by Ella James
Something unfurls in my chest. “It was,” I tell her honestly.
“Have you spent the time since mostly alone?”
Mostly. So much tact in one word. She’s not asking if I spent time with anyone in private. She just wants to find out if I was attached to anyone. Megan is discreet—another quality I value.
“Just me, myself, and I.”
“I’m sure that gets lonely. Even for someone as busy as you.”
I’m surprised I find it difficult to swallow. I’m even more surprised she seems to catch my momentary hesitation. She looks down at her plate to give me space before her eyes meet mine again.
“I can’t have children.” Her eyes pop open wide, as if she’s shocked those words slipped out. She squeezes her eyes shut. When she opens them again, her face is difficult for me to read. “I’ve always hoped to adopt someday. But I wanted them to have a father and a mother. So I’ve waited.”
“That makes sense.” My chest is locked so tightly, I can barely draw my next breath. The air around us seems to vibrate as I realize that we’re not so different.
Maybe if she found out…if time passed and she guessed my secret, she wouldn’t let it color her judgment of me. I would be faithful to her. And I would love her—in the ways I can. And isn’t that in almost every way? If she found out the truth, I could pretend I’m like him—that I enjoy both flavors.
“I think adoption is a great way to have kids,” I say. “I’ve thought of it before myself.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
I’ve spent time in dozens of countries, visited hundreds of orphanages.
“I normally don’t blurt that out,” she says softly. “I don’t know why I did tonight.”
Her hesitation makes me want to reassure her. “It’s okay. It’s different when you’re on a date at our age.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I’m not doing this for fun,” I deadpan. She throws her head back laughing—not an ounce of the insecurity Hanna used to feel when I unleashed my dry humor.
For the rest of the evening, I breathe easier. I feel…okay. Good, even. Like maybe this could work. When my car arrives back at her house, she asks me inside.
“Do you do that?” She smiles—only half teasing.
“Of course. I’ll walk you in.”
Beneath the warm glow of the lamp there in her foyer, she runs her hands over my shoulders and looks up into my eyes, and I know what she wants. We kiss with my back against her front door and her softness pressed against my hard frame until she pulls away to breathe.
“I’m sorry.” But she’s laughing.
“I don’t think you are, Ms. Mason.”
Her eyes twinkle.
“I think you’re not sorry at all.”
“What if I’m not?” she whispers.
“There are things that I can do to help you see the error of your ways.”
“What sort of things?”
I smack her rear, so swift and hard that I surprise even myself. To my shock, I see her pupils dilate. She lifts her skirt, and I slap her backside again. When I see her gaze fall to my crotch, I adjust my pants.
“There’s so much we could do with this,” I tell her as my pulse pounds. “One night soon, when I don’t have a driver waiting. Do you like this?” Her cheeks blush, and I reach into her panties, looking into her eyes before I pinch her pussy. “You like it when I tell you how bad you are?”
She’s panting. “Yes.”
“Sometimes a person has more fun when they submit. Have you found that to be true of yourself?”
Megan looks up at me through her lashes, and I give her a rough kiss. Then I leave her there.
As I’m driven home, I think of that look in her eyes and think of sinking into her heat. She would be tight, I tell myself. But she’d be soft…her back narrow, her hips and backside rounded. Like a woman.
I’ve done it before. I can do it again. I can fix it so she never, ever finds out.
I should move his painting—On the Ocean at Night, which I purchased through Pearl’s name—from where it’s hanging over my bed.
So what?
I shut my eyes. And for the first time in almost a year, I hear his voice. I almost feel his arm around my shoulders as he says, “You okay, my man?”
And I’m there. In dark woods. I hear the slight catch in his voice as he says, “Every message you preach, turn around and say it back to yourself. Promise?”
By the time Bernard stops at the curb in front of my house, I’ve slipped completely underwater. Everything is moving in slow-motion. The whole world feels slightly dizzy. Quiet. Numb.
I manage a goodbye and climb the stairs. I shut the door behind me. With the door shut…
It’s not good to have the door shut. Sometimes I leave the house…if I need to. I don’t have the energy tonight. I get my phone out of my pocket and text Megan.
Saturday?
Then I head into the kitchen, where I pour myself some Bunnahabhain. I step into the living room and get the remote, turn the fireplace on. I sink into my favorite armchair, down the scotch.
My phone rings. My heart skips some beats, but when I pull it out, it’s only Pearl.
“PL?”
I blink at my glass, at the liquid sloshing slightly. I realize I forgot to say “hello” when I answered.
“PL at your service.” To my ears, my voice sounds flat and dry.
“How’s it going?” Pearl asks. “Are you back at home?”
“I am.”
“So how did it go?”
“It was good.”
“Really? You liked her?”
“I did.”
“Are you sure? You sound…subdued.” I can tell when it clicks for her; she’s not smooth, so she asks again, “Are you back home?”
“I am.”
“What are you doing?”
“Watching the fire.” When she doesn’t reply, I lean my head back, swallowing the last drops of scotch in my glass. “Pearl, did you need something?”
“For some reason, I couldn’t get through to your voice mail. I just wanted to say the kittens have been rescued.”
“Good.” She knows me so well, she can tell just from my voice.
“Hey Luke?”
“Hey, Pearl.”
“Are you okay?” She whispers—so soft that it’s hard for me to hear.
“I’m fine.”
Silence hangs on the line. Somewhere distant, I feel bad for making poor Pearl nervous.
“Are you sure?” Her voice is so soft. So…I don’t know—like a clean sheet. “If you’re not, you can tell me.” Another beat of silence passes. “You’re one of my best friends. Do you want me to come—”
“No. C’mon, PNW! We had drinks with dinner. I’m just tired.” Somehow, I produce a laugh that doesn’t sound completely unlike my real one. “I’m headed to bed, friend. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.” It’s just a murmur. “Freddy’s out of town, remember? If you want a little company.”
“For sure. But I don’t. I’m all good.” Strike me down. “I’m good.” It’s like standing on a mountainside in metal shoes during a lightning storm. I murmur, “Get some sleep.”
“I will. And you too, okay?”
“Totally.” I move my mouth into a smile so she can hear it in my voice when I say, “Goodnight, Pearl.”
“Goodnight, PL. Sleep well, okay?”
“I so will.” My lips give a little twitch. The “totally” and “so will” are vintage Pearl Myers.
When the call is done, I lie back in the chair and blink up at the vaulted ceiling. I feel weird. Like an astronaut floating in space. I’m floating farther from the ship. It doesn’t matter.
Maybe someone here would help. I text her again: By Saturday, I mean tomorrow night.
Another glass of scotch and I’m okay to lock the front door, go to my room. I wake up at 2:04 AM and find his painting glowing in the moonlight that seeps through
my window.
It’s shining like it’s ordained. I love looking at it. I reach up and tear it off the wall. I get a pen out of my nightstand drawer and stab the canvas. Then, with my own hands, rip it to pieces.
Four
Vance
“Oh fuck. Right there. SHIT…that feels good.”
I feel Maya’s chuckle through my lower back and hips—where her thighs are squeezing as she straddles me.
“Mmm, I feel that,” she says. “It’s like…this one knot right…here.” I groan as her fingers dig under my shoulder blade. “Goddamn pony boy.”
“Rat bastard.” My eyelids are fucking heavy. She says something else about pony boy—her nickname for my giant centaur piece that’s got my back all knotted. Then I’m drifting, half asleep as she strokes her nails over my back and sides…then digs oil-slicked hands into my shoulders again.
“You get easy chill bumps. Everywhere my hands go…” She laughs, and I sort of feel it in my dick—but…too tired.
“How was it today with Carolina?”
I crack my eyes open. “She did fine.”
“Did she wear one of those short skirts again?”
I shut my eyes back. “Don’t think so.”
“Not interested, huh?”
My dream state dissipates, and I’m awake, with Maya’s round ass on my lower back and all her expectations like a blanket over us. I chew on inside of my cheek. I don’t know what to say. She thinks we’re—
My phone’s ring interrupts my train of thought—and Maya’s massage.
“What the fuck?”
I start to get up, and she gives a little huff. “Must be important.”
I grab the phone off the coffee table…flip it over. When I see the area code, a wash of heat moves through me.
Carolina wears a short skirt the next morning when I tell her that she’ll have another project supervisor in three days. Maya doesn’t know about the skirt, because after I got the call and asked her nicely to go home, she threw a fit and told me to go fuck myself.
This morning, she’s nowhere to be seen. When I see Hakim in the co-op’s coffee room, he lifts his brows and shakes his head and tells me that she quit the fucking co-op.
“Nice.”
I listen to the shit she told him—so he’d tell me, of course. Then I check on Carolina’s progress, grab my coat, and slip out the side door into an alley where I sometimes smoke the cigarettes I bum from other artists here. But I don’t have a cigarette, and it’s snowing a little…so I start to walk.
I keep my eyes on my boots and keep my hood over my head and try to just get lost. I know this area like I know my own hands, so it’s not easy…but when I look up, just for a second I can’t place myself in the city—and I can get a good, clean breath.
Then I notice the fucking Bible store on my right. That’s what it calls itself, too—“The Bible Store.”
I knock my boots off on the curb, stomp on the doormat, and step inside slowly, so I don’t disturb the tiny space. The shop is bathroom-sized and overflowing with books.
Behind the counter, a woman with pink hair looks up and smiles. “Can I help you?”
“Just looking around a little.”
I find his books easily. He’s published four—the most recent last year. The man I know smiles on the jacket. It’s a muted smile. A sort of I-know-I’m-famous-but-I’m-also-modest smile. It’s a smile that makes me feel like I just took a long hit of fire from my little bedtime vaporizer. Also like I just snorted a line. My hands begin to sweat around the book’s jacket.
“Oh…that one.” The shopkeeper is beside me, smiling down at me. She’s tall. “He’s one of my faves. Some people don’t like the ‘mass market’ element to his work—the relatable themes. But I think everything he says is worth reading. Well, everything he says and writes.”
“Okay—I’m sold.”
I buy the book, and she confides it’s been a slow few days. “Thirty percent off if you want to get another book.”
I get his first book, too, and step outside holding the paper sack I have to tuck into my coat so the snow doesn’t get it. It’s not snow anymore…more like sleet. I get to the intersection of a larger street and turn around. I walk back to the co-op, work on molding with Carolina, and cut out early.
I’ve got four more days in Manhattan. I’m not going to spend them in the studio.
Maybe I should text him, but I don’t. I don’t reach out in any way, and when I talk to Pearl Myers, I never ask why she contacted me. I don’t ask if he asked for me personally, or if she chose me because she knows he likes my art.
I know she knows he likes my art because her name was on the list of buyers at the exhibition in November 2017. I didn’t make the connection to Luke until she called to offer me the Evermore mural job a few days ago.
Now I know he bought On the Ocean at Night. She told me. It’s in his house. It’s in his room…and how the fuck does she know what’s inside his room?
Desperation claws inside me. Desire. This is such a terrible idea. I’m the co-founder of our co-op, and it’s doing really fucking well. I get some income that way, but more so, it keeps my name relevant and keeps commissions rolling in.
Hakim is fifty-one, and he’s well-known and well-reviewed. Well-liked, including by me. I shouldn’t leave him high and dry—not even for twelve weeks—not even if he insists that I should “go and do, man. That’s the meaning of the artist’s life.”
I’m putting myself out there in the worst way, and the truth is that I kind of hate it. Even as I want it—and I know I’m going to get it—part of me wants to run the other way, because how can it end well?
I’ve been doing better. I’ve gotten a handle on how fucked up I can get.
I should tell Pearl I can’t. Instead, I give my place to Carolina rent-free through the end of April, ship my centaur out by train, and catch a plane to San Francisco.
Five
Luke
She likes cycling, so I get a bike. Every morning, we meet at my place at 4:40, and she leads me around the city, bike lights flashing in the pre-dawn gray. After an hour, no matter where we are in the city, we get breakfast at the first place we see with a neon “open” sign. Afterward, we part ways. Megan cycles back to her apartment. Bernard picks me up and takes me home to shower.
It’s been five days, so not a routine yet—but soon.
We talk every night when she gets home from work. We’ve done dinner twice since our first date. Both times, we went back to her place after.
I look out the window as the cityscape rolls by. Bernard is playing romance jazz and tossing proud-dad smiles at me in the rearview. He hangs a left onto the block where the Evermore campus sprawls and turns the music down. His eyes lift to the mirror. Satisfaction lights his face.
“I like her.”
I smile. “I do, too.”
When I get to my office, my phone assistant, Sasha, gives me a note—from my mom.
“I saw her at the club for breakfast. She is wonderful!”
Sasha smirks, and I narrow my eyes at her. I hold that look as I back through my office door, and then I shut it with a flourish. Around midday, when Megan texts, I take a photo of the note from Mom and send it to her.
She sends back the panicked blue smilie with its hands by his face a la Edvard Much, and then the prayer hands. I send an upside down smilie. Dating these days seems to be done in mostly emoticons. Thinking of texts and phones tugs my mind elsewhere, but I jerk it back here with me.
Man, it’s nice to have someone. I send up a quick prayer of thanksgiving that if I have to do this, it can be with someone like Megan. Then I sit down to my work—which, today, is signing off on some expenses before editing a podcast.
I’m doing iPhone calculator math between texting Megan when my door opens. Pearl hops in. Okay—she doesn’t hop, but that’s what it looks like when she’s got on a high pony-tail. She’s small and bouncy. And, right now, grinning.
“Mornin
’, Sunshine,” she says.
“PNW.”
She steps over to my desk, plants her palms atop it, and glances slowly around my office.
“What are you doing, weirdo?”
“Just looking around.” She makes another slow survey of the room.
“Why are you looking around?” I give her a scowl for effect.
Her eyebrows notch in the middle, like she’s genuinely puzzled. “I thought there was a painting in here.”
“There was. But it was Dad’s, remember? That terrible poppy field thing with the weird purple sky?”
“Ah, right. Well, anyway, I came to tell you the good news in person.”
“What good news?”
“Well that’s the question, isn’t it?” She swings her arms up and one leg out, like the cheerleader she was in college. Then she wiggles her fingers above her head. “The good news is….I got one of your faves for the mural!”
The words slide through my brain like a message on a news ticker.
“One of my faves?” The words come out slow.
She nod, beaming. “That one artist you love, remember? Vance Rayne.”
Vance
Saint Luke is the patron saint of artists—and I see why.
I was thinking I’d be in some churchy, bunk-bed setup, like a summer camp with secret closet fucking. Instead, Pearl e-mailed directions to this place. It’s a narrow, four-story, powder blue dollhouse—San Francisco as fuck, right by Buena Vista park and all the 1960s landmarks.
I tilt my head and squint against the afternoon sunlight, checking out the accents, which are done in mauve. I really dig the curved bay windows on the second and third floors. The fourth floor is smaller than the others—just a cylindrical room with window walls and a witch-hat-shaped roof. The first floor is a one-car, white garage on the left, with a delicate-looking front door on the right.
Fucking perfect.
I glance around me one more time, smelling something good from that bakery across the street and noting the record store a few doors down. Then I hoist my pack onto my shoulder and climb three stairs to the front door. Over it, in thick, black, cursive scrawl, are the words, “honey, welcome back home.”
