Page 74 of Meet Mason, the Billionaire

“Oh, hey, Megan,” he said as casually as if he hadn’t been a total prick during our last meeting. “Are you ready to sell that portrait yet or what?”

“No, Brian,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’m ready to tell you and that rich asshole to go fuck yourselves.”

“Oh come one, Megan. Let’s be realistic here. Gallery show or no gallery show, you’re never going to make a decent living off your art. You’re good, but you’re not Leonardo Da Caprio.”

I wanted to throw the phone across the room.

“Da Vinci, Idiot. And you told me you wanted me at your gallery because I was special. But that was just another lie, wasn’t it?”

“And you believed me like the naive bimbo you are. I was just trying to get into your pants, and hopefully take advantage of your network of friends.”

“Jesus Christ, you really have no shame, do you?”

“First of all, I’m way cooler than some guy who got nailed to a giant letter T. Second of all, why should I be ashamed? I’m a true alpha male, baby. I take what I want, and I don’t give a damn who I have to go through to get it. Your problem is that you never wanted to admit that you were out of my league.”

“You live in a fairy tale world in your own head, don’t you?”

“Okay, I’m a huge asshole. Everybody knows that. I don’t even deny it. It comes with being a true, Bonafede, one hundred percent Alpha Male. But don't let the fact that you hate my guts rob you of making a shit ton of money. You know what the difference between a successful artist and an unsuccessful one is? Hint: it’s not talent. It’s MONEY. Promotion, baby, promotion. Everyone hates Nickelback, but they make shit tons of money. Why? Promotion.”

“Whatever. I’m not selling. Period.”

“Fine. Then no more exhibitions.”

“Fine! I’m on my way there to get my paintings. As soon as I can get Junebug to loan me his van. You’d better not TOUCH any of my shit until I get there or I’ll sue your ass into the stone age.”

I ended the call and let out a strangled grunt.

Men. Can’t live with them, and you can’t shoot them.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Mason

I tried to call Megan back immediately, but it went right to voicemail. So she’d turned off her phone or maybe put it in a chip bag to block the signals, a makeshift Faraday cage.

I kept trying anyway, on the off chance I could get through. After half an hour of texting and leaving lots of apologetic messages on her phone, I gave up for the time being.

Looking back after the fact, it was easy to see where I’d gone wrong. I was tired and upset from my dream about my grandfather. I’d allowed that frustration and melancholy to bleed into my conversation with Megan.

No wonder she thought the worst when I made my confession. I could have put it a lot better than I did. I mean, I was trying to make an accountability for what I had done, but an apology first would have made the whole thing hit better.

I wasn’t angry at Megan for not wanting to talk to me. If I’d been her, seeing things from her perspective, I would have felt the same way.

I finished up my work and left the office early, directing my assistant to screen my calls and send anything urgent to my cell. I knew I was going to be distracted until I dealt with the Megan situation.

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. I thought about just showing up at her apartment, but I was worried how that would be perceived. Considering the fact that she probably thought I was just sleeping with her to get my hands on the painting, no wonder she was so angry.

At that point, I had come to realize that I should have been honest with Megan from the start. About my feelings, about the portrait, everything.

Instead, I’d let things fester and remain murky. Nothing good can come of keeping things bottled up inside. That was something my grandpa had told me, too.

I began to wonder if there was anyone who could possibly give me the advice I needed to make up with Megan and make the situation right for everyone. Except that little weasel Brian Schrauth.

Speak of the devil, my phone rang shortly after that. It was my assistant, patiently and apologetically explaining that a rather ‘rude, bellicose man’ was demanding to speak to me. Apparently, he told her it was a matter of life and death.

“Go ahead and patch him through.”

A moment later, I heard the line change and I spoke my greeting.

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