“Yes… they do,” Saturday softly commented. “It is beautiful… (she touched the edge of one of the photos)…and I’m horrified by it.”
Mark moved towards the photograph at which she stared.
“Don’t be. Human beings are never more honest than they are in these moments. Passion and pain bring out our most earnest selves. No faking…” He touched the photograph as well.
“No hiding.”
Mark’s eyes scanned the images with respect, admiration… Longing. The way she looked at the Beaumont painting. The way she ached to create such beautiful artwork.
Not a photographer, eh? Doesn’t seem that way. Interestingly enough, this was the most he had ever said to her. Listening to him speak evoked images of sweet honey; his voice was so melodic.
She had heard of the strong and silent type, but now she was experiencing it up close and personal. He conveyed his emotions with his eyes, his body. But when he did speak, she felt like she never wanted him to stop.
She licked her now dry lips. “But it’s haunting. Like a dream that’s turned into a nightmare.”
“Because it is. It’s one and the same. Life is both. Love is both. Everything. Passion. Pain. You should embrace them, Saturday. They are honesty. They are truth. They are all that really matter.”
“I… I don’t know. I just…” Saturday rubbed her upper arms, looking back at the photos.
“It’s what makes James’ art so great. What makes him the artist, the photographer that he is. He embraces them. He doesn’t hide them, but puts them on display. He explores the pleasure, the pain and comes out better on the other side.” Mark was gesturing now, his hands closed into fists. He was now speaking with animated fervor; somehow, Saturday had opened some type of floodgate within him.
“Don’t you ever just want to let go, be free like this? Don’t you want to explore your pain, Saturday?” He walked toward her. She took two timid steps backwards, her heels tapping the back wall. She peered up at him, not knowing what to expect.
“Don’t you want to… explore your passion?” Mark tucked her hair behind her left ear and placed his lips where the strands formerly lay. Saturday closed her eyes, drunken with more than just the shots. Drunken by this untapped desire for Mark.
His beautiful lips traveled from one side of her delicate collarbone to the other, gently kissing and teasing each freckle along the way. Mark removed his lips from her neck and had them hover over her mouth. He placed his right hand into her hair, all while gazing intently at her pink mouth.
She knew what he wanted her to do.
She held back as long as her will and the liquor would allow, and then Saturday grabbed him as he was grabbing her, and Mark kissed her.
She wished that she had the words to convey what he was really doing, because what he was doing couldn’t even be described by the term “kiss.” His “kiss” caressed every part of her, overwhelmed her, and exposed her. She felt as if she had been laid bare, as if she were making love with her mouth. He gently massaged her mouth and tongue with his, as she lightly sucked and bit at his with hers.
Suddenly, some type of thread in him snapped, and he was picking her up, cradling her ass in his hands against the wall. He was kneading her bottom, bouncing her ever so lightly against his growing erection.
Saturday’s dress was hiked up around her upper thighs, and she could feel every hard inch of him through her underwear. His kisses were hungry now, more forceful and intense.
So rough… and so gentle, at the same time: she wouldn’t believe it if she wasn’t currently experiencing it. Saturday wrapped her legs around him, straining to aid him in that torturous rubbing of his cock across her now-wet panties.
Fuck me, Mark. Fuck me now. She froze. She had never had those thoughts about a man so soon. She just met him! What was she doing?!
Mark could feel her reaction, freezing, too and pulling back to look into her eyes. Seconds ticked by as she just stared into his eyes, wordlessly. Then she began to wiggle like a squirming toddler, wanting to be put down. He got the hint and obliged. Then, Saturday bolted, head down, out of the room, and back into the comfort of her own normal, pain-less, pleasure-less world.
***
June 4
She did her usual Friday routine today. Grocery-shopping at the Farmer’s Market. Same old, same old. Even watching her doing something simple like picking out fruit is the highlight of my day. In these moments, I know that no one but me can see her, the real her. I can see her in her entirety. Everything about her becomes free, open …honest.
She looked beautiful – just like a fresh-faced fifteen. She ALWAYS looks beautiful. And at one point, I almost stood right next to her. Man, I wanted to reach out and touch the tendrils falling over her neck. Smell it, play with it. I was so close to her. I could have reached out and touched her. But I didn’t.
The therapist says this journal will be therapeutic for me. It seems she may have been right.
I’m starting to feel better already…
Chapter Three
The Window to my Soul
The next night, Mark was in Saturday’s bed… in her dreams.
In the dream, she lay on a bed of silk. She looked down to the very edge of the bed to find Mark standing there…with no clothes on. Her eyes widened at the sight of his naked body. He noticed her expression and smirked playfully, one side of his face rising suggestively. He reached out, grabbing her by her ankles and dragging her gently toward him.
His muscular frame leaned over hers once she was within reach, and he began a downward trail of open-mouthed kisses. She watched as his tousled head of hair dipped further down, as he reached her belly button and caressed it with his tongue. He slowed his descent and reversed it, placing his kisses higher until he reached her mouth, where he gently placed his tongue inside.
Saturday moaned softly into his mouth. Her tongue teased and tasted his as he began placing her hands above her head. Her eyes closed, she leaned her head back, giving his mouth access to her neck. Her eyes shot open when she realized that her wrists were now bound above her head. Two ropes now hanging from the ceiling were tied just below her palms.
She tried to get Mark’s attention, but he just pulled back. He smiled devilishly, his top row of teeth showing this time. He moved backwards toward the edge of the bed, leaving Saturday in the middle, confined. She pulled at the restraints, whimpering—her voice seemingly unable to cry out.
Mark grabbed a camera from behind the bed’s edge… and pointed it at Saturday. “Pose for me, baby,” he said.
Saturday bolted up straight in bed, her body on high-alert, sweat sticking her hair to her head and neck. She felt around her wrists and touched the bed’s surface beside her. She was, in fact, naked, but there was no Mark; no camera; no ropes.
She laid her golden-brown head back on the pillow, willing herself to go back to sleep, when she thought of something.
Her whimpers in the dream—she couldn’t tell if they were sounds of despair… or pleasure.
***
The following morning, Saturday channeled her sexual energy and frustration into a gym session with Kara. She pounded, kicked and ran herself into exhaustion just to force Mark’s eyes and voice…(and body) out of her head. Toweling herself down, Saturday walked to the water cooler by the glass doors of the facility…and almost bumped right into David. She smiled despite the near-collision.
David was a bartender at The Greenhouse, the restaurant at which she served. Cute by many women’s standards, Saturday had never had the attraction to him that the other servers felt. He was a certifiable golden boy, for sure: blond hair, blue eyes, 6 feet tall, boy-ish good looks; even his smile was damn near perfect. But that just didn’t do it for her.
That was it. He was too young looking, too boyish. Her smile wilted by a fraction. Not like Mark, who was all man, with his passionate eyes and sophisticated demeanor.
“Saturday! Hey!”
David, in his deep blue outfit
, reached out to touch her bare arm, and Saturday almost recoiled a bit. She did like him, but she had to be careful with David. His invitations to coffee were too frequent and too eager. He chatted her up, talking to her about the weather, the restaurant, etc. Saturday nodded emphatically as David talked, her sandy ponytail bouncing up and down as she feigned interest.
Her cellphone rang in her gym bag, giving her the welcome distraction she needed. She stared hard at the number on the screen, not recognizing it, but she wanted to escape the route that she knew this convo would take. This time, David would probably make it Caribou Coffee.
“Oh!” Saturday exclaimed. “So sorry, David. I have to take this call.”
She half-turned away from David, effectually dismissing him, while she picked up the phone. She intended to pretend to have a real conversation with whatever telemarketer was on the line, but a very distinct voice spoke on the other end.
“Well, he seems really nice.” Him. Mark.
Saturday’s mouth hung open for what seemed like an eternity. She walked quickly away from David, giving a quick wave over her shoulder to his now-dejected face.
She spoke low into the phone, her head down to cover up the blush across her face.
“He seems… ? (Shit. He must have heard David through the phone. Wait…) Wait. How did you get my number?”
“I’m resourceful…”
Saturday looked over to see Kara’s petite frame bobbing happily up and down, giving Saturday a thumbs up. KA-RA! I mean, yeah, she had mentioned Mark to Kara (How could she not? He was constantly on her mind these days), but she didn’t know that Kara did this! When did Kara even have the time? At the party, maybe…? She didn’t see them meet at all.
“I see that you are. Oh, and…uh, David? He’s just a friend. A…a…coworker, really. We just bumped into each other and…”
Saturday continued explaining her run-in with David. She was rambling and she knew it, but she didn’t want Mark to see David as more than what he was.
She wanted Mark, she realized. Just Mark.
She could hear the smirk in his voice.
“Of course. He’s just eager to be next to you. Why wouldn’t he be? You look so sexy in your pink gym clothes.” The line went dead.
Saturday could do nothing but stare at the phone at his revelation. She finally recovered the presence of mind to start putting one foot in front of the other to walk when she received a text from the same number.
I want to see you, really see you – and not just in passing. You’re going to have dinner with me tonight.
Saturday quickly glanced around, now aware that Mark could see her. David had left the water cooler area, and it seemed as if foot traffic were normal outside of the glass gym front, but she knew it wasn’t…because Mark was out there, seeing her. Looking at her.
And does he have to be so commanding? “You’re going to have dinner with me tonight” —No “please”? No “can you…” or “will you…?”….
…Oh, shut up, Saturday. You’re not even mad. You know that you’re going to accept his invitation, anyway.
Saturday gave a small laugh, half-scoffing at her brain for running itself around in circles.
Truth was… Saturday was up for anything that Mark was offering. She was slowly, but surely realizing that she had the willpower of a dog near a bone when it came to him.
She looked down at her pink spandex outfit, and then at the gym receptionist’s desk, when she had a spark of inspiration.
Her conversation with the receptionist was short and efficient. When Saturday glanced at what she had written with what the receptionist gave her, she smiled inwardly.
Saturday strode over to the window front, placing the sheet of paper on the glass for about 10 seconds, then walked away. On the front of the sheet, in huge black marker, was the word YES.
***
That night, Saturday put the final touches of mascara on her lashes, and glanced at her phone on the bathroom counter. Again. For the hundredth time.
Saturday’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. Mark. She opened his text message.
Mark:
Where we’re having dinner is pretty low-key. You can wear whatever makes you feel comfortable. Just a heads-up in case you were on your fourth outfit of the night.
Saturday giggled as she quickly typed back.
Saturday:
That was awfully presumptuous of you, Mr. Rich. How would you know, anyway? I find my outfit to be very cute and I think you’ll like it. P.S. I am NOT trying on my fourth outfit of the night.
It’s the seventh. Hmph.
Mark:
Sure, it isn’t. I know a lot about what goes on in preparation for dates. I’m no stranger to women.
By the way, this IS a date. You’re mine for the night.
Saturday smiled when she read the line about being “his for the night,” but she definitely took a pause when she read the line about Mark “not being a stranger to women.”
Does that mean that he’s been with a lot? Did he mean in the past or currently? Is he dating other women? What women? How many?
Saturday imagined Mark dating other women, touching other women; her face turned a bright pink color at the thought. She gave herself a mental wrist-slap and continued applying makeup to her face. Even if that was the case, it shouldn’t matter much. Tonight was all that mattered. Or so she told herself.
She glanced at her phone again, actually checking the time for once, making sure that she wasn’t late. Late. LATE! For a very important date… Saturday hummed the lyrics to the well-known Alice in Wonderland song.
Saturday’s nerves were on 100, and she was doing anything to distract herself from her own jitters. She finally settled on a short, creamy white, silk dress with thin straps and gold, strappy heels to match. Her make-up was deep gold with splashes of soft pink rouge on her lips and cheeks.
The night breeze was welcoming, as it blew through her bathroom window and into her soft beige curls. A hard look in the mirror, and she realized how…angelic she looked. Other-worldly. She hoped that she could work some of her other-worldly magic on Mark tonight.
One quick review of the address that Mark had texted her, and she was off, gold purse in tow, and into the nearest taxi.
When Saturday arrived, she was sure that she had the wrong address. She glanced at the non-descript, utilitarian-looking building. It was nothing but concrete, black marble and glass. Cool-looking. Futuristic, yes…but a restaurant it was not. She wouldn’t let the taxi leave until she sorted out this mix-up. It was well lit on its exterior, but still, this clearly wasn’t the right place. How did I get it wrong??
She fumbled through her text messages as she stood outside of the cab, when Mark’s form emerged from the doorway. He wore a deep gray suit with a charcoal shirt and tie beneath, his dark brown hair pushed back and ruffled slightly to the side. He began walking towards her.
Bless you, Lord, for the gift of wonderful suit tailoring. And the beautiful, fit men who fill them out.
Once Saturday was able to breathe normally again, she smiled at Mark, who approached the driver, slipped him the fare and sent him on his way. Mark reached his hand out when he was close enough, gripping her elbow. He slid his hand down to her fingers and palm, and placed them within his own. Hand-in-hand, they made their way from the street curb to the inside of the building.
As equally non-descript inside as it was out, they made their way past hardwood floors up hardwood stairs to the final floor of the three-story edifice.
Too giddy to ask questions on the flight of stairs, Saturday was now full of them. There was a single, covered table in the middle of the wooden floor, beautifully decorated in burgundy with a rose-bouquet centerpiece. White, creamy, lit candles flanked the centerpiece, bathing the arrangement in warm light.
Saturday started to open her mouth to speak about the setup when she stopped suddenly, and walked over to one of the open windows.
The view outside of i
t was in-cred-ible. This building sat atop a hill at the precipice of the city, and the city skyline sat right in its sights. Whoa.
“I picked this room for that very reason,” Mark’s voice sounded behind her. “To me, one of the best views in the city.”
Saturday looked behind her into the room. There was more to this room than spectacular sights and smooth floors with open space.
THIS… was an art studio. There were half-finished works and paint-splattered sheets taking up the whole other half of the room, as spacious as it was. Countless canvases and easels were perched in all different ways, upright and askew.
“This is Marie Lemieux’s studio and home away from home,” Mark commented, reading Saturday’s mind when her gaze didn’t avert right away.
Aghast, Saturday stuttered. “Marie Le… Marie Lemieux…? Our gallery features MANY of her works. She’s legendary.”
Mark merely nodded in response.
Saturday stood transfixed. “I can’t believe you know her.”
Mark leaned an arm above his head, against the wall. “I don’t have many friends, but the ones I do have are mostly artists, yes.”
Saturday could practically taste the question on the tip of her tongue, but hesitated to ask again. From the way Mark responded at the party, he didn’t seem keen on sharing that information.
Who are you, Mark Rich? What do you do? At that moment, she imagined that he must have been an art dealer of some kind…a purveyor. Maybe a publicist…?...Owner of a gallery. That must be it. His associates are all creative-types. Somehow, his circle includes them all. And they’re not just associates. Friends. This is one of Marie Lemieux’s HOMES.
Breaking her reverie, a server emerged from an adjacent room (A kitchen!) with a bottle of wine in hand.
Mark came over from where he was perched, his hand resting lightly on the small of Saturday’s back. He led Saturday over to the table as he spoke.
“I hope you’re hungry. There are a couple of selections to choose from for dinner.”
Behind the Blindfold: A Sexy Mystery Duet Page 3
