Deceived Read online

  Stick one = two pink lines

  Stick two = a plus sign

  Stick three = one word; pregnant

  “Looks like fizzy pink…no bubbly for you,” Madison announced, breaking the hushed silence that had fallen over the three of us with our heads tilted down.

  “I’m going to be an aunt!” A dancing Aubree had squealed with delight.

  I was in a state of shock.

  Was I ready to be a mom? Not that there was really a question being posed. I wasn’t ready…was anyone ever really ready? But, I would be the best mom I could possibly be. Aubree and I had been raised by wonderful parents into our late teens, early twenties for me. It made me sad to think of my child without grandparents…at least not from my side. Caldwell’s mother was still living, not too far away.

  Caldwell was going to be a daddy and he had no idea. A baby with the person he despised. Not a good start to parenthood for either of us. I had always envisioned sharing the news with my husband. We would watch for the sign and he would pick me up and twirl me around in the air and maybe finish off with a deep, passionate kiss.

  The only spinning going on around me was my sister and best friend dancing me into the kitchen and toasting to my creature—Madison’s loving term for it. I had to laugh at them. It was better than crying about my somewhat dim situation.

  When they finally left me, I found it difficult to sleep and ended up in my home office, recently completed with modern furnishings. With Caldwell’s handiwork done—custom bookcases, window benches, and paint—I had the go-ahead to buy items. I smiled to myself thinking about how we had come a long way from our lust-filled thoughts. He’d fulfilled my fantasies on my new curved chaise for two, the bench…and even the vintage mirrored desk I was sitting behind had been put to good use.

  I remembered the day he commented about my mocked-up book pages on my computer screen and my storyboards sitting on my desk while leaning over my shoulder. “Looks inviting.”

  I can’t remember the rest of his words as they seemed to fall away as he moved my hair to the side, planting his lush lips to my skin. Maybe I hadn’t missed anything of importance at all, recalling that his words may have been about my body and not my work. Fortunately, I had backed up my work as he shut my laptop and slid it out of the way along with my crafty artwork. Not that I cared as my ass was lifted and settled on the top of my desk with my legs spread wide before his mouth skillfully devoured me to a beautiful quaking “oh God, yes” orgasm.

  I felt a shiver ripple down my spine at that naughty memory and I was back to the empty room, alone with my computer and cellphone. Of course I checked it a few times, but there was nothing from Caldwell. He still showed no signs of being concerned if I was alright or if I had arrived home safely. Not like him at all…or at least not like the Caldwell I knew before I became the infamous Dickhead.

  Looking at the gallery earlier that night, it looked like he was doing better than the first time I had visited the other hideous gallery space. I was anxious to write my thoughts for the new space—it had truly wowed me without even taking into consideration the ownership. My invitation to the opening had been sent to a post office box I used for all professional correspondences and was addressed to D. Chastain. I had used the “D” to keep from labeling myself male or female in the art world and as a form of anonymity. I hadn’t even decided what I wanted to do for my book, but had been using Daphne to write for the online site Fashionista Forward.

  The opening was going to be my first time using my full name for a gallery event. I was a little leery about doing it…of exposing myself completely and then my past article popped up to slap me in the face. I wasn’t even sure how the man in the gallery—responsible for my being outed—knew of me. The look of pure disgust on Caldwell’s face was etched into my mind, but I had to push past that and write an article about the launch of the new downtown gallery. More importantly, I couldn’t afford my critique to be left out of the big reveal of artwork by the mysterious Renaldo Rossellini that the C-Well Gallery had amazingly pulled off. My personal life—that involved me being called Dickhead and puking in a planter—needed to be avoided at all costs. My focus was on Renaldo’s vibrant and even more sensual artwork that garnered everyone’s full attention.

  As I typed up the article, I wondered…had I really hurt Caldwell? I was pretty sure that no one would ever remember that the space had been the N-Lite Gallery. Or as I had slanderously renamed it, Elite, since the pompous owners thought that their space was superior to others in the area.

  I had caught wind from other gallery owners that they were refusing to participate in art activities. They had even made a point to shut their doors when cultural street events were taking place. Exhibiting only the cream of the crop artists, I heard that they had been turning away many disappointed artists. The elitist gallery was looking for the next bankable Picasso. The one owner I met with, literally, had his nose in the air as I questioned him about the accusations and whether they were up for helping artists totally new to the scene…maybe even students. It was obvious by his answers alone that they were in the wrong art district and I may have suggested—under my breath—that they move to a different zip code on the other side of town.

  I couldn’t imagine Caldwell in a partnership with that slimy character and I hoped that he would maybe one day forgive me. I hoped that my true opinion of the new space and the exhibit might have him seeing me and the new gallery in a different light. He had created a wonderful space he could be proud of…and procuring an artist like Renaldo Rossellini was a big wow! And the sculptor, Ford James, could not be overlooked. In fact, I think I may have expounded a bit more about him than the main attraction.

  I would’ve written more about Caldwell, but that may have raised a few eyebrows. Gallery owners rarely took precedence over artists. For me, he was the main focus of my daily thoughts…hopefully forever in a positive light.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Caldwell

  So many changes were coming full force at me after the gallery opening—some great, some over the top, and some not so great. It appeared that Daphne and I were both stubborn as neither of us had bothered to call the other…or even text. I started to pick up my phone to reach out to her so many times the night of the event, the next day…and then time got away from me.

  Things in the gallery with Renaldo Rossellini’s presence had escalated and he took center stage in my life. It freaked me the fuck out too! I began to question myself and my ability to do right by RR. I needed help and I wasn’t sure where to turn so I contacted my longtime acquaintance Olivia Dumont, one of the owners of ODE Galleries. She had been instrumental in the decision of Renaldo coming to my insignificant art gallery in comparison to hers. I even questioned that…why had Renaldo selected me over what he could’ve had with ODE?

  Olivia laughed at my questioning and talked me down from the ledge. “He chose you. He wanted an intimate vibe in a quaint gallery. He wanted to work with someone with ambition, trustworthiness…loyalty. You’re not a total bullshit artist who would make wrong choices or blow unwanted sunshine up his ass. Someone who truly appreciates artists and their artwork.”

  “He could’ve had you,” I rebutted even though the ODE was far from quaint.

  “He made the right choice, Caldwell. You may need a little help, that’s true. I know just the person for your situation. My cousin, Ireland, has an online business called NetworkConcierge. She is great at pairing companies…entities with the perfect PR and she’s very private, discreet. In fact, don’t mention me…just check out her site.”

  Calmed by Olivia, I contacted Ireland and Olivia was right, Ireland was just what I needed to get me moving forward in a positive manner. If only she could patch things up with my failed love life. Although, once again, Daphne was being pushed further out of reach when I found myself about to be homeless since Ashton hit me with a ten day eviction notice. It couldn’t have come at a worse time since I needed to make a trip to New Y
ork to meet with Ireland and some big agencies.

  I couldn’t blame my brother. He had received a crazy cash offer on his house that he could not turn down. The catch was that they wanted to move in within thirty days. He had failed to tell me about it for twenty days because he was also negotiating a gig on a home improvement reality show. Ashton’s big shot at having his own building show on cable TV if he were to win. And to be fair in the matter, I had not been staying at his house for a long time…since Daphne had come into my life.

  So I scrambled to help Ashton move what he was keeping into a storage container at the business yard where I had already housed my things months ago. Then I took my basic needs to my office at the gallery. A few days later, I packed a bag and headed to the East coast for meetings with a few different PR firms…or so I thought.

  “Sometimes…you just have to throw caution to the wind and go with your gut feeling…” A beautiful dark-haired Ireland rattled on after picking me up from my hotel. “Only one! That is all you need in life. The right one that makes all the rest slip out of focus… Cancelled…it will all work out… I know my clients… Trust me…”

  I should’ve been listening to her exact words, but she had me thinking about Daphne. She was the one…the right one for me. The only one for me! I needed to take Ireland’s advice and contact her. I couldn’t lose her. What she must’ve thought of me deserting her. Not going to her that night. Not apologizing to her for being the real dickhead.

  “The PR company is going to love the chance to present RR and they have to be so pleased with what you did for him according to Daphne Chastain. Her praise of you…”

  “What?!” I was finally hearing her clearly and shocked all at once.

  “Have you not read the review of Renaldo Rossellini’s opening at your C-Well Gallery? It made every art publication and even the newspapers. She seems to have gotten an exclusive.” I stared at her in disbelief. “Look,” Ireland said, rummaging through a big designer handbag before producing a few different publications. “You’re big news in the art world.” She flipped open each one—she had paper-clipped—to show me. “Oh…we’re here.” I hadn’t even noticed that we had stopped and I wasn’t really certain where we were heading other than knowing the name of the company we were meeting with for lunch. “Let’s go!”

  Ireland was out of the car and on the move with me hurrying to keep up while my head was in a fog. My Daphne had actually gushed about me…or at least about my gallery and my involvement with Renaldo Rossellini…and, even, Ford James over several columns. God, how I wished that I had known so I could’ve read the article over and over on the plane ride. Fuck! I wished that I was in LA…close enough to take her in my arms and thank her…and beg her forgiveness.

  “…so these are the only people you need.” It was obvious that I had, once again, missed the beginning of Ireland’s speech as we headed inside a swanky restaurant with big glass windows and modern furnishings. “She has agreed to meet us tomorrow and I just know it is going to go splendidly,” she said while her eyes darted around the wide-opened space where everyone looked to be on display. “There she is at that table.”

  Ireland stepped through the crowd of tables and up a short flight of stairs to an equally attractive blonde woman seated alone. I followed behind swiftly and was shocked to see her pull the young woman right up out of her seat to embrace, but I loved her confidence.

  I only hoped that I could exude the same stature after the woman looked me over thoroughly as if assessing me and had me feeling a bit off as she shook my hand. “So you’re looking to shake things up a bit in the art world? You will need the right look. You’re not bad looking, that’s for certain.”

  I wasn’t sure what all of that meant exactly, but I felt pretty sure that I needed to defend myself. I was so confused…was this the woman from the company… What had Ireland said about her and tomorrow? No time to worry about the particulars when your reputation was on the line. “I am pretty good in my field…well-known by a few substantial people, but we can all use some help every now and again.” I wasn’t sure my words were helping me and I attempted another approach that would surely change things in my favor. “I think my client, Renaldo Rossellini, is a name that says it all. People are dying to know who he…or she is and why all the anonymity.”

  Bingo! It appeared that I had a winner in that last sentence, as she glanced at me as if I were about to reveal all to her. I was used to that reaction once I mention the artist. Renaldo had been compared to another infamous artist known as Banksy; both with unknown identities to their worshippers. In fact, at the relaunch of my gallery no one ever knew that Renaldo had slipped in and out without a glance in his direction.

  Telling that story to my two beautiful lunch companions had them both excited about moving forward with my client. Who wouldn’t be thrilled with the prospect of being the one to finally bring the brilliant Renaldo Rossellini into the limelight? I, also, loved that the skeptical woman was equally interested in hearing more about Ford James and his amazingly colorful twisted metal sculptures.

  As thrilled as I was with that afternoon meeting, I couldn’t stop my thoughts from running to Daphne and wishing that she was at the table. I wanted her to be part of my good fortune…my life—good and bad. I wanted it all with her. I needed to let her know that I loved her and beg her to forgive me for deceiving her. I was the one that had deceived her from the first day that I met her—telling her I was a handyman.

  What the fuck was wrong with me? It was time to right my wrongs. It was time to get home and make things right I told myself after finishing the meeting and firming up our agreement…

  “So tell us, are you really Renaldo Rossellini?” The still unidentified woman asked without allowing me time to answer as she continued, “I have tried to imagine how his paintings suddenly appear. Being an art gallery owner gives you easy access and connections.”

  “Stop, Montana! You promised me that you would behave and give my input on his appearance for our meeting with the PR company tomorrow,” Ireland reprimanded the woman who was obviously not the client. “I’m sorry, Caldwell. I told you she was bold.”

  She told me what? I had definitely not paid proper attention to Ireland and had rambled off my whole speech for the wrong person. Apparently, Montana was a good friend of Ireland’s who worked as a stylist and both of them suspected that I was my client. I assured them I was not and as soon as I could, they would both receive invitations to the true unveiling of Renaldo Rossellini. Then the lovely pair allowed me to relax a bit knowing that I was ready for my meeting the next day in the PR company’s corporate office.

  True to their words, it was a success and I was happy to wrap up my trip as I had even more important matters to take care of, immediately. So after shaking hands and signing contracts, I went straight back to my hotel room, grabbed my shit, and checked out a day early. Then caught a taxi ride to the airport before rush hour, giving me plenty of time to change my flight. I didn’t even mind that I had to pay substantially more for a ticket. I just needed to get home to my Daphne and make things right—no more deceptions.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Daphne

  “Two fucking weeks! Or is it almost three? I don’t fucking know! I just know that I have to have people in my house to photograph it on his behalf.” I let out a big breath. “I can’t fucking believe that I have to praise that…that…”

  “Dickhead!” Madison laughed while I had her on my phone speaker since she, once again, mysteriously couldn’t make it to our girl meet-up.

  That word had been used more by everyone I knew since the big shitty gallery outburst. Even I had used it to refer to Caldwell in the last week or so. I couldn’t believe that he had not contacted me. He was supposed to do what they always did in the movies—run after me, beg for my forgiveness…tell me he loved me… No such luck. True, I could’ve contacted him, but he was the one doing the name-calling. Besides, I thought I needed to give him space to c
ool down. But then, it was just rude that he never at least called or texted or emailed me in a professional manner after the article I wrote about him and his precious art world. And it was a good thing I wrote it when I did, otherwise it may not have been so nice in nature.

  “You know, you don’t have to even mention Caldwell to the home magazine interviewer or crew,” Aubree said as she flipped through an assortment of clothes I was going to take to my favorite antiquey thrift store. “And say the word if you want me to maybe go over and egg his house before I leave for school… Oh right, he doesn’t have a house.” She laughed and I shook my head. I was so going to miss Aubree dropping in unannounced as well as for our girl nights…and what was I going to do without her around to help me when the baby came?

  “I can’t do that to his brother. Tate & Sons Construction is a well-respected family-owned business and it deserves the credit.” I might not want to tell them about the work Caldwell had done inside of my house, but I wouldn’t deprive Ashton Tate. According to Fashionista Forward gossip, he might be the next big home improvement host—if he won some reality show.

  “Oh, I saw his brother. He’s smokin’ hot! You should check him out, Madison” Aubree was always snooping in my stuff.

  “I have my eye on someone…he’s all yours…sisters date brothers.” Madison giggled and I stopped myself from reminding her that I was no longer involved with one of the brothers.

  Aubree spoke up and kept me from spouting my sad rebuttal. “Not for me either. I’m off to mix it up with some hard body co-eds or maybe a hot-as-hell older professor.”

  My sister did have a thing for older guys for as long as I could remember. She nearly got sent home early from a student field trip her senior year in high school for fraternizing with a chaperon or teacher from another school. Since she was eighteen years old they really couldn’t do anything, but they still called me to complain since our parents had already passed.