Mark.
He was staring softly but steadily at her, his broad shoulders hunched as he placed his hands in his front jean pockets. He was dressed much in the same manner that she usually saw from him: leather jacket; white shirt; blue jeans.
The beard was back this time, his face no longer clean, but slightly shaggy, the hair dark and full on his lower jawline.
He moved toward her, his footsteps slow and solid on her wooden floors.
She didn’t know what it was about Mark that turned her into petrified wood every time he was around, but once again, Saturday found herself unable to move, unable to turn, unable to function.
Finally when he reached the space in front of her, she back peddled toward her bedroom door, stopping at the threshold. His presence was so imposing, so overwhelming that she didn’t know what her body would do if it got too close to his.
He halted a few feet short of where she stood, relaxing his shoulders as he settled into a solid stance. He didn’t speak the entire walk over, letting his eyes do the talking for him.
They spoke volumes now at this short distance.
Mark reached a hand out, his signal clear. She nodded slowly, allowing him to touch her, letting his thumb brush across her lower lip.
She grabbed the hand that was slowly stroking her mouth, making it still. She nibbled gently on the pads of his fingers and looked up invitingly at him.
It was clear that he got the message when his eyes caught fire. He lifted Saturday up suddenly as if she weighed nothing, gripping her ass as he carried her across the room.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, clutching him fiercely.
She wore nothing beneath her long t-shirt, and with no belt buckle on to contend with, Mark was free to release himself quickly from his button and zipper.
When he pinned her against the wall, he rubbed himself between her legs before entering her. She cried out upon his entry, her body already prepared for him, wet and throbbing before he ever even touched her.
Mark pounded into her, giving her frustrated body the relief that it so badly needed. Her moans were so loud that she actually bit into his shoulder to stem the screams. Saturday came faster than she ever thought she could, but Mark wasn’t finished with her yet.
He repositioned her against the wall, sliding her up and down his shaft slowly as he placed kisses on her neck and shoulders.
When her orgasm threatened to return, he tilted Saturday’s head upward to look into her eyes.
Mark gazed at her silently for what seemed like hours… until he leaned in to kiss her deeply on the lips. Whatever passion they had left to give was given to one another in that kiss, and they came together, moaning in unison.
Mark separated them from the wall, allowing himself to fall on the bed with Saturday on top of him. She rolled across his body to lie back on the mattress, as they both struggled to catch their breath.
Now separated, they panted heavily, trying to reach equilibrium again.
Saturday was sweaty and exhausted and sore… but she felt oh, so good. She closed her eyes in contentment, reaching over to touch Mark’s face.
But he was gone, the space where he lay vacant and smooth, as if he had never been there at all.
Saturday jerked violently out of her sleep, searching wildly around her for the cause of her awakening.
There was nothing.
It was a dream… so vivid and intense that it had jolted her from a deep slumber.
And now the one realization in the aftermath of this fantasy was keeping her from falling back into rest.
She still wanted Mark.
She knew nearly zilch about this man… and yet she still wanted him.
She reminisced about their late night phone calls. He somehow had managed to tell her everything about himself… and nothing at all, really.
She could tell you the name of his running mate for student body president in high school. And yeah, she could recollect the number of vinyl records in his sacred stash… but she was incapable of saying what he did for a living or how he had managed to take photos of her without her knowledge.
I’m crazier than I suspect him of being.
Saturday closed her eyes, hoping to banish the feel of Mark’s body from her dreams… and her memories.
Chapter Three
Damaged Goods
The next morning, Saturday had another lunch date with Jay. Only this time, Jay brought his own date to the restaurant.
Joshua Hicks was an equally handsome gay man on the Manhattan art and fashion scene. A certifiable pixie next to the long-legged Jay, he was sophisticated, well-read, athletic… and a ginger to boot. Just the way Jay liked them: perfectly suited to Jay’s preferences in every way.
Josh was also a renowned publicist for every well-to-do artistic type and fashionista in the city—a sort of gay and trendy Prince Harry of the Upper East Side.
Saturday liked him immediately.
In the span of two weeks, he and Jay had become attached at the hip, hand and every other contact point.
This city was chock full of fascinating characters and you never knew whom you could meet around any corner, street… or produce market.
Her friendship with Kara had bloomed in much the same manner. One day they were singing along to the lyrics of a live band; the next, they were handing over keys to one another’s apartments.
Saturday thought fondly of her best friend over lunch, calling her from her cell as soon as she walked out into the street after lunch.
“Hello?”
“Well, hello there, Miss Hollywood,” Saturday teased over the phone. “How are you?”
“Exhausted,” Kara responded wearily. “And hungry. Everyone here is super into health clubs and dieting. I’m just about dying over here. Save me, please.”
Saturday laughed at the whine in Kara’s voice.
“Save you? I’m over here completely jealous.”
“Please. I’m so over this. The L.A. scene is shallow and money-hungry.”
Saturday doubled over in a fit of giggles.
“And how is that different from Manhattan?!”
“Did you not hear me, Saturday? The food. Manhattan has it; L.A. doesn’t.”
They burst into laughter together.
Kara continued. “I miss home. God, I can hear the street around you. I miss the sound of ambulances. I even miss the smell of subway piss…”
“Ok,” Saturday interrupted, grimacing. “Now, I see that you’re clearly deluded because of too much L.A. sun, so I’m going to end this call.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Kara called out. “What’s going on with you? Give me the skinny! I need to talk to someone about something other than this fashion line… or yoga,” she chuckled.
Saturday sighed deeply, wondering how much she should reveal. She wasn’t ready to talk about Mark and the photos she found, but she had to tell Kara something. She decided to take the safer route.
She told Kara about Mark’s appearance at the recent exhibit, his mother’s recent visit to the Greenhouse, and whatever little connection that she was trying to build with Axe.
When Kara had previously asked about “the great escape,” Saturday had passed the incident off as an “argument gone bad,” a squabble stemming from his “intimacy issues,” never delving into what had really driven her away.
Kara, as always, had advice ready to dispense.
“Ok, let’s talk this out,” she started.
“Number one… Mark is damaged goods. You need someone who’s reliable, someone who will be there for you. Can you honestly say that he can do that for you?”
Saturday fell silent.
“Exactly,” Kara resumed. “And Axe? Nice guy, I’m sure. But he seems more interested in himself than you. You need someone who will be all about you, and I think I’ve got just the person for you.”
“A setup? Oh, no. No, no, no, NO. Those things never work out.”
“Oh, come on. I’ve got great taste.�
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“Yes, James Ellis, whoremonger and photographic bad-boy is great taste,” Saturday mocked sarcastically.
“Seriously, Saturday!” Kara tittered. “I’ve got someone special for you. Just you wait.”
Saturday hung up with Kara shortly after, thinking about her choices.
With Axe, she had thought she was ready: ready to try romance again, ready to give love a second chance. But now she saw that she had gone about this all wrong.
Kissing another man wouldn’t erase the sensation of Mark’s lips from the registry of her mind and body, and she was a fool to think otherwise.
The love-making, the laughs. Those weren’t forced with Mark; they were real… and they came as naturally as breathing. And what she had with Axe… was just a cheap imitation of that.
She slipped her cellphone in her low-hanging purse, her fingers fighting the urge to dial Mark’s number.
***
Saturday morning, Jay and Saturday hopped out of the cab, fumbling their bags and tripping over themselves in laughter.
They had just spent the better part of the morning shopping and pampering themselves, pedicures and all, courtesy of Mr. Joshua Hick’s credit card.
He had given it to Jay, telling him to enjoy a nice day of relaxation, and naturally, Jay dragged Saturday along for the ride. Not that dragging was really necessary in this case; Saturday was more than happy to accompany him.
Saturday was used to a good old run to Bloomingdale’s, maybe even a trip to Saks after a successful night of bartending, but never this.
Chanel. Dior. Prada.
It was all at their fingertips… and then it was all in their shopping bags.
“Don’t worry; Josh has got it” became the motto of the day for the spending pair.
They had been traipsing around the city at full speed until they finally decided to take a breather for lunch with Josh.
They gushed over their purchases at the restaurant table when a sunglasses-clad Josh, swathed in a floor-length coat, greeted them. He crouched upon arrival, offering up double-cheeked kisses to Jay and Saturday before sitting.
He crossed his legs, leaning in closer to include himself in the convo.
“So, my dearests,” he began. “How has your morning been? Has it been fabulous?”
Saturday chimed in first, ecstatic from the day’s adventures.
“It’s been absolutely wonderful, Joshua. You are wonderful. Let’s trade lives,” she giggled.
Self-satisfied, Joshua leaned back in his chair, smoothing the few strands of errant hair on his head back into place.
“Well, my love, this lifestyle definitely has its perks… but not everything is roses and champagne. These designers, these artists… they can be so demanding.”
“I’ve got this real recluse of a client. Amazing artist. Sexy son-of-a-bitch, mind you.” He grinned at a scowling Jay. “But he’s very particular, wants things a certain type of way.”
“He’s one of my most successful clients, however, so… what the client wants, the client gets. Catching my drift, honey?”
Saturday nodded, having gotten a taste of that behavior at Clairvoyage. When they opened their doors and exhibits to less-established artists for a trial run, they often ran into some very picky and very eccentric personalities.
She should know; she was also an artist… and she was sensitive about her creations.
“I’ve got another client,” Josh maintained, “who’s as sweet as pie, but surrounds herself with some of the most difficult creatures that I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.” He shuddered exaggeratedly.
“Believe me, sweets,” he laid a hand on Saturday’s. “It ain’t all rainbows.”
She smiled widely at Joshua and then Jay, loving her company and relishing the fact that she could talk “shop” with people who understood where she was coming from.
They all sat at the table for the next two hours, running down their favorite artists and their most beloved pieces.
Finally, Saturday left an enamored Jay and Joshua back at the restaurant, floating on air her entire ride back to her apartment.
The morning and afternoon had been so light-hearted and whimsical. It was a shame that she had to rush off to go to work. It was an even bigger shame that it was at the Greenhouse and not Clairvoyage.
When Saturday walked into the Greenhouse, Francois was sitting at the bar, waiting… for her.
Goddammit, I need more girl friends in this city.
“Just the woman I was looking for!” he blurted upon her entry. Saturday set her effects on the bar, squinting curiously at him. Francois’ outfit was casual, jeans and a t-shirt, but there was something wrong about his appearance.
He looked haggard in his attire, slovenly. So unlike the Parisian refinement she was used to seeing from him.
She grinned timidly at his welcome, again wishing she were anywhere but there. The last thing she needed was another suitor throwing his hat in the ring.
For months, she had kept Francois at a friendly yet respectful distance, and she had hoped that he would continue to keep his intentions platonic. Her hope was short-lived.
“How’s my favorite girl doing?” he drawled, his accent thick from the drunkenness.
“I hear from your… waiter friends that you’re seeing someone. Someone new.”
Saturday glanced heatedly at little Miss Talkative Tiffany behind the bar, who nervously flitted her way out of sight. Saturday directed her gaze back to Francois.
“Yes. Yes, I am,” she answered.
Francois shrugged, the gesture a poor attempt at nonchalance.
“That’s great. Just wonderful. Must be grrrrreat,” he rambled.
Heat was creeping into his voice: animosity.
“Must be nice to have someone reciprocate your feelings, huh, Saturday?”
He turned to the bar, slapping bills on the counter. He looked at Saturday as he marched out, his face a disconcerting mix of weariness and anger.
All of the nearby staff had paused upon hearing the volume in his voice, inching close enough to witness what was happening. Saturday stood motionless, staring after him for several seconds before her footsteps started to follow him. Suddenly, she stopped herself.
She was appalled at his behavior and his implications, but she would not chase him. She would not take the blame for Francois’ indignation. Not when she had done everything to avoid this very issue.
She had never led him on, never enticed him to believe that anything more would come from their friendship. She glanced back at the door through which he exited, reminiscing about their one-time movie outing.
Or did I?
***
April 15
Separation anxiety. Separation anxiety. Definitely suffering from separation anxiety.
My therapist said give it time. Give Saturday space. What the hell does she know? The only good tidbit she ever gave me was to start this journal.
Maybe I’m not using it enough.
I tell the doc about my plan and she puts me on another timetable.
Fuck her timetable.
I’m going to start doing things my way.
She’s got one more chance to help me. If my plans continue to not go well, I’m going back on my own clock.
Tick. Tock.
***
The next morning, Saturday stepped into her kickboxing class, contemplating her dealings with Axe.
She let the instructor kick her butt while she gave herself mental “pats on the back.”
It’s just dating. Enjoy yourself.
One punch.
Have fun; don’t overcomplicate it.
Two punches.
For once, Saturday, let yourself have a casual dating experience. Just once!
Quick combo.
Another.
Another.
Another.
She bent at the waist, clutching her knees from exhaustion.
If only I could let myself do a LOT of things,
I’d be in a much better situation.
But she couldn’t. She couldn’t just keep it casual. She didn’t want casual.
She wanted mind-blowing, earth-shattering. Fireworks.
She once thought that she could have that with Axe, believing that the attraction she felt was the beginning of something great. She had mistaken an initial spark with the makings of an inferno, but that just wasn’t the case.
This “thing” with Axe was a barely-lit match, really: a dud; it simply couldn’t hold a candle to what she had felt with Mark.
And yet, she wasn’t quite ready to let Axe go, either. If she was going to get over Mark, she needed a distraction, an outlet. Or she was going to lose her mind with wanting Mark.
Ugh! This was not the way things were supposed to go. Mark was supposed to be a faint memory by now, a fantasy/nightmare come and gone.
And Saturday? She was supposed to have moved on successfully, somehow, somewhere on her way to riding off into the sunset with someone like Axe.
Christ, I want Mark out of my head. NOW.
She dropped her gloves hastily after the class, rushing to make it to her Clairvoyage shift.
Vicky, her manager, was no severe stickler for time (she knew how hardworking Saturday was), but with Cristiano back again and possibly poisoning her mind, Saturday didn’t want to make any missteps.
She flounced into the front door with barely five minutes to spare.
Vicky welcomed her in with a smile, glancing mischievously at Saturday as if she had a secret to tell.
When Saturday got settled, Vicky spilled the beans, letting her know that an additional four of Saturday’s paintings had sold at affiliated galleries across town. She beamed with pride at Saturday, hugging her warmly before releasing her.
This time, as Vicky stepped out of the embrace, her smile was sad, her eyes glossy from unshed tears.
Behind the Blindfold: A Sexy Mystery Duet Page 18
