Still… they never touched on the nature of Mark’s career, the projects on which he focused.
I mean, so what? Saturday thought to herself.
Maybe he’s sensitive about his job. Maybe he hates it. He could be embarrassed by it. He could be really shy about it. Who’s to say? I mean, c’mon. In the grand scheme of things, who reallyyy cares?!
You do, that’s who. And you know it.
SIGH.
Pushing her unpleasant thoughts to the side, Saturday talked about her own work again: the gallery, the restaurant. She gushed about her gallery boss, Vicky, an older, distinguished woman whom she respected greatly. Probably for the first time, she voiced her true annoyances about Vicky’s, husband, Cristiano.
“He’s an absolute perv. And Vicky is successful and sweet and kind. Man… I just… I can’t believe someone as great as Vicky is married to that sleaze bucket.”
“Sleaze bucket?” Mark chuckled over the line.
Saturday had to laugh herself.
“It depicts him per-fect-ly….I’m serious. I mean, I don’t know THAT much about Cristiano, but what I know, I don’t like.”
“He always flirts with the female gallery employees: me, in particular. His hands are about as greasy as his hair and demeanor. He always greets me with a kiss to the back of my hand, and I’ve caught him trying to reach out to touch my hair on several occasions. Like, what the hell, guy?! Ugh.”
Mark became silent on the phone.
He responded gravely.
“Do you want me to handle this?”
“Handle this?” Saturday wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but from the serious tone of Mark’s voice, she was sure that it couldn’t be good.
“No, no, no,” she responded quickly. “It’s fine. Really. Cristiano is creepy, for sure, but… pretty tame. He’s harmless…”
Mark remained silent.
“Trust me, Mark. It’s fine…”
After a pause, Mark finally responded.
“Ok, I’ll trust you… but if he ever...”
Saturday cut him off.
“…crosses a major line. I promise… I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Seemingly satisfied with her answer, Mark moved on from the topic of slimy boss husbands.
They laughed and flirted and shared until the wee hours of the morning, when Saturday finally started drifting off to sleep. She had been resisting the pull of slumber so that she could still hear his voice, but her eyes could barely stay open and soon, they were saying their “Goodnight’s” to each other. Finally, they hung up.
Saturday rolled over in her bed to find a comfortable position when her phone buzzed. She reached for it.
Mark:
Hey.
Just realized that I’m not ready to end the night. Talk to me.
Sleepy and fading fast out of consciousness, Saturday still managed a weak smile. She didn’t want their conversation to end, either, actually.
Saturday:
It’s 4am. You’re insatiable.
Mark:
You haven’t figured that out by now? ;) Well, in case you haven’t quite gotten the picture, I can’t seem to get enough of you, which is rare for me. I tend to not get too involved in things.
Saturday frowned in confusion.
Saturday:
Involved in what exactly?
Mark:
Anything. Anyone. But with you, I’m experiencing something new. And I like it. I’m enjoying you, Saturday.
And I want to keep enjoying you in all types of different ways… in different places… in different positions.
Dream about me, baby. Good night.
His words on the screen were the last thing she saw before she finally succumbed to a gentle snooze.
And Mark, with all his kidding, was pretty intuitive.
That night, she did dream about him.
***
Calls with Mark became a nightly occurrence for Saturday after that. Every night after one of her shifts, she basically sprinted up the stairs to get settled in bed to get ready for her call with him. She would text him that she was home, sit back and wait for the phone to ring. It always did… within minutes.
It was during one of those calls that they had their first “spat.”
Saturday was talking about taking a trip to the shore when Mark interrupted her.
“So, when are you going to talk to Vicky about featuring some of your work in the gallery?”
Saturday was taken aback by the swift change in subject.
“Uhhh…I don’t know,” Saturday replied. “Hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Well, start.”
“Jeeeez. What a way to motivate me.”
Mark gave a small laugh. “I know I’m being really blunt, but you’re good, Saturday. Really good. What I saw that night at Marie’s… that was magnificent. You painted that piece on the fly… and it still was top-notch work. I don’t know many people capable of something like that.”
Saturday’s cheeks turned the color of the pink flannel pajamas she was wearing.
“I don’t know... ” she muttered.
“I do. Do it.” And then Mark proceeded to list all of the reasons why Saturday should go out on a limb with her artwork. On one hand, she was becoming annoyed with his demands, his expectations. On the other, she felt honored that he had such high expectations of her.
The people in her life had definitely pushed her to achieve certain things, but those things were never accomplishments that she wanted in the first place. No one, not even Kara, had pushed her to really put her artwork out there for viewing. When she made excuses or pushed back, her friends or family, not wanting to upset her, eased up.
But not Mark.
He insisted, demanded more from her. He didn’t just stop at this first argument. He broached the subject many times, in many different ways. Saturday was both appreciative and terrified of what he had to say. Her levels of discomfort had never been higher, but she also hadn’t felt this bold since she made the decision to move to the city. She was painting now more than ever before.
Their nightly routine went on for a few weeks, punctuated by frequent meet-ups at local bagel shops and bookstores where they snuck kisses behind the shelves. It was all a fantasy ride for Saturday until the one night she spent up in bed waiting for a call from Mark that never came. She had texted him earlier that day when the question burning in her brain got too hot to keep in.
Saturday:
Question…
Mark:
Shoot away.
Saturday:
What do you do? For a living, I mean?
Saturday waited for a response… and waited and waited. Ten minutes went by before he responded.
Mark:
Everything…
Saturday scoffed, hoping he’d be more specific, of course.
Saturday:
I’m serious, though
Mark:
Me, too. Everything.
Saturday rolled her eyes, refusing to pry any further than she already had. If he didn’t want to tell her, then fine. He could take his secret job and shove it up his magnificently tight ass for all she cared. She tried to shrug it off and continue working hard during her shift.
Later that evening, she texted Mark again, telling him that she had finally arrived home. She got a text from him instead of his usual call, telling her how busy he would become within the next few days. He informed her that the job would keep him occupied most of the day and basically unavailable for a little while.
She sunk into her bed that night, the disappointment weighing on her chest like an anvil. Saturday flipped over in bed, trying to loosen up.
Saturday, you big baby. It’s just a couple of days. How bad could it be?
***
The next week was pure torture for Saturday.
She didn’t see Mark’s face one time over the next seven days. Not. Once.
They seemed to be perfectly out-of-sync those d
ays, missing each other by mere minutes at times. She was spending her afternoons and weeknights at the gallery and then serving late at The Greenhouse on the weekends. Mark was deep in the trenches of work on multiple assignments (of a type that had still yet to be determined).
Every time they thought a quick lunch or a small coffee-grab would work, one of them would be pulled away by some new obligation or development. Talking to Mark through an overpriced piece of Apple plastic wasn’t enough; Saturday needed to see him, touch him…feel him again. Each day without him made her antsier. She was a giant, walking bag of jitters. Her sleep schedule began to suffer because of all of it.
Her night shifts were the most brutal. When Saturday wasn’t serving at the Greenhouse, she was able to double as a bartender there. It wasn’t often, and she sure wasn’t the greatest, but she was licensed and competent at the job. After work, she often walked to a busier street to hail a cab, but even that short trek was tiring.
She was so sleepy afterwards that she sometimes fell into mini bouts of delirium; she was seeing things, feeling things that weren’t there. Sometimes, she imagined that she was being followed. The hair on the back of her neck would stand on end; when she glanced back, nothing was there, of course, but it took a few blocks before she could shake the feeling.
Must. Have. Sleep…Turning. Into. Lunatic…
At 3:00 pm on Sunday, better known as Mark-less day number 9, Saturday went to work at the Greenhouse. It was a warm, but overcast day that reflected the heaviness of her mood.
Saturday’s feet nearly dragged, literally, as she dutifully served and waited on customers. Another day…another 14 hour-shift of serving and touring at the gallery.
When traffic at the restaurant and bar began to slow a bit, Saturday decided to give herself a reprieve. Pretending to tidy up, she sought refuge behind the main bar, as her gossipy coworker Tiffany chatted her up.
Elbows on the bar, chin rested firmly in hand, Saturday gazed aimlessly out of the restaurant’s ginormous glass windows.
A few “mhmm’s” and “uh huh’s” just to placate Tiffany, and Saturday had all the time she needed to lean over the bar and daydream about Mark.
She wondered about him, what he was doing, what he was wearing, how he smelled today. Even people watching, one of her favorite pastimes, had lost all appeal today; she had nothing but Mark on the brain.
In fact, she was thinking about Mark so intensely that she imagined his face as part of a cute couple walking by. The man wore a grey t-shirt and jeans, the woman in a black sundress. The couple stopped to talk by the doors of the restaurant, engrossed in their conversation.
Saturday shook her head to clear the image of Mark’s face from her mind, but…
“And my trainer says I’m in such great shape,” Tiffany remarked, “… and then this bitchy guest trainer shows up and do you know what she said to me? SHE says…”
The sudden clanking of metal and splatter of Romano sauce against the white blouse of Tiffany’s Greenhouse uniform muffled what was coming out next.
Saturday had abruptly risen from the bar, her elbow knocking the bowl of sauce off of the counter as she raced towards the doors.
It was Mark, outside, talking near the doors. He was the man from the attractive couple walking by.
Saturday pushed the doors of the restaurant open and stopped in front of them. The woman Mark was talking to was a blonde; she was tall and lithe…and very pretty. Saturday’s eyes searched the woman’s face to find only confusion, and then she turned to Mark. His face showed slight surprise at her appearance, but no shock, no remorse. He seemed, on the whole, unfazed by her catching him with someone else.
Saturday felt hurt…and subsequently, immediately enraged. She motioned toward the woman.
“Is this what you’re doing in your free time?” Mark looked at the blonde, too, his mouth open, ready to speak, but Saturday didn’t wait for his reply. She stormed off down the street.
She didn’t even know where she was going; she just knew that she had to get away from there. Fast.
Nearly a block away, Mark had finally caught up with Saturday and grabbed her elbow from behind, the blonde woman no longer at his side.
Saturday turned on her heel to face him, as he calmly dropped her elbow.
“What happened to being too busy with work to do anything else?” Saturday threw at him.
“This is work,” Mark responded. “I’m just helping Marie with a project.”
Saturday guffawed. “Well, THAT does not look like Marie to me.” She realized that her voice was raising, but she was starting not to care.
“What, do you think that something’s going on with me and Geraldine?” He motioned down the block. “That’s not what this is.”
Saturday started to respond, but then stopped. She glanced around the street nervously, finally noticing all of the attention that they were drawing from bystanders.
Mark, sensing her discomfort, gave her a knowing look, to which she responded with a nod. He then placed a strong hand on the small of her back, leading her to a nearby coffee shop.
He kept walking until he reached the further corner of the shop, where he turned to face her, one forearm leaning against the wall above her head.
He brought his face close to hers, his eyes ablaze, his voice low and rich.
“I am collaborating with Marie on a project… a body painting project. I didn’t tell you right away because I got the feeling that you were… uncomfortable with me doing that. And I’m right… aren’t I?”
He searched her face. She didn’t even need to respond.
Saturday exhaled loudly, hanging her head. “Ok, fine… I can admit that I was…”
“Jealous,” Mark responded. He smirked slyly. “Don’t be. It’s just a job.”
Saturday paused a beat, thinking. She raised her head and looked Mark straight in the eye.
“Show me. I want you to show me.”
Mark raised his eyebrows at her, saying nothing.
She repeated herself.
“Show me, Mark. Paint me. I want to see.”
Mark slightly tilted Saturday’s chin towards him and examined her eyes. Apparently placated by what he saw, he grabbed his phone out of his pocket. He walked 10 feet away and dialed.
“Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry… I can’t make it right now. Something’s come up….” Mark looked up and at Saturday. He winked at her.
“Yeah, thanks.”
He hung up the phone, placing it back into his pocket.
“Ok… let’s go,” Mark said, reaching out for Saturday’s hand.
She grabbed his, hesitantly, asking where they were going, but Mark said nothing.
When they reached the street, Mark hailed a taxi, escorting Saturday inside first before joining her in the backseat. When he told the driver of the taxi the address, she knew that they were heading back to Marie’s art studio.
So this is really happening? I’m really going to do this?
Saturday ran a hand down her own incredulous face. She had just walked straight out of her job to be painted… naked… by Mark!
She texted Tiffany as fast as her fingers would allow, asking Tiffany to tell the manager that Saturday had a sudden emergency. Saturday had never done anything like that before, so she sincerely hoped that the restaurant’s manager, an unfriendly, portly woman named Kim, would give her a break this time. All Saturday could do (well, now that she was 5 miles away in a cab) was cross her fingers and pray for the best.
Saturday’s former conviction in the coffee shop was starting to wilt, she could feel it, but when Mark placed his hand on her leg, she realized that she would probably follow him anywhere.
They both sat in the taxi silently for the entire ride. When the taxi stopped at Marie’s studio, Mark paid the driver, took Saturday’s hand and walked quickly with her into the concrete building, as rain began to drizzle down.
He steered Saturday to the same art studio in which they had dinner. The s
ame windows were open, but the view was different; ominous clouds now hung over the city and the rain began to fall harder.
Mark briefly exited the room, heading towards the back bedroom, and then soon emerged holding a fluffy white robe.
“Here you go. Put this on. It’s clean,” he said, handing her the robe.
“Where can I change?” Saturday responded shakily, her anxiety back in full force.
Mark motioned his hand in a circle.
“Anywhere you’d like.”
She walked briskly to the white bedroom in the back, removed all of her clothes and replaced them with the robe. She tied the sash to the robe and walked out.
Mark looked up from his washing and at Saturday with an appraising look, his eyes lingering at the bare skin on her chest. Noticing the look, Saturday smiled shyly back at him and sauntered closer to the window.
He strolled over to her, paintbrushes and paint in tow. He sat them on the floor in front of her. He reached over and rubbed the top of her arms below her shoulders.
“Nervous?” he asked.
This time, Saturday didn’t even attempt to put on bravado. She gave a small nod.
“Yes… a little,” she quietly replied.
Mark didn’t respond, but he gave Saturday an understanding nod in response.
Saturday’s curiosity got the best of her.
“How did you get involved in all of this?” she asked.
“Oh, painting started a long time ago for me as a hobby, an interest. Once I developed a hand for it, Marie thought it best to utilize some of my skills. My friends are involved in a lot and they’ve included me in a lot. I even record music.”
Saturday’s eyebrows shot upward.
Mark laughed softly. “And no…I don’t sing…but I do play. I pick up habits and sometimes I’m fairly good. This is one of those times.”
“But it seems so sexual…” Saturday’s voice trailed off, the implication of her words clear.
“It almost never is. When you take the art seriously, the body really just becomes a tool, the palette for expression. It doesn’t become sexual unless the artist wants it to be that way….and I never do.”
Mark reached out to Saturday, gripping her palms and tugging her toward him.
Behind the Blindfold: A Sexy Mystery Duet Page 5
