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Behind the Blindfold: A Sexy Mystery Duet

Page 26

by Natalie E. Wrye

“I’m so glad to hear you say that. But what do I do about Francois, Kara? This is so… awkward.”

  “You do what you have to do, Daze. Tell it like it is. Here: let me help you. It’ll go a little something like this… ‘Francois… I don’t want to have sex with you.’ The end.”

  Saturday laughed in surprise. She shook her head to herself.

  “I can’t. I’m such a pansy sometimes. Ugh. How can you be so blunt?”

  “It’s easy,” Kara tittered. “I’m a bitch.”

  Their laughter weaved together musically as they cracked up over the line.

  God, I miss my best friend.

  Saturday chimed in: “In the funniest, most loveable way, of course. It works for you.”

  She could feel Kara’s smile from three thousand miles away.

  “Thanks, toots. Ok, ok, ok. Enough about Francois. Let’s focus on you. What’s going on? How’s life?”

  Saturday told her about Mark’s appearance in Washington. She told her about their reconciliation, about their plans to work on things: getting to know each other better than they previously had.

  “Saturday, hold on. Wait a sec. Are you sure about this?”

  “Of course I’m not sure, but I want to give this a try. A real try, after everything that’s come out.”

  “I don’t know, Daze. I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  “Well, why not?”

  “I don’t know… I… I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something I don’t trust about him. He’s… odd.”

  “Odd how?”

  “I don’t know! I just think you should keep any eye out, ya know? Watch for signs. There’s something… off about this guy, Saturday. Seriously.”

  ***

  That night, Saturday stayed after hours at Clairvoyage to clean up the last few items and boxes after a small show at the gallery.

  A coworker offered to help, but she’d sent him packing because frankly… she needed the solitude. She wanted time alone to just… think.

  She couldn’t get Kara’s last words out of her head.

  Something’s off. Something’s off. Something’s off.

  The phrase was in incessant motion in her mind, bouncing off of every corner, knocking against every wall.

  It had been sitting around subliminally, jumping into her stream of consciousness whenever she least expected it.

  She hadn’t been able to escape it all night.

  It was a haunting thought… to consider that Mark was still keeping something from her… after he had shared so much with her in Washington… after she had shared her body with him.

  And if Kara doesn’t trust him… should I?

  She grabbed for the next portrait from the wall when she heard a solid noise from behind her.

  The sound was unexpected: startling… almost causing her to drop the painting in her hands.

  She had locked the door behind her last remaining coworker, isolating herself on the gallery’s main floor with nothing to keep her company but soft and cheesy background “muzak” and her own private musings.

  She was alone… or so she thought.

  The subsequent thud of nearby footfalls let her know, without a doubt, that she wasn’t.

  She shrank further back into the room, quickly scanning the span for the nearest exit.

  Whoever this was didn’t make an effort to announce themselves before entering the gallery. In fact… they seemed to be stepping so lightly as to keep their very presence from being detected at all…

  …which means that they are probably up to no good.

  With the closest door too far to readily reach, Saturday sat the painting by the wall and positioned herself in her well-rehearsed kickboxing stance.

  And she was absolutely right to…because the next person that walked through the front gallery door from the hallway was none other than Cristiano DeLuca.

  Saturday maintained her aggressive posture, eying Cristiano closely as he moseyed his greasy way across the room.

  With his cheap black suit and shifty eyes, he looked like some sort of satirical caricature of a comic book villain, his hair and skin just as smarmy and unsightly as any cheesy cartoon scoundrel.

  It would have been funny… if it weren’t so true to form.

  This was no animation.

  This was real life… and, with all laughter placed aside, he really was a scoundrel.

  “So combative you are, Saturday,” he sighed. “You really should lighten up.”

  “Around you?” she countered. “Never.”

  She hardened her stare. “What do you want, Cristiano?”

  “Well…” He cleared his throat, coughing briefly. “I was going to try to be coy when I came in… but really, what’s the point?

  “You, Saturday. I want you.”

  A reflexive gag pulled at Saturday’s throat, forcing her to swallow harshly to push it back down.

  “Not in a million years would I ever entertain that. Find something else to fixate on. Find a hobby, maybe. Better yet… find your wife.”

  He was stepping closer and closer, not taking any heed to her rebuttal or blatant animosity.

  “God, you’re such a spitfire. I love it. I love the fight in you. It’s so arousing.”

  He rubbed his hands together, gnashing his top row of teeth onto his bottom lips.

  It was sickening. Saturday hated the sight of him.

  Maybe she wasn’t an outspoken “bitch” like Kara was, but she was nobody’s pushover.

  She warned him only once.

  “If you even think about touching me…” she snarled. “I’m going to knock the living shit out of you.”

  He stopped, the color draining from his tanned face.

  But then he kept walking, replacing that plastered smile back onto his face. This time, however, the smile was unsure… more nervous.

  “Oh, really,” he answered. “Like you did back at the bar? Your prick of a boyfriend’s not here this time, Saturday. It’s just me… and you.”

  She flinched, remembering the sexual assault he’d committed against her, trying to force her to kiss him.

  She hadn’t seen it coming, his attack catching her completely off guard.

  This time was different; she was prepared to initiate an offense.

  And though she had previously struggled with imagining Mark’s face when she hit her punching bag in her fitness class, she would have absolutely zero trouble striking Cristiano that way.

  She glanced at his feet, gauging how many footsteps he stood away from her.

  Ten. Ten footsteps.

  She started counting.

  Seven now.

  He’s still moving.

  Five.

  He’s not going to stop.

  Three.

  He’s almost within arm’s reach.

  Saturday braced her shoulders like she was taught, rearing back to get ready to deliver a blow… when she heard a voice from the doorway.

  “Stop right there,” the voice rumbled.

  She looked beyond Cristiano’s head, which was now turned to look back at the door.

  Vicky!

  Her gallery boss’s face was almost scary in the intensity of its rage: her anger almost palpable from seventy feet away.

  Cristiano twisted away from Saturday, hopping lightly on his feet toward Vicky.

  “Vicky… honey,” he started. “I was just coming back to help Saturday with the…”

  BAM! The crack that echoed in the empty gallery was enough to make Saturday nearly jump out of her skin.

  Vicky’s arm shot out in the blink of an eye, hitting Cristiano squarely in the nose, causing it to gush blood.

  She hadn’t smacked Cristiano.

  She had punched him, slamming a fist directly into the center of his face with enough force to probably break his nose.

  She shook the hand by her side, wincing slightly at the pain.

  “No, you weren’t,” she garbled at a loudly moaning Cristiano. “I
know what you were doing.”

  She looked at Saturday for the first time since she entered the room.

  “Saturday... are you alright?”

  “Y-yeah,” breathed a flustered Saturday. “I’m alright… now.”

  Vicky nodded sternly.

  “Go on; get out of here,” Vicky commanded. “My sister’s in the car. I suspected that he had been trying to sleaze around for a long time. My sister has been trying to help me catch him for months. And we know what to do with a bastard like him.” She grabbed Cristiano’s ear, prompting more wails from the injured worm.

  Vicky dragged Cristiano out of the back exit, while Saturday turned, hightailing it out of the front door exit. She escaped to the street without a backward glance at the squabbling pair.

  She almost felt guilty for doubting Vicky; she was shrewder than Saturday had given her credit for and more loyal than she had previously inferred.

  Respect came to Vicky easily; she was a tough but fair businesswoman, and despite Saturday’s earlier suspicions, Vicky had maintained an unsullied heart of gold.

  Saturday hailed a taxi as soon as she reached the curb, and by the time she made it back to her apartment building, she was emotionally and physically spent.

  When she reached the hallway on her apartment’s floor, she was greeted by yet another surprise.

  Mark was leaning against the wall beside her door: his head bent and his shoulders crouched as he gazed absently at his shoes.

  He wore a cream, long sleeved thermal paired with faded blue jeans and black loafers.

  He was handsome as always, his dark hair messy in that perfected way that she had grown accustomed to, the shadowy stubble on his face looking lick-able as usual.

  It never ceases to amaze me… how gorgeous he is. I could spend days just looking at his profile.

  When she stepped closer to him in the hallway, he looked up, a small smile growing slowly on his lips.

  His eyes drew her in, inviting her to lose herself… offering her an escape from such a long and taxing day.

  But how quickly we forget in the face of temptation.

  She froze, remembering why she had stayed after closing at Clairvoyage in the first place.

  He had been the reason. And the missing detail that she had been racking her brain for had just struck her like lightening.

  When she finally stood right in front of him at her apartment door, he leaned in closely, “I promised I’d be here,” he stated.

  “You also promised that you’d tell me the truth. So, that’s the only thing that I’ll accept: the whole truth,” she said, gazing firmly into his face. “I spoke to your mother, Mark. I need to know what happened between you two.”

  The fog had been lifted. She remembered now.

  The conversation at the Greenhouse with Mrs. Rich. She said she had “broken” Mark.

  And months earlier at the Riches’ Connecticut estate, Mark had been deliberately detached from her: intentionally withdrawn.

  He wasn’t cold, per se, but he had been indifferent…and his almost icy aloofness revealed the fact that a clear wedge had been driven between members of their tiny little family.

  He hadn’t talked about it… wasn’t forced to talk about it.

  Until now.

  When she asked the question, she expected him to turn ashen-white, for his eyes to grow wide… something.

  Instead, he started blinking… just a tad bit more often than was normal.

  And that was his “tell.” After staring at his beautiful face so often, she had grown accustomed to its quirks and nuances.

  Mark’s gaze was almost always direct, always searing. He stared with an intensity that could melt your clothes off.

  Fairly frequent blinking was an indication of discomfort for him. He obviously had something to share.

  She pulled her back straight, waiting for a denial or a ruse.

  Anything but what he said next.

  He placed his hands in his back pockets.

  “What do you wanna know?”

  Now, she was turning ashen white. She wasn’t used to this Mark: this… open and transparent version of himself that he had become.

  She thought she was in love with the previous Mark… but with this Mark, she was insanely, bat-shit crazy, head-over-heels enamored.

  She stepped aside, letting him into her apartment.

  He paused by the loveseat nearby as she locked her door. He followed her back to the bedroom as she swayed her way through her small hallway in her sweeping, beige summer dress.

  She took the Clairvoyage nametag off, setting it on the nightstand.

  She pulled the dress up to her knees, sitting down: giving him space to do the same.

  Instead of sitting down, he lay back on the bed, locking his hands behind his head.

  He looked up at the ceiling, staring at it.

  “Where should I start?” he said.

  “How about the beginning?” she responded.

  He hesitated, exhaling soundly.

  “Well, for starters… let’s begin with who I really am…” Saturday’s breath deepened in anticipation.

  “My name is Mark Aldon Beaumont.”

  Saturday’s breathing stopped completely.

  “What? Wait… how…?”

  “I wasn’t born a Rich, Daisy. I was made one. I’m adopted.”

  She blinked. Hard.

  She wasn’t expecting that.

  She dug into her memory’s recesses, picking apart all of the things she had seen. And when she did, the truth became more obvious.

  The Riches were kind… filthy rich… and blond.

  Very blond.

  She looked down at Mark from where she sat, noting his deep brown hair. It was almost black. The hair on his face was just as dark, and his eyes were a stunning green that changed colors at a moment’s notice.

  From a sea-foam green to a rich forest pine, the shades of his irises switched often: the tints direct reflections of his temperament.

  The Riches had blue eyes: just as cobalt as the sea.

  There was no resemblance. And Saturday was aghast that she hadn’t realized it earlier.

  They were all so happy, so… attractive that she simply didn’t notice. She was too blinded by their collective beauty and warmth.

  His voice reeled her back in from her thoughts.

  “I was twelve… when I met her.”

  Saturday peered over at his concentrating face.

  “Met who?”

  He swallowed slowly, his Adam’s apple bobbing down while his body stayed statute-stiff.

  “My mother.”

  Saturday clasped a hand softly at her lips.

  She was starting to feel like the biggest heel in the world.

  Mark was unequivocally upset. Saturday knew, more than anyone, the look that shimmered in his eyes: the expression of hurt… of shame.

  She hadn’t meant to drag this out of him. She didn’t know what she’d find when she first asked the question.

  But now that she found it, she wanted to lock it back up in a safe and throw it deep into some abandoned alcove… where it couldn’t hurt him anymore.

  She almost reached out to tell him to stop when he continued telling the story.

  “I’d received a brand new Nikon D80 camera for my twelfth birthday. I had been to so many art shows by that age, so many museums. I was enamored with art.

  “I was already painting by that age… and well, too. My mom called me her ‘little savant’ back then.” He scoffed sadly.

  “The only thing I didn’t have in my personal artistic stash was a camera. And when I finally got it, I fell hard. I took it everywhere with me. I kept its straps around my neck at all times.

  “Two months later, my parents received... an unexpected visit.”

  He spoke forlornly now, his voice softer and more pained than she’d ever heard it.

  “A young woman… with hair to her waist… came to the door. I watched… from my window.
I watched my mother approach the lady… and violently berate her.

  “I was shocked. I’d never seen my mom so upset. I wondered ‘Who is this woman? Why is my mom so angry with her?’

  “The woman didn’t seem mean. She didn’t look mean. She’d even brought a present in… blue wrapping paper… with a silver bow.”

  Mark recounted the story with blanked eyes… and in that moment, Saturday knew he was seeing it all over again…seeing his mom harshly scorn his own mother.

  “Yeah, she looked a little… sad, but not mean. I remember thinking she looked… kinda nice. She looked like… like…”

  “You, ” Saturday quietly affirmed. The word was out of her mouth before she could stop it.

  Mark didn’t respond to her answer. He just nodded. Once.

  He kept talking.

  “I took a picture of the two of them there. I took another as the woman left. And then… I snapped a final shot of my mother crying on the curb when the woman pulled off.”

  He clamped his lips tightly… then opened them again.

  “The only photograph I have of my birth mother… is of the woman who raised me… yelling at her… driving her away.”

  Saturday swore she heard of the sound of her own heart breaking. It had broken before when she and Mark had separated… but this… wasn’t quite the same.

  The heart makes a different noise when it breaks for someone else.

  Mark closed his eyes as he lay there. And still… the words kept flowing.

  “It took a year for her to tell me. I showed her my photo album after I had filled my first one. She started to cry when she saw that photo.

  “‘You know?’ she said. ‘You know who this is?’

  “But I didn’t. And I didn’t get why seeing the picture had made her act the way she did on that curb that afternoon. She broke down completely.

  “She grasped my hands, saying that she was sorry…that she was so sorry that she had turned my mom away. But that it was so out of the blue and at the time, she wondered ‘who my birth mother thought she was anyway by coming here after all those years.’”

  He spoke faster and faster, the anecdote tumbling off his lips in a dizzying rush.

  “Now that we were all… happy.

  “But I couldn’t hear anything. All I heard was that this other lady was my mother…my real mother… that I was adopted… and that my “mom” had sent the woman who birthed me away. And that was all I wanted to hear.

 

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