The floors were a smooth white and grey tile, the walls a nimbocumulus grey that matched the cloud cover outside.
The receptionist was waiting for them and he began to escort them to the very back of the open floor, where a very large metallic cargo elevator met them, just arriving from its descent.
The receptionist left to attend to his desk, and out popped Joshua Hicks, fur coat and all. It was honestly not cold enough in the city for his outfit, but Josh cared very little. It was the fashion that mattered, not the temperature.
He motioned eagerly toward Jay and Saturday, beckoning them to come inside of the elevator. Jay and Saturday looked at each other anxiously before hopping into the cage-like contraption.
Josh reached over, pushing the button to the top floor.
He combed his perfectly coiffed hair backwards before smoothing out his fur.
“Now, don’t say anything to him, ok? And don’t… freak out,” he demanded of a puzzled Jay and Saturday.
“He really values his privacy. And I do not want to get fired…”
Josh silenced the perplexed two with his eyes, stemming any further questions.
When they reached the top floor, they stepped out onto the same swirly tile that they had walked over downstairs.
Only... the walls on this floor… were colorful and dazzling.
They were made so by the multiple paintings hanging there as well as on the makeshift walls erected in the center of the floor.
There were people rushing back and forth: examining the paintings, placing the paintings, carrying the paintings.
Everyone was bustling about, giving orders or taking them.
Everyone… except one man.
He never moved… his face focused on some portrait high above his head. His dress was casual, his stance rigid, as he stood there, arms crossed and shoulders straight. His back was toward them.
Joshua was speaking to them now, whispering: his voice barely audible above the contained ruckus in the room.
“Remember our last convo at lunch? I surmised how much you both loved his work… you especially, Saturday.
“I figured if I could sneak you two up here amidst all of this chaos for his next exhibit, you might at least get a glimpse of the man. I can’t formally introduce you, of course, but if you look right over there, I can perform a very informal one of sorts.
“So, Saturday… Jay… meet…”
Recognition dawned on Saturday a mere two seconds before hearing the man’s name, the coinciding revelations delivering a one-two punch, knocking what little life she had left from the flight.
Joshua’s lips were still moving, but she could no longer make sense of what he was saying. His words faded amidst the commotion in Saturday’s brain, his comments drowning in a sea of white noise.
All she could hear was an internal hum ringing in her ears, and soon all she could see was a blur of eclectic colors as she slipped toward the floor, falling into darkness…
Chapter Five
Pushing up Daisy
A torrential flood of images… unrecognizable voices… came rushing to Saturday in the dark.
“Oh, baby. Come to mama.” “Your parents have great taste.” “…Real recluse of a client… sexy son of a bitch…”
She blinked twice, opening her eyes slowly to the vision of a concerned face hovering over hers.
It was him. Mark. Beaumont.
One and the same.
The painter; the artist; the recluse.
Mark.
And now he was motioning and calling to others out of eyesight, while Saturday slipped in and out of consciousness, barely holding onto the outside world.
She plunged back into black with his name on her lips.
***
When Saturday regained semi-consciousness, it was to a worried Mark carrying her into the front double doors of a swanky hotel, an agitated Jay and Joshua on his heels.
He marched past the front desk’s attendants who waved him right through to a gold-plated elevator, where he carted her inside.
She could tell that Jay was upset, his gestures animated and angry as he huffed beside a conciliatory Josh. Keeping a hold on Jay, Joshua let the doors of the tiny crane containing Mark and Saturday close undeterred.
When the elevator stopped, Mark shifted her weight in his arms, lugging her all the way to the large white door of a hotel suite and then all the way to a gigantic king-sized bed where he finally lay her down.
She was half-conscious, still weak and woozy from the whole ordeal. She flopped on her stomach allowing the huge, soft bed to swallow her form.
She lay there for the next twenty minutes.
Mentally exhausted and physically weakened, she feebly reached for the bedspread, struggling to cover herself, but decided against it.
She could smell the staleness in her clothes and hair: that faint but disgusting reek from a long day of travel.
Despite her fainting spell, she wanted nothing more than to clean up, eat up and go to sleep.
She closed her eyes again, sinking further into the cushions. The bed suddenly sank further from an additional weight.
Saturday looked up to find Mark sitting on the bed as well, his hand reaching out to touch her neck and head.
“Are you feeling ok? You still look sick… frail.”
She shrugged feebly. “I’m ok. Just running on fumes and high emotion, that’s all. I’m starving though.”
“I figured as much,” he said. “I’ve already ordered room service. Burger and fries.”
“Mmm…” she moaned contentedly, placing her face deeper into her pillow.
She opened her eyes, abruptly pushing herself up from a laying position to sit. She swayed slightly as she lifted her body.
Mark scrambled to stop her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he nearly shouted. “Lay down. You’re not well.”
“I’m fine,” she retorted. “I just… need a shower. I’m sooo dirty.”
“No, you need rest. You’re out of it. I’m taking you to a hospital.” He started to rise from the bed’s edge.
“No!” Saturday yelled, reaching unsuccessfully for his arm. “No hospitals. I need to get clean. I just landed. Just… let me get clean.”
“Ok, ok,” he replied, straightening up. “Stay. Here. I’m running you a bath.”
She nodded weakly, her eyes barely open, the weight of exhaustion pulling on her eyelids.
Next thing she knew, the smell of hot food was floating up to her nostrils, dragging her from the depths of slumber.
She moaned from the delicious smell, rolling over to find the source.
Mark quickly made his way over, sitting next to Saturday with a plate full of food in his hand.
He fed her fries from the plate while she teetered between oblivion and lucidity, barely lifting her head to place the chunks between her teeth.
He set the dish on the night table, turning to face Saturday.
“Give me a second. I’ll be right back,” he uttered.
He disappeared into the adjacent room of the suite, returning with a white towel and cloth in hand.
“The bath’s ready. Let’s get you inside.”
Saturday tried to crawl out of bed, her body feeling eerily close to Jell-O. Her feet finally made it to the floor before her knees started to give way.
Mark was right there to catch her.
“Saturday, you are really out of it. You need to lie down.”
“No,” she whined once more. “Please… just get me into the tub.”
He reached underneath of her, fully supporting her weight before setting her gently on the edge of the biggest tub Saturday had ever seen in her life.
She leaned against the adjacent wall, wanting nothing more than to close her eyes.
She felt Mark begin to tug at her tank top, pulling it gently over her head.
“Daisy. Come on, baby. Help me take your clothes off. You have to get in while it’s hot.”
She laid her head back on the wall’s cool tile before Mark suddenly picked her up effortlessly, sliding her naked body into the bathtub.
He had soaked his own grey t-shirt in the effort, but he didn’t seem to mind… as he clutched the white cloth from earlier, dipping it into the sudsy bath.
He removed the soapy rag from the water, placing it onto her shoulders as he scrubbed.
He was bathing her, his hands moving gently and kneadingly as Saturday’s head lay on the tub’s rim, her eyes closed, half-sleep.
Her limbs could barely function, the energy needed to wash nowhere to be found; she could barely keep her head above water.
But Mark’s hands were skillful, one holding her upright as the other rubbed over her body.
He was perfectly respectful, his hand lingering no longer than was necessary to clean her nipples and breasts… her belly and hips… and all the way between her thighs.
When he reached the folds between her legs, her eyes flickered open to watch him through a hooded gaze.
His expression was intent, focused: his movements dedicated only to the task at hand.
Even with Saturday’s body and mind on the verge of unplugging from reality, both were still able to register his every tickle, every touch.
Half-conscious, she let Mark dip her head back into the bath so that he could wash her golden-brown hair with nearby shampoo.
She groaned faintly as his hands worked, enjoying the deftness of his fingers, the dexterity of his caress.
He approached even the mundane tasks of life with the type of adept movement that only real talents possess – he was, in every way, the true definition of an artist.
And once again, she was the subject of his work, the putty under his hands, being molded and shaped by the master himself.
When he had finished the wash, he scooped handfuls of water over her skin to rinse away remaining suds.
He snatched the nearby towel from the tub’s edge, throwing it over his shoulder before reaching down deep into the bath, lifting Saturday completely, letting her body drip water all over his clothes and the floor.
Throwing the white towel on the bed, Mark carefully placed Saturday’s body on top of it, giving the towel time to absorb the moisture as he rushed to grab a small hand rag to rub her body dry.
He palmed the small towel in his hand, wicking away the moisture on Saturday’s body as he rubbed her from head to toe, not missing a single spot.
He even wrung handfuls of her hair into the towel while Saturday lay almost lifeless on the mattress, her cognizance dipping in and out of the dream realm.
The last thing she could remember was him wrapping her gently in the bed’s fluffy quilts before placing a quick kiss on her frontal lobe.
Then finally, she succumbed to sleep.
***
Saturday roused from her slumber to the smell of hot coffee, nuzzling her nose delightedly into her pillow before opening her eyes to search it out.
She rolled over to find a man at the room’s opposite end.
He turned upon hearing her, and in place of Mark’s face, she found Jay’s… his expression concerned but friendly, a tray of hot beverages in his arms.
“Good morning, doll-face” he sang, setting the tray on the nightstand. “How are you?”
“Fine,” her lips answered. Disappointed, her mind whispered.
She bit on her lip but words escaped nonetheless. “Where’s Mark?” she asked softly.
“You mean Beaumont?” he smirked. “He left. Called Joshua last night while I was sitting on pins and needles about you. When we came in, he took off. Said he didn’t want to upset or scare you.”
“Oh,” was all she could mutter, wondering why she felt such loss.
“Not to worry, though,” Jay stated absently.
“Romeo wrote a letter,” he crooned teasingly, dangling a small piece of paper.
“Wait… he did?” she screeched, snatching the paper from Jay’s hands.
She flipped her hair over her face, hovering protectively over the letter.
Jay flopped beside her on the bed. “I can’t believe that Mark is Beaumont. Mark. Your Mark! I mean, I…”
Jay’s rambling faded into a dull roar, the sound of his voice merely the background music to Mark’s written words that played like a melody in her mind.
She read the message in his voice.
Saturday.
My actions haven’t warranted your understanding. You have every right to detest me.
There’s no way to explain what I’ve done to you, but at the very least, I can try.
I want to give you all the answers that we both know you deserve, and this is the only way that I know how.
Please consider joining me. I will respect whatever decision you make…though I so strongly hope that you will give this a chance.
Please. I’ll be waiting…
She flipped the page to find nothing on the back.
She scanned the note over and over, focusing on the word “please” as it jumped out of the page at her.
He made the word into a sentence, turning a simple little phrase into a powerfully built message because of the period alone.
Please.
It beseeched… implored… demanded. And with that one sentence, he had started to break her down.
My strong, alarming, confident, gifted, perplexing ex-lover.
He terrified her… and thrilled her… like no one she had ever known.
Out of the blue, Jay captured her attention, snapping fingers near her face.
“He left this with the note.” Jay placed an envelope in her hand.
She retrieved a card from inside.
She looked down at the card, swallowing a lump at its text:
Dr. Daniel Walt
Psychiatrist
Chapter Six
A “Shrinking” Violet
That night, Saturday paced around her small apartment, strumming the card between her fingers.
After she and Jay checked out of Mark’s suite, Jay tugged her all the way to an Urgent Care center, where the doctor prescribed her a healthy dose of rest to combat the extreme fatigue that she was battling.
Thanks, doc, but no can do. I can’t get any rest.
Mark’s note was swimming through her thoughts, and she knew it would remain there until she made a decision about it.
And to add insult to injury… her mind was still reeling from the revelation back at the emerging exhibit.
Her favorite painter was her paramour.
Mark is Beaumont. Beaumont is Mark.
The man on her gallery’s walls was the man in her bed.
Fucking crazy… how real life could be so much stranger than fiction, how reality’s plot twists could turn out way more distorted than any soap opera.
She couldn’t have imagined this in her wildest dreams… and she’d had some doozies before.
To call the situation a mind-fuck would be putting it lightly.
And then another bomb had dropped.
The therapist… or counselor… or whatever he’s called. The shrink.
She looked back down at the card…then reached over to retrieve Mark’s letter from her bedroom drawer.
She could ignore the note… or she could take a huge leap… and accompany Mark to see his therapist.
Boy, she had never seen this one coming; she’d never even known that Mark was seeing a therapist... but then again, there was a lot about him that she didn’t know.
She sighed heavily, collapsing on her queen bed in her oversized pajamas.
Her bare feet dangled beyond the bed’s edge, tapping on the hardwood floor, mimicking the ticking clock in her head.
Time was running out. Mark had placed a date and time on the card: Friday, May 12th, 12:00PM. That was just five short days away.
Saturday already knew
what she wanted to do; she just didn’t know what she should do.
She wanted answers. This seemed to be the only way.
She wanted to find out everything that Mark wouldn’t reveal, all the things that he had refused to share.
What made him leave my bedroom that night? Was it connected to the pictures? And how the hell did he know that I worked at the gallery?!
She deserved to know. He owed her the truth.
Only one thing was stopping her... herself.
She had closed the door on Mark long ago, vowing never to approach that path again. And now she was dangerously close to unlocking it and mending her ties to him.
Maybe I can’t afford to. And maybe if I open that door again, I may never be able to close it.
And if I let him in now, will I ever recover?
God, she wished that Kara was here. She was always up for a good vent session.
When she texted Kara earlier, she was busy, swamped with work from the fashion line. And maybe that was for the best.
She knew what Kara would say; she was sure she’d feel the tongue lashing all the way from California.
But if she didn’t go, the questions would haunt her indefinitely, plaguing her dreams, stymying her relationships.
She went to sleep, knowing that either decision could destroy her.
***
A few days later, Saturday stood in front of a large wooden door, reading the name located at eye-level.
Daniel Walt, M.D.
How fortuitous that a Disney crazed fan like her would wind up at a therapist named Walt’s office. Life was poking fun at her, but she wasn’t laughing.
She stared at the name again, thinking of all of the times she had suggested family counseling to her parents. They had desperately needed it… in more ways than one.
As a child, she possessed an emotional maturity that surpassed her parents’. As a teen, she begged and pleaded with them so that they could collectively seek help for their intimacy issues.
But she was rebuffed. As anti-self-help as they were, it turned out that they weren’t exactly averse to self-medication, however. She once found bottles of prescribed psycho meds in her mother’s bedroom drawer. She didn’t even want to think about how her mother had obtained those.
Behind the Blindfold: A Sexy Mystery Duet Page 21
