by Jamie Knight
Gradually, I gained in both speed and confidence, riding his cock with abandon. The slight turns of before evolving into full-on hip rotations. I’d been too afraid of falling the first time we’d tried the position, but had gotten well beyond that.
I wanted him, I was going to have him, exactly how I liked. Just as I was his to do with as he liked. Both in terms of power exchange, as well as in general. Our relationship felt more like a partnership than anything else. Each helping and benefiting from the other.
I could feel it. The distinctive heat as Hugo unleashed his payload. Only that time, instead of in my mouth for a tasty treat, it was tossed in the trash in a wrapping of latex.
He kissed me as I collapsed against him. Both of us were a bit too happy to think about the implications of what just happened. Ordinarily I would have been frantic, but there was something about Hugo that put me at my ease. Even if I wasn’t entirely sure where we stood.
Even though the end of our little arrangement was growing perilously near.
Keeping me in his tight embrace, Hugo got carefully to his feet. My arms and legs going around him as he did so. Both his hands on my ass for further support, he carried me to the bathroom.
“Will you wash my hair?” I asked hopefully, as the bath tub filled.
I couldn’t quite make sense of the look that passed over his face, but he nodded. “Of course, sweetheart,” he murmured softly, brushing his lips over my forehead.
I didn’t know what this meant, but at least for now, I had him back.
Chapter Twelve - Hugo
The sandman was again absent. Fled from the scene those six days, it didn’t seem as though he would make a reappearance. At least not that first night. Whatever influence Vega had on the situation was at least at an ebb. We would have to reestablish our connection further before I regained any of the benefits. A fair penitence for my foolishness.
It had scared me more than all the monsters in storybooks. The ones I’d used a nightlight until I was 11 to try and ward off. Three simple, loaded words. ‘I love you.’ ‘Je t'aime.’
How many times had I heard that over the years? Said in a different context but with no less earnestness. If desire for sex was a manifestation of the fear of death, both fundamental aspects of the human condition, what was love? Sex was one of the primary expressions of love but not necessarily needed for it. Nor was love needed for sex, as had been clearly demonstrated by my past exploits. The term ‘making love’ not only a euphemism, but extremely limited. What happened to sex when love died and the fear of death was no longer a factor? A question I’d spent the past five years attempting to answer.
I didn’t dare move. The serenity so perfect it would have been as to break a stain glass window to disturb it. The fact that I had my arms around her making the situation awkward indeed.
Even with the miscalculation, it had been a great evening. We hadn’t come together again. It was mostly out of our systems, in every sense of the phrase, intimacy of a different sort becoming a primary concern. We stayed in the bath until the water was cold, then enjoyed the most leisurely dinner ever, after it finally came around.
We even got more work done on the book. Vega read some parts out loud so I could hear how they sounded to someone else. Being a writer felt a little similar to being a deaf composer. I could write the words. Condense the feelings. Present the world as I saw it, but never with any idea about how it was being experienced. If what the reader saw was anything like what I had.
The closest I used to get was during signings, when a reader would enthuse about a particular theme or another, showing they’d largely gotten what I intended but not if our views agreed. Listening to Vega read my words back to me, was like having a window opened into her mind. Giving new insight in to the work at the same time. Gently adjusting how I saw things.
But after a while, her eyes had started to droop and I’d carried her to bed with me, letting her drift off to sleep on my chest.
Stealth was required. Using my free hand to gently lift Vega from below, I managed to slip my trapped arm out from under her. Leaving the sleeping beauty none the wiser.
Freshly liberated I reached, without looking, to the top drawer of the nightstand. Where I’d stashed some of my art supplies. Touch finding a sketch pad and a charcoal pencil, I reassumed my previous position. Greeted by Vega’s gently slumbering face.
Touching point to the high-fiber page, my hand moved as though by powers invisible. The dark gray lines turning black on the off-white paper. Coming together to create an increasingly identifiable form.
My chest was full with a love my mind didn’t know what to do with. The sort that left me feeling dazed like nothing had before. Vega had really spooked me by saying what she had. Not because I disagreed, or was even worried I might.
I just didn’t know what to do with what I was feeling, love never coming into it before. I’d done the project with a chosen employee for the past three years. Initially to actually get specialized help on a particular project, but also to provide myself with a distraction. At the same time giving them what they might want. Be it the physical attention or the money. One usually being the cherry on top of the other. My criteria for choosing the candidate was based both on their fitness for the project, and my potential ability to engage with them, both socially and sexually.
The pencil moved like the needle on a polygraph. Conjuring a photo-realistic replica of the scene in front of me. The first time I’d been able to draw anyone but Delphine.
***
My little sister was so excited to be in the big city. My parents had relocated to Burgundy when housing costs in the capital got too high. About the same time I’d graduated from college, in one of those universal coincidences. A picture of provincial pastoral, the new homestead served well as a writing place. The rent was so cheap I wasn’t expected to contribute, though I did when I could. Giving me ample time to hone my skills. The click of my keyboard a near-permanent presence.
I hadn’t been back in a while, my move stateside coming soon after the success of my first book. The domestic sales had been strong. The American translation was a minor phenomenon. I needed something to do between writing projects, so I started Boucher Books as a sort of hobby.
“Can’t she go by herself? She is 20 now.”
“More the worry,” Dad had said, practicing his English, “Remember what you were like?”
I knew he was right. Exploring Paris alone was sure to get my younger sister into trouble, and I had to admit, I liked the idea of showing it to her.
“I’ll be on the next flight out.”
It was like watching time elapse right before my eyes. Little Delphine had grown a shocking amount since I saw her last. To be fair she had been 15 at the time.
But now she’d been accepted to college in the big scary city she couldn’t really remember, and my parents wanted me to show her around. Particularly in terms of the places to avoid. Clearly they were under the impression that anything I said could alter her course on the way to adulthood. A road often marked with broken hearts and broken bones, at least in my experience.
Cafe Bonne Biere had been my idea. While she was still French, Delphine Marie Boucher was no longer a Parisian. If, in fact, she had ever been. She was 11 when we’d made the move to wine country, and our parents had been very strict about her movements before that. Leaving it mostly to me to be the enforcer and protector, while they both worked full-time jobs. Going so far as to find schools walking distance from each other.
“Hugo!” Delphine crowed in delight, enveloping me in an attack hug the moment I walked through her door.
The apartment Dad had found for her was cramped, but with a Parisian flair. She could have had a bigger place if she’d gotten a job, but Dad didn’t want her to have any distractions. If she was going to be going to university, that should be the focus. Mom didn’t want her to go at all.
I remember a similar scene when
I left for America. The first born, off to seek his fortune in the New World. Our sweet mother bawling her eyes out like I was going to the afterlife instead of New York. It would take a tragedy, but I finally understood her urge to hold on. Even if it wasn’t healthy in the long run.
Delphine might have appeared like a woman. but the decor spoke of youth. Holdovers from adolescence, and before, a primary feature of the decor. She still even ate like a high-schooler. At least from what I could remember. Seeing the state of her fridge, I had the overwhelming urge to march her down to the shop and do a complete overhaul. Then I thought better of it, remembering how royally pissed I would have been if one of our parents had done the same to me. Better to let her make her own mistakes.
Permanence could be quite comforting. The metro system was mostly unchanged since I’d been there last. Though I wasn’t sure what changes I thought there could really be in five years, particularly to a city property. It was something I didn’t think the Americans really got. Probably because of their lack of history on the grand scale. There were trees in Europe that were older than the American Nation.
It was a picture of wonderment, Delphine finally able to see Paris at night. Something
every French citizen should be able to do at least once in their lives. Hell, something everyone should do.
While she seemed a little intimidated by the bustle, Delphine was going to have to get used to it if she lived in the capital. She’d mostly grown up in a world of open spaces. Our closest neighbor about 20 miles away. I hadn’t been asked, but knew she would have to acclimatize sometime. Best to do it when I was there to hold her hand. Literally, as it turned out. Her surprisingly strong grip not relenting until we took our table at the cafe.
We’d barely had time to order. The server was heading back to the kitchen when it happened.
Everybody got down amidst the gunshots and screaming. Snapping like a spring, I tackled Delphine, trying to get her out of the line of fire. Using myself as a human shield.
After what seemed like hours but were probably only minutes, the noise abetted. An eerie sense of calm coming over the scene, I held her, like I had when she was a baby. The mad hope that my warmth might revive her consumed my grief-addled mind.
At first, as the shock and adrenaline still ran, I hadn’t noticed how cold she was getting. Three rounds to the chest. Two right through her heart. The coroner said she would have died instantly. No pain. No time to say goodbye.
***
Small, gray waterfalls trickled down the page, threatening to mar the crisp white sheets beneath. The tears that wouldn’t fall before, coming in a cascade.
“Hugo?”
A light touch on my arm. I looked to see Vega, awake and alert, the covers fallen around to her waist. It made her look like a classical statue tourists went to gawp at in the Louvre. Every gentle curve of her, perfectly symmetrical with the others. A waking dream after a waking nightmare.
The pad slipped away as my strength relented, my hands falling slack on my lap. Vega pulled me to her, enveloping me in her gentle embrace. My soft sobs were muffled by her supple neck. The silver of the collar pressed into me as I held onto her, for dear life. Vega cuddled and shushed me lovingly.
“Want to talk about it?” she asked when I pulled myself together.
“I think I’d better, or I might go insane.”
It all came flooding out. The dam of denial and reserve had finally burst, letting the emotions flow free. One could only be stoic for so long before it stated to take a terrible toll. I’d never even been able to talk to my parents about what happened. Never talked to them again after the funeral.
As soon as Delphine was put in the ground, I was on the next plane back to California. Remaining in the airport terminal for the entire twelve hour wait. I just couldn’t face them. Their baby was dead. The guardian had failed. At least that was how I’d felt at the time. There was really nothing I could have done except take the bullets myself. Given the option, I would have.
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“But I did. It might not be right, but it was true. They had trusted me, Delphine trusted me and look where it got her? That was why I went funny when you said you loved me. I know it is a very different situation, but, in my experience, those who love me most die. Young and horribly.”
“You think you’re cursed?” Vega asked, without judgment.
“Now that you put it that way, yes. At least I did. Kind of silly, hey?”
“No, it’s understandable. You’ve been through a terrible trauma. People don’t to tend think clearly under such circumstances. Perspective can be a powerful thing.”
“True. I suppose an artist should know that better than anyone.”
Vega looked at the pad, her expression flickering from confusion to delight. Realizing what she was seeing.
“So it’s true.”
“The rumors that I’m an artist as well as a writer? Sure, for the last few years, anyway. I didn’t have any great plan to hide it. It just sort of happened when I was looking for something to do. Much like my first novel, honestly. Not to say there wasn’t any effort involved. Just no particular aspiration.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks. I was hoping to capture the serenity of sleep. I’ve only done a bit of it and never saw it from the outside.”
“You don’t sleep?”
“Not for a while, although lately it feels I’ve done more of it than I have in like the last year combined.”
“What changed?”
“You.” I admitted, “I can’t quite explain it.”
Her warmth enveloped me once again as Vega kissed me tenderly, filling me with a sense of peace and calm.
“I love you,” I finally said, the words coming naturally.
“I know.”
Chapter Thirteen - Vega
The end was near. There were only twenty pages left. Even though I had a good idea how the story would end, I was still dreading its arrival. Part of the problem with powerful prose. It felt real. Even more so than television, which seemed odd.
Despite the realism of things like television or film, there is always a disconnect. Maybe it’s something about the audience knowing, at least subconsciously, what is really going on. Actors, reciting lines in front of a camera. Particularly if the actors were exceptionally bad or the shot composition especially clumsy. The sudden appearance of boom-mics was the bane of any amateur production.
Text had no such tells. There was no major immediate distinction in terms of the actual pages between a history text and a fantasy novel, except in how the exact words were used.
Which can be gotten around. As in cases of creative non-fiction in which true events are presented in a creative way, and novels which go out of their way to feel like realistic accounts. Especially when based on real life, it can be easy to engage with the characters and events on an emotional level.
Knowing the real story behind Hugo’s novel made it sadder, while also adding to the imperative to get it right. It was his goodbye letter to Delphine. I was honored he had trusted me with it.
“Fuck,” I choked, putting down the manuscript.
My fingers pressed hard, willing the tears not to come. I didn’t know if it would work but figured it was worth a try. I didn’t want to cry in front of Hugo. I didn’t want him to think he’d made me sad. He had, but not in the way he thought.
“Any changes?” he asked.
“No, not one.”
I tried to smile, despite the tears. It was a bit like attempting to walk and chew gum at the same time, only ten times harder.
It was warm in his embrace. Calm and comforting. It was beginning to feel a lot like home.
“Hungry?”
My stomach rumbled, as though reacting to the word. We’d skipped breakfast and had an early lunch, creating that confusing between-meal void, where you were hungry but weren’t sure if you should eat or
not. Not that Hugo seemed to mind that much. He generally seemed to eat what he wanted when he wanted, whether it was one of his regular meal times or not.
Food always tasted stronger after crying. There must have been something about a good hard cry that cleansed the pallet, leaving things open for new experiences. A new beginning.
It was a team effort. Matilda wouldn’t be on again for a few hours, so the kitchen was all ours. Rather than trying to one up each other or claim our territory, we came together in the spirit of unity. The connection between us, there from the beginning in a more subtle form, was stronger than it had ever been. It was almost as though we knew what the other needed before being asked. The process of cooking becoming like a dance.
Like magic it appeared. A meal possibly too big for just the two of us, laid out on the table in a flash.
Like a proper gentleman, Hugo pulled out my chair and pushed it back in.
“I have something to ask you,” I said, deciding just to get it over with.
Before I could get another word out, his phone pinged. Like a reflex, Hugo went for it., barely stopping himself in time. He looked at me with a questioning gaze.
“Go ahead.”
He took out his phone, holding my hand at the same time. He looked like he was expecting bad news. Either from me, or the text. Probably both. It could be hard to tell with his sort of poker face.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
“Bad news?”
“I’m sorry. Yes. One of the others I was considering. She - she’s not happy that she wasn’t the one I picked. She says she’s going to expose us. More specifically me, and my February tradition.”
“But it’s not…it’s not like that anymore,” I objected, “Right?”
“Still won’t stop her. Particularly not with the speculation already going around. I really hoped they would have forgotten all about me by now. Most probably have, but this kind of scandal is exactly the sort of thing to get the wolves at the door.”