Being Me

Nine

Tearing my gaze away from the painting, I walk to where I’ve left my things. Knees weak, I slide down the wall and sit there a moment, trying to make sense of what I’m feeling, when a mission for knowledge hits me. Powering up my computer, I google “pain for pleasure” and find myself greeted by an eyeful of bound naked bodies and dungeonlike playrooms. Whips and chains appear to be a predominant theme and the idea of educating myself isn’t working. I’m just plain freaking myself out. I try bondage and BDSM and it’s pretty darn close to the same results.

Finally, I land on a site that highlights stories like “Toy with your lover” and contains links to products such as a pink fuzzy paddle and a pair of butterfly nipple clamps. Picturing Chris with anything involving the words soft, pink, and butterfly is almost comical.

My cell phone rings and with his usual perfect timing, it’s Chris. I punch the answer button. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

The instant I hear his voice, the unease of moments before begins to uncurl and disappear, and I know it’s simply because he is Chris. It’s the only explanation I require anymore. My lips curve and I can tell he is smiling, too, and alas, that knowledge tears down any wall my unease over my Internet searches might have erected.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

My hesitation is all of two seconds, and considering how uneasy I’d been minutes before, my confession falls freely from my lips. “Eating macaroni and cheese and searching a site called Adam and Eve.”

A low rumble of deep, sexy laughter fills the line and sets my blood to simmering. “Adam and Eve and macaroni and cheese. I wish I was there. See anything there you like?”

There is mischief in his voice and I can imagine the wicked dancing in the depth of his green eyes. “So you know the site?”

“Yes. I know the site.”

This surprises me and I wonder if some other woman tried to soften his dark side by presenting him with the softer side of BDSM. Maybe one of the L.A. actresses I’d read about him dating before meeting him. It’s an unpleasant thought for too many reasons to count and one that doesn’t fit the puzzle that is Chris. “I find myself the least intimidated by pink furry paddles and a pair of butterfly nipple clamps. Nothing quite in your league.”

“Don’t decide for me,” he orders, his voice going all low and rough, but still gently seductive. “Let’s discover what works for us together. What made you start looking up sex toys anyway?”

“The painting.”

“Of you in my studio.”

“Yes. Of me. You wanted me to see it this morning and tonight.” I don’t phrase it as a question.

He’s silent a moment, and I sense one of his shifting moods, the subtle edge of one of his many layers. “Yes. I wanted you to see it.”

“To scare me?”

“Does it?”

I hesitate too long and he presses. “Does it scare you, Sara?”

“Is that what you’re hoping for, Chris? To scare me away?”

Now he is silent too long and I am about to press him, when he dodges the question with a surprising revelation. “The painting isn’t about bondage to me. It’s about trust.”

A lump forms in my throat at the thought of my secret, and the poison I cannot escape. “Trust?”

“The kind of trust I want from you and have no right to ask.”

But I want him to ask. I want him to trust me. “I want the same from you.”

More silence follows, too much silence, and I hate the distance that prevents me from reading him. “Where are you?” he asks finally.

“In the studio.” And I tear down one of my walls to try to reach across one of his. “I wanted to be in the place that felt the closest to you.”

“Sara.” His voice is hoarse, like my name is an emotion, a raw burn, ripped from his throat. This is the intensity of what I create in him, and I am not sure he fully understands he creates the same intensity in me.

“Where are you?” I ask softly.

There is a moment of hesitation in which I sense he is relieved to have something to focus on instead of what he is feeling. “I’m in my hotel room, finally. Have you looked at the painting I did for Dylan, the kid I was telling you about?”

“No, not yet. You want me to?”

“Yes. Go look.”

Any excitement I feel at discovering a new Chris Merit work is dashed by the solemness of the request. “Okay. Headed there now.” I push to my feet and head to the back room, flipping on the light to the small fifteen-by-fifteen room where a few easels sit with clothes over the top. There is only one canvas uncovered and I laugh when I see it.

“Am I really looking at a painting of Freddy Krueger and Jason from Friday the 13th?”

He laughs but it’s strained. “Yes. The kid is a horror freak. Do you know which one is which?”

“Aren’t you funny? Of course I do.”

“You didn’t at the storage unit.”

“Okay, so I mix up Michael and Jason sometimes, but I know Freddy by sight, because he scares the crap out of me. I have to say you’ve done a fine job of re-creating the reasons why in vivid color.” I shiver at the sight of the cratered red and orange face. “Who knew you could craft a monster like you can a cityscape?”

“Apparently Dylan. I’ve drawn him a collection of those things on paper. This is the first on canvas.” Any hint of the lighthearted Chris I often enjoy fades from his voice, turning to pure grim discomfort. “I think he likes horror movies because he’s trying to seem brave. But I see the fear in his eyes. He doesn’t want to die.”

His words scrape a path down my spine, and I ache with this man who I am coming to know is so much more than pain and pleasure. “Just know you’re helping make this part of his life better.”

“But I will never erase the torture losing him is going to be for his parents.”

A powerful rush of certainty washes over me. While I don’t understand the depths of where his passion for this charity comes from, I am confident that Chris is trying to make up for some perceived sin of the past, be it subconsciously, or maybe, knowing what I do of him, consciously. And while it is an amazing cause that he is making a difference with, I fear where the pain he’s experiencing is driving him. Will that pain, together with all the rest he has inside, drive him to the brink of disaster?

We end our call a few minutes later, and I lie back on the floor and stare at the tiny white stars painted on the ceiling, but I see the painting of me, and I hear Chris’s claim it is symbolic of trust. He asked me if it scared me. Could it be that this powerful, confident, talented man is scared himself? And if so, of what?

Morning, and my 9 a.m. starting time at the gallery comes way too early despite my love for my new job, considering a second night of no sleep. Fortunately, Mark isn’t in early, and my several stops by the coffeepot come without encounters.

By ten o’clock I’m jittery and on cup number three but the heaviness in my limbs persists. The “Master” has yet to show up to work. I’m reviewing information on Alvarez to prepare for the evening meeting when an e-mail from Mark hits my box, proving he’s not sleeping late after all. Or he just got up, one or the other. It’s short and sweet. I snort, Mark is anything but “sweet.”

He’s sent me a cheat sheet of topics and answers to wade successfully through small talk related to wine, opera, and classical music and allow me to impress clientele. The information is actually quite good and I wonder why he didn’t give me this instead of insisting I had to learn these extensive topics in record-breaking time.

In contemplating this answer, the journal entry I’d slipped and read before locking them away in the safe comes to mind. I wonder what it would feel like to wake up feeling that passionate about life again, instead of just wondering what the new game will be. I don’t want any part of his games and I hope this switch in Mark’s approach to my work indicates I’ve established this with him.

By ten thirty, I’ve done a light review of the information from Mark and tried calling Ella three more times but I only get the fast busy signal. I take it a step further and call David’s office again, frustrated when my needling the operator for information is unsuccessful. On top of that, I haven’t talked to Chris. I have no idea why this bothers me. It’s not like he has to call me when he starts his day and again I think maybe he hopes I’ll call him. Or maybe he’d think I’m overbearing. I’m a mess when Mary stops by my door, looking as pale as her blond hair and my white suit-dress, but no less hostile as her gaze falls on me.

“You’re not coming to the event tonight?”

“I have an off-site meeting.”

“And I have the flu. What if I can’t stay?”

Mary has snubbed me up to this point but she’s never been hostile, and my brow furrows. “It’s with Ricco Alvarez about a large sale. I’d reschedule if I could, but I’m not sure he’ll agree. If you’re still sick and want me to try, I can.”

“Ricco Alvarez,” she repeats, and her lips thin. “Of course it is.” She walks away.

I frown. What the heck?

Ralph walks into my office and puts a packet of papers on my desk. “An inventory listing with the price lists I create monthly.” He lowers his voice, saying, “Steer clear of Mary when she’s sick. She’s been known to rip heads off and leave you bleeding.”

“Thanks for the warning, but it’s a little too late,” I hiss softly.

“Better late than never.”

“Not in this case, and why did she act funny about me seeing Alvarez?”

“She’s ambitious and competitive and he wouldn’t give her the time of the day before Rebecca or after.”

“Why?”

“Her personality just doesn’t jibe with certain people.”

“But everyone says Alvarez is difficult.”

“I guess that’s why Bossman hires charmers like Rebecca and yourself. To get past the difficult to the payday. He knows Mary is a personality time bomb.”

“Then why keep her?”

He glances over his shoulder and then back at me. “She was close to being fired after a blowup with Rebecca but she did some kick-butt scouting and found a couple of unpriced pieces Bossman snatched up for the next Riptide auction. She earned a safety pass.”

“Wait. She’s working with Riptide?”

“Oh no. Remember, I said she’s a personality time bomb. She was told to hand over all the management of the pieces to Rebecca.”

Amanda appears in the doorway. “The Riptide accountant is on the line for you.”

Ralph pops to his feet and gives me an apologetic look. I watch him leave and my thoughts are going to bad places. How much did Mary hate Rebecca? How certain was she that getting rid of her would lead her to her career goals? I don’t want to think about what that might mean for me.

My fingers press to the tightness at my temples and I massage. I’m worried about Rebecca. I’m worried about Ella. I don’t know how to locate either of them. Heck, for the longest time, I don’t think I even knew how to find myself, even when I was staring at myself in the mirror.

One thing I do know, though, is that all these things seem more doable with Chris in my life. I can’t sit back and wait for us to crash and burn, but I feel like we are headed that way. I draw a heavy breath and accept that I have to talk to Chris, to lift more of the proverbial veil, and do so before I lose my courage.

Snatching my jacket from the back of my chair, I shove the papers into my briefcase, grab my phone and purse, and head out of my office toward the reception desk. I bring Amanda into focus and keep walking past her. “I’m going next door to get a mocha and study some work I was given, if Bossman is looking for me.”

I start rehearsing different ways to approach Chris about what’s on my mind before I’ve ever left the gallery, but the biting wind blasts coherent thoughts into oblivion. I push through it and enter the coffee shop, where I have mixed feelings about the young college guy behind the counter who takes my order, indicating Ava’s absence. Picking her brain about Rebecca and Alvarez before tonight’s meeting is on my agenda today, but at this moment, I can’t think of anything but Chris anyway.

With more coffee I don’t need, I settle into a corner table, slide out of my jacket, and retrieve my phone from the pocket. I take a deep breath and dial Chris. My pulse beats about ten times for every ring until his voice mail picks up. I don’t leave a message and I’m officially sick to my stomach. I’m not touching my coffee.

My cell vibrates in my hand and I look down to see a text from Chris.

Hey baby. I had an early breakfast and didn’t want to wake you up. At the hospital. Is everything okay?

My entire body feels lighter with his message and I type: Yes. Just wanted to talk. Call me when you get a break?

His reply is instant. Already planned to. Call you in about an hour.

Thanks, I reply automatically.

Thanks? You sure you’re okay?

Yes. Too much caffeine. I hesitate and decide there is no in between. Not enough you.

I’ll make you prove that over and over when I get back.

I plan to, I respond and set my phone down, not expecting a reply or getting one.

My pleasure at the exchange should calm me down a bit, but it only sparks a heavier dose of nerves. Can I really tell him?