If I Were You(Inside Out 01)

Chapter Twenty-One

Description: butterfly

I use Chris’s soap and shampoo; it has a sandalwood musky smell that reminds me of him, and makes me wish he’s in the shower with me. Images of the things we’ve done together, the conversations we’ve shared, pour through me as the hot water pours over me. Chris confuses me on every possible level. Or maybe I’m confused anyway. Until this past week, I’d convinced myself I had life figured out. Did I let my father beat me by leaving everything behind? Part of me says no. I escaped with my own identity. I stood up for what I believed in. My love of art had been like my mother’s, a frivolous hobby, not a career. My role would have been like my mother’s, that of servitude to my father, and in my case, also Michael.
Another part of me, well, it grimly says that I ran rather than stood up to my father and demanded he accept who and what I am, not who he wanted me to be. I’d always hoped my mother would stand up for herself, and what had I done? I’d simply left. I’d run. Chris is right. No wonder I wanted to hit the man. He’d made me see the bitter, hard truth of my actions. He’d made me wish I’d been braver, made me see I’d lost five years of my life I can never get back. Still, I don’t want to see my father. I don’t want his damn money. I can’t be certain I’d have stayed in my current state of mind, but I would have fought for my dream, rather than hiding from everything. Wasn’t that the entire reason I left? To be me? I inhale and let it out. Me. I don’t know myself.
My stomach is officially in knots and I turn off the water. I did run. I can’t deny it. Damn it to Hell, I’m furious with myself. But I can create my own life and success now that I’ve decided to try. Resolve forms deep in my soul, where I’ve not felt anything for a long while…until Chris. I am going to embrace what is before me, including this weekend with Chris. Chris is my escape. This new job is my hope.
Pushing open the glass doors, I wrap myself in a fluffy white towel I’d found in a cabinet and wish for my clothes. Chris might dig up a shirt for me, but I’m sure he knows I need more for the weekend. We’ll have to make time to stop by my place, and the idea bothers me. My place. My little hole in the wall the size of Chris’s bedroom and bathroom. It shouldn’t matter but somehow it does.
Stepping to the vanity mirror, I find the hair dryer easily since it’s sitting on the shiny white tiled counter. Hair products are crucial though and I pull open the spacious medicine chest to hunt some down. Chris’s electric shaver, and various toiletries, including cologne and lotion are inside. No hair products. He has such great hair, and it’s as long as his chin, so it must require gel or some kind or product.
I start to close the cabinet, and hesitate, picking up the cologne, and spraying it in the air, drawing in the familiar scent of Chris, warm and wonderful, and strong in ways I’ve never experienced before. If you think the guy trying to protect you instead of walk all over you is the one trying to run your life, you’re just as f*cked up as I am. Ah yes, I think. Exactly. I am. So is he. We are destruction waiting to happen to each other; he’s a drug, as Rebecca had called the man in the journal, I’m already addicted to.
I shake off the thought and return the cologne to the cabinet. Still without hair products, I decide to focus on my makeup. Grabbing my purse, I pull out the journal to get to my makeup and set it on the counter, staring at it like it’s some exploding device. “Where are you?” I whisper softly, but I’m not sure I’m talking to her or me. I am lost in her life, and I wonder if I want to be found? Does she want to be found wherever she is? Has she escaped into a new life like I have?
With Rebecca on my mind, I focus on creating a soft, natural look with my makeup and I finish with lip gloss. With no hair products, I turn on the dryer, and wish for some straightening serum. Ten minutes later, my hair is dry and a bit wild. I’d kill for a flat iron right now.
I drop the towel and grab the robe, wrapping it around me, ready to find my clothes. I pause at the medicine cabinet and open it again, reaching for Chris’s cologne and squirting it all over me. Inhaling, I draw in the spicy scent and smile. I like smelling like Chris.
Tentatively, I pull open the door to the bathroom and Chris is nowhere to be found, but the bedroom door is open. My bare feet touch the hardwood floor and my gaze settles on the massive bed. On top are a good seven or eight bags, all from two high-end brand name stores I know are in the building next door. On the floor is a woman’s Louis Vuitton travel case which would sport a $2500 price tag.
My throat goes dry and my chest hurts. I walk toward the items and when I reach the bags I see they are packed with clothes, shoes, and even, yes, bath items and a flat iron. A very expensive flat iron that puts my bargain special to shame.
I’ve been in the shower maybe forty-five minutes and somehow he’s pulled off an entire shopping spree. Or rather, he called downstairs and the staff jumped through hoops. These are expensive items, thousands of dollars expensive.
My heart begins to thunder in my chest. These are all stores I used to shop at. Stores I enjoyed. Sure, I left the money behind, but a more humble life hasn’t been easy. I’ve found a place to store away the hunger for more, along with everything else associated with my past. I’d convinced myself I was fine, that I don’t need these things. That I didn’t care. But staring at these bags, there is an ache inside me, and I know it’s not simply about nice things. It’s about everything I left behind, about how easily that old life forgot me, even if I didn’t forget it.
“Anything you don’t like we can take back when we get back to the city.”
I turn to find Chris standing in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the doorjamb, looking sexy and all man. “I can’t take these clothes, Chris.”
He pushes off the doorjamb. “Of course you can.”
“No. No, I can’t.” I feel panic rising inside me.
He stops in front of me. “Sara-“
“I just want to run by my place and get my things.”
“I made us reservations someplace special. We have more than an hour’s drive. We need to get on the road right away.”
“Chris.” There is desperation in my voice I can’t suppress. ”I can’t take these things.”
“Sara, baby, if it’s about money, that’s not an issue. I want to spend it on you.” He slides his hands to my cheeks, framing my face. “You’ve spent five years without the nice things you grew up knowing. Let me do this for you. I want to do this for you.”
“Chris--”
“You can’t tell me you don’t miss these things.”
“I do fine with the simple life.”
“That’s not the point. You have to miss these things.”
Denial is on my lips, but he’s watching me closely, and he’s too smart to not see the truth. “Out of sight, out of mind. It’s how I cope, not like this.”
He runs a hand through my hair. He’s gentle and I fight the urge to lean into him, aware it will lesson my position. “You think I’m going to get you used to nice things and then leave.”
“I know you are, Chris.”
He presses his forehead to mine, strokes my cheek. “I told you. You’ll be the one who’ll run away, not me.”
Me? Run away from him? He keeps saying that and now more than ever, it confuses me. Mr. No White Picket Fence, and no relationship, is sounding like he’s in this to stay and I’m not. His actions and words don’t compute and there is deep-seated need inside me rising and taking shape. A relationship with Chris beyond sex is becoming far too appealing to be safe. I don’t want to fall for him. I don’t want to convince myself there is more between us than there is. “Chris--”
He kisses me, a long, deep, drugging kiss that leaves me panting. “Get dressed, baby.” He nuzzles my neck and pulls back, a surprised look on his face. “Are you wearing my cologne?” And the erotic heat in his eyes burns away my objections about these gifts.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I like smelling like you.”
The yellow flecks I adore in his green eyes burn nearly orange. “I like you smelling like me.” He kisses me again, his tongue stroking mine in a deep, seductive caress before he sets me away from him. “Get dressed before I don’t let you.” He turns and heads out the door, shutting it behind him.
I stare after him, feeling dazed, and my confusion ranks as perpetual. He really wants me to have these clothes, I realize. And more so, it feels like he wants me to have them to please me, not him. Though I’d not allowed myself to have the thought upon seeing the bags, deep down I’d feared he was trying to make me fit some acceptable mold before taking me to a public place he knows well. I’ve been there, done that, lived in the place where I had to meet standards to be seen in public.
But no. I don’t believe Chris needs me to fit some perfect image to be on his arm. I felt his sincere desire to do this for me. Emotion wells inside me. This is the first time since my mother died that I truly feel cared about. It matters to me. Chris is beginning to matter to me. I have to take the gifts.
My gaze falls on the bags. Maybe I do need these things. They will motivate me to study and earn a place at Riptide. It’s not like before, when there was no hope of extra income. Yes. I am good with this. Chris is helping to motivate me. 
Nevertheless, there’s a knot in my stomach as I go through the items and pack the suitcase, finding several dresses, a pair of boots, several heels, lingerie and toiletries. The lingerie is beautiful and expensive, and my blood heats thinking of wearing it for Chris. Since we are traveling and I have no idea where we’re going, I decide to go casual since Chris is in his typical biker gear.
After trying on a few items and picking my favorites, I choose a pair of slim black jean leggings and a sleek camel-colored blouse with sequins. The outfit is complete with a pair of high-heeled boots that lace up to my ankles. Beneath it all, I am wearing a cream-colored jeweled bra and thong set I’d pulled a ridiculous price tag from.
The flat iron is a relief, and I quickly put it to use, and note that I also have a curling iron for later use. For now, thanks to a high quality flat iron, and some styling products also in the bags, my hair falls in sleek, shiny brunette waves down my shoulders. I glance at the two kinds of perfume that were included but I choose to spray on another dollop more of Chris’s cologne.
Finally, I’m ready and I head to the living room with my new Vuitton bag in tow. Chris is sitting in a leather chair, legs propped up on an ottoman and a sketch pad in hand. He sets the pad aside the instant he sees me and stands up.
“You look beautiful, Sara.”
“Thank you. I wasn’t sure how to dress.”
He walks towards me, all loose-legged swagger and hotness. “You would have been perfect no matter what you chose. You are perfect.”
No one in my life has ever said that to me but my mother. That it’s Chris saying it now, that he is saying it with appreciation glowing in his hot gaze, warms me in ways well beyond the words.
He strokes a lock of my hair behind my ear, something I’m becoming accustomed to him doing, but I still shiver from the gentleness of the touch. “Ready to leave?”
“Yes. Where are we going?”
His lips curve. God, he has great lips. “I told you, baby. It’s a surprise.”
More of the emotion I’d felt in the bedroom, rises inside me. “Chris--”
“Don’t thank me. Just be with me, Sara.”
“I am. I want to be.”
His lips curve. “Good.” He motions toward the exit. “Let’s blow this joint, then, aye?”
I laugh. “Aye.” 
We head to the elevator, me pulling my roller Vuitton and him with a black leather case he throws over his shoulder. There is a raw energy and excitement in the air, and we glance at each other and smile. I’ve never had that kind of energy with anyone. I feel suddenly light and free. This is an adventure. Chris is an adventure.
We exit in a garage and I immediately spot not one, not two, but three Harleys, and stop dead in my tracks. “Holy cow, they’re all yours, aren’t they?”
He grins. “Yeah. You ever been on one?”
I shake my head.
“We’ll have to fix that soon.” He clicks his key ring and the Porsche’s lights flicker.
We approach the car and next to it I admire a sky blue, classic Mustang that’s been remodeled. “Is this yours too?” I ask, pausing beside it.
“I have a thing for remodeling old Mustangs.”
“How many do you have?”
“Five.”
I blink at him. I know he has money. I know he’s sold a lot of work. But still. “How rich are you, Chris?”
He barks out a laugh, his eyes twinkling. He knows I’ve mimicked his words when he’d asked about my father. “My father was an accomplished musician and well paid for his craft. My mother was Danielle Wright — as in the founder of the cosmetic line that still exists today.”
Holy crap. He inherited a fortune on top of what he makes himself. “Do you own Danielle Wright Cosmetics?”
“I’m not a boardroom kind of guy. I sold out years ago and re-invested in things of more interest.”
Stunned does not describe what I feel. “You’re filthy rich, aren’t you?”
He laughs. “It depends on how you define filthy, sweetheart.” He wiggles a brow and opens the door to the Porsche.
“You don’t seem that rich. I mean, clearly you have money, but you don’t act like it.”
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or an insult.” He doesn’t look insulted though, more entertained.
I study him a long moment, trying to see something I’ve missed in him. Some hint of what makes him like my father, or Michael—who rides my father’s coattails and acts like he’s successful on his own--but I see nothing. He doesn’t treat people like they are beneath him. In fact, when he’d given me the clothes, he’d acted like wearing them was a favor to him, not an honor he’d bestowed upon me.
I lean forward, push to my toes, and kiss him on his sexy, perfect mouth. “It’s a compliment, Chris. In every way possible.” I pull back and see a flicker of surprise on his face before I slide into the car, letting the soft leather absorb my weight. He said I was never what he expected. He is never what I expect. And when Chris slips behind the wheel, and revs the engine of the 911 into a soft purr, I do not think about the car’s connection to my father. I revel in how utterly male and sexy Chris is as he maneuvers the sleek vehicle onto the highway.
We are weaving through several side streets and Chris cranks up the radio to the old AC/DC song ‘Back in Black’ and I laugh. “Old school rock n’ roll? I guess it goes with a Mustang obsession.”
“I use music to paint by. This one reminds me of a particular work I created not so long ago.”
“Every piece of art has a song attached?” I’m thrilled to see inside his creative process.
“Some pieces I play the same song over and over. Some I have a collection of songs I use.”
“And this song goes to what work?”
“A ‘Stormy Night‘ San Fran  piece I sold at auction last year.”
We begin to cross the Bay Bridge and I am growing curious about our destination, but not as curious as I am about Chris. “A Dark Sea ,” I say, knowing exactly the work he means.
He casts me a sideways look. “You do know your art and artists, don’t you?”
I smile and sink lower into my seat, wondering if I will truly know this artist. “It sold for an astounding amount of money, Chris.” Seven figures.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “It did.”
I turn to face him, studying his profile. “How does it feel to have people pay seven figures for your creation?”
“Like validation.”
It’s not the answer I expect. “Surely you’re well beyond needing validation?” He steers the car out of the city and onto a major highway.
“I create in solitude and then take whatever I put on the canvas out to the world. And not all of my work sells for big money. A lot doesn’t.”
“You make millions a year on your art, Chris. That’s big money.”
“It’s not about the money. I donate most of it anyway.”
“You donate your art proceeds?”
“That’s right.”
“To whom?”
“Some years back, I was talked into an event held at the Los Angeles Children’s Hospital and it was pretty mind-blowing. All those brave kids, and the parents who were dying inside right along with them. I knew I had to do what I could to help and I have since.”
He donates his money to save dying children. There are so many layers to this man — deep, dark, wonderful layers. I know he’s f*cked up. I know he’s damaged. I know this need to help children must call to some part of him that’s raw and bleeding. Which part?
“Have you guessed where we’re going?” he asks, before I can find the words to express how much I admire what he’s doing.
I glance around and realize we are on highway 29 North. “Napa Valley?” And it hits me he’s taking me to a winery to show his support of my career.
“Have you ever been?”
I laugh. “No. I wasn’t kidding when I said I have zero knowledge of wine. Well, I guess now I can say I have some knowledge but not much.”
“We’ll fix that,” he promises.
My lips curve. I’m going to my first winery. I’ve always thought it would be a neat thing to do. “I’m excited, Chris. Thank you.”
He grabs my hand and kisses it, cutting me a mischievous look. “I’m looking forward to having you alone and well wined.”
I bite my lip. “Chivalry will get you everywhere.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“You didn’t sleep much,” he comments. “Maybe you should rest your eyes so you can enjoy our getaway.”
“What about you? You slept less than me.”
“I slept enough. Rest, baby. This is the one place you can count on me letting you sleep this weekend.”
My lips curve. “Sounds like I should take a nap.” I let my eyes shut, the soft hum of the car vibrating through me, and Chris at the wheel. I find I am more relaxed than I have been in a very long time.