Chapter 13
Elliot
I didn't hesitate when I pulled Mira's pitiful illustration off her cubicle wall. Nor did I hesitate when I bought a pack of colored pencils and some paper from the local art store. In truth, the hardest part was forcing Diane to end her workday early so I could have some privacy.
When I pick up the first pencil, my arm stiff, my fingers tremble. As soon as I press the tip to the paper, the lead snaps, leaving me with a useless piece of wood in my hand.
"What the hell are you doing? You're being ridiculous."
I drop the pencil and throw my hands in the air.
You know her drawings suck. She almost cried during her presentation when you pointed it out. It was hard watching her get so nervous.
And you care because...
Because Mira is creative when she's happy, and a creative Mira will help me get the hell out of here as fast as possible.
Thoughts keep colliding inside my head as I take out her sketch and study it. Her idea is well conceived: she chose to spotlight our lesser-known characters, the ones who often remain in the background compared with our more popular princesses.
That realization helps me reach for the pencil sharpener and try again, then stay focused despite the frantic pounding of my heart as I reconstruct Mira's concept.
Before long, my palms turn clammy. My emotions teeter on the edge of instability. I take off my jacket, then roll up my shirtsleeves in an attempt to cool my steadily rising body temperature. It's as though my body is sweating out its demons, one pencil stroke at a time.
It's a useless hobby. Real men don't draw, my father's voice whispers. I grip the pencil even harder at the memory of him tearing up one of my art-class projects.
The yellow wood breaks. I snapped it in half.
"Fuck."
I toss what's left of the pencil into the trash and brush the small splinters from my paper.
What was I thinking when I pretended I knew someone who could help Mira? I'm never going to pull this off.
I shoot to my feet, sending my chair rolling backward. I wipe my forehead with a trembling hand, then tear the sheet of paper to pieces. Flakes of paper flutter down and cover the broken pencil in the trash.
I hoped I'd feel relieved, but all I got was a queasy stomach and a heart hammering hard with no sign of slowing down.
My gaze leaves my clenched fists and settles on the trash can holding the remains of my attempt.
There's no one here to yell at me and make me feel worthless. I'm a grown man who can handle anything life puts in my path, including one goddamn drawing.
I'm capable of following through for the future my brothers dreamed of. Instead of dwelling on the past, I need to keep my mind on the future. One where Adrian becomes CEO, I become his CFO, and Nico finally finds his place in the family company.
I grab a fresh sheet of paper and a brand-new pencil and get to work, for real this time.
At the entrance to Mira's workspace, I stop to watch her for a moment. She types on her computer, bobbing her head to the music playing through her earbuds. Today's pin sparkles beneath the lamp above her. Her choice is a pair of smiling calves with the words "Best Calves" written underneath.
Who could hate themselves enough to wear something that atrocious?
I take in her body before focusing on the curve of her neck. The soft skin looks made to tempt. To be kissed and marked while she's being fucked. I'd like to do all sorts of things to that pretty throat.
But I can't.
My moment of weakness will not happen again. Mira may claim she'll never report me to Human Resources, but I didn't get this far in life by trusting just anyone. Her options are endless, and she can extort as much money from me as she wants. The media alone could pay her enough to retire at twenty-three. The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
I walk up to her desk and slap my illustration down. Mira jumps in her chair.
"Hello! Could you announce yourself like a normal person?"
I don't answer because I'm afraid to breathe this close to her. One inhale of her perfume is all it takes to send my blood straight to my cock. Fortunately, I have enough self-control to take a step back.
"What's wrong?" she asks, concerned.
"Nothing," I reply, readjusting my already perfect tie.
"Sure," she comments before turning to examine my drawing.
Does she like my work?
Of course she does, idiot. Have some faith in yourself! Who wouldn't?
Her eyes widen with admiration as she traces the drawing with her finger.
"This is amazing."
At those words, I exhale heavily. I hadn't realized I was holding my breath. At least I still have some of the talent for drawing that Grandpa encouraged. I can admit it: he was right when he said the skill didn't disappear, only the passion did.
My throat tightens. Focus on the task at hand.
Although it took several attempts and more than twenty-four hours to finish the illustration, recreating Mira's image was easy for me. Too easy, even. An hour ago, when I realized I was finished, a strange emptiness opened inside me. My fingers wanted to keep going, to remain in that state of intense focus where the world around me no longer existed.
I hate that I want to do it again. The desire makes me feel weak, as though I'm letting myself go.
"I should let you get back to work," I say, turning toward the exit.
"Wait!" she calls, leaping abruptly from her chair.
"What?"
Does she know I'm the artist? But how could she?
"It's missing a signature," she says, gesturing toward my drawing.
"A signature?"
"On the picture."
I take a few seconds to consider my response as carefully as possible under the circumstances.
"And?"
Well done.
"And the person who made it deserves credit for their work. It's only fair," she adds, lowering her gaze.
Interesting. This is the second time the issue has surfaced in our conversations. Does it have something to do with Victor Baker publishing a proposal similar to hers? Or is there something else affecting her ability to trust another person?
A dark feeling sweeps over me at the thought of someone hurting her.
Whatever the case, I don't want to look like a thief.
"The artist is a contact I have in the animation department. He knocked this out in two minutes, so don't worry about giving him credit."
"Could you give me his number? I'd like to thank him."
"He wants to remain anonymous."
"Okay. Then you could give him my number. And if he doesn't want to text me, that's fine."
Mira exhales heavily, and a dark curl falls in front of her eyes. She tucks it behind an ear decorated with a row of unusual earrings. I take a step forward to examine their designs, only to step back a second later when she takes a deep breath.
Fortunately, my groan stays trapped in my throat.
"And what are you hoping to get out of this conversation?"
She looks at me in surprise.
"Are you always this cynical about other people's motives?"
"Yes."
Mira rolls her eyes.
"Expressing gratitude doesn't always mean you want something."
"I'm not going to take your word for it."
She laughs, then bends over her desk to scribble something on a sticky note, presenting me with her firm ass. At the sight, heat spreads through my chest and lower, but this is not the time for that.
For some reason I can't understand, I suffer from some kind of affliction in her presence that makes me react like a sex-starved lunatic. I tap my fingertips against my thighs to keep my hands occupied.
You should be watching her motives, not her body.
Something is wrong with this girl. Maybe her kindness is a facade. What's hiding behind it? I don't believe for one second that she hasn't considered profiting from me after I kissed her. Anyone in her financial position would.
Mira turns and holds out the scrap of paper.
"Here."
Don't take it. Tell her no and get out of here before you do something incredibly stupid.
Without another second's thought, I take the sticky note.