Messalina: Devourer of Men (34 page)

He looks at the contents of his “IN” basket. His short hair emphasizes the graceful curve of his neck and his smallish ears. His fingers are long and sturdy. Some afternoons on my way to the parking lot, I’ve seen him playing basketball at the courts with his friends and I’ve noticed the way his fingers clutch the ball. They reminded me of the way Jared’s did that day at the art center. I try not to think of fingers these days because then I start to remember my days at The DeLuxe.

Neil lifts a piece of mail with those fingers, the sunlight reflects off a fingernail, and I sigh. He looks up.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Oh, no.” I think of a lie to cover myself. “I’m just wondering if I’ve given you too much. That’s a lot of filing. Not much fun.”

He smiles. “I’d do anything for you, you know that.” He winks and continues looking through the basket. His assertion of fidelity does nothing to curb my anger at men in all their forms.

I’ve just been betrayed by one of their own, the one I thought was the best.

* * * *

Jared Alistair Delaney.

Ali.

That bastard.

I’m so mad, sweat seeps through my clothes despite the chill in the air. It all makes sense: Jared’s defensiveness at my initial criticism, his wanting to discuss the story line with me, the similarities in some of the sex scenes, and now, the new character—Messalina—complete with a black cat tattoo.

And here I am thinking, like a jackass, that it’s all just a happy coincidence. Jesus Christ! If it ever comes out that Jared’s the creator of
The Life of Lucrezia
and that Messalina is—

“That goddamn bastard.”

I went to a bar for a drink, thinking it would calm me down before confronting Jared. It didn’t work. I now have three vodka martinis inside me as my car screeches to a halt in front of his house. I park on the street. His car is in the drive, but Trey’s ride is nowhere to be seen. Then again, it’s after six o’clock.

Using my key, I enter the house and don’t bother searching for him, but go straight to his bedroom. Sure enough, he’s sitting at his desk in the loft, but he’s gazing out the window watching the world outside get darker and darker. Judging by his look, he’s miles away. I make my stand at the foot of the bed, hands on hips.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

He closes his eyes and leans back in his seat. Does he think he can fall asleep on me? Finally, he opens his eyes and comes down out of the loft. As he nears, I notice how tired he looks, as if he hasn’t slept in days. His eyes are red and puffy and he has stubble on his chin from not shaving. Even his clothes are wrinkled.

“If you calm down, I can explain.”

“Explain what? How you played me for a fool? ‘Oh, Jared! Isn’t the latest
Lucy
so wonderful?’ Or that you used me as a model without my knowing? Or how now everyone will know whose body they’re ogling?”

“Come on, Evadne. You’re overreacting. Who’s going to know it’s you?”

“I figured it out.”

“Yeah, but how many people who read this know my middle name?” He is trying to keep his tone level, but even I can detect the anger.

For a long minute we glare at each other. Me with my arms crossed over my chest. Jared with his dark violet eyes cutting into me, not with heat, but with an iciness that makes the flesh on my arms tingle. I may be attacking his baby, but he’s attacking my privacy.

“There are other things. The black cat tattoo is a giveaway.”

He laughs. “Is it really? Who have you been flashing your naked hip to, Eva? Neil? The tattoo Messalina has on her right breast is a different size and style. Besides, her face hasn’t been completely revealed yet.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “Why did you do it?”

He sighs and runs both hands through his hair, making it stand on end. “Eva, I don’t have some big conspiracy planned to humiliate you.” He looks at me. “It just . . . happened.”

I say nothing, leaving him room to elaborate, which he does.

“Remember in Dallas when I said I wanted—needed—to do something with you? Well,” he says with a shrug, “this is it. Thanks to you, I’ve gotten over a severe case of creativity block that was affecting my commissioned work and making me want to chuck it in altogether. I had originally created
Lucy
to give me an outlet and to have some fun, but I was running out of steam. What started as fun just turned into another chore as it slowly became more popular. Now, I have been able to create a story line that’ll last for months.”

I’m speechless, incredulous, and continue staring at him, frozen to the spot. By the way he’s looking at me and grinding his teeth, my lack of response is pissing him off.

“Come here, woman.”

Before I can move, he grabs my hand and drags me across the hall. His long fingers clamp hard around my wrist and I try to ignore the pain. We get to his studio and he opens the closet door. Pulling down a box that used to hold copier paper, he drops it at my feet and it hits the floor with a heavy thud.

“See this?” He releases my hand and I wiggle my fingers to restore the circulation in them. “This, my love, is fan mail. There’s over five hundred letters in this box alone. I’m paying Trey overtime to handle it all because we answer every one.”

“That’s very admirable of you.”

He scowls at my sarcasm and I scowl back.

“How long were you planning to keep this from me? Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Evadne.” He lowers his head and shakes it wearily. “Why are you so upset? I mean—this is a flattering portrayal of you.”

I press my lips together. “Flattering? Here I am thinking you’re such a sensitive man, but you’re just like Eddie Norton, trying to turn me into something I’m not. I could be outted as a sex hound by my students, my friends—my family. And I’m supposed to fall at your feet and feel
flattered
?”

Now it’s Jared’s turn to look confused.

“Sex hound?”

“Jared, the things we do to each other when we make love are private. At least I always thought they were.”

“But Eva, these scenes are fantasy. Sure, some of it is drawn from life, but—”

“I don’t care.” He frowns at my interruption. “This is libel. This has the potential to ruin my reputation.”

He stares at me in disbelief. “Are you threatening to sue me, Evadne? Because you wouldn’t have a case.”

I can count on one hand the times that I have been struck dumb. This makes number four. I turn my back, too angry to look at him. I am actually shaking and I hear him take a step closer until I feel his presence. It’s at times like this when Jared’s dark side moves closer to the surface that makes me more than a little nervous.

“For an assistant professor, you can be pretty dense. But go ahead and try. You may be sexy, but you’re not the head of a sex conglomerate. The way I portray you as Messalina is fantasy. My fantasy. It’s you, but then again, it isn’t.” He leans forward and the warmth of his breath touches my ear.

“Messalina is Evadne Cavell unleashed and uninhibited,” he says, stroking my left elbow with his finger. “We’ve known each other for nearly a year, and yet you still hold out on me.”

“Are you saying I’m not good enough for you? I don’t satisfy you?” My hands squeeze into fists until my fingernails pierce my skin.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You feel the need to construct me?”

“Deconstruct, actually.” There is a smile in his voice and it enrages me.

“Really? Deconstruct this.” I haul around and slap him. For the longest moment, he stares at me in shock. Then he starts to blink. Slowly. Each time he opens his amethyst eyes they harden with violet fury. His chest heaves up and down like a breathing mountain, a volcano waiting to erupt. Even his hands clench and unclench into fists, but I don’t care. Let him get mad. And let him try to hit me. My lips curl up in an empty smile and I tilt my head up, daring him to do something.

“Come on, Jared. You owed me that.”

He remains still, grinding his teeth.

“You have lied to me for the last time Jared Alistair Delaney.” I step aside. “Get out.”

I may be kicking the man out of his own home, but right now, he needs to get the fuck out of my face.

And to my surprise, he does. He turns on his heel and clomps down the stairs. For such a heavy oak door, it creates a terrible reverb when he slams it shut hard enough for the stained glass to shatter. Less than a minute later, I hear the sound of tires burning rubber as he tears out of the driveway and speeds away down the street.

Chapter seventeen

“Our Story So Far”

Trey calls me on Monday at four o’clock in the afternoon just as I’m preparing to leave for the day. To say that my day has been shit is a gross understatement. Usually I can prevent any of my outside issues from creeping into the school with a smile and a cheery word. Today there is no smile and the only words out of my mouth are those necessary to get the point across.

“Hey, girlie. Will you come over here and do something about this man?”

I sigh. “What are you talking about, Trey?”

“He is completely insane! I’m just coming in the door because I had a fucking doctor’s appointment and they felt it necessary to keep me waiting for nearly two hours, as if my time ain’t precious. Then I get here and you’d think we’d been hit by a tornado. I’m talking ’bout shit
everywhere
. The stained glass on the door is
gone
—completely shattered. On the floor.”

I close my eyes and swallow. My head starts to throb and I feel sick to my stomach.

“Paper’s everywhere,” Trey continues. “Some of his prized Rookwood pottery is nothing but rubble on the floor. And there’s a hole in the wall of the foyer that, if I didn’t know better, looks like someone put their fist through it.”

I lower my head in my hand and cringe at the thought. “Where is he now?”

“Locked in his studio. I’m thinking I should call the police. I asked if I should but he said no. What do you think? He won’t come out of his studio so I’m hoping you’ll talk sense to him.”

“Trey . . . I can’t help you.”

“Huh?”

If I weren’t being serious, I’d laugh at the way he sounded. He can be such a drama queen I sometimes wonder if he and Tony are related. “I’m saying that Jared’s behavior is no longer my concern. But it sounds to me like he needs anger management.” There’s silence on the line and I do believe it’s sinking in.

“You mean Jared did all this?

“That would be my assumption.”

“But why?”

“I know what’s been going on. What Jared’s been doing. And you.” It’s a struggle for me to keep my tone even and cool.

More silence and I suppress a sob by biting my lip. I rummage my desk for a tissue to spare using my sleeve. All day I’ve been able to wear a stony mask of indifference; one simple question, and now I’m about to become a blubbering mess.

“Evie? Cookie, are you listening to me?”

I don’t know what he’s just said, but I make a sound of acknowledgement.

“What are you doing now?”

“I’m about to go home.”

“See you in ten minutes.”

He hangs up before I can protest. The fact that both he and Jared can be at my apartment inside of ten minutes used to amuse me, now I find it unsettling. I’m not certain I want company right now, least of all from a man I have issues with.

No, I have issues with Jared, not Trey—not exactly. I will say this: Trey is a loyal employee if he can keep a secret like this for so long. I get up to make my second attempt to leave the office, wipe my cheeks, and put my sunglasses on. The lenses are opaque so no one can see my eyes, but the blotchy wet skin on my face may give me away.

I’m barely home two minutes when my buzzer rings. I release the door downstairs and wait for him to arrive. Soon he’s standing there looking mighty sheepish and holding a big bouquet of blood-red, long-stemmed roses. How he managed to get the flowers and get to my apartment in a matter of minutes will remain a mystery.

“Friends?”

I take the flowers and sniff them. After a moment, I let him in. He follows me into the living area and I get my favorite vase from the china cabinet. He stands inside the room looking lost, as if he’s never been here before.

“Take a seat,” I offer and he sits in the middle of the couch, watching me. I sit in a chair near the balcony doors. I get a strong sense of déjà vu, then realize we’re going through the exact motions Jared and I went through when he returned from Dallas, but he didn’t bring me flowers. I wonder how far Trey and I will go as we play “kiss and make up.”

“He broke his hand, you know.”

I grimace and, for a second, I’m sad, then guilty—then pissed. What an idiot. Did I tell him to drive his fist through a wall? Better the wall than me, I suppose.

“Right or left?” I ask.

“Left.”

“That’s good. He can still work.” Trey doesn’t miss my point.