I’d gazed down at her on the bed, watched her squirm, blindfolded, shivering, so overcome by my sexual demands that she couldn’t speak. Her nipples had been red and sore, and her hands had been bound behind her, and I thought, this is the most fulfilling intimate encounter I’ve ever had. I’d grabbed her face and kissed her, overwhelmed in my own way. I felt angry that it had taken so long to find this amazing partner, and crazed that I’d almost rejected her, and anxious that she wouldn’t see me again.
The first thing she said to me after she came was Please let me look at you. And I knew I would let her look at me eventually, which was really unsettling. I knew if she kept giving herself to me with so much spirit and so much fight, and so much goddamned intensity, things would get out of hand. It didn’t take long for things to get batshit crazy, although I suppose it was worth it.
Every time I saw her, I thought, I want to hurt you. I have to hurt you. Please let me hurt you.
And she let me. Every single time.
Chere
Fall semester wound down, dreary winter days in the dreary metals lab. Andrew was right, the labs were awful, but metals were my thing. I loved the shine, I loved the solidity. This lab was my second home, and I was probably one of the more obsessive students. I maintained a prickly, love-hate relationship with my metals professor, a hawk-nosed hardass named Martin Cantor.
From first year onward, Cantor picked on me more than anyone else. It was irritating, but it also meant he paid more attention to me, so I put up with his constant criticisms. I figured maybe it was because I was older, or because he wasn’t able to ruffle me the way he ruffled some of the other female students. When Andrew dropped by the labs once, he decided Professor Cantor was in love with me, and renamed him Professor Predator.
“This is your last semester before your internships,” Cantor said as he dispersed us to our various stations. “You may think your vision is everything, that you know enough, that you’re prepared to get out there and do spectacular things, but I have news for you. You’re not.”
Some of my classmates shifted uncomfortably. His gaze landed on each of us in turn, judging, measuring. When his eyes fell on me, I stared back.
His gaze lingered, betraying a hint of irritation before moving on. It reminded me a little of W, that gaze. I wondered if the man was secretly into rough, perverted sex, if he choked his wife every night after he finished preparing his lesson plans. I knew he was married—he wore an obtrusively large, ornate gold wedding ring that he’d doubtless designed himself.
Once the threatening lecture was over, we moved to our sections around the room. I knew everyone in the class, even if we weren’t close friends. They were my metal peeps, drawn to the same tools, the blowtorches and solders, hammers, punches, bits, and picks. Most of us were in our final year, and would soon be paired with some successful Norton graduate in the field.
The professor moved around the room as we worked, asking students what they hoped to accomplish during their upcoming internships. When he arrived at my workspace, I kept my eyes on my project, a miniature silver-plated spoon with filigree of my own design.
“Tableware,” he scoffed. “How original.”
“Everyone uses it. There’s a market for it.” I straightened and met his eyes. Depending on the light—and his mood—they were either dark brown or satanic black.
“Is that important to you?” he asked. “Creating for a market?”
“I don’t usually make silverware, Dr. Cantor. It was just something to try.”
“Trying things is good. Catering to the market is bad. That’s not artistry, Chere. It smacks of cowardice.”
“I’m not a coward.” It came out too loud, too defensive.
He studied me. “Have I touched on a nerve?”
I turned my electric engraver over in my hand. I didn’t like the low, taunting way he said it, like he knew me or something. No one knew me. I worked hard to keep it that way.
“What did you do before?” he asked.
“Before?”
“Before you came to Norton. Did you have another career?”
A flush burned over my cheeks. Did he know? I studied his face, but there was no hint of lurid insinuation in his gaze.
“Shall I guess?” he said when I didn’t answer. His eyes flicked to my tiny silver spoon. “Food service, perhaps?”
He still wore that underdeveloped, insincere smile. A lot of the students here found him attractive, but to me, he was Professor Predator through and through. “I was in the customer service industry,” I finally said.
“Ah, service.”
He said “service” like it was something sexy. Ugh. Eww. Dom, I thought. He had to be a Dom. Maybe he’d noticed me in one of my numerous forays to Manhattan’s BDSM clubs. Maybe he’d stared at me from some hidden corner. I remembered, with a sudden, intense prickling on the back of my neck, all those times that I’d felt watched, not that I ever did anything besides skulk in the corner.
“Why is it so small?” he asked. He picked up my spoon, squinting at the half-finished etching. “The design’s nicely wrought, if a little pedestrian.” He turned to my case, looking over some of my recent work. He studied the rings and earrings and chains, the simple pins and streamlined hair clips.
“You make such delicate things,” he said, touching a pair of very tiny, very spare hoop earrings. “Why do you make everything so small and simple?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should know. You should know why you design the things you design. Until you know, I’m not sure we can find you the internship you need.”
His gaze raked over me, and I had the weirdest feeling he wanted to punish me. I felt like I’d just been verbally spanked. But this wasn’t a BDSM club, it was a design lab, and he was my professor.
“Well, think about it,” he said, moving away.
I took a deep breath and shook off the icky feeling of his closeness as he turned to inspect another student’s work. Dark hair curled at his nape, shot through with a few strands of gray. Early forties? Cantor was W’s age, probably.
Stop it, Chere. Stop thinking about him.
I’d had too much W on the brain lately. I blamed it on Andrew and his obsession with our history. I’d only told him the basics of what transpired between us, but then I made the mistake of showing him W’s poetry. Now he insisted I had to find him, if only to demand what all that poetry meant. To that end, he’d bullied me into inviting Henry to lunch, since he was the one who’d set up my dates when I was escorting. I’d already pumped Henry for info many times, but that didn’t discourage my friend.
Andrew was waiting for me at the Big Apple Diner with a huge smile. His hair looked especially curly and cute.
“Hi, beautiful,” he said, giving me a hug and kiss in welcome. “Is Henry here yet?”
I scanned the half-empty, hole-in-the-wall restaurant. “Not yet. You’ll know him when you see him. He shines.”
“How was your lab?” he asked as we slid into a booth against a mirrored wall. “You had metals today, yes?”
“It’s all metals for me this semester, and class was okay. Cantor was exuding his usual creepy presence.”
“For God’s sake, tell me all the details.”
“His voice, his manner, his eyes, his lecture. All of it was creepy today.” I suppressed a shudder, recalling the way he’d said service to me.
“Ah, good old Professor Predator. He wants you, I swear. The day I saw him, he looked like he wanted to take out his cock and rub it all over your face.”
“You’re making that up to gross me out.”
“Maybe. But he was definitely, definitely staring at your breasts.”
“He didn’t stare at my breasts today. He stared at my eyes like he was trying to Dom me.”
“Ooh, how exciting.”
We gave our drink order to the waitress and Andrew filled me in on his day, his time in the studio and his preparations for his senior exhibit.
> “I don’t get it,” he said, rolling his eyes. “We still have a semester to go, and I feel like they’re trying to push us out into the world early. The whole class is all about What are your goals? Where are you going? What are you doing next? They want us to network, to intern, to find galleries where we can do shows. How the fuck are we supposed to do shows with the senior exhibit coming up?” He dropped his voice. “A couple students left.”
“Left the class?”
“No, left Norton. Left to start their careers. Or give up. No one knows. They just stopped showing up.”
“Maybe they’re sick.”
“No, their carrels are empty. They left. Not in the class anymore.”
Andrew’s fingers tapped restlessly on the laminate tabletop. The painting group wasn’t very big to begin with. It was one of those super risky careers.
“You’re gonna do great,” I said. “Don’t freak yourself out. You have a really fresh style, a vision—”
He interrupted me with a frantic hand motion. “I see a vision. He shines.”
I turned, and sure enough, there was Henry in all his golden-haired, sexy-pimp glory. He was wearing a current season Armani suit and a purple tie, and he walked like he’d just left a limo full of fawning beauties. He probably had. I grinned as he pulled me out of the booth and hugged me.
“Chere, love. You look great. How are you?”
It said a lot about Henry, that we were still friends even though I’d stopped escorting for him. He hugged me nice and tight, a real hug, and then turned to Andrew.
I performed the introductions as Andrew ogled him worshipfully. Henry had it going on, in more than just the looks department. If he wasn’t constantly involved in illegal enterprises, I might have developed a crush on him myself.
Henry cast a bemused glance around the place. “Nice shithole you picked.”
“The food’s good. We eat here all the time.”
He rolled his eyes. “Students. Anyway, it was great to hear from you. What’s up? Is everything okay? You must be nearing graduation.”
“Yes. Andrew is too,” I said, gesturing across the table. My friend preened. “One more semester to go.”
“You like it?”
“Yeah, I do. The tedious classes are over. Most of our classes now involve making actual stuff, which is fun.”
“Still into the shiny things?”
Andrew smothered a laugh, since we’d called Henry “shiny” twice.
“I love shiny things,” I said effusively, which made Andrew giggle harder. “So how’s business with you?”
The waitress came to take our order, and then Henry pitched into a very candid recitation of the most recent client contacts, and new hires, omitting names of course. He caught me up on some of my old coworkers, all of whom were doing well. His pride in his business was evident. I guess that was why I’d always enjoyed working for him, at least until the end. Andrew followed our conversation with goggle-eyed interest.
“How often do you hire new people?” he interrupted at one point. “Or, more specifically, do you ever get requests for really submissive, really obedient gay male subs?”
Henry looked Andrew up and down with interest. “As a matter of fact, we do.”
I held up a hand. “No. We’re not here for that.”
“I have some clients who’d love to get a hold of that hair,” Henry said, eyeing Andrew’s crowning mop of curls.
“I said no.” I waved a finger at Andrew. “You’re about to graduate. You’re going to be an artist, not a rent boy.”
Henry and Andrew exchanged a look that made me want to slap them both.
“This isn’t a recruitment lunch,” I said to Henry. “We’re here to ask for information about someone. One of my old clients.”
“You know I can’t give out personal information, Chere. People trust us to protect their privacy.”
We paused as the waitress arrived with our sandwiches and greasy fries. Henry gave his plate a doubtful glance and sighed. “You’re talking about your final client, I assume?”
I didn’t want to ask it, but the question burst out anyway. “Did he continue using Sublime Services after I left? Did he start seeing anyone else?”
“I can’t talk about that kind of thing,” he said, reaching for the ketchup, “but if I could, I’d probably answer no.”
Henry looked at me a little too closely as he wielded the ketchup bottle. I busied myself scraping mustard off my sandwich and dripping it onto my plate. I didn’t want to care if W had seen one or a thousand escorts after me, but I did care. Maybe he’d simply gone to another agency. I felt a flush rise in my neck and cheeks, because I knew Henry would see right through my façade of disinterest.
“We were wondering if you ever noticed anything about him that might indicate where he was from,” Andrew asked. “Or what he did for a living.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve told you everything I can about Mr. Cumming. It’s not unusual in this business for clients to guard their privacy. If he never told Chere anything about himself, I’m sure that was intentional.” He tossed down a greasy French fry and turned to me, crossing his arms on the table. “I believe he stopped seeing you because he felt too embroiled in your life. I should never have allowed the two of you to go exclusive. If he started to care for you...even a little...”
“He loved her,” Andrew said, ignoring my quelling look. “He adored her. He gave her poetry.”
“We don’t encourage love in our escort-client relationships,” Henry replied sharply. “In fact, we discourage it.”
Andrew looked chastened, like Henry was already his boss. I wanted to yell at him to wise up. He didn’t have the makings of an escort. He was too bright, too sensitive. I had a panicked feeling, like I’d better cut our lunch date short.
“I’m sorry we bothered you with this,” I said to Henry. “It’s just that I have no closure. I hate that I don’t have a name.”
“Why do you need a name?”
“I don’t know. We had some pretty intense dates, and then he disappeared with no goodbye and no explanation. I thought...if you had any information...”
“What? You’d go track Mr. Cumming down? For what purpose? To complain? To question him? To tell him off? I think you should drop this right now. It’s not wise to pursue him. You’re better than this.”
I knew Henry’s sharp words were true. “I don’t want to track him down,” I insisted, like a big liar. “I just want to understand—”
“Here’s some advice for you, from someone who’s spent years in the escorting business. Don’t try to understand people.” His gaze softened, and he reached to touch my cheek. “Look at you. You’ve moved on.” He tugged a lock of my dark hair. “You’re real now, and beautiful. Don’t dwell on the past.”
Henry firmly changed the subject. We talked about Norton, and the Manhattan art world, deftly maneuvering around the subject of Simon and his continuing success. We talked about the early snow and the construction in lower Manhattan, and the more we talked, the more I realized how pathetic I must look. It had been two and a half years. You’re better than this.
Maybe I wasn’t better than this. Maybe I still wished W would reappear in my life.
And then what, Chere?
I excused myself to go to the restroom to take some deep breaths, to fix my lipstick and pull myself together. When I returned, Henry and Andrew were on their feet. I clearly saw Henry slip Andrew a card, and just as clearly saw Andrew shove it into his pocket when he saw me.
“Henry’s got to head out,” he said, in too bright a voice.
“Yes, I’m sure he’s got business to attend to. He’s always working.” My caustic comments were answered by Henry’s California-golden smile.
“It was good to see you again, love. And thanks for introducing me to your friend. I wish I could say the restaurant was a pleasure, but the sandwich is sitting in my stomach like a brick.”
“You’re a snob.”
“
And you’re a goddess. Take care, and call me if you need anything.” He gave me a hug and then he was out the door in a swish of tailored coat and designer shoes.
I turned to Andrew with a scowl. “Give it to me.”
“What?” he asked innocently.
“The card. Henry’s card. You’re not allowed to work for him.”
“Don’t get all bitchy and angry just because you didn’t get the information you wanted.”
“The information I wanted? You’re the one who wanted information. I told you he wouldn’t be able to help us, but you insisted we meet with him anyway.” I glared at him with narrowed eyes. “Was this all part of some intricate plan? Did you push me to meet with Henry so you could pitch yourself to him as an escort?”
He was silent a second too long. His face betrayed an iota too much outrage. “No, of course not,” he insisted. “I was trying to help you.”
“You were trying to meet my agent so you could get his information.” I looked down at his unusually nice—and matching—jeans and sweater, and his fluffed up, adorable hair. “That’s shitty, Andrew. That’s just shitty.”
He threw up his hands. “So maybe I wanted to do both. I wanted to help you find out about W, though. That was always part of it.”
“Not the main part.”
Andrew was the one person I’d let into my heart in the last two and half years, and he was already using me. I felt betrayed. It took me back to that Gramercy Park hotel room, to the envelope on the bed with my name on the outside. Good luck, starshine. You gullible idiot.
“Don’t be mad at me,” he said. “I just wanted to talk to him. I’m graduating soon, and I don’t have a fucking idea what I’m going to do.”
“You’re going to paint!”
“With what money? Working as an escort will get me some short term funds, and probably provide a lot of inspiration too.”
“Inspiration?” I pushed away my plate. “You don’t get it. You think it’s fun, romantic, sexy to be an escort? It’s not.”
“I know that.”
“Not every client writes poetry on your back. A lot of them are assholes. Total assholes. They’re entitled and demanding and they only care about themselves.”
Taunt Me (Rough Love Book 2) Page 3
