The Client 2: In Which She Gets Hung Up On The Big Details

Several days later, I was standing in the main room of Sheehan's Gallery at an acceptable proximity from the man of the hour himself. Reed's showing was packed with the kind of people who could stare at a painting of a stripe and declare that the artist was a brooding, gifted character.

Reed clearly didn't want to be here, despite the fact that, according to the elderly gallery owner, his showing would be only twenty minutes, at most. He looked painfully uncomfortable in his suit, hunched over a flute of champagne in one corner as if he wanted to make himself smaller or disappear altogether. I had never been to an art showing before but I was pretty sure the artist was supposed to mingle with everyone, not cower in a corner like a kicked puppy.

I had to remind myself that he wouldn't appreciate my approaching him, even if only to remove that look of unease from his face. He was always polite – monosyllabic, but polite – to me but the whole blindfolding thing was a quirk of his I was still struggling to understand.

Alfred had driven us to the little gallery and, sitting beside me in the backseat, Reed had just about hugged the door throughout the whole car ride. There had been a continent of s.p.a.ce between us and I had to resist the urge to inform him that contrary to popular belief, I didn't bite.

“Champagne?”

I dragged my eyes from a particular haunting oil painting hanging on the wall behind me and found a server offering me a gla.s.s of bubbly. Longing slammed into me even as I refused the champagne. Drinking on the job was a no-no, even if watching Reed was about as exciting as watching soil erode. Ex-marines Jake and Shepherd had been restless doing the daily rounds on the Lancaster property, so I didn't blame them for requesting a rea.s.signment from my father. I did, however, hate the fact that my father had sent them to a Hollywood director who was receiving creepy death threats. I felt sorry for the rich guy but my so-called friends' chances of seeing action were vastly improved.

Beggars cannot be choosers, Lena, I told myself for the millionth time, catching Reed's eye from across the room unintentionally.

For a long moment, neither of us broke eye contact. Reed did have the most intense, soul-searching eyes when he wasn't hiding them. It felt like he was committing every blemish and every hair to memory so that he could paint it all later. It stripped me bare, made me feel naked when I was more than covered up in a turtleneck and cargo pants. I told myself that this was the only reason my stomach flipped over. He looked away before I did, swigging the rest of the peach liquid in his gla.s.s. Sighing, I went over to him because...because we were way too old for the look-at-me-look-away thing.

“Everything cool, Mr. Lancaster?” was my opening remark.

I tried to make myself seem as una.s.suming as possible with a Glock in my waistband – plus, Reed couldn't have failed to see me approach him head-on – but he still looked startled. “Lena,” he said in a tone I already knew was one of irritation, “what happened to you won't know I'm around?”

I blinked repeatedly, but not at his tone. After our last few interactions, this was a huge step-up from his one-word answers and sporadic stammering. Progress.
“I got tired of watching you hide in the corner when your paintings are what everyone's come to see.”

He looked down at me, eyes narrowed. “Yes. My paintings – not me.”

“But this isn't your first time at one of these things, is it?”

He shook his head, his unkempt hair flapping with the movement. I waited for him to say something but nothing came out his mouth. Instead, he loosened his tie, fidgeting with his collar and steadfastly looking somewhere over my head. The moon-white scar on his cheek was only partially hidden by that hair of his. Up close, I saw how nasty it might have once been and, glancing down at me, Reed caught me looking and pushed a hank of hair into his face, flus.h.i.+ng beet red.

This guy blushed like a virginal high school boy.

Virginal. I considered the word, biting my lower lip. Holy shít, what if he is a virgin?

Heat stole through my entire body but a s.h.i.+ver skated down my spine. I forced myself to evict my mind from the gutter but it liked the real estate there and wasn't going to budge for anything. Reed was an...interesting male specimen and any woman with two working eyes would be able to determine that he was totally f.u.c.kable. The tux he was wearing emphasised a lean body with broad shoulders and endless legs. His hair was the kind a girl could really pull at in the middle of mind-blowing, animal –

“I like this painting,” I said quickly, nodding at a piece that depicted… Well, I had no idea what the fúck it depicted but the colours were pretty. Prettier than my dirty, dirty mind.

Reed followed my gaze to the mishmash of ambers and plums. “Enchantment. It's an abstract, of course.”

“It's gorgeous. Did you paint all these when you were… When you couldn't see?” I winced at my tone.

“Blind is not a bad word,” he said quietly, relinquis.h.i.+ng his empty gla.s.s to a pa.s.sing server. “It's just ironic that I used to be a blind visual artist.”

“Not ironic. Impressive. I've had my eyesight for twenty-five years and I could never be as creative as you were. Are,” I swiftly amended.

Reed lifted a shoulder. “No, you were right the first time. Past tense.”

“What do you mean? That you haven't painted since –”

“Background, Lena. Stay in the fúcking background.”

a.s.shat.

“Sure.”

***

I answered my phone on the first ring.

“Hey, little sis.”

“Ivan,” I said coolly, “how's it going?”

“That's what I called to find out.”

I glanced around at the lavish bedroom I'd been given, remembered the sumptuous dinner Margo had prepared that night, and thought to myself that it was going pretty well. Aside from the fact that I was bored out of my mind and having s.e.xual fantasies about a guy that might or might not be a virgin; a guy I worked for. A guy who found me a nuisance.

“Well, I can't say that I'll be using my gun anytime soon but hey, I'm working, aren't I?” I didn't make any attempt to lose the sarcasm.

“Be careful with that thing, Len,” said Ivan, in the tone of a long-suffering big brother. “Please.”

“I'm not an idiot.”

“I didn't say you were. How was the art show?”

Change of subject Nicely done, big brother. Nicely done.

“Good.”

“And you're positive you went with the actual Reed, right? The actual celebrity?” I could practically see the shít-eating grin on his face. “I mean, there weren't any stunt doubles around for you to get confused?”

“Eat shít. How'd you find out about that?” I groaned, slapping my forehead. Worry ran through my veins. “Does Dad know? Honestly, can you really blame me? No one knew what the guy looked like and I –”

Ivan was laughing now, the sound grating on my nerves. “Jake filled me in. And no, I didn't tell Dad.” He paused, his laughter dying. “But why didn't Lancaster rat you out as incompetent? He could've easily gotten you fired and Len, even if he was playing you, it wouldn't matter. Security isn't a joke. Dad would've hauled your a.s.s out of there.”

I bit my lip. “Don't know. I'm just glad he didn't.”

Ivan changed the subject again and we ended up discussing arbitrary things, like Mom's latest hobby: Matchmaking. She was trying to hook my brothers up with some of her friends' daughters and Ivan, who wasn't on a job at the moment, was forced to endure these blind dates with women he wasn't the least bit interested in.

Eventually, my brother had to go. “Take care, little sis. I mean that.”

“You, too.”

As soon as silence fell in my room, I heard the noise next door. It sounded like groaning, painful groaning. It just so happened to be Reed's room right next to mine and, for the first night I'd been here, he was actually sleeping in it. Instinct kicked in and I stalked out my room and went next door.

>“Is everything OK, Mr. Lancaster?” I knocked on the door.
No answer.

Light spilled out from his room beneath the door and without thinking too hard about it, I pushed his door open.

“Mr. Lancaster?”

Whatever I'd expected his bedroom to be like, this was not it. It was bland and white and motherfúcker, he was sitting on his bed masturbating.

Somewhere on the wall – I didn't care to look – a p.o.r.no was playing on the flat screen. Something with a whole lotta women and no manly grunts to be heard. Something kinky as shít, judging by the constant mewing.

Catching one's boss-by-default beating his meat was a worst-case scenario that no one should ever have the mortification of being in. Of course, I knew that probably everyone m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed – heck, I had to do it almost every night or I'd go crazy – but Reed? Reed was too stiff, too introverted...too Reed. Anyone that spent even two minutes with the guy would know this.

Yet there he was on his gigantic unmade bed, as naked as the day his doctor smacked his a.s.s and handling his c.0.c.k like he did it on the regular as he listened to lesbian p.o.r.n. He was blindfolded – no surprise there – and as his hand worked up and down his long, thick shaft, his groans became louder, indicating how close he was to release. Beads of pre-c.u.m escaped the tip, trickling down his veined c.0.c.k and onto his big hand. He leaned back slightly, his grip visibly tightening and his abdomen rippling with tension.

And there was no way I could possibly tear my eyes away from him because even though I knew that this was several shades of wrong, I had never seen anything so...erotic.

Or a díck so big.

Beneath my yoga pants, my pússy clenched as if it could sense that it was in the vicinity of something that could satisfy it explicitly. I didn't have the heart to tell it that because Reed was untouchable, his díck was, too.

I had to get out. Yes. Get. Out. Before I did something incredibly stupid, like beg him to fúck me. There was nothing wrong with having a healthy s.e.xual appet.i.te like I did, even if society did label women like me wh0res, but there was a h.e.l.l of a lot wrong with watching a guy pleasure himself, without him knowing I was there, and getting off on it.

Because I was. Getting off on it, I mean. I was wet and I was desperate for some relief and it was crazy how much I ached to rub my clít through the crotch of my cotton panties. In fact, I probably would've done it – if Reed's blindfold hadn't slipped off as he came.

I had heard of guys that could fill bottles up by the gallon with their c.u.m but I hadn't thought there was any truth to it until...well, until that very moment. Even as our eyes locked – his filled with disbelief, mine probably filled with astonishment – his body was wracked by his orgásm and there was nothing he could do to stop spurt after spurt of ropey s.e.m.e.n from hitting his torso.

I swallowed, mouth suddenly dry and pússy relentlessly wet. There was nothing I could say, nothing to say. I was a pervert. I was the lowest of the low. And yet I couldn't bring myself to feel guilty.

Reed rose to his feet, the flinty look in his eyes close to murderous. His face was flushed, his hair clung to him, and he was all sticky with his release. I needed to avert my eyes from what was down there but it was as if my eyes were iron filings and his díck was the magnet.

Im-fúcking-possible to keep them apart.

“Lena.”

I looked up at him, heat creeping up my neck. “I knocked. Swear to all that is holy, I knocked.”

“You like that? You like it when I eat your pússy, baby? You like it when I suck your little clít?”

I glared at the lesbian g.a.n.g.b.a.n.g on the TV screen. Did they not understand how awkward they were making an already awkward situation? Did they not realise that yes, I liked it when someone ate me out and how much I needed that right about fúcking now?

“Out,” Reed grunted to me. “Get. Out.”

d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l. We were back to monosyllables.

“Yeah. I'm...sorry,” I mumbled, pivoting to go. I paused at the door. “For what it's worth, you have a python in a world of garden snakes and if you got that metaphor, I'm so fired. 'Night.”