by Penny Lam
She should be able to ramble to her mom about it. Gush about her hot boss. Get advice. Giggle.
“No, Mom, I’ve got everything here.”
“Good, Honey. I’m proud of you.” Her mother added that last bit in like it was an afterthought.
“Right. I’ll call when I can,” Maple offered. It didn’t escape her that her palms were damp. That her chest was tight with nerves. Ask me to call next week. Tell me you miss me. Ask me if I need to come back home.
“Okay. Be safe, Maple.”
Click.
She hadn’t even waited for Maple to say goodbye. Sighing heavily, Maple tucked her cellphone into the drawer of her bedside table. Most likely she wouldn’t need it for a while. Her parents were the only people she had to call.
This was typical for them. It was one of the reasons she needed to leave home. Her parents loved her, she knew. But they’d grown up in tough times and it’d made them hard. Hard to talk to. Hell, she’d never even really seen them talk to each other.
Maple had wanted more. She’d told herself she wanted a life outside of cattle. She wanted human connection. Maybe it was all the books she’d poured over as a kid. The fantasy ones with intense, passionate relationships and epic, soul-changing adventures. Those books made the world out of Silt Springs and her tiny bedroom seem enormous. Enchanting.
Funny how she was now back at a ranch and feeling more alone than ever.
It was too early to go to bed. She could go to her room and read, but her curiosity was growing. J.B. had said she could explore, and she wanted to see this house that should be a movie set instead of a place where people lived.
There weren’t many twisting halls; after she left what she realized was the guest wing and kitchen, she stepped into the open-concept living space. This was the room she’d seen from the car. The single, enormous glass wall making it feel as if she were stepping outside.
Maple gasped. The night sky bloomed in front of her. No cars were parked in front. It was just wide, open sky and the shadow of the fence and gate on the horizon. The stars were so plentiful that, combined with a half moon, the room could have been lit from them alone.
Lights were on, though, which allowed her to view the art on the walls up close. The pieces were not what she expected. They were modern, for the most part. Huge canvases covered with slabs of dark paint that was slashed through with grays, whites, and blues. They looked angry, foreboding, clashing with the pristine white walls and polished marble floor.
Between the oppressive canvases were smaller pieces, contemporary but mimicking classic styles. Twisted faces, mouths screaming in pain. Pale bodies, misshapen and haggard. Reminiscent of Goya, they startled her more than all the posh elements of the house combined. How did a man with such refined tastes everywhere else choose such atrocious paintings for his living space?
As she peered around, it became more and more apparent that there was a unifying theme in all of the smaller works: Women in bondage. Every screaming face, every writhing body was a female, while dark, mysterious, masculine figures loomed in their background. Her eyes picked out elements she hadn’t seen at first glance. Riding crops. Whips. Ropes tied so tight around breasts and bellies the flesh bulged out.
Maple shivered, her stomach lurching. The paintings were evocative, at least. She found herself making her way back to the first, to begin looking at them anew. They captured her fully, drawing her in. When she waded past her initial shock at the dark matter, she found something ugly and sensual inside herself.
She could picture herself easily in the paintings. The ropes cutting and chafing her skin. The lick of the whip on her back.
Maple could picture it, because she’d been there before.
Her pussy was swelling, the shameful flood of arousal slicking her folds. She shut her eyes and slowed her breath. You’re not that person anymore. What a lie.
The heavy stone wall she’d built around those memories of college, of her ex boyfriend Tony, of the depraved things he’d done to her was shaking in her mind, threatening to tumble. Breathing deep, she worked quickly to rebuild it. Add an extra layer. Bury them deep, so deep.
All the colors, dark and foreboding, combined with her reluctant arousal, only piqued her interest. J.B. wasn’t a man she could have googled to understand this art. What little was known about him was centered on the cattle and money. These paintings were a shock; tantalizing and confusing. What kind of cowboy wanted such depravity on his walls? What did they say to him, and about him?
Her image of J.B. became richer and more enticing as she studied his collection. Not just handsome, but maybe tainted like she was? Considering his grim, stoic attitude for the day and these paintings, Maple began to sketch her own idea of him. The words he liked to use--train, for example, made her shudder. Tony had tried to master her. J.B. seemed like he’d be a Master. Noun, not verb. That possibility was much too alluring.
Of course, she shouldn’t be considering him at all. He was her boss. Maybe too old for her. And hadn’t she come here for a fresh start?
She was almost done, her breathing almost normal and the electric angst that zinged along her limbs almost dissipated, when his voice shocked her system.
“You’ve looked at them twice-- you like them.” Oh God, his gravel rumble made her core clench in desire,. His commanding voice, presence, promised so much more than Tony had ever dished out.
Tony had dished out a lot.
Maple refused to look at him. She thought about how he’d chastised her for being uncertain. This was a chance for her to be sure. Art was one of her few strengths.
“Yes, I like them.” Truth. She’d always appreciated art that inspired reaction, no matter how distasteful she found her reaction to be. “They frighten me,” she admitted.
“Why?” His footsteps drew closer, and she felt the pure, masculine energy of J.B. next to her. She was standing in front of a painting with a team of girls, bound together and pulling a cart which carried a hooded figure, whip in hand to urge them on.
“Do they frighten me? The pain of the women isn’t explanation enough?” Lie. They frightened her because she found them so appealing. That was the sort of thing she’d never admit out loud. Especially to her boss. Curiosity tingled through her, now. Why did a cowboy have such bleak, sexual art? And on such prominent display? What was J.B. trying to tell the viewer?
“Hm. They frighten me, too.” He didn’t offer a reason why.
“You’re a big collector.”
“I dabble in art acquisitions, yes.”
“Your acquisitions are very specific,” she pushed. “Is it that the paintings speak to you, or for you?” As soon as the question was out, she desperately wished she’d never asked it. This was the kind of thing she wondered about; the psychology behind the art and the buyer. It was never a thing that a girl like Maple Parsons should say out loud.
Her hands had been twisting together, she discovered, because as she asked the question she popped one finger, its soothing crack making her jump.
“That’s a personal question, Maple.” J.B. moved to her periphery. “You’ve grown bolder, and in such a short amount of time.”
Maple had no choice but to turn to him. Her eyes picked a point just to the left of his face to focus on. It was a trick she’d learned when her anxiety threatened to morph into panic in public. For all intents and purposes, it looked as if she was meeting someone’s eye. His, though, she couldn’t avoid for long. They demanded her attention.
She sucked in her breath. One blue eye, one green. Mismatched. Hypnotizing. This was what had seemed off about his eyes all day. She’d been so nervous with the interview, with his overwhelming presence, she hadn’t recognized it. Now she did. His heterochromia was inescapable. Her pulse quickened. The imperfection was perfection.
“Y-you don’t have to answer,” she muttered. “I’m sorry.” Her tongue darted out to lick her lip. His eyes followed, lingering on her mouth. When the pause between them weighed too
much to bear, she changed the subject. “We didn’t, um, discuss pay. Do you need me to fill out paperwork? Things like that?”
J.B. nodded slightly, his gaze never leaving her. His look was smoldering. “We can do that now. Let’s go to my office.”
As she followed him, she kept seeing more and more of the larger, more abstract paintings. “That artist must be thankful for your patronage.”
“I reckon so.”
“Who is he? Or she? I don’t recognize the work.”
“Why would you?” J.B.’s legs were long, and he did not slow his clip.
Maple stumbled as she fought to keep up, trying to answer without sounding too winded. “Well, I studied art history in college--”
They came to a hall branching away from the main house. All of the doors on it were closed. She remembered his warning-- if they were closed, she was not permitted to look around. It didn’t pique her curiosity; it was his home, this was probably where his bedroom and bathroom were. It wasn’t like the lone stable, looking new and yet forbidden. That was a mystery, far more than a few closed doors.
Besides, he was with her now, opening a door and welcoming her in. She forgot what she’d been saying as she entered his office.
It was the opposite of the living area. Dark, chalkboard black walls. The couch inside the office was dark grey and distinctly masculine. The desk made of glass. A back wall of books, most of them appearing to be ledgers but a few were beautiful, leather bound novels. On the marble floor was a large cowhide rug, its rustic coloring a stark contrast to the simple lines and dark features of the room.
One wall had an interesting piece of art: ten feet of bamboo switches hung vertically in varying lengths and thicknesses.
He gestured to the couch and she sat, forgetting what they’d been talking about. That is, until he sat opposite her, setting a stack of papers on the steel coffee table between them. She reached and grabbed them. As she began to rifle through, he asked her “why art history?”
“Well, not only art history. Double major in that and psychology. I liked learning about people through their art.”
“That’s why you’re curious about the artist? What do you see in the paintings?”
“The ones that caught my eyes first were the large, abstract ones. I thought they were your standard angry and lonely paintings. But there’s more to it. Like, in the ones with blue it seemed like the artist was celebrating the emotions instead of wallowing in them. The paintings are about the seduction of the darkness, reveling in the unattractive emotions.” When looking at them Maple had felt the artist was painting her past. The darkness and the celebration.
Maple was only able to speak to him this much, this openly because her attention was torn between J.B.’s questions and the paperwork on her lap. There was a lot more than she’d expected, much of it with very fine print.
“You paid more attention to the others, though. The ones that aren’t abstract. How do they make you feel?”
Horny. Desperate. Like I’m trapped inside my skin and need someone to whip me out. “They seem like Goya, but if there is any metaphor or allegory in them, I’ve missed it.”
This was the one area she didn’t feel modest in. When she’d studied the two disciplines, she had fallen into the books, the lectures, often speaking to her professors at length outside of class. Her need to please had driven her to learn as much as possible. She wasn’t an authority, but she felt confident when discussing art. It was the one place her anxiety didn’t try to strangle her.
“I’m the artist,” J.B. murmured. “Of the abstract paintings, at least.”
Her throat constricted, making it hard to breathe. She was stunned. Apparently even in this she was susceptible to her crippling self doubt. The army of thoughts barrelled in. Did I offend him? Why did I say anything? Will he fire me now? What do I even know, maybe he just likes to paint black shit on canvas? A cowboy artist? Who the fuck does that? Oh God, I did offend him, I just know it. Can I just get up and leave--
“You’re observations were correct. They are a celebration.” He didn’t elaborate and no amount of curiosity would spur Maple into asking now. Her cheeks and neck were burning and she escaped into the paperwork, unable to continue the conversation with J.B.
She pictured him standing in front of a giant, blank canvas. At his feet a bucket of black, ready to stain the pristine white. To alter it forever, each stroke of his brush claiming it as his.
One set of papers--the largest one-- grabbed her attention. “An NDA? Why do I need to sign this?”
J.B. leaned back in his chair, hooking an ankle on his knee. Sitting like that showed how muscular he was. His shirt buttons stretched across his chest, his jeans pulled tight against his hips and thighs and--
“It’s no secret I’m a wealthy man, Maple. My father started as a hundred-head ranch. Before he passed it on to me, he had well over ten thousand head of cattle, and he was dabbling in oil. At the time, it was worth millions. Now, under my hand, it’s worth billions.” He rubbed his stubble, scrubbing away some errant thought. “I’m not telling you this to brag. I’m saying it because one doesn’t become this wealthy without some secrets. If you’re my employee, I expect you to keep them.”
She started to get caught up in the word ‘secrets’ when something else grabbed her attention. “Your accent is gone.” He’d said more to her since finding her with the art than he had all day. On the phone and in the stable, he’d had a strong West Texas accent.
“So’s yours,” he smirked. “I reckon it’s for the same reason, too. Out here, it helps to hide our differences.”
Oh, he didn’t know the half of it. Maple found a soft, small delight in knowing they had this, and the art, in common. And secrets-- they had secrets in common. Of course, she was still mortified over her analysis of his work, but he hadn’t kicked her out of his home, or called her names, or done, well, anything to her.
It was strange not being scolded for speaking up, like her parents had, or punished for it, like Tony did. If anything, it felt as if J.B. was encouraging her to step out of her shell. It was exciting to have someone interested in her opinion. But instinct made her want to clamp down and withdraw, because it also made her feel exposed and under scrutiny.
She signed the NDA and the other paperwork quickly.
“When did you finish school, Maple?” he asked as he took it, made photocopies, and gave her the copies.
“I didn’t.” Maple didn’t want to discuss it. Too many questions. While she was intrigued by his secrets, she wanted to guard her own heavily.
He pushed the issue. “Why?
“College turned out to not be for me.”
He gauged her then, scrutinizing her face. Her ears burned. “That’s a lie, Maple. I’ll let it go, because this is just chat, but don’t lie to me again.”
Maple swallowed hard. How could she respond to that? How did he know how much she missed the classes, the learning? She couldn’t tell him the real reason, couldn’t tell him about Tony or that awful night or--
“Work starts early around here. I expect everyone to do their share.” J.B. led her to the door.
As she stood in it, he hovered close, his mismatched, impenetrable stare locked on her. “Don’t forget the rules, Maple. You have more than enough work each day in your stable.”
He paused, lips parted like there was something else, but nothing came. Just a nod and the door shutting softly in her face.
Chapter Five
It was after two A.M. and Maple couldn’t sleep. Everything hummed; her mind, full of questions. Her body, full of desires she hadn’t anticipated ever facing again. The lingering, persistent memories of Tony’s cruel smile and harsh hand.
Her new room was taking getting used to, as well. Shadows fell differently than those in her old room at her parents’. There weren’t any of the reassuring creaks and groans of the farmstead. Everything here was cold and dark at night, and above all, it was silent. The silence was what unnerv
ed her. It left too much room for imagination.
Eager to fall asleep, but knowing it wasn’t coming yet, Maple decided to go for a walk outside. She thought she’d go look at the stable on her own, smell the horses and hear their comforting snorts. The walk might clear her mind enough to grab a precious few hours of sleep before she started her new life the next day.
She pulled on the jeans she’d left crumpled on the floor and then her boots. Stepping into the hall, she tread as lightly as she could. Fortunately these were work boots she’d had for years, broken in and butter soft. Her footsteps barely registered.
