Page 12 of The Woman

Bending down, she digs through her drawers until she finds a box of band-aids I had thrown in there a while back. I find myself watching her closely, possibly waiting for another show of personality – that she shouldn’t have – to peek through that empty stare she’s usually wearing, just like all the rest.

She retakes hold of my hand and places it under the running water, remaining quiet the entire time. Unfortunately, there is nothing but a vacant look on her face as she cleans the cut and begins drying it, causing an odd twinge of disappointment to pass through me.

Shaking myself from the weird stupor, I figure the alcohol must have had me imagining it. And then when my gaze drops from her blank eyes that show nothing is going on behind them, down to her full lips that aren’t like all the ones I’ve become accustomed to seeing my whole life, then further down to her breasts straining against her tiny tank-top, and I start wondering what it would really matter if I took her to bed, I add that momentary bout of insanity to the alcohol as well.

As the buzz I felt earlier begins to disappear, my previous irritation at the situation, along with anger at myself for allowing the sudden intrigue toward her, starts to seep in. I will not be ruled by my body, nor have my interest piqued after a mere few words are spoken by a female with no intellect. I tear my hand away just as she’s about to wrap the band-aid on.

“I hav–” she begins, but I’m already walking out the door toward my own bathroom. It’s just a tiny cut, for fuck’s sake.

I stalk into my bathroom, locking the door behind me and tearing off my clothes. My erection bobs eagerly once it’s free, but I ignore it completely, instead turning on the water in the shower.

It takes a few minutes to settle down, but my shoulders and the rest of my body finally start to relax as I stand with both hands pressed against the dark tile in front of me while the hot water runs down my neck and back. I take my time washing my body while forcing myself to think about the meetings I have tomorrow and nothing else.

Once I’ve dried myself, I dress and walk out into my bedroom. I’d love nothing more than to sit at my piano right now and close my eyes as my fingers brush over the keys, losing myself in the music as I do after a particularly hard day, but I know I wouldn’t find the solace I usually do. So, instead, I head into the room with my gym equipment and start lifting some weights.

Chapter 7

The waiter places a glass of water in front of me and my father before telling us he’ll be back to take our drink orders when the other guests arrive. Our next client should be here any minute, so it won’t be much of a wait.

My father, dressed in a light gray Brioni suit and looking rather intimidating for this meeting, which is nothing out of the ordinary, takes a sip and then leans back in his seat, his eyes seeming to assess me.

“Have you made any headway with the Anderson project?”

“Not yet,” I mumble after taking my own sip. “Nothing I come up with feels quite right.”

“How has it been with your new companion?” he asks then, changing the subject.

I adjust my watch, buying myself a few seconds to consider how I should answer. “I didn’t realize people would be so interested in my affairs now.” He cocks a brow at me but doesn’t reply to my remark. “It’s good. She’s a good companion,” I lie once again.

He regards me quietly, and I’m unsure whether or not he believes me. Where my grandfather freely shows you his displeasure, causing you to squirm under his glare while he chastises you, my father can remain quiet and unreadable, keeping you wondering what he’s thinking, which can have you feeling equally uneasy.

I keep my face as steady as his, though, having learned the art from him. Although, I’m not sure that my face has anything to do with convincing him, but rather, my words. My grandfather was able to see through me quite easily yesterday.

If my father does suspect that I’m full of shit, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, glancing to the side, the muscles in his jaw work back and forth while he unbuttons his suit jacket and then runs a hand down his violet tie.

Violet. Similar to Avery’s eyes.

I picture them and how they looked last night in the kitchen after she told me to let her look after me. For a moment, I thought I saw something there. But it could have been that I wanted there to be something. Of course, all trace of intelligence was gone in the blink of an eye.

This morning, everything was back to normal. I had intended on sneaking out without seeing her, but I was led by my feet in the direction of the kitchen toward the scent of coffee, toasted bagels, and that other fragrance that’s been lingering in my home ever since she arrived.

I had observed her as she handed me my breakfast and then took a seat, but she was nothing but an empty shell, a slave to her natural instinct to do as I ask and care for me and my needs.

“I’ve never told you about when it was my turn to pick a woman.” My father’s words pull me out of my thoughts, and I flick my eyes up from his tie. “I thought I knew exactly what I wanted, but I felt intimidated once I was there and the room was filled with different choices. I became extremely nervous and couldn’t make a decision, even though one had stood out to me. It felt longer than it had actually been, but your grandfather still said I was taking too long and ended up picking someone for me.” My eyebrows tilt up. I had no idea that that had happened. “I didn’t actually keep that one, though. I took her back the next day without him knowing and picked the one that grabbed my attention.”

I reach for my water, taking another sip for something to do. “I didn’t know that.”

He shakes his head. “There was no reason to tell you.” Then, leaning forward, his lips thin and his brows lower. “Did he choose your woman, Phoenix?”

His sudden question throws me off for a moment, but I realize now why he was telling me the story.

“No, he didn’t pick her.”

His chin slightly lifts as he leans back again, still regarding me, but instead of looking relieved, he almost appears disappointed. If he had chosen her and I was unhappy with the selection, it would explain my strange behavior. It’s clear he can tell that I haven’t made use of her like that yet. And if he and my grandfather can tell so easily, can everyone else? Could this be an embarrassing story about my family that the press picks up? A man who doesn’t have sex with his companion. Quite possibly.

Before he can say anything more, the host approaches our table, and trailing behind him is a man a few years younger than my father, with his hand wrapped around the waist of a female.

“Ken,” my father says, getting to his feet and extending his hand. “Good to see you again.”

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