The Artist's Touch (The Gentlemen's Guild Book 1) Page 18

  Looking at the email again, she felt like she was confirming a sentencing hearing, instead of a doctor’s appointment – whether she got life or death remained to be seen. The thought that her cancer might have relapsed rolled another wave of nausea through her.

  Could she do this again?

  She wasn’t sure that she could; she’d tried to stay hopeful, researching new jobs, new places to travel to, but the dark specter of her disease lingered after every optimistic thought.

  One week.

  That was the only thing left that she could count on; she had one week to live in ignorance, in bliss. She had one week before the rest of her life was decided and if she was honest, she didn’t care who this Pierce guy was or what Tristan did to him possibly because of her; she knew how he made her feel and that was enough.

  She deleted the reminder email from her phone, putting it back in her purse. Finally, with her heartbeat and nerves returning to normal, she turned and hailed a cab to head home wondering, in spite of everything, if it was wrong to hope that Tristan would call her soon.

  Tristan ran both of his hands over his face as soon as Sloane left; the pressure over his tense facial muscles, the coldness of his fingers, a small, momentary relief before his brain ignited with thought.

  Damage control.

  Tristan strode back into the kitchen, feeling every cell vibrating angrily within him. He picked up his and Sloane’s glasses, about to toss them in the dishwasher when he realized that Sloane’s was basically untouched.

  He barely ever drank alcohol, but they always offered it to him anyway; it was just one of his things.

  Tristan knocked back the rest of his friend’s glass, probably another good shot and a half, at least, enjoying the burn of the liquid washing down his throat.

  This was turning into a fucking shit show.

  The worst part was that as soon as Sloane left, all he could think about was Ellie – not the Guild, not fixing things with Pierce, none of it; all he could picture was her frightened face when he went to remove her shirt.

  It didn’t make any sense.

  For some reason, wanting to take off her shirt had gone too far, even though he’d seen pretty much everything underneath it already. And the fear that had been in her eyes, it wasn’t fear of him hurting her or taking advantage of her, no, it was almost a protective fear, like she had hidden something that he was about to find.

  At that moment, the sketch he’d been working on before Sloane’s interruption caught his eye still standing in the living room, her face calling out to him. Tristan didn’t even remember what he’d drawn; his hand had been moving, his eyes darting back and forth between her and the canvas, yet he’d been mostly watching her, entranced. Even now, he felt the tingling paralysis recollecting the sadness that had consumed her, the breath taken out of him by the intensity of her helplessness. His fists clenched as he dragged them off of the kitchen counter, letting himself be drawn over to her portrait.

  Holy fuck.

  What he’d drawn was even more than what he thought. He sat back down on the stool, legs weak as sadness and anger clashed within him at the sight of her face.

  Beautiful.

  Even in sadness, Ellie’s face was exquisite; not the superficial characteristics of her features, even though they were breathtaking to him, but the way those features seemed to perfectly express what she was feeling. There was no mask, no poker-face, no attempt to hide out of embarrassment – all things that he usually had to deal with and breakthrough in order to capture.

  Not Ellie.

  His fingertips lightly traced over the lines that captured her face. Her expression, her eyes, it was as if his fingers could feel the tears that she’d shed even though the paper was completely dry.

  Absentmindedly, his fingers pulled back, reaching up to brush his cheek, startled by the wetness he felt. Rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, Tristan realized that just looking at even his rough sketch of Ellie had brought tears to his eyes, the drop of liquid dissolving some of the charcoal stains left on his fingertips. What she had said – no, how she had looked, had touched something so deep inside of him, something that he had forgotten even existed. He’d never opened up to anyone about his mom like that, especially someone that he arguably barely even knew. Yet, looking at her, was like looking in a mirror. The pain that she had been feeling, he’d known too well, and in that moment, a part of him couldn’t let her feel like she was alone.

  That was what had struck him – not just the look of resigned helplessness, but that she seemed intent on bearing that burden alone. It had opened the floodgates of memories he’d managed to bury a long time ago; he’d buried them because, like her, he’d been alone – his mother was gone, his father was dealing with the same trauma that he was and couldn’t find it in himself be there for Tristan, and his friends…well, it had just seemed like too much to ask of them at the time. So, he’d taken all of his pain and locked it away and it had worked perfectly, until Ellie, until her loneliness reached down to the depths of his.

  He’d opened up about his mom, the flood of emotions so intense that he’d quickly recoiled, turning the conversation back to her; at least he’d said enough for her to know just how much he empathized with her.

  Tristan felt another tear roll down his cheek, purposefully ignoring it. That was the difference between them, Ellie embraced her sadness, she let herself cope with it, and perhaps that was why she was so incredibly beautiful to him – because she had the courage to face her emotions, no matter how painful, whereas he’d decided to go through life following an ‘out-of-sight, out-of-mind’ principle.

  She was brave; she was beautiful.

  His eyes finally focused back on her face in front of him, his vision blurring while all of those thoughts had traversed his brain. Next came the anger over what she had gone through, at who had done this to her.

  Rage didn’t even begin to describe it.

  The thought dawned on him that maybe she’d wanted her shirt left on because the mother fucker had left scars; it sucked to think about, but it made sense. Tristan’s finger pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to put those images out of his mind. Next time, he’d make sure that they had a relative cover of darkness and see if that helped to ease her concerns… for now. Nothing would make her less beautiful to him, and she would know that by the time they were through; she would know it if he had to kiss every square inch of skin on her.

  Something he would be more than glad to do.

  Tristan wanted to kill whomever had done this to her, whomever had made her feel this way. He stood, afraid if he sat there any longer he would blindly destroy something in anger. If he ever got the chance, he would destroy whoever it was that tried to break her this way.

  What if that person is you?

  The thought knocked all of the air out of him, like he’d just been kicked in the stomach.

  His goal, the whole purpose of this piece, had been to break Ellie, to break her heart, and to become the very person that he currently wanted to murder.

  Maybe it didn’t need to end the way that he’d originally planned…

  He shuddered, unwilling to consider that thought, unwilling to admit just how much he’d been taken in by her.

  Later. He’d deal with it later.

  Thinking about his mom, remembering what had happened to him after she died was too overwhelming; he couldn’t consider that he might care for Ellie just as deeply, not now. No, for now all he knew was that he wanted her to know her worth, and somewhere along the line that had come to mean proving his as well.

  Blindly flipping the charcoal sketch pad closed, he stalked into the bedroom, grabbing his phone off of the dining room table along the way.

  Was it too soon to call her?

  God, he sounded like a child.

  Just fucking call her, Tristan. Get her to agree to see you again and fix this mess.

  He paced the floor in front of his bed, staring out the giant windows ov
er the city, but only seeing his reflection and the face of man gripped with uncertainty and fear that she wasn’t going to pick up.

  “Hello?” Ellie’s breathless voice answered after the fourth ring.

  Tristan stopped in his tracks, his heart finally starting to beat again. “Ellie,” his voice broke on her name, “it’s Tristan.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hey,” he replied, his voice coming out a little smoother now, “I wanted to apologize for earlier; Sloane is usually a little more reserved than that.”

  “It’s ok.”

  Fuck, this was not going well; she was barely responding.

  “Are you busy tomorrow night?” he blurted out, “I want to take you somewhere.” A second of silence seemed like an hour.

  “Ok,” she agreed, hesitantly.

  Tristan could practically hear her biting her lip in thought and reservation. “Can you be here for around two?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Wonderful,” he said tightly, barely containing his relief. “And feel free to get dressed up; I’m taking you somewhere you’ve never been.”

  “Ok, I can do that,” Ellie replied, the beginning of a smile and excitement permeating her response.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Tristan…” her voice trailed off, unsure if she wanted to ask what he knew she wanted to know.

  “I can explain, Ellie,” he interjected, making the decision for her, “I will explain. Just be here tomorrow.”

  “Ok.”

  He hung up the phone, immediately calling Donna; he didn’t care what day of the week it was, and she didn’t either for what he paid her.

  “Donna, I need two tickets to ‘Hamilton’ tomorrow night at eight. Front row, center. I don’t care how much or who you have to threaten to get them.” Hanging up the phone, he tossed it onto the bed on his way into the bathroom.

  Looks like today is going to be a two-shower kind of day.

  He needed to go to the gym after this to work off some tension, but right now, he needed a very cold shower. Stepping right into the icy stream, he hissed as the water hit his body, trying to cool down the raging temperature that he’d worked up from desire, to anger, to uncertainty. After a few minutes, the cold effectively refocused his brain, but unfortunately was unable to freeze out the desire still pumping through his body.

  He’d been hoping that the cold would give him some literal ‘blue balls’, but it was having zero effect on his unsatisfied lust.

  God, her face earlier, needing him so desperately…

  Today, he’d wanted to taste her. All of her. Until Sloane had ruined it. He could just imagine her face – the surprise and momentary hesitation would cross her face, just like it had for everything new that she experienced, but after that, as soon as his lips would touch hers, he imagined her face blossoming. Her small gasp as he would part her lower folds to explore their depths with his tongue; he wondered if they would have the same vanilla-sweet taste as her mouth.

  Tristan groaned at the thought, his hands coming to press up against the shower wall before he banged his fist against it.

  Fuck, this erection was not going away…not with thoughts like these.

  He ran his hands roughly through his soaking hair, sighing in resignation.

  Fuck it.

  Tristan gave up trying to fight it, trying to fight the thoughts of her that pulled him towards release. Leaning his back against the cold tile wall, he closed his eyes and let her face come to him as his right hand reached down and grabbed ahold of his burning erection.

  At the first touch, pain and pleasure rocketed through him, so intense because it had been suppressed for much longer than was comfortable. His hand began to pump up and down along the hard length as he thought of her, imagining her verdant eyes deepening to a jungle green with arousal as he kissed his way down her body. He imagined the taste of her hot, slick folds against his tongue – his hand moving faster with each imagined lick of his tongue. He pictured her exceptionally expressive face as he brought her closer to release. The way a flush would invade her freckled, porcelain cheeks, the way her eyes would slowly clench shut, unable to take the pressured pleasure that was about to erupt inside of her – just like his was about to. He imagined sinking two fingers deep inside of her tight passage again—

  Fuck.

  His head fell back against the wall, on the edge of his release, his arm burning from the rapid movement of his hand.

  Not yet.

  She wasn’t even here and yet he had to see her come. Through the deep haze of lust, he found her face again; watching her as his mouth and fingers pleasured her. He saw himself work three fingers inside of her, her hips jerking against him just before he sucked on her hard and she came apart right before his eyes.

  Ellie blurred from his mind an instant later as he let out a violet yell, his own orgasm tearing through him. The ice-cold water quickly washing away the cloudy evidence of his release that began to coat the shower wall. When the pleasure finally subsided, accelerated by the cold shower that was now starting to feel uncomfortable, Tristan sagged against the tile wall, turning the water off as he let his breathing catch up. He looked down at his now, finally, softening penis – trying to remember the last time he’d been so on edge that he’d needed to pleasure himself in order to come down; he couldn’t remember, but that wasn’t the most unnerving thought that came to his mind.

  It wasn’t enough.

  If he didn’t have her soon, she was going to be the death of him.

  Chapter 17

  Tristan stared at Pierce’s number in his phone, his finger hovering over the button to call. It had been hovering in that same spot since he got in the cab after leaving the office. He’d almost hitting the icon numerous times before switching out to a different app to check his email or his personal investments.

  He didn’t usually go into the office on a Sunday, but they’d made some headway with the proposal that he’d somehow managed to finish up on Friday. Corporate mergers were hell, but Black Box was his baby, built from the ground up, and this would solidify its place as the number one investment management firm in the world.

  It was funny to think back that he’d begun this venture even before starting the Guild. He’d used the money he made from person investments to fund the entire project. Hell, Black Box was what had led him to found the Guild. Sloane, with his eye for real estate even back then, had helped him find his first space, and his next one, and his current one.

  Oh, and he owned One57.

  That was how the Guild began. They’d known each other casually in college, but it was when Tristan searched him out to find him an office building, and a studio space, that the idea had begun and it was Sloane who had brought Pierce along to the bargain. He’d also known Pierce in college, although it was more like he knew of him; he was infamous around campus, for everything that you might expect from Pierce. Pierce was an asshole then just like he is now, and probably, just like he was for his entire life.

  They’d come into contact maybe once or twice, Pierce had majored in media and video production and only graced the occasional fine art class. The stark difference in their majors made it easier to keep a greater distance; similar to when you place the like poles of two magnets together, Pierce and he had instinctively repelled.

  Sloane, though, had somehow managed to put up with him and keep him out of trouble, for the most part. Even now, Sloane was the buffer that allowed them to coexist peacefully with each other, although it had gotten a lot easier over the years.

  Until you punched him.

  He hated admitting that he had fucked up – it was as simple as that, but he knew that in this case, he couldn’t just let this one slide. In the past, when they pissed each other off, they usually just let the dust settle and proceeded to forget about it; it was an unspoken agreement between them since neither was fond of or adept at apologizing.

  Alright, it wasn’t as simple as that.

&nb
sp; Apologizing for something like this meant providing an explanation, at least for Pierce it did, and Tristan wasn’t sure that he was ready to give him that. Hell, he wasn’t even sure that he even had it. Yeah, he punched him for what he said about Ellie, but that only scratched the surface; Pierce would want to know why she was so important and that, he honestly didn’t have an answer for.

  One that he was willing to admit to, at least.

  None of this was supposed to happen, he thought, locking his phone again. She was Jack Carter’s daughter.

  She was Jack Carter’s daughter.

  And now, Sloane knew. Tristan thought about it last night, contemplating how much of a problem that was going to be. Clearly, Sloane knew better than to ask more questions about it, but he was also smart enough to know that it was no coincidence that Tristan had involved himself with the daughter of the man who was holding his mom’s portrait hostage. The way he figured, Sloane most likely wouldn’t say anything to Pierce, or anyone, at this point – just based on his personality and how he handled their disputes in the past. However, he’d still made the connection and was wary of just what Tristan had planned; a skeptical Sloane was a little more unpredictable.

  Even though Tristan was their leader, he still wasn’t always in control of his emotions; Sloane was. Sloane never lost control and he always put the Guild first, and if he got the slightest idea that Tristan was going to compromise what they had going for them, there would be hell to pay.