Page 98 of Antidote

“Millions of dollars?” I smirk, and she nods. “Don’t worry, I’m good for it.”

After another thirty seconds of staring at me, she seems to snap out of it. She asks me for all my information, and I readily give it to her. She explains how long it will take to receive the paintings, and I let her know that they need to be delivered to two different addresses. She listens intently, and I make sure to clarify which address is my residence in New York City. I want the green eyes in my living room, right above the couch.

“Can you ask if he can meet up after?”

She looks at me with confusion.

“Oliver Scott,” I repeat. “Can you ask him if he’ll meet me after the exhibition?”

“I can’t make any promises.” She smiles, but her tone is tense. “You could always wait for him.”

“Thanks.” I nod. “I’ll wait for you to contact me again. I’m excited to get the paintings.”

“They are really beautiful.”

“The most beautiful,” I agree before walking away.

After that, I wait for a while, trying to be patient but failing. The truth is I can’t stand to watch them together for another second, so I turn on my heel and head back outside to wait for a cab. That man won’t leave Ollie’s side, and if I don’t get out of here I might actually commit murder. Therefore obliterating another chance with him.

So I leave.

And it hurts so bad.

Tonight has been an absolute dream. Getting to talk to some of the most influential people in the city, along with total strangers gazing at my hard work. Their eyes shine with appreciation as I observe them, and Jacob’s hand on my lower back presses a little harder against me.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs against my ear, yet I don’t feel anything with those words. I want to, though. I want to feel my dick twitch or my body give any indication that I like having him near. But nothing. Nada. “Everyone is in love.”

“Thank you,” I reply with a small smile. Then another person approaches me, effectively breaking us up. Thank God.

The evening goes by in a blur, a routine of smiling at strangers and praying that the smile doesn’t make me appear constipated. I’ve practiced over the past few months, but sometimes, a little bit of sadness creeps in and ruins it all. Jamie is the only one who notices, but being in a room full of people doesn’t make me feel any better about that fact.

I guess Jamie has practice, though. He has known me for a while now, and aside from Hunter, he’s the only other person I’ve allowed myself to be vulnerable with. Putting myself out there is scary, which is why I haven’t dated again. I’ve only done extremely casual hookups at bars with nameless people. Faceless too, considering it didn’t matter who they were as long as nothing resembled Hunter.

So I started going for anyone who didn’t have green eyes, and the blonder, the better. Escaping Hunter Hartman's claws is impossible, however, because even though I got what I wanted and no one looked remotely like him, I still compared everyone to him. No one was good enough. No one fucked me good enough. No one found my prostate fast enough. No one made me feel butterflies. Just. No. One.

So why did I go on two dates with Jacob? The first one was to hook up, so it doesn’t even count. And we did. He fucked me pretty damn good. Maybe that’s why I agreed to a second date. Now this is where I get lost. Did I want him to take me out because I liked him? Or because I wanted to forget Hunter? Am I ready to move on? Or did that seem like an impossibility, so I’m just testing my chances?

The guy is funny and handsome. Charming, too. His accent is hot, and my stomach flutters when he speaks to me in Spanish. But it doesn’t feel like his kisses burn me alive. It doesn’t feel like I can’t breathe without him. He falls flat. And that’s more disappointing than I care to admit. I hate Hunter for it, for not letting me forget him. I also hate that I don’t. I’m breaking my promise to him with every passing day, and it feels like shit. He should be the one hating me.

The curator makes her way over to me with a pep in her step and a grin on her face. Good news, clearly, and my heart starts beating a little faster. I look over at Jacob, who looks between us and grins, then steps away from me to give us some privacy.

“Congratulations, Mr. Scott,” she says, and my smile widens. “You just sold all your paintings.”

My jaw drops and she laughs. “All of them?” I croak. Holy fucking shit.

“Yep.” She glances around and then leans in. “And he left me his address for you. Said he’d like to meet.”

My eyes narrow, and my confusion must show on my face as I shake it. “Who? I don’t know if I’ll meet them, but I can send a thank you card or something.”

“Hunter Hartman.”

Two words shouldn’t undo me this way, but my lower lip begins to tremble and I have to trap it between my teeth to stop the movement. Just not fast enough because when I look at her with blurred eyes, there’s pity written all over her face. Anger like I’ve never felt before consumes me, and my nostrils flare. What right does Hunter have to barge into my life now?

You told him to wait a year, you fucking idiot.

I never wanted to know where he lived because I didn’t want to have access to him. I didn’t want to know where to take a cab on the nights I felt lonely. I never wanted?—

“Oliver?” the lady asks.

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