Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

LUCILLE

After a full night of sleep, I am feeling refueled and refreshed. Also, I woke up alone, and I did not like that. Being with Theron again, how sweet, gentle, and caring he was, only made me realize that I don’t want to wake up alone any longer.

Once I’ve showered and styled my hair, I put on a whole face of makeup and find something to wear. Since I’ll be trolling Emmie, I need to look amazing, but I also need a coat of armor. She gets to me in a way that none of the others ever have.

Choosing a pair of cream-colored wide-leg trousers with pleats, I slip those on. Then, reaching into my closet, I take out the button-down satin gold shirt that I bought for a Christmas party a few years ago and tuck the front into the pants. After slipping on a thin brown belt, I look at my reflection in the mirror.

My hair is down, softly curled, and my makeup impeccable but still light and soft. I slide into a pair of low-heeled black pointed-toe shoes, inhale a deep breath, and let it out slowly. My nerves are shot, but I’m not giving up on this.

I want Emmie Grant gone.

I drive to the art gallery and make sure to drive past the parking lot to ensure that her car is there. It is. I park a few spots down from her and across the street. I exit my vehicle and make my way toward the gallery, but first, I stop for a coffee at the café.

If I don’t keep my hand occupied, I’m afraid I might slap her across her smug face. Just imagining her talking about her man in the salon physically fills me with rage. I mean, maybe she’s a good person, but I don’t care.

I know I am the bad guy here. Theron is with her, and he’s cheated on her twice with me. But I don’t think their relationship is what she thinks it is. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

Thanking the barista for my coffee, I curl my fingers around it and head straight toward the gallery. I reach for the handle of the door and tug it open with a little more gusto than I usually would because it’s a thick glass door and heavy as hell.

“Welcome to Nights Art Gallery,” Emmie’s voice calls out. It’s a few octaves higher than normal, once again confirming her fakeness.

Lifting my nose a touch higher in the air, I ignore her greeting as if I don’t have the inclination to be bothered. I wonder if she’s going to recognize me from the salon, but if she does, she hasn’t said anything yet.

Moving through the gallery, I pretend to be disinterested in all of the art surrounding me. Almost as if they’re all just prints from HomeGoods or something and not the works of art they are.

When I hear her heels quickly clicking behind me, I know she’s had enough of my walking around, and she wants to be in the middle of my business.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” she asks. “We have some brand-new beautiful pieces.”

I’m sure she does, and I also know that I could never afford any of them, but she doesn’t need to know that. Turning my head, I look over at her and smile as I face her completely.

“I’m not sure if there’s anything here that is my style,” I say, attempting to be cool and unfazed by anything and everything before I take a nonchalant sip of my coffee.

Her smile wavers, but she replaces it quickly. “What style are you looking for? I’m sure we can commission something from one of our renowned artists.”

Shrugging a shoulder, I walk away from her, pretending to analyze the pieces in front of me. They’re all done by the same artist, and while they’re pretty, I can’t imagine anyone would actually pay for them and that they would spend anywhere from ten thousand dollars to fifty thousand dollars on one piece, especially in Nights.

This whole thing stinks, and not just because I cannot stand this woman.

Emmie’s shoes click behind me as she follows me around like a puppy. It’s off-putting, and if I really did have enough money to spend here, I wouldn’t because of her hovering. Poking my tongue out slightly, I act as if I’m very focused on this piece in front of me.

The painting is oil, and it’s of a man’s bare back. The lines are gorgeous, and it does appear as if his muscles could jump out at you. The man in the painting seems to be looking out at a field of sunflowers. I don’t understand why he’s shirtless, looking at sunflowers, but I’m not an artist.

“This is my favorite artist. You’ve really chosen well with this.”

I give her a reserved smile, trying to keep my upper-crust semi-bitchy demeanor. “It’s not for me,” I state. Then, with a heavy sigh, I look at her. “I don’t see anything to my liking. When will you be showcasing new artists?” I ask.

I know it’s rude, but I don’t care. The personality I’m portraying is rude. Emmie blinks, then looks down at her shoes before she lifts her gaze to meet mine.

“The Nights Art Gallery showcases one up-and-coming artist a year.” She lifts her hand, extending her finger to point at the painting in question. “This was the artist this year.”

I hold my breath for a moment, then let it out slowly. “Well, it seems as if I’ll have to go elsewhere. Thank you for your… time?”

I leave the gallery without another word, my nose in the air and acting like a true snobby bitch. Inwardly, I chuckle. I know she’s watching me, no doubt with narrowed eyes. Just wait until she sees me later at her nail appointment. But before that, I need to change my clothes and my hairstyle so I look just different enough that she double-takes.

I should have been doing this from day one... this shit is a blast.

After putting on a pair of leggings and a crop top, I refuse to look at my reflection. I would never actually wear this, not because I think it’s a bad outfit, but mostly because of my own lack of self-confidence.

But I’m not being myself today, so after I put on a pair of socks and sneakers, I throw a belt bag on and head straight for the salon. I was able to get a spot right next to Emmie’s and asked for the exact same treatment. I’m sure it’s going to be expensive, but I’m completely invested in this now.

Stopping for another coffee, this time an iced one, I continue to the nail salon. I am raging, full of energy without an outlet to unleash it. Between the caffeine and the pure adrenaline of what I’m about to do, I’m unable to contain myself.

I tug the door to the salon open, thankful that it’s not as heavy as the art gallery’s door. The moment I step into the reception area, I am bombarded with bright lights, neon signs all over the place, and a nail polish display.

Behind the counter is a girl who looks like she’s twelve but is probably eighteen. “Can I help you?” she asks, her voice high-pitched and bubbly sounding.

“I have an appointment,” I say with a smile.

She asks my name and then points to a station behind her and tells me that the tech will be right out but to go ahead and take a seat. Emmie isn’t sitting down yet. I’m sure she hasn’t arrived. I can’t imagine she does much of anything in a timely manner. She just seems like someone who is always late.

Sinking down into my chair, I look around the salon. I’ve never been in a place like this before. I’ve always just done a simple solid-color nail polish and then covered it in a clear coat.

I’m not even sure what to ask for. The excitement, nervousness, and confidence I possessed walking in here a few moments ago have begun to deteriorate. My knee begins to bounce, my heart racing against my chest. I feel like I could claw my own skin off. I’m nervous, anxious, and regretting the caffeine.

Right when I’m about to stand up and get the hell out of the salon, Emmie breezes over and sits down beside me. I don’t look at her, not yet. I need to calm myself down first. I am panicking for no good reason. This is supposed to be my moment to shine, and I’m over here freaking out like a big dork.

I inhale a deep breath and hold it for a moment, then let it out slowly. The technicians appear and ask us both questions about our nails, almost as if they’re in sync. They must ask every single client the exact same questions, all day, every day. That would suck.

I’m not sure what to tell the tech because when I called and made the appointment, I told them I wanted exactly what Emmie was getting. So I stare at her with my eyes wide, unsure of what to say.

I end up telling the technician that I want something simple, just a manicure and pedicure. I scheduled both because that’s what Emmie had for the appointment, but I don’t know the details of her services, and there is so much happening here that I can’t hear what she tells her lady.

The tech smiles, then dips her chin and begins to work on my hands. I have no idea what I’m doing here, and I take a single deep breath in an effort to calm myself immediately. It works, thank God, because I’m on serious edge, and I don’t need to be.

There’s a moment of silence, and that’s when I lean forward and take a sip of my iced coffee, turning my head slightly to look over to Emmie. She must sense my gaze. Slowly, her head turns to the side, and her eyes find mine.

Lifting my head from my drink, I give her a smile. She stares at me for a moment, her eyes blinking as she tilts her head to the side. I can see the confusion clearly etched on her face. She’s trying to place me, but she hasn’t yet.

I love it.

This shit is exactly what I was trying to accomplish.

“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice even toned.

She presses her lips together, narrows her eyes, then schools her features. All of it happens in a split second. Then she gives me a small smile. “You look so familiar. Have we met?”

It’s my turn to give her my own look. Tilting my head to the side, I slip my tongue out and touch my top lip before I shake my head once.

“I don’t think so,” I say, making sure that the words come out slowly.

I want it to be very clear that I have no damn clue who this bitch is. She frowns, then turns back to the nail tech. For the next twenty minutes, we sit in silence. I decide she can sit and think about who I am; it can bother her all afternoon, for all I care.

I’m pretty sure it does bother her because when the UV light machine is drying her nails, I feel her gaze on me, and I slowly turn my head again, lifting my eyes to meet hers. Arching a brow, I silently ask her what the fuck she wants.

“Seriously, I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s going to drive me crazy. Did you go to Nights High School?” she asks.

I hum. “I did. Class of 2014. You?”

She frowns. “I’m class of 2012. Maybe that’s it.”

I almost laugh. Almost. But instead, I give her a smile. “It must be.”

A few moments later, we’re both taken to the pedicure stations and then she starts chatting to me. She asks me if I know a whole list of people from high school, and I tell her no, because I honestly don’t. It’s really bugging the shit out of her that I look familiar, and she can’t place me.

“Maybe you know my boyfriend. He’s your age, but I don’t know if he went to high school here,” she says.

He didn’t.

But I don’t tell her that.

“His name is Theron Henderson,” she says, and I swear she moans a little when she says his name. Jealousy instantly floods my veins. I don’t tell her that I know him. She doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh wow, no, I don’t know him, but what a name.”

Her lips twitch into a smirk. “He’s even sexier than the name.”

We spend the rest of the appointment talking about Theron, or rather, she spends the rest of the appointment talking about Theron. I don’t really have much to add. I ask her a few questions here and there, but nothing really too personal. She gives me everything, though, more details than she did at the hair salon. I don’t understand it, but I smile and nod.

Then she does something I don’t expect.

“We’re all going to the Willow Club tonight after a family dinner. Will you please come? It will be so much fun. My dad owns it, so I get full VIP treatment.”

I think about telling her no, but who am I kidding? This is the prime opportunity I need.

“That sounds like so much fun,” I cry out. It sounds fake to my ears, but she doesn’t seem fazed.

A few moments later, I have a text message from her, and she tells me she’ll text again when they are leaving her house. She also tells them that she will give my name to the front bouncer so that I can just walk in and don’t have to stand in line.

When she asked for my name, I almost gave her the fake name I created to watch her on social media, but then I realized that if she looked me up, she would know that picture wasn’t me.

So, I do the only thing I can do and give her my real name. She can look at my social media page all day long, but there isn’t anything about Theron anywhere, not a picture, not a mention. She won’t even know that we were together once upon a time… or last night or a few days ago in his office.