“Okay. Well, I have some things I need to get done. If you’ll excuse me.” I make my way to the back office and slam the door, hoping he can take the hint to leave me the hell alone. I wanted nothing more than to get lost in work, but instead I’m stuck with this lunatic.

I take a deep breath and shut my eyes, appreciating the moment of solitude. But not even one goddamn minute later, the German man is back to shrieking through the walls. Brock has turned the music up so loud that even the doorknob is vibrating. Whoever said artists are quiet and live simple lives obviously never met Brock Coulter. That man is a caged animal on a noisy path of destruction to break free. Or rather a path to destroy my sanity.

Fuck my life.

I should be at home with Phoenix, enjoying a romantic dinner and listening to the rain pour down against our windows. With any luck, there would have been a repeat of last night.

But no.

I’m here. At work.
Alone.
With nothing but Phoenix’s big fat lie and Hailey’s words ricocheting through my mind. My stomach twists in knots as I replay the afternoon in my mind over and over and over again. I dissect every word. Mentally relive every movement they both made. And dig deep into the vault of my memory to see if I’ve overlooked any blatant warning signs.

Clasping my head in my hands, I fight back the tears and pick up the stack of papers on the edge of the desk and thumb through them mindlessly. I
need
to shift my focus and think about something else before this consumes me. But all I see are words on paper and nothing resonates.

I can’t focus.

I can’t think.

I can’t even see straight.

I can’t do anything but sit here like a pathetic little girl, feeling hurt because her idiot boyfriend broke her heart.

It sucks. Mostly because I’m the one used to hurting the other person in relationships.

I dig into my bag and pull out my phone, immediately deleting the trio of missed calls from Phoenix. I’m too mad to deal with him right now. I don’t even know what I’d say. Swiftly, I punch Rachel’s numbers into the phone and wait for it to connect.

“You whore,” I mutter under my breath when it goes straight to voicemail. “Hey, Rachel. It’s your best friend. Remember me? Yeah. I’m kind of having a quarter-life crisis. Call me. Now.
Please?
” I add that last part sweetly, knowing she reacts to being bossed around about as well as I do. Which is, we both don’t tolerate it.

I attempt to lose myself online, scouring digital portfolios of potential artists before giving up and screwing around on Facebook and the tangled web of celebrity gossip sites. Sometimes the best way to overcome a worried mind is to beat it senseless with mindless dribble.

Finally, after what feels like a lifetime of angry Nazi propaganda being screamed over a heavy metal guitar, the entire office goes silent. The gallery lays still. And I’m finally able to take a few cleansing breaths.

Good. It
’
s about time Brock left.

I’m not sure what it is I want to do right now, but I definitely want to do it alone. When I emerge from the back office, I find Brock standing a few feet away from the door, arms crossed, with a pissed off look on his face.

“What are you doing here?” he interrogates.

“I’m working.”

“No.
I
was working.
You
have been moping. And hiding. And ruining the vibe with all of your negative energy.”

“I’m not moping.” I push past him to walk toward the front desk, but he grabs my wrist, spinning me around to look at him.

“Well, I’ve seen you work, and you’re certainly not working right now. So you must be moping about something.”

“I’m fine, Brock.” I yank my wrist out of his hand, briskly walking over to the desk and attempting to look like I came out here for a legitimate reason.

“Yeah. I get it.” He follows close behind me with heavy feet. “You’ve mastered the subtle art of not giving a fuck. And not very convincingly if you ask me.”

I take a seat behind the desk and begin rummaging through the top drawer. “You’re right. But I didn’t ask you.”

Brock sits on the corner of the desk and drums his fingers on top for a few moments. The beat of each finger grinds my every nerve. He stares off into space with an almost dreamlike look on his face for a few minutes. God, he’s so fucking weird.

He turns to me sharply with a barbed looked in his eye. “You go grocery shopping, right?”

“Huh?”

“Shopping. At the supermarket. You do that, right? Or are you one of those uptight, pretentious girls who has her groceries delivered so she doesn’t have to be out among the ‘common folk?’” He over exaggerates air quotes at the end of his question, but I just look at him blankly. I don’t have the patience to deal with him and his train wreck of thoughts today.

“Yes, I do my own grocery shopping.” I sigh, thinking of the groceries I had picked up for dinner just a few short hours ago. How quickly everything changes. I look at Brock and wait for him to get to the point of this nonsense.

“Have you ever seen a bruised peach or tomato resting on top of the pile in the produce section? It just sits there, waiting for someone to come and pick it up. Take it home. But no one ever does. It may be bruised, but it’s not ruined. I always want to pick up that little piece of fruit, hug it and ask … who did this to you?” His voice is full of passion and what feels like genuine concern.

I raise my eyebrows curiously but go back to pretending to look for something in the drawer. I really shouldn’t be surprised by these kinds of tangents. Brock never makes much sense to begin with. He pushes himself off the desk and walks toward me with open arms, pulling me into a warm embrace.

He lowers his lips to my ear and whispers, “Who did this to you?”

A shiver races down my spine with Brock standing a bit too close for comfort. He shouldn’t be hugging me right now. I’m not a fucking peach or tomato or whatever. He’s my artist; the artist who I’m supposed to be working with to make this next show nothing less than a success. Brock has been pushing the lines of friendliness for a while now, but our relationship needs to be kept strictly professional. He’s here on a personal invitation from Mr. Horesji and Horesji is depending on me. Even if Brock has good intentions with this inquisition, he really should mind his own business.

I pull my hands up in between our chests and push him back gently, needing to look him in the eye. “I appreciate your concern, Brock. Really, I do. But what happens in my private life is not something I want to go broadcasting to everyone.”

He sighs and shakes his head, ignoring my previous comment. “Let me guess. Boy trouble?”

“I’m not talking about this,” I sing-song in response before starting to head back into the office, away from him. I hear my ringtone sounding loudly and I desperately need to turn it off. Hearing that song brings Phoenix right back into my space and all I want right now—all I
need
right now is just to be left alone so I can sort everything out in my own thoughts.

“Ah ha! So you’re not going to deny it! Mr. Perfect isn’t so perfect after all, now is he?”

I stop mid-step and turn back toward Brock. Hearing him talk shit about Phoenix strikes a chord in me, and I fight the urge to wring his neck.

“Drop it.”

“You two got in a fight earlier.” He quirks an eyebrow, pretending like he knows me oh so well.

I don’t even dignify his statement with a response. You don’t have to be Sherlock fucking Holmes to figure that much out. I just wish this super sleuth wouldn’t keep trying to bring out the truth from me. The truth is Phoenix lied. Or rather, he conveniently kept the truth from me which is pretty much the same thing. And I really don’t feel like having him dissect our relationship.

“Or did he get all jealous of us working so closely together? I mean, I know I’m pretty awesome and the envy of many, many men out there. He’s just jealous and it drove a wedge and now you two aren’t on speaking terms.” His voice gets more excited with every word.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. I fucking hate his speculation.

Brock gasps theatrically. “He cheated.”

“No!” I may be mad as hell at Phoenix right now, but I still feel the need to protect his reputation from whatever bullshit Brock wants to spew in an attempt to rile me up.