Page 80 of Remember Me
The girl in your painting with the flower tattoo.
My heart is aching. Breaking. I want to scream out to him who I really am. I want him to take me in his arms, devour me with his lips, and make love to me. Anywhere. Everywhere. Against a wall. On a drafting table. On the floor. Just like we used to.
Suddenly, his phone rings. He turns down the volume of the music and pulls it out from a pocket. He curses under his breath as he looks down at the caller ID. Putting the phone to his ear, his face tenses.
“Shit! I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He shoves the phone back into his pocket and flings the paintbrush on the stand without cleaning it.
“Scarlet, I’ve got to split.”
“Is everything okay?” My mind instantly jumps to Maddie’s well-being. My pulse spikes.
“I have an emergency. I’ve got to pick up Kayla and meet with the dickheads who printed the catalogue for the opening. Theyscrewed it up with all the wrong images, and it’s supposed to be going out to five hundred people tomorrow. Maybe, we can work together later if I don’t get back too late.”
My heart plummets to my stomach; my face falls. I can’t mask my disappointment. “I understand. You should go.”
As he hastily tidies up, I throw on my clothes. As I pull my top over my head, I look down and gasp. My gold locket with the photo of Finn, Maddie, and me is missing! I frantically look all around me. It’s nowhere in sight. Despair sets in with the force of a wrecking ball. Maybe it fell off in the house. Or on my way here. Or maybe worse, on the beach last night! It’s been my lifeline to my family and my sanity—my lucky charm—and now it’s gone!
Panic grips me. I feel sick to my stomach. My heart racing, I dash out of the studio, hoping to retrace my steps.
“Scarlet! Wait! What’s the matter?”
Finn.
I don’t stop to answer him. My fate is at stake.
CHAPTER 49
Finn
Iarrive back home at close to midnight, exhausted. With a headache the size of Texas. The rest of this day has been a total nightmare.
It began mid-afternoon with Kayla’s emergency phone call about the loser catalogue publisher she hired. I hurried to her condo, battling the LA traffic, only to find her not ready for our trip to Hawthorne. Forty fricking miles away.
“Sorry, darling, I’m in slow-mo with my crutches, thanks toyourbright idea to go to that despicable apple dump with your imp and that wilderness girl.”
Too bad I couldn’t tell her forget the catalogue and then turn around. Go back home. Finish my painting. Spend time with Scarlet.
Then, I battled more traffic on both the 10 and San Diego Freeway, which included a big rig accident that brought everything to a standstill. Another two unbearable, agonizing hours. With Kayla chewing my ear off. My audacity. The nerve of me abandoning her yesterday. My incompetence. Like it’s my fault the catalogue got screwed up. My clothing. Sweats are for peasants. My driving. As if I can make the traffic go away.
An ugly shouting match followed at the printer’s with Kayla threatening to sue the small start-up company. I actually felt sorry for them. Just a bunch of young creative guys. And the screw up wasn’t even their fault as it was Kayla who sent the wrong images.
Once everything was resolved to her satisfaction, she insisted I take her out for dinner at the Chateau Marmont, her favorite hangout, to talk about “things.” I foolishly agreed thinking that she wanted to go over final details of my show. Wrong. All she wanted to talk about was our upcoming wedding and I didn’t want to talk about it at all. More angry words were exchanged. Had we not been at a public place surrounded by her high falutin friends, many of them coming to the opening, I would have broken up with her right then and there. I lost my opportunity, when in a tiff, she Ubered home.
On my drive back to Malibu, I put on some Springsteen. All I could think about was Scarlet, replaying in my head our afternoon together. Beautiful, sensuous Scarlet. There was a moment as I fixed her hair that I wanted to rip off those scanty panties, then splay her on my drafting table... paint her body... tease her with a brush... and possess every inch of her. All the erotic things I did to my late wife. The similarities between the two of them have messed with my sanity. Both my heart and my head. In retrospect, I should have ripped off that little piece of lace and confirmed what I thought I saw in that motel shower. Then, I thought it was just a coincidence. Maybe just a bruise. But now, I’m having other thoughts. Could it be possible? All just “A Brilliant Disguise?”
Rubbing my throbbing temples, I lumber into the kitchen and pour myself a Scotch. I guzzle it in one shot, the searing liquid quickly seeping into my veins and alleviating my tension. A warm, familiar voice sounds in my ears.
“SeñorJackson.” Rosita. “You are home late.” Shuffling my way, she studies me. “Your eyes, very heavy.”
“I’m tired. Tired and stressed.”
“Thatmuy mala mujer—she does that to you.”
Rosita has made it no secret that she despises Kayla, who treats her like a lowlife servant.
“You do not belong with her.SeñoritaScarlet, sheeeza good woman!”