Okay, here is chapter 3. Its a bit choppy.
I hope you like it.
Mistakes: of course :)
And I'd like to thank LoudButStillQuiteDeadly, xvanessaxx16 and Charlee Rayne. Thank you for the wonderful reviews :) You're the best!
Crews
"So," I started, looking around Michael's apartment. "You live here?"
"Yeah," he answered, throwing his keys on the table. "I live here."
The place was gigantic. His 'apartment' was bigger than my whole house! So when my mother was saying that it would be a big change (yes, pun intended), she wasn't kidding. If you haven't already figured this out, my mother is a selfish bitch who takes great pleasure in messing with me. The moving in with the ass wasn't enough for her; she had to make it even worse.
"I hate it," I blurted, flopping down on the sofa. It had an almost regal look about it. The carpet was a deep maroon, the couch and almost all the furniture was leather, there was art on the walls, seemingly van Gogh impressionism. And there were curtains. Seriously? Who has curtains? Real curtains without dust on them?
"Well deal with it!" Michael shouted, glaring at me. He immediately turned red. "It's just for a few weeks. Just a few weeks." The last was said as if he were trying to console himself. Wasn't this whole plan his in the first place? I knew it, I should have told him to fuck off when I had the chance, beaten him into the concrete where we sat. But no. I'm stupid and I fall for this kind of shit.
Admittedly, his outburst did kind of surprise me, especially since he usually laughed at my wonderful personality. But hey, this is me.
"Uh huh," I mumbled. "Whatever."
Michael sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer finger.
"When is your mom bringing your stuff?" he asked. I narrowed my eyes and leaned forward.
"You mean Liz? She said first thing tomorrow morning before work. Apparently she has some big client coming in, but, you know, I didn't really pay attention."
"Surprising as it may sound, I noticed that about you," he said, exasperated.
"You know, if you don't want me here, that's cool. I can move in with my friend Rob. His flat mate just moved…"
"No, its fine. I just wasn't…expecting this. I like to know about things before they happen. And yeah, I know. I'm a freak."
"You took the words right out of my mouth, Mikey."
"Please don't call me that."
"Why not? I am your pretend fiancé, right? I think I can call you whatever I want."
"Then I'll just call you Charlotte, Charlotte."
"Touché. Alright, what, just Michael?"
"Yes."
"Fine."
Besides lifting his head, Michael hadn't moved, still standing like a statue next to the kitchen table. And despite our wonderful conversation…
"I'm bored." I swung my legs onto the couch, stretching before curling up into the corner. Who would have guessed that my life could have changed so drastically, going from stupid stilettos to getting married.
Ugh, getting married. Even though it was just for show, I could feel the manacles snapping closed on my wrists and ankles, binding me forever to this freak I hardly knew. This quite, tall dark and handsome freak that I constantly had to fight the urge to kiss. What was wrong with me? I never felt this way, even when I actually liked the guy. I mean, take Rob. We hooked up once or twice and, you know, I wanted to kiss him, but never felt compelled to kiss him. This was some new bull and I did not like it.
I leaned my head back, looking at Michael. He hadn't replied and I now saw why. He had completely spaced out, staring at the wall, seeing what I no doubt would never ever see; lost in his mind, a memory. I watched him a moment longer before boredom got the best of me.
"Hello. Earth to Michael." Nothing.
"Michael, the apartments on fire." That got his attention. He looked around and then looked at me sharply.
"That was not funny."
"Yeah well, neither is being ignored. I said I'm bored. Where am I staying?" He looked at me in confusion two seconds before his eyes lit with understanding. Geez, did he forget me already?
"Of course. I'll show you around." He began walking toward the back of the apartment before I could even move. He was really fast.
"This is the kitchen, living room," he said, pointing as he walked backward acting as tour guide.
"Ooh…Ahh.." I joked.
"Very funny."
At the back wall between the kitchen and the living room was a door that Michael pushed open, holding it for me as I walked through. Whatever, I was too tired to give him lip.
The door opened onto a hallway, lined with doors on both sides. Four doors on each side, to be exact.
"Yeah, I know, bigger," he said still walking backward.
"How did you…?" I started. Michael looked at me like he had just let slip something he shouldn't have.
"This is the bathroom, two closets, your room, another spare room, steam room, deck and my room," he listed off quickly, pointing at each room in turn. His change of subject worked.
"You have a steam room?" I asked, moving toward the door he had pointed out as the steam room.
"Yeah and on the deck is a hot tub." I pulled the door of the steam room open and was assaulted by steam. My mouth dropped open.
"What, no sarcastic comment? Rude remark?" he teased opening the door to my room. It was beautiful. I felt my mouth drop open.
The red carpet from the living room extended in here, complementing the plush bedspread and velvet canopy. Two walls were painted black, holding brackets with lit candles. The other two were a cream color with more artwork swathed in golden frames. And, could it be?
"Is that the "Café Terrace on the Place du Forum?" I breathed, moving toward the painting, drawn to it like a moth to the flame. I loved Vincent van Gogh, but how did Michael know?
"Yes," he answered with a smile. "And yes, this is the real one. The one in the Muller Museum is a fake."
"Wow." Okay, this guy had seriously awed me. I had no rude remark, no crude comment, hell I didn't even want to hit him anymore. And man, maybe moving in with Michael hadn't been as bad as my mother thought it would be. Maybe I'd even like it…
"STOP!" I yelled, closing my eyes. "This isn't happening. I won't let this happen." Turning toward Michael, I moved to get right up in his face. "What are you doing to me?" I demanded, poking him in the chest with an accusatory finger.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, I can't seem to control myself around you and it is really starting to piss me off."
"Charlie, I don't seem to be following," Michael said, eyes wide with innocence. The only way I could tell he was lying was because of the smirk he just couldn't keep off his face.
"You asshole! You know exactly what I'm talking about! You take the words right out of my mouth, you know I like van Gogh. For god's sake! You have an original van Gogh in your guest room! How is it you know what I'm going to say and what I like?" Standing so close, I just wanted to lean in and…
He smirked.
"What the hell are you doing to me?"
"What? You think I'm hot and you seem to always want to kiss me," he breathed, staring down at me. "You don't have to be a mind reader to see that in your eyes. And you are very easy to read, Charlie." He smiled, looking back at the van Gogh. "As for the art, I happen to love van Gogh. I'm glad you like it too."
He looked back at me. "You know, if you love him so much, I have just the thing to show you." I narrowed my eyes as he beckoned me out of my room and toward the door he had said was his room.
"What the hell?" I asked, stopping in my tracks. Michael sighed in frustration.
"Just come on," he snapped, grabbing my hand and dragging me through his door.
Michael shut the door behind us, thrusting his room into total darkness. Unlike the rest of the apartment, there were no windows here. My eyes fought to adapt to the loss of light. When the ceiling light flared into life, I found myself momentarily blind.
As my eyes adjusted, I saw his room was completely black: the bed, the carpet, three of the walls, even his dresser was made out some black wood. The only wall not black was a creamy color and stationed right in the middle was…
"Starry Night," I gasped, once more being drawn to the silver frame.
"You know, I would have never pegged you as a lover of impressionism," Michael remarked. "I thought you would have preferred the work of da Vinci over van Gogh."
"Why would you think that?" I asked, completely mesmerized. The texture, the colors…
"Wait. Is this real too?"
"Yes," he replied. "Like New York would have the real one. Please.
"As I was saying, I though you would have gone more for the reality of da Vinci, like the Mona Lisa. The accurateness and the subject matter being what is physically seen."
"But van Gogh painted what he saw," I objected, still studying the brush strokes. "Not everyone sees the world in black and white. Van Gogh saw those shades of gray; he saw the world through unique eyes. He was brilliant."
"Well Charlie, you have surprised me once again," Michael remarked. His tone finally drew me away from the painting.
"Uh huh," I barked, finding myself once more. "Don't think that just because we like the same art it means I'm going to like you or anything. And there is no way in hell I'm going to be lured into your bedroom by this painting to sleep with you." Okay, that bit didn't make much sense, seeing as I was already in his room, the door shut, the lights easily extinguished with one small flip of a switch… NO!
"Good night!" I shouted, heading for the door. Before I could blink he was there, blocking my way.
"So you won't sleep with me?" he smirked.
"In your dreams," I snapped, pushing him aside.
"Good night Charlie," Michael whispered. I barely heard him as I walked out, slamming the door behind me.
There was something really wrong with me. Finally outside his room, I walked down the hall to my room. Once inside, I shut the door softly and pressed my back to the wood, sliding down to the floor. I really just couldn't understand anything.
How did Michael have original van Gogh's in his apartment? And he must be good at reading people because I've been told my face resembles granite; I never show what I'm thinking. And the way he seems to take the words right out of my mouth! There was definitely something wrong with this place, with Michael. I'm not a stupid person and I'm sure as hell not going to reveal the secrets he's keeping.
Slowly getting to my feet, I made my way to the bed, pulling down the covers and sliding in. It was so soft, and I was so tired…
A bright glow pressed against my eyelids. Moving from side to side, I couldn't get away from it. With a sigh, I opened my eyes and stared around me in confusion. Where was I? My eyes fixed on the painting and yesterday's events came tumbling back. I pulled the covers over my head with a groan. I was so not getting up.
"Rise and shine Charlie!" Michael yelled, pounding on the door. "Get up! Your mom is here!"
"Shit!" I yelled, throwing the covers off and groping for my phone. 6:30 a.m. "God damn," I grumbled, stumbling to the door.
"Good morning. So you like to start your day with curses?" Michael asked as I opened the door. There was no sleep in his face or his eyes. He looked wide awake and way too good for this early in the morning.
"Ugh. Shut it! You're way too chipper this morning," I grumbled. "Where is Liz?"
"Oh, she's already gone," he replied. "I have your bag." He held the bag out to me, revealing my orange duffel. I pulled the door open further, motioning for him to toss it on the bed.
Michael came in, setting the bag on the bed as I followed rubbing my eyes.
"How did you sleep?" he asked, watching me. He took a seat on the bed.
"Wonderful," I mumbled. I unzipped my bag and dumping the contents out. On the very top was every thong I owned. I looked at the pile, not really understanding what it was I was seeing. It was when I looked at Michael who was shaking with laughter that it finally sunk in. My mother was being funny.
"Ugh, great," I said, snatching the thongs off the top and pushing them to the bottom.
"I never pegged you…"
"Don't even think of finishing that sentence," I warned. I was awake now, and if my mom had decided to pack all my thongs…
"Shit!" I yelled, digging through the clothes. She had packed all the clothes that I refused to wear. No where was there a Bullet For My Valentine or Papa Roach or Three Days Grace t-shirt or any jeans. Instead, everything was flowery, frilly crap that I had buried at the back of my closet. Dresses, shorts in pastel colors.
At least she had packed my face wash and make-up. I would have died without those…
"I take it you don't like this," Michael laughed, holding up a flowery yellow dress. I snatched it back.
"She does this on purpose! She is so infuriating!"
"Oh, I don't know. I kind of like these," he laughed, digging down and holding up a thong.
"Uh huh," I snorted, snatching those back as well. "Like you'll ever see these again."
"Touchy touchy."
"Get out," I snapped. I grabbed all the clothes and began stuffing them back into the bag. I sighed. "I'm going to need to go home today."
"Don't bother. Liz said that she had donated everything else. This is it." I clenched my hands into fists in frustration.
"Then I'm going to need to go shopping. I need to go to Hot Topic. I can't wear this crap."
"We'll go out later," he said. "Right now, it is time for breakfast." Okay…
"You made breakfast?"
"Yeah," he answered, getting up and heading for the door.
"I'll be there in a minute," I said, grabbing my face wash and heading toward the bathroom. Once my face was clean and I had made up my face, I walked down the hall and into the kitchen. It smelled like heaven!
There were eggs and pancakes set out on the table. And juice. I love juice and he had pomegranate, orange, and cranberry. And…
"Coffee," I breathed. I poured myself a cup.
"Milk or sugar?" Michael asked, pouring himself a cup of orange juice.
"No, I'm fine," I answered, taking a sip. Ahh…
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Someone's at the door," I said, helping myself to the pancakes. Michael didn't move, looking at the door in surprise. "Are you going to get it?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, getting up. He reached the door and unlocked it.
"Good morning sweetheart," a woman said, walking into the kitchen. She was beautiful with big blue eyes in a pale face framed with dirty blonde hair. She was wearing a low cut dark blue tee, a jean mini skirt. And her shoes. She was wearing 6 inch black stilettos. She quickly gave Michael two quick pecks on each cheek. "I was thinking we could go out today, maybe see a movie or…" she stopped, catching sight of me. "Who is this?"
I stabbed a piece of pancake with my fork.
"I'm Charlie," I replied, taking a bite. "Who are you?"
"Michael!" she cried, turning toward him. "What is going on?" Since the woman had walked in, Michael had looked both surprised and as if he was in pain. By now, both me and the woman were staring at him, waiting for an explanation.
"Charlie, this is Beatrice," he said. "Beatrice, this is Charlie. My fiancé."