From Bully To Beloved

SERA

Being the supervisor, I’m the last one to leave. I complete my end-of-shift chores and make sure we’re prepped for the morning before I lock up “The Diner.” That’s it, that’s what it’s called: The Diner. I once asked Marie why she called it that and her answer was simple, but super clever: She wanted people to always think of her place each time someone said, “The Diner.”

One subway ride later, I’m back at the apartment. I find myself wondering if my new place should be closer to work, so I don’t have to spend so much on commuting. Maybe I should connect with a real estate agent and determine what’s out there.

Or maybe I should wait. It’s still a bit premature for that.

Lost in thought, I walk through the door, only to trip over Cal’s boots-again. Goddammit. Every single time. This is ridiculous, I think, kicking them to the side. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was doing this on purpose.

I’m taking off my coat and muttering swear words under my breath while I step out of my shoes, placing them so they’re not in front of the damn door.

Coltonemerges from the kitchen a moment later, looking good in his light-blue T-shirt and jeans. “I thought I heard your mumbling,” he says. “I grabbed dinner on the way home.”

“Oh.” It’s kinda cute he thinks about me. Hedoeshave a good side, I have to admit. “You headed out again?”

“No, not tonight. Come on.”

“Great, I’m starving.”

He takes the seat across from me, and we both fill our plates in silence. I’m more than happy to take a little bit of everything. Avocado roll here, some white rice there, ooooh sweet potato tempura! And oshinko rolls! Dear God, living with this man is going to make me put on ten pounds.

Mentally, I’ve forgiven him for the boots this time, only because I’m very excited about our dinner. This is also the first time since we went to the bar that we’re sharing a meal. It would be nice if Coltonwasn’t so sullen. He hasn’t said anything since we started eating and I can tell that something is bothering him. His brow is furrowed and he’s not making small talk.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“You’re not the only one who had a long day. It’s the contractor I hired. I had to fire him. I’ve been keeping an eye on him since I got back into town, and today it became apparent that he was trying to bleed me for more money. He was buying more expensive parts so the job would cost more, and he’s getting a hefty commission from his company.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I had a feeling this was going to happen, so I already had another contractor lined up. But he’s got to wrap up the job he’s working on, which means I’ll have to step in until he’s free. Not exactly what I wanted to do, but these guys need someone to keep them on track. If I don’t, we’ll fall even more behind schedule, and I can’t let that happen. We have deliveries lined up, and some bikes are already being shipped. Thankfully, I shouldn’t have to cover for more than a couple of days.”

It’s at that moment that I’m struck with what a monumental task he’s undertaken. Yes, he’s done it before. He has businesses on the West Coast. But I imagine this is different. From what I understand, he purchased the other dealerships. This one, though, he’s building from the ground up.

Damn. Honestly, that’s kind of hot.

“I’ve never asked you what you’re going to do with your inheritance,” I say, digging into my food. “Are you going to keep this place?”

Coltonshakes his head, picking up a pair of chopsticks. “No, I won’t. Vance told me the landlord is selling the building within the next year or two. If there’s room in Gran’s storage locker, I’ll put all of this,” he motions around the room, “in there until I have a chance to get these antiques appraised, and then buy a larger place with a private garage. What about you?”

“I want to find a new place too,” I say. “My apartment is so small. I barely have room for myself. I want a nice, big open loft with plenty of space. Large windows that look over the city as I sit in front of an equally large canvas with my hands covered in charcoal.”

“Are you ever going to show me your work?” Coltonasks.

Just the thought of showing him anything I’ve drawn makes my heart race. “Nope.”

I’m not going to tell him about that stupid article or how it shot my confidence to hell. I’m also not going to tell him that my sketchbook is mostly nude bodies, including drawings of my ex. People are weird about nude drawings.

Especially men.

My ex-boyfriend, Chase, wasn’t supportive of my art. He wouldn’t be mean or discourage me from drawing per se, but he wasn’t particularly interested, nor did he go out of his way to encourage me to keep it up.

“Draw my dick bigger,” he always used to say. Such a man. Such a douche.

Just to get a rise out of him, I sometimes drew his dick smaller. You know, for example on days after he forgot Valentine’s Day, or it slipped his mind that I’d wanted a chocolate ice cream cone too (and no, I wasnoton another diet, jerk), or he overlooked the fact that I had a clit, and rolled over after sex.

Then, when he peeked at my drawing and protested, I’d tell him that that was the already-enhanced version. He would getsomad. Especially when I’d draw his nuts smaller too.

Kicking his ass out was the smartest thing I ever did. I still have the drawings of him, only because they’re some of my best work.

“Why not?” Coltonasks.

“I just don’t want to,” I tell him, although there is a third, much more important reason.

I’ll never forget when Mom gave me my first sketchbook. I would take it to school every day to draw whenever I had a spare minute. I should have known that I was never safe from Colton Ashton, but he managed to add to my humiliation.

“Let me see!” This time he didn’t even wait before snatching the sketchbook from me. “Oooooh, Nosy Sera is an artist!”

He opened the book and ripped out a page. He might as well have ripped my heart out.

“What’sthat?” He dropped the sketchbook in the dirt. He seemed happy to do that with everything I owned. Then he faced the sheet of paper and pretended to look at it intently. “Hey, guys,” he called over his shoulder. Immediately, his stupid friends gathered around him. “Look at this fugly drawing!”

I jumped towards him. Colton reached out and held up the drawing of my mom. Even though Colton and I were the same age, he was already a head taller than me, and it gave him pleasure to make me jump. All I could do was stare at him with all my hate, which not only didn’t bother him but seemed to encourage him.

“Fugly, fugly,” he sang, and his friends took up the chant.

I was soon surrounded by idiots who were laughing at me and kicking the sketchbook around like a soccer ball. Colton fished a lighter out of his pocket and burned the torn-out drawing before my eyes. How he’d got hold of a lighter remained a mystery to me.

I didn’t cry this time. I never wanted to cry over Colton Ashton again.

When Coltonburned my drawing back then, at least he didn’t take away the joy of drawing, unlike a certain art critic did years later.

Coltonpulls me out of my memories. “Eventually you’re going to have to share your art if you want to sell it.”

Oh really? And then what? Will I be watching my art burst into flames again? But I don’t say that. Instead, I nod. “You’re right. And when I’m ready for that, I will.”

The conversation falls off after that. We both dig into our food and are too busy eating to keep talking. I finish everything on my plate, and all I can think about is the clawfoot tub that’s calling my name. In one of the bathroom drawers, I found bath bombs in a little bowl, ready for me to use.Property © 2024 N0(v)elDrama.Org.

I get up from the table and take my plate to the dishwasher, putting it away. Once that’s done, I barely make it two steps down the hall before Coltoncalls after me again.

“Dammit, Sera.”

“What?” I call back. “I put the dishes in the dishwasher like you asked. What the hell is your problem this time?”

I spin around on my heel, and my bra is dangling from his finger.

With a huff, I walk back and snatch it from him. “Ugh, can you give it a rest for one second?”

“I knew you’d forget.”

“Life is too short to bother,” I argue. “I have more important things to think about than making sure everything is in its place.”

“It’s not about putting things in their place. It’s about treating your stuff and your home with care. Also, a tidy environment promotes a clear mind.”

Okay, I have to admit that I often lack a “clear mind.” But the thing about treating your home with care is wrong. “I’m an artist,” I protest, starting to talk myself into a rage. At the same time, the thought of the devastating review crosses my mind, and I feel like an imposter. Me, an artist?”At work, I’m the neatest person you can imagine. You’re saying because I don’t clean up after myself right away here, in my private space, that means I don’t care? That’s a little extreme.”

“It’s not extreme,” he rumbles. “It’s a fact.”

“Oh, my God, You’re such a weirdo! I can’t believe I considered kissing you.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize I meant to say them in my head.

Definitely not out loud.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The expression on his face only annoys me further. He breaks out into a wide grin and crosses his arms, leaning against the wall.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” he teases. “You want to run that by me again?”

Briefly, I think about backtracking or running away to the bathroom and locking the door. It isn’t against the terms of the deal for me to live out of the bathroom for the rest of the month, right? I can make that work.

There’s air. There’s water. There’s-

“I’m all ears,” he presses.

“I may have had a brief, briefthought about kissing you, but trust me, it was a momentary lapse of judgment. Don’t read anything into it. It definitely won’t happen.”

He looks so damn smug.

Annoyance creeps up in me as I stare in his handsomesmugface.

My gaze lands on his lips.

“I don’t blame you,” he says with a shrug. “I’m a catch. I’m an attractive man.” He waits until our eyes meet, and his voice grows darker. “You’re a magnificent woman. We’re only human.”

Hold up. Wait a minute.

Did he just say that I’m magnificent?

First, he said I was beautiful. Now, I’m magnificent. Where are all these compliments coming from all of a sudden?

Wait. Does that mean hefindsme magnificent or justthinksI’m magnificent-because there’s a difference.

I clear my throat, and ask, “Have you had those thoughts about me?”

He’s not even a little embarrassed when he nods. “I woke up in the middle of the night with a woman lying on me in a thin nightie,” he rumbles. “Of course I thought about it.”

Oh, boy. “Well, stop thinking about it because it’s not going to happen.”

To my surprise, he pushes off the wall and takes a step forward.

The hallway isn’t big, so there’s nowhere for me to go. At least, that’s what I tell myself when I don’t immediately back up. In reality, the heat from his body prevents me from stepping away. He smells like musk and his cedar aftershave.

It’s an intoxicating combination that just screams “man.”

It’s been so long since I’ve been with a guy. It’s been so long since I’ve shared closeness and intimacy with a beautiful, strong man. That’s gotta be why I want to run my hands under that shirt and feel his sculpted abs.

“Look me in the eye,” he says, leaning in, his lips almost brushing my ear, “and tell me you don’t feel any kind of attraction to me.”

I hate that I have to swallow past a lump in my throat. I hate that my nipples instantly grow hard at his proximity and words alone. Is he reading my mind?

No, of course not, that’s dumb. He can’t read minds.

Quick, Sera.

Lie. Lie through your teeth!

“I don’t feel any attraction to you.” Dammit, why do I sound breathless? Why is my voice shaking? Shit, even I do not believe me.