Lisa Jones - Being Me

My lips curve and I hit the gas and indulge myself for a blast a short half block long. The instant I ease up my foot, the car goes into an easy glide. The smooth ride after the wicked acceleration reminds me of the extreme shifts I’ve experienced in Chris’s moods and I decide the car fits him well. I also wonder if I’ve truly seen what lies beneath the surface to cause those ups and downs. I wonder what he would think if he knew what lies beneath my surface.

I shake off the place my thoughts are going as I pull up to Chris’s fancy high-rise only a few blocks from the gallery and the doorman opens my door and greets me. “Good evening, Ms. McMillan.”

Handing over the keys, I am reminded of Chris teasing this doorman as he had another at a hotel not to joyride in the car. “I didn’t joyride.” I grin. “Much.”

He grins back at me. “I won’t tell.”

“Thank you,” I say, giving him a small nod before I slide the strap of my briefcase over my shoulder and head inside the building, where I find Jacob standing by the front counter.

“Ms. McMillan,” he says with a nod when I stop beside him. “I trust the day was uneventful in a good way since I didn’t hear from you after our phone call this morning.”

“It was,” I confirm. “You know, I just didn’t want to risk bothering you if you were off duty this morning.”

“I’m always on duty,” he informs me. “I live on property and I made a special promise to Chris to look out for you. He doesn’t ask for favors, Ms. McMillan. He did for you. I don’t intend to let him down. You’re on my radar but I need you to communicate with me. If you’re going out, let me know.”

I have a flashback to the many years of my life my mother and I went nowhere without a security guard we didn’t need. I didn’t understand that in my youth, of course. Not until college, when I’d torn away my rose-colored glasses, did I realize we were like kept animals, pets to my father, controlled, not protected. Sheltered from the many lives he had led and the many women my mother had pretended she didn’t share him with.

“Ms. McMillan?” Jacob asks, and I snap my gaze up from the floor to his.

“Yes,” I murmur. “Thank you, Jacob.” And despite my walk down memory lane, I mean the words. Contrary to my actions the night before, I don’t make a habit of being stupid, no matter what my father might say otherwise. Someone was in that storage unit with me last night. Maybe it was teenagers, or maybe it wasn’t, but with my worries about Rebecca, I’m not sure I’m over the fear I felt inside the darkness.

His eyes narrow and glint with understanding. “I don’t care what time of the day or night, you call me if you need to. There is no reason too small. Better safe—”

“Than sorry,” I finish for him. “Yes, I know.” I incline my head. “I’ll call if I need you.”

A few minutes later, I walk off the elevator and into Chris’s apartment, taking in the twinkling skyline. Exhaustion begins to seep into my bones and I head to the bedroom, pausing at the doorway, entranced by the giant, unmade bed.

Baby, the ways I’m going to fuck you are too many to count, but not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to make love to you.

And he had. I have no idea if that means he’s falling in love with me, but I am falling in love with him. I have already.

I wet my suddenly parched lips and kick off my shoes before walking to the bathroom and finding Chris’s shirt, which I’ve saved to sleep in. After undressing, I pull the shirt over my body and inhale deeply. The scent of Chris is a little piece of heaven. I head to the kitchen and spend some time exploring, pleased to find a box of macaroni and cheese that I quickly whip into dinner. Once it’s ready, I cave in to curiosity and end up at the door of Chris’s studio with dinner, my laptop, and my phone in hand.

I flip on the light and I don’t see the gorgeous city surrounding me. There is only the roll of tape lying by the stool. I squeeze my eyes shut and I can almost put myself back on that chair with Chris’s mouth and hands on my body. I settled my things on the floor by the wall where I intend to get comfortable, but I don’t sit. Now, and only now, do I let myself think about what has randomly slipped into my thoughts today, to be dashed away. The painting.

Slowly, I walk forward, my pulse accelerating as I near Chris’s depiction of me, bound by the ankles and wrists, in the center of the studio. As I bring it into view, my throat goes instantly dry, and heat burns low in my belly. It’s a black-and-white image, which he favors, and well developed with fine details, too well developed to be a draft. He’s been working on this for a while and he left it in the open for me to see, this morning and now. Chris does nothing without purpose. This is a message or a challenge. I’m not sure which, or maybe it’s both. I’m not clear on either. And considering I’m both aroused and uncomfortable, I’m not even clear on what I feel. This is Chris’s sanctuary. What does it mean that he’s bound me in real life and on canvas?

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.