I pack up my desk with haste-I want to get far from my computer as quickly as possible. I close it down and with one last look around my office, I head to the elevator, hit the button with force, and exhale heavily.
I’m rattled: it’s rare that a woman gives me a physical reaction anymore. Lately I’ve been struggling with attraction issues, nobody seems to be doing it for me, no matter how beautiful they are, and I have no idea why. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’ve dated some of the most beautiful, extraordinary women in the world, and yet, still. I haven’t found what I’m looking for. Perhaps my brothers are right about my standards being unrealistically high.
But, a rock-hard boner from an employee I despise, Kathryn Landon.
Just fucking no.
I march out of the elevator and into the lobby, and see Jameson, Tristan, and Christopher waiting out on the curb for me. Jay and Christopher are looking at something on Jameson’s phone, deep in conversation.
“We going?” I snap impatiently. “Or what?”
Tristan looks up. “We’re waiting for you, dick. What do you think?”
I roll my eyes as I run my hand through my hair. “Drinks?”
“Yeah,” Jay mutters.
We turn the corner and begin to walk, and Tristan digs his phone out of his pocket; his eyes narrow when he sees the name on the screen.
“Who is it?” I ask.
“Malcolm, my neighbor at home.” He answers it. “Hi Malcolm.”
He listens as we walk and then he narrows his eyes at me and gives a subtle shake of his head.
“What?” I mouth.
“Harrison,” he mouths.
I chuckle. Tristan’s middle son is sending him grey.
Wild as a bear.
“Okay, thanks for letting me know, Malcolm, I’ll take care of it from here.” He listens. “No, I appreciate you not calling Claire, she has her hands full with the girls,” he says. “Thanks again.” He hangs up and immediately dials a number. “I’m going to kill this fucking kid with a smile on my face,” he mutters under his breath.
I smile as I walk along and listen.
“Harrison,” he barks. “Do you mind telling me why Malcolm just called to tell me that you were speeding down our street late last night? Said you were going way over the speed limit.”
He listens.
“Listen,” he barks. “I spoke to you about this only last week. You are driving way too fast for someone who only just got their license and I’m not putting up with it.” He listens again. “Don’t give me that bullshit. Why would Malcolm make this up?” He rolls his eyes in disgust. “Malcolm is not trying to get you into trouble. No, I warned you. You’ve lost your car for a month.”
He listens again, his face murderous.
I chuckle and turn to see Jay and Christopher trailing behind us, still looking at a phone. “What are you two doing?” I snap.
“Looking for something,” Chris replies. He gestures at Tristan. “Who’s he yelling at?”
“One guess.” I sigh.
Jameson smirks. “What did Harry do now?”
“Speeding.”
“Hand your keys over to your mother right now, young man . . . or I am getting on the first flight home,” Tristan growls. “Do you understand me!”
He listens again.
“This may come as a shock to you, Harrison, but you are not invincible,” he snaps. “You’re going to cause an accident or, heaven forbid, kill yourself, and I’m not having it. Hand the damn keys over.”
“Dramatic bitch,” Jameson says as he rolls his eyes.
I laugh; watching Tristan navigate rebellious teenagers might just be my favorite pastime.
Tristan hangs up and stuffs his phone in his pocket, fuming mad. “That fucking kid, every single time I go away he gets into shit.” He punches his hand into his fist.
We walk into a bar and take a seat at the back; the waitress approaches us. “What will it be?”
“I’ll have a Blue Label Scotch please,” Tristan replies way too fast. “Actually, make it a double.”
“I’ll have a Corona.” I smile; nobody riles Tristan up like Harry does.
“Same,” Christopher replies.
“Make that three,” Jameson says.
Christopher laughs as they see something on Jameson’s phone, and then they pass it over to me.
“What’s this?” I ask as I take the phone from them. I look at the screen and see a photo of myself and frown as I try to make sense of it. “What is this?”
“This dating app is using your photograph.” Christopher smirks.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I snap. “Surely anyone with half a brain knows that I would never go on a dating app.”
“Well, you look pretty and they’re just using your image to hook up with chicks.” Tristan smiles. “However, if they really wanted to pull the chicks they should have used my photo.”
I scroll through the app angrily. “Where do I report this shit? I want this taken down immediately.”
“There should be some kind of info or admin section,” Christopher says as our drinks arrive. The boys fall into conversation and I keep flicking through the app as I look for a contact page where I can report this piece of shit. I’m scrolling through when something catches my eye, the ugliest cat I have ever seen, fat and hairy with bulging eyes. Who the fuck would use that as a profile picture on a dating app?
My eyes roam over the profile and the name Pinkie Leroo.
Pinkie Leroo. I frown. What kind of name is that?
I read her ad.
Name Pinkie Leroo
Height On point
Weight Pretty face
Appearance Below average
Hobbies Playing with my twelve cats
Favorite pastime Washing my hair
Profession Taxidermies
Hair color Pink – notice my name
(insert eye roll)
Eyes Star struck
Skin Pasty white
Below-average appearance . . . who says that?
Taxidermies . . . She stuffs dead animals for a living? Who is this freak? I’ve officially heard it all.
I can’t believe that people actually find dates on this website . . . How?
I get a vision of a pasty-white, pink-haired woman sitting on a couch with twelve cats, surrounded by stuffed animal corpses, and I cringe.
Good grief.
I read on.
I’m looking for someone who is only one color, but not one size. Stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies. Present in sun, but not in rain.
Doing no harm, but feeling no pain.
Oh please. I roll my eyes.
I screenshot a picture of the profile that has been stolen from me and I send it to myself to deal with later.
It’s late, after dinner and drinks with the boys, and I’m back in my apartment, unwinding. The moonlight streams through the window and I sip my Scotch and sit back in my armchair.
I stare at the colors, the way they fade into the darkness. The beams of light that filter down from the heavens.
I do this often, sit here late at night and inhale the beauty of the painting on my wall.
I read the title:
Fated
What was she thinking about when she painted this?
A possession, a situation. What was fated?
A person?
I lift the glass to my lips and feel the heat as the amber fluid slides down my throat.
Harriet Boucher . . . the woman I am enamored with, a woman I don’t even know. As strange as it sounds, I feel like I do know her.
There’s an honesty to the brushstrokes, a deeper connection to her emotion, something I don’t feel from other paintings. It’s the weirdest thing and something that I can’t quite explain.
Looking at Harriet’s paintings is like looking into her soul.
Breathtaking.
I smile as I imagine the older woman; I know she’s beautiful, perhaps not physically any longer, but definitely spiritually . . . emotionally.