by Sky Corgan
***
I wake to the sound of knocking at my bedroom door. My eyes don’t want to open, but I immediately roll over to look at the clock with a groan. Eight PM. Holy crap, I can’t believe I slept that long.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” I call to Chandler as I fly out of bed and head to my suitcase, wishing I had taken a bit of extra time to unpack so that I wouldn’t have to dig through everything I brought. Then again, I had planned to do that after I woke up, having thought it would be at a decent hour.
Frustrated that I can’t find the dress I’m looking for, I throw back on the one I wore on the plane. The last thing I want to do is piss Chandler off by keeping him waiting any longer than I already have. Within five minutes, I’m halfway presentable—presentable enough for dinner, I hope. There was no time to fix my makeup and barely enough time to run a brush through the tangles in my hair.
I grab my key card off the bedside table and open the door to leave, gasping as I come face to face with a woman. She smiles at me pleasantly as I clutch my chest.
“Sorry if I startled you,” she says in one of the most generically friendly voices I’ve ever heard. “Chandler asked me to retrieve you for dinner.”
As soon as the shock wears off, disappointment takes its place. I had thought that Chandler and I would be alone together all weekend. Instead, I have this fox of a woman to compete with. She’s easily five-ten, model height. With her perfect proportions, ivory skin, jet-black hair, and large brown eyes, I have no doubt she’s either Chandler’s girlfriend or his fuck buddy.
At least, that’s what I think until she seats me at the dining room table and then immediately gets to work serving us. A maid? Is that what she is? She’s dressed in a white pantsuit and looks as sterile as the rest of the place. When she finishes setting plates in front of us and retreats back to wherever she came from, I start to see her as less of a threat. Though I don’t know why I saw her as a threat in the first place. This isn’t a competition for Chandler. I’m just his muse for the week. If they have any type of non-professional relationship, it’s none of my business.
“That’s Susan. She’ll be taking care of us while we’re here,” Chandler informs me.
She certainly doesn’t look like a Susan. More like a Gia or an Everly. A name that generic does not do such an exotic-looking woman justice.
I turn my attention to the food laid out before us, various sushi rolls. I’ve never tried sushi before, which is ironic given my love of Japanese culture, but I’m not a big fan of fish in general.
“Did she make all of this?” I ask as I awkwardly pick up the chopsticks laid out on the cloth napkin in front of me.
“Yes. Susan is quite the chef.” Chandler holds his chopsticks like an expert, immediately transferring a few pieces of sushi over to his plate like he’s done it a million times before. I mirror him to the best of my ability. Despite my struggle to use the chopsticks, he doesn’t offer to teach me or switch them out for silverware. He simply smirks in amusement at my plight while I try my hardest not to get irritated. “I take it you’ve never had sushi before.”
“That should be obvious.” I finally give up and stab a piece with the sticks, no longer caring about looking refined in front of him.
He chuckles in response, which should put me at ease if not for that he’s staring at me. In fact, he’s completely stopped paying attention to his own plate and is leaning back in his chair observing me. It’s making me nervous—making my hands shake.
“A little help here,” I say when I realize that I’m almost to the point of just using my fingers.
Keep some dignity, Emma. And for the love of God, don’t sound like an ungrateful bitch.
Chandler finally springs to action. “What would you like?” He hovers above the sushi with his chopsticks.
“Well, I don’t know what any of this is, so I’ll take whatever.” I submit to whatever he feels like feeding me, remembering that I’m not supposed to have any free will here anyway.
“So what do you think of this place so far?” He piles my plate with way more than I can possibly eat.
“It’s interesting.” I nod, noticing that there isn’t any art on the walls in here either. I suppose that doesn’t matter when the backdrop is one big window. We’re facing the river. This is where I first saw him, the wall of glass when we were walking up. It’s a nice view for eating.
“Just interesting.” He doesn’t seem pleased with my answer. “You can do better than that.”
I shift my weight, feeling like he’s putting me under a spotlight. “It has a very sterile feel to it. For you being a famous painter, I figured there would be art on the walls. Did you not have time to fly any in? Or would it have been too difficult getting it here?”
“There’s art in your room,” he points out.
“Yes,” I reply hesitantly.
“But that was what I was going for—the sterile feeling. I want this exhibit to be uninfluenced by the outside world and all of its distractions. That’s why the walls are all bare.”
A bit eccentric, but who am I to question or complain? No questions asked. That’s what I signed up for.
I do my best to scoop up the most safe-looking roll on my plate with the chopsticks. Everything in it is identifiable: cucumber, avocado, and crab meat. I think this is what they call a California roll, except that the crab meat in it is real instead of the imitation kind. I stick it in my mouth and give it a good chew, happy that it doesn’t taste horrible.
“Sake?” Chandler offers to pour me a drink from the tokkuri sitting between us.
“I’m underage,” I remind him.
“You’re not underage here.” He smiles at me before filling his sakazuki.
“Where is here exactly?” I cast a glance outside at the towering mountains and serene greenery that are only still visible because of the light of the moon.
“No questions, remember.” He lifts the glass in cheers before downing its contents.
I expect him to fill my cup as well when he goes to pour himself a refill, but he doesn’t. As I watch him, I think that maybe having some alcohol wouldn’t be such a bad idea. It would take the edge off of my nerves.
He sets the tokkuri down but doesn’t pick up his sakazuki, looking at me across the table with a serious expression. “Let me tell you a bit about how this is going to work. I assume you came out here expecting to be drawn or painted, but that’s not going to happen while you’re here. This facility is set up with cameras. You can’t see them, but they’re everywhere, catching every angle of everything that we do.”
I gulp from his words. Everywhere. Does that mean my room, too? Does that mean he took pictures or video of me masturbating and I didn’t even know it? Why couldn’t I have gotten this speech as soon as I arrived instead of right now? Then again, I suppose he didn’t expect me to go to my room and immediately pleasure myself. Oh, my God, I’m such an idiot. This is so embarrassing; I’m never going to live it down. I kind of just want to crawl under the table and die.
“Throughout the week, I’m going to expose you to a variety of experiences. They’re all going to be very… intimate in nature; some of them may be a little intense. There are seven specific pieces that I want to create for this exhibit. I hope that you can help me capture the essence of what I’m trying to accomplish.” His wording is vague and doesn’t give me much of a sense of what he’s trying to accomplish. I’m also having a hard time concentrating on what he’s saying because I’m still freaking out about the fact that he’s going to see me masturbating whenever he watches the video of my room.
“So, Emma, tell me about yourself.” Chandler returns his attention to his food. My appetite is gone. I’ll nibble on something here and there, but just thinking about my blunder has me sick to my stomach.
“There’s not much to tell.” I shrug, staring down at a brown sack-like piece of sushi on my plate wondering what’s inside. Not being able to ask him questions is quickly becoming annoying
, but I do my best to just go with the flow. “I just graduated from high school this past summer. I’m not really sure whether or not I want to go to college, but if I do, I’ll probably major in foreign studies. I eventually want to move to Japan, so I should probably learn more about the culture.”
“And eat more sushi.” He grins at my full plate.
“Yeah. And that.” I cast a sideways glance, forcing myself to grab another piece. The bag-looking thing will do well enough.
“It’s inari,” he tells me. “The brown part is double-fried tofu. Then it’s boiled in a sweet sauce and filled with sushi rice. There’s no raw seafood in there if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Perceptive. To be honest, I’m not a big fan of fish.”
“Which explains why you seem to be lacking an appetite. I can have Susan make you something else if you’d like.” He looks to the door that Susan left out of.
“No.” I shake my head quickly. “This should be fine.”
“It would be no trouble. The kitchen is fully stocked.”
“I don’t want to be a burden.” I take a bite of the inari to show him that I’m willing to eat it. It doesn’t taste half bad.
We spend the rest of the meal in relative silence. There’s an awkward tension between us that I just want to go away. I fix my gaze on the sake several times, hoping he’ll get the hint and serve me. He seems intent on observing me, and I’m not bold enough to go for it on my own.
“Shall we retire outside after dinner? I believe a small celebration is in order for you agreeing to do this bizarre experiment with me.” Chandler pushes his chair away from the table and sets his napkin on top of it. “I need to set a few things up. If you’d like to change into something warmer, I’ll meet you out on the deck in fifteen minutes.” He pulls his jacket from the back of his chair. It’s a black leather biker jacket that matches perfectly with his distressed jeans and tight white t-shirt. He looks like the quintessential bad boy. It also makes me realize that he had going outside planned from the beginning. I doubt that anything we do will not have been planned weeks in advance by him.
I return to my room, once again scrambling to find something suitable to wear. I settle on a pair of black tights with a red tank top with a dream catcher on it and a long black cardigan, hoping I dressed warmly enough. Not knowing what country I’m in, the only thing I have to go off of is the temperature when I was outside earlier. Piecing together something that’s both warm and stylish is a bit difficult when I didn’t pack a lot of long-sleeved clothing.
As soon as I step out onto the deck, I realize that I chose poorly. I wrap my arms around me for warmth as I approach Chandler. Thankfully, he’s lit an outdoor fire pit table, so I won’t have to freeze to death. I sit on the loveseat across from him, my eyes landing on a decanter and two wine glasses along with a bowl of chocolates. I try not to make it into something romantic, but being outside under the starlight, my teenage brain begins to go in illogical directions.
“Is that the warmest thing you brought?” Chandler looks at my attire with disapproval.
“I hadn’t expected to be flown to the Alps,” I joke, extending my fingers towards the fire to warm them.
“Here.” He stands and takes off his jacket, walking over to put it on me.
I blush as I slide my arms into the sleeves, thinking of how heavy it is. More than that, of how it smells like Chandler. There’s a strong muskiness about it with notes of citrus and rosemary. Totally money. Completely man. I close my eyes, wrapping myself in the warmth of the jacket and the scent, knowing that I’m wearing a stupidly content grin. This is the happiest I’ve been since arriving here.
Chandler moves everything over to where I’m sitting. Apparently, he had assumed I would be brave enough to sit beside him. He was wrong. I’ve been trying to keep a safe distance because I have no idea about his personal life—if there’s someone of the female variety in it. I want to keep things between us as professional as possible because I want him to see me as a professional. I want to walk away from this experience with his respect.
“I would ask you if you like port, but I can only assume you’re not a wine connoisseur.” Chandler picks up the decanter from the table and pours us each a glass of the liquid that’s so dark red it’s almost black.
“That I am not,” I admit.
“Dark chocolate compliments it well. You should try it.” He hands me a glass.
The way he’s staring at me makes me nervous. He’s watching me so intently. It reminds me of how I was gazing at his paintings in my room earlier, studying them.
My eyes follow his hand as he picks up one of the chocolates. It’s a small round disc, not like anything I’ve seen before, though I’m not really a chocolate connoisseur either. More than likely, this stuff is expensive like everything else here.
I reach out to scoop a few chocolates from the bowl, but Chandler stops me. “Here. Allow me.”
I retract my arm, confused by his intentions until he offers me a chocolate from his own hand, bringing it up to my lips and silently requesting that I open my mouth. I can only hope that the darkness around us hides the heat coming to my cheeks. I can’t believe that Chandler Lexington is hand-feeding me chocolate. And the way he’s looking at me… I don’t feel the cold anymore at all.
“Let the chocolate settle on your tongue, then take a drink of the port.” His fingertips brush my lips as he slips the chocolate into my mouth. For being so subtle, it’s one of the most sensual things I’ve ever experienced.
Chandler seems absolutely fascinated with me as I raise the glass of port to my lips. As it begins to melt on my tongue, I taste the bitterness of the chocolate. Dark chocolate has never been my favorite, but I have no problem with it in small quantities. I’m not sure how much I’m supposed to drink, so I take a sip of the port, not wanting to look like a lush. The initial taste of it is strange, sweet but bitter at the same time with a bite of acidity. When it melds with the chocolate on my tongue, the bitterness smooths into something palatable, the chocolate, despite its lack of sugar content, lending some sweetness to the wine. Or maybe the wine is lending sweetness to the chocolate; I can’t really tell. All I do know is that I definitely wouldn’t enjoy the wine as much without the chocolate.
“What do you think?” Chandler asks.
“It’s good.” I nod, slurring slightly around the mixture before swallowing it. “The wine is strong.” I can already feel the heat that was in my cheeks sliding down my throat and into my stomach to settle there. It probably won’t be long before I catch a buzz.
He chuckles, far less elegantly popping a chocolate into his own mouth and tossing back a large gulp of the port. I find him to be intriguing. There’s a precarious balance of finesse and realness to the way he acts. For the most part, he seems like a creature leagues above me, but there are moments when unscripted humanity shines through. I can’t help but wonder if he’s more act than truth—if he’s purposely trying to impress me.
“Please, help yourself.” He gestures to the bowl of chocolates. I’d much rather him hand-feed me again, but I dare not say it. Instead, I hesitantly take a chocolate from the bowl, repeating the process.
“The paintings in my room are really good,” I say, wanting to know more about him—to be closer to him.
“Thank you.” He lounges back. “You won’t see those pieces anywhere else in the world. They’re from my private collection.”
I feel honored that I get to see them. I want to ask if I can take a picture of them, but then I remember that I was made to leave my cell phone at home. I’m to have no contact with the outside world while I’m here. It makes sense, though, considering how private Chandler is trying to be about this whole thing. And if the paintings in my room haven’t been on display anywhere in the world, that obviously means he doesn’t want anyone seeing them without his permission.
“My favorite is the mother and the baby,” I inform him.
“What do you like
about it?” He looks at me with interest.
“Mostly the emotion in her expression. You can tell that she greatly loves the child. There’s a sereneness to it, a sort of innocence.” I swirl what’s left of the wine in my glass, picturing the painting.
“That’s a very deep assessment. I’m impressed.” Chandler props his elbow up on the armrest, cupping his chin with his hand.
“I like art. I’m a bit of an artist myself,” I confess.
“Oh, really? What’s your medium?”
I internally cower in embarrassment, not wanting him to think of me as a child for liking to draw what many would consider to be cartoons. “Mostly digital. I draw with a stylus and paint using software.”
“A lot of people are more digital these days. I think it’s because it’s easier to fix mistakes when you make them.”
“That’s just how I learned.” I shrug, fearing that this might degrade into a conversation about how creating art digitally is less refined, though he’s made no indication of disapproval.
“What do you draw?”
“Mostly people,” is the simplified version.
Chandler smiles warmly at me. “I would like to see some of your work sometime.”
“It’s nothing impressive.” I shift my weight away from him, feeling unworthy. “It’s never been on display anywhere important or won any awards. I mean, I have a DeviantArt profile, and I’ve sold a few prints, but I don’t do anything as intricate as what you paint.”
“Everyone has to start somewhere.”
It’s a generic response, the same one I’ve heard dozens of times before. I know it should mean more coming from him, but it just makes me feel hollow about my future. No doubt he’s told that to hundreds of other budding artists because it’s the easiest thing to say. I’m not sure why I was hoping for something deeper. All I know is that I don’t really want to talk about myself anymore.
“The woman in the paintings in my room, she hasn’t been in any of your public works. Is she someone important to you?” I know the question is highly personal, but I want to make him squirm just like he unknowingly made me squirm, if that’s even possible.
