by Mann, Marni
“Look at me,” he demanded.
Our gazes met and the intensity of his stare, the knowing of what he wanted and how my moans were turning his breathing into deep grunts, brought me even further.
“You let me shatter that glass.”
The painting.
I hadn’t tried to hide it. I didn’t hide anything from him anymore. And he was the reason I had left, one of the reasons I was free.
Instead of agreeing, a pant of pleasure came from my mouth.
“Now let it go, Charlie. Let me shatter you.”
The build was a steady climb that started in my lower stomach, increasing with each rotation. His hands were so skilled; it almost felt as good as his tongue. He took a step back so I could arch my body, pushing my head into the marble, my fingers stabbing his skin. I bounced with each stroke, my pussy clenching around him, letting the friction lead me toward the peak. And once I got there, there was a moment when everything inside of me turned taut, throbbing for several beats before I melted around his fingers.
A look of satisfaction spread over his face, and he gently lifted me off the wall and placed me on the bench behind us. Just as I was about to set my feet on the floor, he kneeled in front of me and gripped my ankles to stop me.
“Put your heels on the edge of the bench.”
I did as I was told, bending my knees and curling my toes around the ledge.
His hands quickly darted to my ass, dragging it to the same place where my toes rested. His touch broke through the sensitivity that still dominated my body and the ticklishness of my flesh. “I’ve been waiting all day to lick you.” He took his time, gradually dipping his lips to my thigh, tasting and sucking small bits of me. “Tell me I can have you.” His words spread over me like a thickening fog, covering me with warmth and desire.
“You”
“No, baby…I need to hear my name coming from your lips.”
When I looked down, his mouth was hovering in front of my pussy, waiting for me to speak. His breath hit my folds. The added heat only teased me more.
“Cameron,” I whispered and stopped.
That was all it took for his tongue to find me.
CHAPTER TWO
OUR SCHEDULES HAD BECOME INSANE, with the majority of our time being spent in the studio, so Cameron and I tried our best to have breakfast together every morning. It was usually just a cup of coffee and something that didn’t require utensils to eat, but at least we had those few uninterrupted moments together before the craziness of our days began. This morning was no different. Cameron knew I had a meeting with Professor Freeman and was already in the kitchen when I entered. He met me at the island, handed me a banana and a full mug of blonde roast, lightened and sweetened. Then his lips briefly brushed over mine.
“I missed you last night,” I said. “You warmed me up, but then your side of the bed went so cold.”
He leaned against the far counter while I pushed my back against the granite, only a foot of space separating us. He took a sip from his cup. “I’m struggling with this piece.”
“Anything I can do?” I knew there wasn’t, but I still wanted to offer. Painting was such a solo adventure; advice, encouragement, spoken inspiration didn’t penetrate when an artist felt as blocked as he was.
He shook his head and pulled a loose strand of hair off my lip. “I got an email from my brother early this morning. He still doesn’t know when he’ll be home.”
Ryder was Cameron’s younger brother. For the last six months he’d been backpacking through Asia. He’d left during the mansion take down; I’d never gotten the chance to meet him, though Cameron talked about him often. They were best friends; Ryder was the only family Cameron would ever speak about.
“Ryder’s probably just having a really good time,” I offered. There was a twinge of melancholy in his eyes every time his name came up. “I know you miss him.”
“I’ve never been apart from him for this long.”
I pushed my back off the counter, leaving the mug on the stone surface, and wrapped my arms around his neck. “You have me.”
He kept his fingers beside him, but he scanned my eyes, my face. “I know I do. It’s just...different with my brother.”
I didn’t have a sibling. I couldn’t even imagine what it would have been like to raise a brother or sister and deal with Lilly, my mother, and the environment she had created for us. But a part of me had always yearned for a relationship like the one Cameron had with Ryder. And even though I had something similar with Emma, she wasn’t blood…and she was gone.
“I understand. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
He nodded. “You’ll be home after your meeting?”
“Yes,” I leaned in quickly to peck his lips. “I’ll see you in a few hours.” I released his shoulders and took a final sip of coffee before moving to the foyer to grab my bag.
“Charlie,” he said as the elevator chimed, notifying me of its arrival.
I turned toward him.
“Be careful.”
I smiled at him. Then I walked through the entrance, pushing the button for the ground floor.
***
Professor Freeman was ensconced in his high leather chair. I sat on the opposite side of his desk and we both stared at Smoke and Shadows, the painting I had placed on an easel in the back of his office. Although he wasn’t teaching any of the three classes I was enrolled in for the semester, he was still my mentor, and I met with him weekly to discuss the pieces I was working on, for school or for buyers. The one we were examining was for a collector named Olivia, a woman he’d introduced me to several weeks ago. She’d requested a piece for her bedroom; she wanted sensuality, seduction—mystery, even. For her, I’d painted a woman in profile; her arm was bent, and the back of her hand rested on her forehead. From the placement of her fingers, a shadow was cast over her eyes in a shape that closely resembled a mask. Her neck was slightly faded and flowed seamlessly into her shoulders, collarbone and breasts. All that skin was covered in smoke, a thick vapor that surrounded and wafted off of her. In the entire painting, only her lips held color: naphthol red that glossed and accentuated the plumpness of her mouth.
“The woman you created doesn’t resemble Olivia at all,” the Professor said, referring to the contrast between Olivia’s creamy complexion and platinum hair and the dark features of the woman in the painting. “It looks more like a portrait of the artist, actually.” I hadn’t meant for my own characteristics to come through; I had wanted something of a fantasy instead. That didn’t always happen, no matter what my intentions were. “But I know she wanted something a little darker in tone overall. I think she’ll be really pleased with this.” He stood and moved over to the piece, holding the wooden ledge of the easel and bending to get a closer look. “She’s stunning, Charlie. Your growth continues to impress me.”
The Professor often asked the inspiration behind my pieces. Sometimes I was honest with him and described the moment when the image had come to me. Other times, I lied about everything he asked. There was a side of me he hadn’t met, the side that bled dark emotion. He didn’t know I had worked at the mansionhe wouldn’t have even known what the mansion was if its existence hadn’t been broadcast in the newsor that the Doctor, one of his collectors, was my father. He believed my shadows stemmed from the death of my mother and the unhealthy relationship we’d had. That was only part of the truth, though. And my art had changed somewhat in the last six months. It had always been loud, sensual, gritty and painful—and it still was all of those. But within those swirls of dusk were new hints of conflict and unresolved feelings working their way to the surface.
I thanked him with a nod. “I met with Gareth last night.”
He returned to the desk and took a seat. “Interesting fellow, isn’t he?”
“Extremely.” I retrieved my phone from my bag and pulled up the pictures of the outline I had sketched that morning. With all that had happened in the shower the night before, I hadn’t had t
ime to start on it like I’d wanted to. “His taste is a little darker than Olivia’s.”
“Yes, well…his art serves a slightly different purpose. He doesn’t just use it to decorate; he uses it to define the lifestyle he practices. But your talent will fill his needs as well.” His expression never changed as he flipped through the pictures. I could tell he was just as impressed with this piece as he’d been with Olivia’s. “Gareth was enamored when I showed him some of your past work. He even offered to pay double your normal fee.”
“Double?”
“He can afford it, as much as Olivia can afford the extra she’s paying you. They both appreciate your particular skill much more than others do.”
It wasn’t just my artistic skill that Gareth was after; it was a certain atmosphere he wanted my art to create in his living space, one that I could relate to personally. He wanted shaded, he wanted sexy, he wanted submissive. I was a certain level of all three, and it carried through in my art.
“If the feedback from Gareth and Olivia are positive—and I have no reason to believe that it won’t be—I think it’ll be time for us to raise your commission.”
When the Professor referred me to buyers, he took a certain percentage, as a finder’s fee; the same was true for galleries and interior decorators who recommended me. Their rates were standard for representing a novice with no reputation in the industry. But as an artist began to gain popularity, negotiation of fees and prices became a possibility. They could even become more selective about the work they took on.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“On the back end? Maybe three or four points. On the front? At least a few thousand. You’re in demand now, and your prices need to reflect that.”
I had discussed this with Cameron several weeks ago when we had talked about his climb in the Boston art scene. Each artist had a different experience, for sure, but he was the only person whose history I knew and could compare mine to. Based on his numbers and what he’d received when he was in a similar position in his career, the raise was more than I was expecting.
“Talk it over with Cameron and let me know what you decide.”
I smiled and thanked him. He knew I was going to accept the offer, but I appreciated that he was giving me time to consider it.
He moved back to the easel and wrapped Olivia’s piece before handing it to me. I tucked it under my arm, gathered my bag and gave him a quick hug as I left.
Once outside, I headed in the direction of our apartment rather than toward the train. I preferred walking on days where the weather was tolerable, since most of my time was spent inside the studio. Air gave me a chance to process everything. Our building was much closer to Northeastern than my old place had been, which made the walk much shorter.
I crossed at Huntington Ave when the signal changed and kept my eyes trained on the sidewalk ahead. There was a time when I’d looked over my shoulder constantly, scanning the street or the curbs for my father’s limo. For a while, it was the only way we had communicated; the mansion had kept such close track of me, it was the safest place for us to speak. There was a short period after my father had turned in all their records when I feared I was being followed. I didn’t trust the tinted windows of any car that passed me, or eyes concealed behind sunglasses. I was worried they knew the truth about who I really was: that I was the Doctor’s daughter, that I’d been the whistleblower and had persuaded my father to turn in the evidence. And the evidence revealed every young woman who had been lured into that house, the ones who had been kidnapped on the street, the organs that had been ripped from their delicate bodies and to whom they’d been sold.
Massachusetts didn’t have the death penalty. The owners of the mansion were facing life without parole instead. The other employees had been charged with various offenses, depending on their role and how heavily they’d been involved. Sal, my old bodyguard, shot himself in the head before he was arrested. Sandy, the woman who’d gotten me ready every evening, was deported back to Vietnam along with most of the other so-called “cosmetologists.” As for the clients, their names had been published in the newspaper—not all at once in a comprehensive list, but in stages over a two-month period while the police and investigators pored over years of files. Even then, not all the names had been released. Many would never hit the media, including Mr. Hunt—Emma’s father. Either they’d been able to buy their way out or they knew someone who had kept their name from the press.
The one key figure who had never been arrested was Victoria, the madam. As soon as the mansion had been invaded, she’d fled. I could only imagine that, in order to avoid prosecution, she’d gone as far from Boston and her life with the mansion as she could. I never knew if she’d been tipped off or if someone had helped her get away, but she was gone.
So was my father.
There should have been multiple charges brought against him, with a heavy sentence for his involvement. Instead, he was lying low somewhere in Europe. He’d never shared the details—something for which I was extremely grateful—but he had enough information about someone very important, someone who’d also been involved in the mansion, to make sure he was kept out of prison. Now, he lived under a different name, at an address that constantly changed. Letters were the only untraceable way for us to keep in touch. We exchanged notes as often as we could. It seemed like every time he sent me one, there was a different return address in the corner.
The number of girls who were killed at the mansion was in the hundreds. I believed it could possibly have even been in the thousands, but the paper hadn’t stated that yet. Every month or so, an updated number was published. After the third month, I stopped reading. I didn’t want to know anymore. I didn’t want to think about all the faces that passed through my father’s office, all the girls who had shared my wing, all the whispers and secrets held by the walls of that house. I had done everything I could to bring that place down, and my efforts had worked. The amount of destruction those people had caused was just too much. I had enough reminders as it was.
My father assured me that as long as my identity remained disconnected from the mansion, I was safe. I wasn’t a threat to anyone other than myself. To them, to the people who mattered, I was just a girl who had been pulled in because I fit their criteria. They’d never known I had any inside knowledge about the mansion, their employees or clients. I appeared to be a victim as much as the other girls had been, and that status allowed me to stay in Boston and continue my life without being placed in protective custody.
I didn’t know any of the other girls who’d been freed; I didn’t know their names or where they’d gone. I didn’t know if they were able to go back to their normal lives, remove the mask, and pretend as though they hadn’t almost been killed. I didn’t know if they were able to look in their boyfriend’s eyes and pretend they hadn’t enjoyed the eyes of so many other men.
I didn’t know if they’d found peace, or forgiveness within themselves.
But I knew within the smoke and shade that covered the skin of my paintings, there were questions and uncertainties, things I still needed to explore, even if only through my art. These were wounds that Cameron just wasn’t able to lick clean. I had bared my flesh; I had spread my legs for strangers in masks at the requests of others I’d never even met, and it had almost caused my death. I had pulled my father out of that dark underworld and lost him to a different one—one that was thousands of miles away. And I had found a home within the arms of a man who was struggling with his own shadows, his own demons, and pain that was intolerable at times.
I longed for a chance to escape my own pain, as the mansion had allowed me to.
Because of this, a small part of me still craved the mask I’d worn within those walls.
***
When I’d had coffee with Cameron this morning, the markings of another unproductive sleepless night had been cast over his face. But as I entered the studio, he was in the center of the room in front of his easel. His r
ight hand gripped a flat brush, while the left nested a palette covered in bright hues. From the way the bristles lifted and descended, I could tell he’d found it again... that feeling. The creative yearning that lived and writhed and clawed within an artist’s chest until it discovered a release. I could see it in his face as well: a brightness and determination that beamed from his eyes, from his lips.
He had worked his way through yesterday’s block.
I moved behind him, making sure he heard my footsteps as I approached so my presence wouldn’t come as a surprise, and gently placed my hands on his chest. His body stiffened even more as my face landed on his back. His breathing sped up when my lips pressed against the thin cotton of his T-shirt. The first time I had come up behind him like this, he was out of my arms before I’d even had a chance to finish wrapping them around him. Months later, he was finally allowing me to do it without fleeing immediately, though he usually didn’t let me hold him for very long. This time was no different; in spite of letting me cuddle him, he switched places with me after several seconds. His hands found their way to my stomach; his breathing returned to normal, his anxiety leaving a bit more with each exhale. His mouth roamed the collar of my shirt. Soft, alluring moans followed each kiss.
He wasn’t the only one in this relationship who buried his darkness in sex.
I tilted my head, giving him more access, and pointed to the creation in front of us. “This is new…”
“It’s what came to me after breakfast.”
Cameron’s specialty was abstract art, with bold colors and textures that lifted off the canvas. But lately I had noticed a change in his work. He still focused on abstracts, but distinct images had begun appearing within the swirls and splotches. Sometimes, he made the figure the main focus and used the heavy, uncontained layers to fill it in. The one before us now had long strands of chocolate hair cascading from the top, where a body was beginning to form.
“Did you finish the piece from yesterday?” I asked.
