Page 17 of Surrender to Me

Chapter 10

My skull felt like it was a cracked egg shell and I was convinced my brains were made of scrambled yolks. I scrunched my eyes, pulling the covers over my head, wishing I were still asleep, unconsciously working off the horrific amount of vodka I had consumed. I stretched my legs, trying to shake out the fatigue; the sheets were soft like silk. I sat up quickly, then regretted it as the headache seized me once again and nausea crowded my throat. The maroon decor and the tufted furniture across from me made me realize I was in Owen’s room. In his bed. And he wasn’t anywhere in sight.

There was a note on the nightstand, in his signature white cardstock and black ink pen, plus two ibuprofen and a bottle of water.

You weren’t safe to drive.

I slept in a guest room.

Gina will make breakfast.

— OL

I wrinkled my nose, embarrassed that Owen felt the need to sleep in a different bed in his own house because I had taken his bed. He could’ve put me in the guest room. I shook my head. I remembered the night before up until a certain point. I remembered Owen, being chained to the wall, facing what I didn’t want to face emotionally through his guidance, and then facing what I didn’t want to face when it came to our relationship. The truth was that I wanted Owen. Hell, it was more than a simple want; it was a need. Maybe that’s why I was pissed off at him for being nonchalant about everything, like we meant nothing, like I was replaceable. Whatever we were doing, whatever we were, it wasn’t working for me. I couldn’t have Owen halfway; it was either all or nothing. This only-in-the-dungeon rule hurt. I needed the silly texts with the dark and mysterious Owen who chuckled and smiled when no one was looking, the man who would scrub the floor of a cafe even if he was a millionaire. I needed the man who would nuzzle my head with his nose, pressing me in close like he was afraid to lose me. And I didn’t need the sex badly enough to give up everything else that I needed with it. It hurt so deeply that it made me angry. It was like nothing I had ever felt before. I needed all of him and I knew it.

I stared at the card, trying to imagine what Owen thought of me under the influence like that. Even if he enraged me, I didn’t want to cause drama because of alcohol amplifier like my mother had, like Michael did. It was the opposite of what I wanted to do, and I hated knowing I had been that kind of person. I decided I would apologize to Owen for my behavior and put an end to this middle-of-the-road dance we were playing. Neither of us needed the drama. We both had other things to worry about. And I would stop talking to him. Cut out the temptation, rip the bandaid and move on.

I looked down to see how the marks were evolving on my thighs, and I realized I wasn’t even wearing my own clothes—I was wearing button-up pajamas that fit perfectly. I grimaced, wondering if they were originally Poppy’s. What an insult that would be if they were Poppy’s. But Owen wasn’t that stupid or that callous. I knew he had some extra for any woman he had over, or he bought them specifically for me. I hoped it was the latter. But still, I wondered where Poppy was. Owen had mentioned not being able to handle more than one woman at a time, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t considering a second chance with her.

I took a leisurely shower, using the artisan soaps and body gels with pleasure, letting the water rinse away the sour smell of stale vodka seeping through my pores. It was one of the nicest showers I had ever been in—natural stone covering the walls, a rainfall showerhead with the perfect amount of pressure, and enough space to fit ten people. I didn’t let my mind wander to what Owen and I could have done in there together… Okay, maybe I did. But I didn’t linger for long. I poked my thighs as hard as I could to wake myself out of the daydream, but that only made me wonder about where else he could hurt me, how I loved getting a light bruise on my ass from his hands, wiggling to make it hurt every time I sat down.

My clothes were sitting on the bed when I came out, my camera and satchel on top of them. I checked the satchel, pleased to see the results from the first half of the night. Four used twenty-four exposure rolls, three unused. That will do, I thought. When I put my clothes on, they smelled of lavender too, and I realized they must’ve been washed. Had I vomited on them? I hoped it was overkill politeness from his house staff. It was definitely nice to put on clean clothes and not an outfit that reeked of vodka.

As I went down the stairs, a woman in a button-up shirt and pants similar to my own was dusting the shelves.

“Miss Glass,” she said. Her voice was warm but professional. Her graying blond hair reminded me of Grayson’s mother. “I see you found your belongings.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I said. I gestured at my own shirt. “Think Owen will hire me?”

A smile crossed her lips, but she didn’t say anything. It was a polite smile, the kind she was only giving because she knew she had to. “Will you be having breakfast this morning?”

“No, thank you, ma’am,” I said. I paused, trying to remember her name from the note. “Gina, right?”

“Yes, Miss Glass.”

“Is it short for Regina?” I asked. She nodded curtly. “That’s my mother’s name. Please call me Riley.”

And this time, it was a real smile, her whole face softened like she actually could be a mother, or perhaps my grandmother. It gave me the confidence to ask an impulsive question, the answer I knew I shouldn’t be looking for.

“Yes, Riley?” she asked, reading my quizzical expression.

“Is anyone else living here?” I asked. “Besides, you know, Owen and the staff.”

“You’re the only guest he’s had in quite a while.”

That was an interesting response. “Is he at the nightclub?” I asked.

“He’s in his office in the Financial District. Shall I write you the address?”

“That’d be great, actually. Thank you.”

Her nod was deep, and she gestured for me to follow her. We passed through a few rooms, some of which were completely new to me. I recognized the study and saw a painting on the wall: two dark red brush strokes on a black and blue background, fading into each other. I stopped and stared at it, imagining Owen behind an easel, carefully manipulating the colors to make them look as if they were bleeding into each other. I knew it was Owen’s. I had seen it before but had never truly taken notice of it, perhaps because I was too distracted by his lips tickling my neck. But I felt in awe of it now. It was abstract, and admittedly a little amateur, but it was still beautiful.

Gina smiled at me, and the twinkle in her eye confirmed my question of the artist without us exchanging words. I followed her into a small den, where she opened a drawer and took out a pen and a pad of paper. Principal Laboratories, Owen Lowell CEO monogrammed on the top, his office phone number and address printed at the bottom.

“At the elevator, press sixty-two, then the bell, then two, seven, one, eight,” she said, writing down the code as she said it. “I’ll let the front desk know you’re coming.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Can I call you Gina?”

“Of course you can,” she said.

As the elevator climbed up to the top level, the numbers inching their way to sixty-two, the nerves in my stomach knotted up like necklaces rolled together in the bottom of a drawer, and the hangover only made it worse. I was nervous to see him after last night, and to be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to seeing his reaction when I ended things. But it wasn’t like we were much of anything, I told myself. I was only ending a relationship that took place at Surrender, nothing more. It was simply the end of the scene.

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