Undying Love (4 page)

“You deserve it, dear,” my father replied in a cold, monotone voice.

Yes, she did deserve it for all the nights he never came home. Given what this ring must have cost, there must have been many of those this year. Inside, I was seething. My mother deserved better.

Following more champagne and birthday cake, my father called it a night. My mother was slurring her words, and her eyes were glazed. Another typical birthday. I kissed her good night. “Ryan, darling, don’t forget about the Met gala tomorrow night.”

Charlotte’s face lit up. “How exciting that the Madewell Gallery of Old Masters is finally opening.” She shot me a sharp look. “Of course, we’ll be there. Right, Ryan?”

To be honest, I’d almost forgotten about the event, having been focused for the past month only on work and the marathon. “Yes,” I stammered, frustrated that I would have to put off our breakup. It was a big night for my mother, and I didn’t want to ruin it in any way. Then I brightened. Perhaps, Allee would be there too. The thought of seeing her again made my skin prickle and put a smile on my face.

My driver, Marcus, was waiting for me outside the building. Charlotte, in one of her moods, asked me to take her home. Not wanting to be an asshole, I reluctantly agreed. Sitting side by side in the back seat, there was a thick layer of ice between us.

“You didn’t exactly pay a lot of attention to me tonight,” she said, finally breaking the ice.

“What do you mean?”

“You could have told me how much you liked my new dress. Or asked me about my trip or Muffy’s baby shower, which, by the way, was divine though she’s as fat as a cow.”

I wanted to say, “And you could have asked me how it felt to run my first marathon.” But instead, I said, “I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on my mind.” Right now, there was only one thing on my mind. Allee. Why the hell couldn’t I get her out of my head?

“Don’t we all,” Charlotte scoffed, folding her arms tightly across her chest. She went back to giving me the silent treatment, which was fine by me. Tomorrow night after the gala, I was going to tell her that is was over between us. Over for good.

Marcus arrived at Charlotte’s Sutton Place apartment in no time. She invited me up for a nightcap. I politely declined, telling her that I was too beat from the marathon. I didn’t want to spend any more time with her than needed.

“Fine.” She stabbed the word at me. “I’ll meet you at the museum tomorrow night.”

Not waiting for Marcus to help her out of the car, she yanked the passenger door open and slammed it behind her.

I leaned my head back against the leather seat and closed my weary eyes. The image of a girl with a messy bun and big tortoise-shell glasses filled my head. Beneath my slacks, I felt my dick harden.

FOUR

W
hen I got to my office in the morning, I was in for a big surprise. Everyone was gathered in the kitchen area cheering me on for completing the marathon. My Copy and Layout Editor and best friend, Duffy McDermitt, popped a bottle of champagne. “Way to go, Madewell!” he toasted. I felt myself blushing and humbly took a bow. Several employees helped Duffy pop additional bottles and pass glasses of the bubbly around to the magazine’s staff of thirty. I counted myself lucky to have such a great team of young writers, editors, and graphic designers working under me. Each of them had a bright future ahead of them.

Unlike my father’s other companies,
Arts & Smarts
was more of a start-up, and the environment was relaxed rather than corporate. The headquarters, a gutted Tribeca townhouse not far from my loft, lent itself to creativity, self-expression, and a high level of energy. Much to my father’s chagrin, employees dressed casually and worked in an open space rather than in cubicles or boxed-in offices. Even I, Editor in Chief, wore jeans and didn’t sit in an office. My style of management was very different from my father’s. It disturbed him.

Grabbing a cup of coffee, which I planned to drink instead of the champagne, I headed to my desk. My legs were still sore from the marathon, but not as bad as I had expected. Allee’s deep-tissue massage had worked wonders. But between my legs, I was throbbing. I had woken up with a boner having dreamt about fucking her brains out. In my dream, we were on a deserted island, our side by side naked bodies one—just like that Picasso painting at the Met. As I thrust my cock inside her, she moved her hips toward me, making the penetration deeper. I could feel her squeezing her muscles around my thick, heated erection, adding to the outrageous pleasure she was giving me. As I slid in and out of her faster and harder, she met my every thrust. Her throaty moans harmonized with my deep groans. Our arms were wrapped around each other, and our eyes were half-open. I enjoyed watching the expression on her face, one of pure ecstasy, as she built toward climax. “Come for me, Madewell,” she shrieked. I shouted out her name as I convulsed inside her, her own waves of ecstasy and screams of pleasure mingling with mine.

In the shower, I jerked myself off as the steely water fell onto my face and body. Charlotte had never had this effect on me, I thought, as I toweled myself dry. And in reality, I’d never had such a mind-blowing fuck with her.

“Dude, you seem distracted,” said Duffy, who was walking beside me. His laid-back voice, typical of a California surfer, brought me back into the moment.

“Sorry, paly. Charlotte’s back.” Duffy was one of the few people I confided in about my personal life; he knew about our trial separation. The other was my older sister Meredith—Mimi, for short—who lived in Boston and was married to a dynamic woman she had met while attending my mother’s alma mater, Wellesley. My parents had sent her there so that she would be ripe material for marrying a Harvard man or Yalie. Well, that didn’t happen. When she told my father that she was gay and engaged to a fellow Wellesley girl, he disowned her. That didn’t put an end to our close relationship, and fortunately, she told me Mother still secretly talked to her and sent her money.

Duffy dug into me. “This has been going on too long. When are you going to end it with her for good?”

“Soon.”

“Yeah, right.” A dubious smirk played across my best friend’s face. He was eager for me to say goodbye to Charlotte. And I understood why. He didn’t care for her one bit. Why should he? Anytime she met him, she was rude, cold, and condescending. The former USC surfer dude, who could be Owen Wilson’s ginger-haired twin, was way beneath her league.

At my desk, Duffy and I reviewed a proof of the upcoming issue of
Arts & Smarts
. Everything seemed on target. Things were also coming together for the popular online edition, which I proudly took credit for launching, although my father would never acknowledge me. Since I had taken charge of the start-up magazine, our advertising revenue had grown, and we were now almost at a breakeven point. My father, however, would never be proud of me until the magazine was showing a strong profit. Something he could boast of in his annual stockholder meeting.

I reviewed a couple of articles and caught Duffy up on what needed to get done this week.

“What’s your schedule like, dude?” he asked, brushing a strand of his unruly ginger hair off his forehead.

I told him that I was going to edit a couple of recently submitted articles on the New York art gallery scene, and start writing my own contribution to this month’s edition about hidden art treasures in the city.
Allee.
I also let him know that I would be leaving early to attend the opening of the Madewell Gallery of Old Masters.
Allee.

“You going solo?” he asked.

“No, Charlotte’s coming along. I don’t have much choice.”

He arched a shaggy eyebrow. “I don’t get it. So, you’re back together?”

“Not after tonight.”

Duffy quirked a lopsided smile. “Good luck, dude.” He gave me an affectionate slap on my back and loped back to his workstation in his laid-back way.

Finishing my coffee, I opened my laptop and started to type.
“Beauty can be hidden behind a pair of tortoise-shell glasses, or it can be hidden in the corner of a museum. Picasso’s little-known masterpiece is just that. Tucked away on the third floor of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, it is a lyrical expression of sensual lines and flowing curves
—
a work of art that can make your heart stop and bring you to a mind-blowing climactic experience…”
Within one hour, I had completed the article. I reread it and felt my cock strain against my jeans. It was an accurate description of how I felt about Allee.

Limos were lined up on Fifth Avenue in front of the Met, dropping off anyone who was anyone among New York’s social elite. Paparazzi were clambering on the street, eager to take a shot of the uber-glamorous crowd. Dressed in my tux, I scurried out of the Escalade and up the red-carpeted steps that led to the Met’s majestic entrance. I heard several photographers shout out my name, but ignored them. Shielding my face with my hand, I ran up the stairs as fast as I could with my still sore legs.

The gala was a glittering spectacle of art and wealth. Moneyed men were in black tie, and elegant women were dressed to the nines in dazzling jewel-tone gowns and dripping with diamonds and gems. My mother, stunning in a ruby red ball gown that matched her new ring, was hobnobbing amongst the guests with her ubiquitous glass of champagne in hand, clearly proud of her cultural achievement. The Gallery, all her idea, had been in the making for two years and cost thirty million dollars to build. That was nothing compared to the hundred million dollar painting collection my parents had donated to the museum.

I made my way through the crowd to tell her how beautiful she looked and to congratulate her.

“Where’s Father?” I asked, after kissing her on the cheek.

She fiddled with the ring and stiffened. “At the last minute, he couldn’t make it. Some kind of crisis with shareholders.” She forced a smile and then mingled again with her guests.

Damn him. This was one of the most significant accomplishments of her life. She had been dreaming about this day for years, and he couldn’t be there for her. My blood was boiling. There was no shareholders’ crisis. Just a crisis between his legs. He was out somewhere getting his balls sucked. Fuck him!

A familiar, deep, breathy voice in my ear catapulted me out of my thoughts. “Darling, you must come with me to get our photo taken.”

I spun around. It was Charlotte. Dressed in a sleek, chartreuse silk sheath with matching emerald and diamond earrings and her platinum blond hair upswept, she looked like a goddess. She wrapped her long, toned bare arms around me and nuzzled my neck. All eyes were on her. And me. I hated her public displays of affection and just wanted to get away. Tonight, after the gala, I was going to break up with her for good. I just wasn’t sure how.

“I’ll get us some drinks. I’ll be right back,” I muttered, breaking away from her.

“Make it fast,” she snapped.

Weaving in and out of the crowd, I took in snippets of conversation around me. Most of it was about who was wearing whom—be it Dior, Valentino, or another top designer. Then one conversation between two whippet-thin women made me stop in my tracks.

“I feel so sorry for Eleanor. Everyone knows what Ryan does behind her back.”

My stomach churned. She wasn’t referring to me.

The other woman nodded. “It’s horrible. I think she knows but just closes her eyes.”

I’d heard enough. My father was a scumbag. I’d always suspected that and now it was confirmed. I made a beeline to a white-gloved server and downed a glass of champagne in one gulp. The bubbly didn’t numb the pain. Putting the empty glass back on the tray, I snagged two more, another for me, and one for Charlotte. When I got back to the spot where I’d left her, she was no longer there. Perhaps, she’d gone to the ladies’ room to freshen up. Rather than stay put and wait for her, I decided to check out the new Madewell wing.

The wing was indeed breathtaking. Designed by one of the foremost architects in the world, it was a blend of old-world motifs and contemporary lighting that made my parents’ extraordinary collection of Old Masters come to life. Each painting, be it an epic Rubens canvas or small Rembrandt portrait, was a masterpiece.

“The beauty of this Caravaggio is the milkiness of the subject’s skin. When you look at it, you can practically feel her flesh beneath your fingertips…”

That raspy, know-it-all voice, with its distinct “New Yawk” accent. I’d recognize it anywhere. I wheeled around and there she was. Allee, in her museum uniform, her back toward me, giving a mini-lecture to a chicly dressed couple that I recognized from my parents’ circle of friends. Still holding the flutes of champagne, I strode up to the entourage.

“So, what does the subject’s skin feel like?” I asked matter-of-factly.

Allee whirled around, obviously recognizing my voice. Her bespectacled eyes met mine. If she was shocked to see me, she didn’t show it.

“Sir, that’s a very good question.” Her voice sounded scholarly. “My sense is that the subject’s skin is velvety, warm, and throbbing.”

She was describing my cock at the moment to a tee. I felt heated. Man, she knew how to get to me!

The couple, having had enough of an encounter with the painting, ambled off after briefly saying hello to me and commenting what a “fabulous” night this was.