| |
Ford
––––––––
"If I understand correctly," Dr. Richard Wilkes intoned after Ford had explained his problem. "You believe that you're obsessed with this woman because you find her sexually attractive."
"No," Ford corrected impatiently. "I'm obsessed with fucking her."
"Are they not the same thing?"
"Not even close," he denied and slouched lower in the ridiculously comfortable beanbag chair. The crazy doc's office hadn't changed a bit since his first visit a decade ago, right down to the beaded curtains covering the windows instead of drapes. It was still circa 1960s from the wood-paneled walls to the green shag rug.
"Explain the difference to me."
"Sexual attraction is nothing compared to this. I dream about fucking this woman while I sleep. Fantasize about it when I'm awake," he elaborated as his gaze roved over the collection of vintage and modern Matchbox cars that filled an entire wall of shelving. "I don't know any other way to explain it other than I'm obsessed with fucking her."
"So, you believe that you're fixated on the intercourse and not the woman."
"Yes," Ford agreed as his gaze returned to the shrink seated across from him on a matching beanbag.
Wilkes hadn't changed much either in the intervening years. An old hippie with long grey hair and John Lennon glasses, he could easily be mistaken for Dr. Okun from the movie Independence Day. The good doctor was still a dichotomy. His rapier sharp intellect and precise articulation were at odds with his bohemian style.
His attire of choice was a loose linen tunic unbuttoned to mid-chest, chinos, an assortment of beaded leather necklaces and bracelets, and of course, Birkenstock sandals with socks. Stylish, he was not, but Ford wasn't paying the man's exorbitant fees for fashion advice. Eccentric or not, Wilkes was still the best damn shrink around.
"Interesting. Have you ever obsessed about another woman?"
"No."
"When did it begin?"
"When I met her a year ago."
"Have you had intercourse with other women since then?"
"No."
If the admission that an infamous playboy like Ford had been celibate for a year surprised the good doctor, he didn't let it show. The man merely asked, "Why not?"
"Tried a couple of times. Couldn't go through with it," he admitted. The woman he'd been dating was as curvaceous as a mountain road, but from the moment he'd laid eyes on Callie, she'd left him cold. So had everyone else he'd dated in the interim. "It just felt wrong to fuck a woman while wishing she was someone else."
"Have you had intercourse with... I don't believe you mentioned her name."
Ford was hesitant to reveal her identity. It was one thing to discuss an anonymous person with the doctor, but mentioning Callie by name felt like a violation of sorts. His protective instincts had him replying, "Nor do I intend to."
"We have to call her something."
"Feathers," he suggested as a wicked smile curved his lips. "We'll call her Feathers."
"Your smile suggests there is a reason for that moniker."
"Because she's a sexy as fuck peacock."
There was a prolonged silence before the doctor responded. "Ford, are you telling me that you want to have intercourse with a bird?"
"Fuck no," he denied emphatically. "She was wearing a peacock costume the first time I saw her."
"Getting back on topic," the doctor began and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Have you had intercourse with Feathers?"
"I wish," he complained and stretched his legs out to cross them at the ankles. "I'm hoping that when I do the obsession will end."
"Interesting," the doctor said again. "Why do you think it would?"
"I'm banking on the get-it-out-of-your-system theory."
"What if that doesn't work?"
"Why wouldn't it?"
"I don't believe that intercourse is the source of your obsession," the doctor opined. "I believe it is Feathers."
"What makes you think that?" He demanded and sat up straight.
"If it was just intercourse then the dreams and fantasies could be about anyone, but you stated that Feathers is the only woman in them, the only woman you desire," he imparted. "You need to determine what it is about this woman that makes her special enough to warrant your obsession."
"How the hell am I supposed to do that?"
"How well do you know her?" He asked instead of answering, which was typical and annoying as fuck.
"We're basically strangers."
"I suggest you get to know her. Find out what it is about her that captured your attention enough to form an obsession," he suggested.
Ford scowled at the doctor and complained, "That may prove difficult to accomplish."
"How so?"
"It cost me thirty grand just to get a date with her."
The doctor blinked twice before replying, "Are you saying that Feathers is a paid companion?"
"Fuck no," he denied defensively, pissed that the shrink would even suggest such a thing about her. "It was a charity bachelorette auction. I won a date that she refuses to go on."
"Why did she refuse?"
"Because she hates me."
"I thought you said you were strangers."
"We are, which is why I'm so fucking confused."
"I seem to be experiencing the same dilemma," the doctor agreed and pinched the bridge of his nose again. "Our time is up, so tell my secretary to work you into my schedule again tomorrow. Preferably for a longer session. We need to delve deeper into this obsession."
"Hopefully by then I'll have convinced her to go on a date and none of this will be necessary," he said optimistically.
"One can but hope," Dr. Wilkes sighed.
––––––––
Callie
––––––––
Callie woke to the sound of a drum crescendo inside her skull and a roiling sensation in her gut. Gingerly lifting her head, she stared bleary-eyed at a drape covered wall of floor to ceiling windows. Nope. This was not her bedroom. That unpleasant thought was disturbing enough to have her sitting up in a panic for a better look around.
After shoving the hair off of her face, the lavish décor identified it as the guest room of Bastion's private suite at Opulent, his New York resort. With a sigh of relief, she laid back against the pillows and closed her eyes. That could only mean that she and Soraya had drunk way too much and he'd brought her here to sleep it off.
Considering the fact that she felt like death warmed over, she wondered how her friend was doing. A glance at the clock on the nightstand revealed it was six A.M. Damn. She'd wasted an entire day thanks to Ford fucking Hammersmith. When would that man cease to wreak havoc with her life?
Determined to put him out of her mind, she rose and ordered room service before indulging in a long, hot shower. While drinking a pot of coffee on the patio, she sent a text to check on Soraya and doubted the other woman was up yet. If so, her friend was probably feeling as bad as she was, so she didn't expect a response any time soon.
Once she arrived at her office with the hangover from hell, she stopped dead in her tracks and glared sheer venom at the two identical vases of roses that now resided on opposite ends of her desk. Jesus Christ. The bastard had sent another one! It was on the tip of her tongue to demand her assistant throw them out before she decided against it.
There was no sense in drawing attention to her aversion to the flowers, or the sender, so she'd just ignore them as if they weren't there. Easier said than done. The damn things taunted her every time she looked up. So did the cards that she hadn't bothered to read. There had been no need. After all, she knew that Ford had sent them.
The umpteenth time she caught herself staring at them, Callie made a sound of disgust before she snatched the vases up and placed them on the credenza behind her. Out of sight, out of mind, she hoped. Although she wasn't able to resist the temptation of removing the cards and reading them.
The first one merely read, Dinner? 555-555-3673. The second read, Dancing? Above the same phone number. She dropped both of them into the shredder next to her desk. Hopefully, her complete lack of response would deter the bastard and he'd leave her alone. It was just too bad that she didn't have a bit of faith in that logic.
Callie knew from experience just how persistent Ford could be when he wanted something. Sadly, the heartless bastard wanted her again. The man couldn't have picked a worse time because distractions were the last thing that she needed. Preparing for the upcoming New York Fashion Week was nerve-wracking enough.
Much to her complete disgust, her mind kept returning to thoughts of Ford, so when her mobile phone rang, she quickly answered without looking at the caller ID. "Hello?"
"Hello, sweet Callie."
Chills danced up her spine and heat flashed through her extremities. She'd know that seductively smooth voice anywhere. It was her worst nightmare after all. "How the hell did you get my number?"
"Jacinda was happy to give it to me when I told her that I needed to set up our date," he replied smugly. "She sends her love, by the way."
She muttered a particularly vile expletive under her breath. Jacinda Ames had organized the damn charity auction. If she'd known her friend would reveal her private number, she would have instructed her to give the office number instead. "There will be no date," she insisted. "Don't call me again."
Callie ended the call, tossed her phone on the desk, and buried her face in her hands. The muffled scream she gave penetrated beyond the wall of glass that separated her office from her assistants, unfortunately. When Amy's head poked up over the top of her computer monitor with a questioning look, she merely waved her away.
If only she could be so fortunate in getting rid of Ford.
––––––––
Ford
––––––––
"Tell me about the first time you met Feathers," Dr. Wilkes requested. "With as much detail as you can recall."
"It was a Halloween charity gala at the Opulent Resort. The woman I was dating had received an invitation so I went as her plus one," he began.
"You didn't receive an invitation?"
The question was understandable. Given his wealth and social standing, Ford was routinely invited to every event worth attending. "No. Bastion Baines was hosting the event and the man hates me," he explained.
"Interesting," the doctor mused as he scratched something on his ever-present notepad. "Please continue."
"A flash of color across the room caught my attention," he recalled and closed his eyes to better envision the momentous occasion. "Something about the vibrant peacock plumage drew me to it like a magnet. I don't actually remember crossing the room, but I suddenly found myself standing directly behind her."
"She was wearing a showgirl costume and the headdress was what had caught my eye. Then she turned and stared up at me with those stunning amethyst eyes. For a moment the entire world faded away as we just stood there, gazes locked. I was mesmerized," Ford recalled. "Before I came to my senses enough to introduce myself, she turned and ran out of the room."
"I'm going to assume that women do not generally take one look at you and run?"
"They don't," he confirmed. In fact, the exact opposite normally happened. Ford wasn't vain, but he knew that women considered him handsome. If his looks didn't attract them, his wealth did. Having a woman run from him had been a singular experience.
"Interesting," the shrink mused and made another notation in his notepad. "Could her disinterest have awakened your predatory instincts?"
"I suppose it's possible," he agreed. "But that doesn't explain my reaction before she ran away."
"What was it about her that mesmerized you?"
"Other than the fact that she was sexy as fuck?"
"Yes, other than that."
"Her eyes," he recalled. "They're incredible."
"Amethyst you said?" The doctor queried. "A most unusual color. I'm sure they would be quite memorable."
"They haunt me," he admitted. "At first I only saw them in my dreams. So sad and vulnerable."
"Feathers was sad and vulnerable?"
"No. Her eyes. It made me want to hold her and protect her from whatever had hurt her."
"So, you felt protective of her."
"Very."
"Interesting."
"Why do you say that?"
"In general, or this particular instance?"
"Let's stick with this instance for now," he replied facetiously.
"I find it interesting that you felt the need to protect a woman you'd encountered for the first time."
"Join the club."
––––––––
Callie
––––––––
Another day, another bouquet of those damn roses. This time the card read Theater? with his phone number again. White roses had always been her favorite, and having them dipped in purple just made them even more enticing. But if the bastard thought flowers would get her to change her mind then he was sadly mistaken.
When they had been together, Callie had thought it was a sweet, romantic gesture when Ford sent them. Now it just made her want to cry. Or scream. Maybe both. And break the damn vase over his head. They joined the collection on the credenza so she didn't have to look at them, but she could still see their reflection in the glass wall in front of her.
It was maddening. And frustrating as hell. Just like the man who sent them. Determined to put him out of her mind, she moved into her workroom and got to work on one of the new designs she had made after the auction. Some of them had been really good, but this one was so exceptional that she was going to wear it at her upcoming show.
Callie loved every step involved in making her creations come to life. She started with a sketch and then selected the right type of fabric to fit the design. This one required something soft and flowing like elastic satin, with a breezy, lightweight train of chiffon tulle, heavily embellished with gemstones, of course.
She had already drafted a pattern from her sketch and designed the mockup, now it was time to cut and sew the pieces together. Once that was complete, she would try it on to perfect the fit and she was certain that the finished product would be the biggest hit of the entire show. She was practically giddy with anticipation.
The stunning fashions that she created now were a far cry from the doll clothes she had made as a child. Her mother had been a casino costume designer and Callie had used the scrap materials to dress her dolls. She'd been dazzled by the array of vibrant colored fabrics, bright, sparkling rhinestones, sequins, and feathers.
She was still so enamored with them that she incorporated a bit of bling into every design. A light dusting of sequins on a plain tank top and a rhinestone embellishment added to jeans took them from everyday wear to club apparel. Her high-end Prêt-a-porter line of clothing had made Callie Rose Designs a household name.
But it was her haute couture designs that celebrities and socialites alike clamored for. Her gowns were often worn at red carpet events and were equally popular at society galas. Her creations received high acclaim from the critics and she'd won several national and international fashion awards.
Callie had worked hard to get to this point in her career, but it wouldn't have been possible without Bastion. She'd been six when she'd proudly showed him her latest creation, a doll dress held together with staples and transparent tape. Even though the rhinestones she had glued on were falling off, he had praised her pitiful display of craftsmanship.
The next day he surprised her with a child's sewing machine that her mother had patiently taught her to use. There had been no stopping her after that. She had created entire wardrobes for her dolls before moving on to making outfits for herself. Callie hadn't been the only second grader dressed in sequins and rhinestones, but, hey, it was Vegas, and bling was a big thing.
By the time she made it to middle school, she was embellishing clothing for all of her friends and had even made a few prom and pageant gowns as well. When her mother died and Bastion became her legal guardian, she had taken over as his costume designer and done a fabulous job of it even though she'd only been fifteen.
Her job had entailed designing and creating the prototype costumes for the showgirls to perform in. Once they met Bastion's approval, the head seamstress handled the rest of the process so she could focus on her schoolwork. Even though she had enjoyed creating costumes, becoming a fashion designer was all she had ever wanted to be.
And she'd almost thrown it all away for a man who didn't even remember her. Yes, she'd been an idiot back then. Young, dumb, and madly in love with Ford fucking Hammersmith. If he hadn't walked away, she never would have followed her dream and gotten to where she was today. Maybe she should thank him for breaking her heart.
The absurdity of that thought shocked a surprised laugh out of her. Callie laughed so hard that she almost lost her breath. She was wiping tears of mirth from her eyes when her phone pinged that she had received a text. She swiped the screen and stared at a message from a number that seemed vaguely familiar.
555-555-3673: What are you wearing?
What the hell? Was this some kind of fashion joke? Ask a designer what she's wearing? Either that or a perv, she decided and typed out a reply.
Callie: Who is this?
555-555-3673: A slave to your beauty.
Oh-kay. Not a lot of help there. Either way, she didn't have time for games or perverts.
Callie: ???
555-555-3673: It's Ford.
Callie stared at the phone like it was a diamondback rattlesnake. She should have known it was him. Why, oh, why, hadn't she blocked him? Because she had known the sneaky bastard would call from a different number if she did and she hadn't wanted to mistakenly answer his call again. Like now.
Callie: I told you not to call me.
555-555-3673: Which is why I'm texting instead. See how accommodating I can be? Pick a date.
Callie: Not happening.
555-555-3673: It's so happening.
Callie: I don't have time for this. Harass someone else.
555-555-3673: No one else will do. If they would, I wouldn't be pursuing you. When are you free for our date?
Callie: Never. Stop texting me. And don't call again either.
She threw the phone down on the table before snatching it back up again. Not willing to take any chances of repeating her mistake, she added him to her contacts as Ford Fucking Hammersmith. When the damn thing immediately began to ring, she quelled the urge to throw it against the wall when the Caller ID revealed it wasn't him.
"The dead has risen," she said instead of a greeting.
"I am never drinking with you again," Soraya complained over the phone. "It took me all day yesterday to detox, and I still feel like shit."
"Don't blame me. You're the one who insisted we needed alcohol," she pointed out with a grin.
"You could have warned me that I was drinking the grape equivalent of jet fuel," her friend complained. "If potency is based on price, I'll stick with wine in a box."
Callie laughed in genuine amusement. "I think it was more the amount you consumed than the potency," she imparted.
Her friend snorted before admitting, "You're probably right. I've missed an entire day. How is the plan to get rid of Ford coming along?"
"We had a plan?" She queried in confusion. "The last I recall, castrating the bastard was my best option."
"Hey, I'm game," Soraya assured her like the loyal friend she was. "Seriously, Callie. How are you holding up?"
"Frazzled. Frustrated. Torn between screaming and crying," Callie confessed. "He's sending those damn flowers every day, and he's called and texted as well. No matter how much I dissuade him, he just won't give up."
"Honestly, his unwavering determination would be flattering if you didn't already know he was a serial seducer," she opined.
Callie sputtered with laughter. "A serial seducer?"
"Tomato, tomahto," Soraya responded in amusement. "Either way he's still a manwhore on the prowl."
"Well he's SOL this time," Callie said grimly and meant every word. "Ford made a fool of me once. He'll never get the chance to do it again."
