“Is that—” he started.
“An original William Blake, circa Eighteen-oh-nine. It was a gift to my thrice great-grandmother. Fortunately for me, the London Museum has nothing but a meticulously detailed fraud. And I reason to believe my ancestors more than some stuffy know-it-all with a degree from some community college.”
“What’s it called?” he said.
She drew a seat from the front of the desk and walked around to hers. It was as majestic as her beauty with its plush, brown tufted leather. It made no sound as she slipped into it.
Chase sat down after Grace and pulled the portfolio onto his lap.
“Tell me a little about what you do, Chase. I can call you Chase, right?”
He nodded eagerly. “Please. Of course. Chase,” he smiled.
“What do you want to know?”
Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward on her elbows. Chase leaned back and scratched his head.
Do what thou wilt, whispered from somewhere in the room. Or in his head. His eyes flicked about in search of the source. And from the shifted glance from Grace, he didn’t know if she might have heard it too, or she had begun to wonder if her prospective client was crazy.
He smiled.
“I’m an independently disciplined, dark urban fantasy artist,” he said.
“Horror,” she corrected.
“Sure. If you say so. But the horrors are from my own mind.”
“Isn’t that the same for other artists? William Adolphe Bouguereau, Hieronymus Bosch, Peter Paul Rubens, Henry Fuseli, Gustave Doré,” she said.
He nodded his head. “Yeah, but no.”
Her eyebrows shifted. A slight crease wilted from the left that eased away. She was older than Chase. At least by ten years. He imagined her as a fine wine, improving with age. A robust red as a teenager, a Chateau Lafite that would eventually become a Chateau Margaux from her twenties to thirties, and a priceless Screaming Eagle by the sexual peak of her forties. His imagination delved further and tasted the polished, supple earthy undertones, the hint of spice and cherry on her deep red lips.
His throat tightened. His mouth went dry. He licked his lips.
She pushed up from the desk and took to her feet. It was effortless as if invisible threads of spiritual connection drew her to the heavens.
She smiled, turned, and sauntered over to the dry bar. Her hips swirled. His eyes didn’t wait for her to breathe as he drank her in. The denim under his belt line grew tighter.
She cocked her head moved her flittering fingers above the crystal decanters before she extracted a slender vase, its precious no-color liquid swirled with fine particulates and clouded over in hues of translucent ecru. She nodded.
She stepped back to her desk and set the bottle. He felt her gaze penetrate him, and his hands balled up. She sat and reached down as Chase heard the slide of wood against wood. The portfolio shifted atop his lap like a young teenager with a pillow, experiencing his first porn movie as she stared at her cleavage.
The clink of glass gave him a start as she placed two large wine goblets next to the decanter.
“What’s that?” he said as she drizzled half a shot into one glass.
Grace leaned over again and arose with an ancient, dark glass bottle. He glimpsed the label before she poured both glasses. His eyes went wide.
“Well, this is a nineteen-eighty-two Margaux. Very exquisite, and incredibly delicate. The former is a handcrafted nectar known for its amatory qualities.”
Definition eluded him. He didn’t ask.
“Uh, as to your question about what makes me different from other—”
“Shh,” she paused him. “In a moment,” she said as she slid a glass towards him. He didn’t notice, nor care, which one he received, though, considered the two glasses and noticed one was more pallid than the other.
“Not to sound ignorant, but why—”
“I’m quite sure you never tasted anything as pristine as a Margaux. The nectar adds more of— an insatiable taste.”
He brought the glass to his nostrils, sniffed and studied her. She followed suit and sipped. He followed her every move as she drew the glass away and licked her lips. He thought he heard a purring moan when her tongue snaked back in.
“Well?”
He nodded deeply. The faded tone of nutmeg danced on his tongue.
Heat drifted from his throat into his belly. It continued further, below his navel, and between his legs. His subdued erection solidified, and he wondered if he received the wrong glass. He shook his head and replaced the glass.
“Now, what makes you different?”
His head swirled, and his pupils dilated. The light above the painting behind Grace seemed to expand and fill the shadows. An airy groan passed his lips as he fought the miasma.
He lifted the portfolio and opened it before her.
“My art is horrific, not horror. Prophetic nightmares that have haunted me for years now. After I worked on each piece, they kind of cleared out of my head. Somewhat. Does that make any sense? That wine punched me harder than I thought.”
She nodded and tugged the portfolio closer. Each picture she studied. Each portrait she hummed. Each piece she smiled. Thirteen in all, bordered in white, titles handwritten within, she held her breath when she flipped to the final page. Chase thought she looked both angry and surprised.
She finally exhaled and curled a smile.
“What was your inspiration for this. It’s neither horrific nor horror. Peculiar considering the others.”
Chase swallowed deep.
“I don’t know. He’s someone that always shows up. I never get to see him clearly. I made up what I couldn’t see. But shadowed him anyway. Probably going to remake that one. Don’t know why I left it in there,” he said and reached for the copy.
Grace did not deny as he slipped it towards him.
He looked over the piece. The browns and grays of the blended background, the vermilions, olives, and bister of the man’s complexion, and the shock of lightly peppered white hair that pulled back over his head and exposed a deeply cut widow’s peak. The look in his eyes was fierce, malicious. It came from age, experience, and knowledge as if he had seen life beyond existence and the offers of a boundless heaven. No, not heaven. That was wrong.
It was hell. Fire, brimstone, damnation, and suffering. Pain beyond mankind’s comprehension. Afflictions of thousands of souls, and pleasures of a million demons.
Chase shuddered and flipped the photocopy over. The ink from the Staples copier bled through as a mirrored image.
He wiped the beads of sweat from his brow with the palm of his hand and immediately grabbed the wine glass.
“Are you alright, Chase? You look flushed,” Grace said. It sounded almost gleeful.
He gulped the remaining contents and ignored the delightful vintage.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Don’t know what’s gotten into me,” he smiled.
Grace took to her feet and folded her arms. Her inquisitive gaze made his jaw tighten. Cinching her forearms tight, they pushed her breasts to the brink of overflow. His erection threatened the buttons of his fly and he shifted in his seat.
“What,” he said.
“I want you,” she hesitated and cocked her head. Chase saw the gears turn. Another throb from below. His hand crept to the fly and checked its tenacity. “Have you ever displayed your…works?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m still a virgin,” he said before he could slap the words back in before they vomited forth. His cheeks returned more color.
“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. Grace chuckled. It didn’t help his growing problem.
“That’s quite alright, darling. If it pleases you, I would be honored to be your first.”
Oh, come on, now, he thought. This is too fucking much.
“When do you think you could deliver?” she said. His smile wrapped around his skull.
“You’ll take them? Really,” he gawked.
She wrapped her fingers around the vase, gently slid her grip up and down the tapered shaft as she rubbed her thumb across the head of the bulbous crystal topper. His imagination went wild. He also realized this was the right time to grab his portfolio and double it as a shield. She stepped to the dry bar and slipped the vase into place.
“Three. I’ll start with three. No formal showing, no appearance. An anonymous display of other pieces just to see how much interest they garner. I promise to notify you whence they sell.”
His hand shot out and awaited hers. She considered the portfolio held tight before him like the apron of a Freemason as she gripped his other hand.
“I can’t wait to find out what else you can give me,” she said. Her tongue snaked out and drew her bottom lip to her teeth.
“Thank you. Thank you, Grace. You won’t be disappointed. I swear,” he huffed into a single stream of breath.
“I certainly hope not. Hell hath no fury,” she started.
“Like a woman scorned,” he whispered. She nodded.
Chase whirled about and stepped towards the door. The bong of his head to tempered glass rattled the walls as he reached the clear door sooner than he expected.
“Here, allow me,” she said and gripped the ornate handle. “It does take some getting used to.”
Chase covered his blush as he pretended to wipe his forehead. His pace quickened as he dodged statues and easels in the intimately lit gallery floor.
“Chase,” she said as he reached the door. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
He spun around and outstretched his arms as he inspected his person. His jaw dropped when he noticed his thickened bulge. He recovered with the portfolio as Grace’s eyebrows shifted in delight.
“What? What did I forget?”
“When will you be back with the originals?”
“Uh, tomorrow? Which ones?” he said.
Her fingers drifted upwards to the crux of the neckline below her cleavage.
“Bring me The Accursed, The Condemned and The Wicked,” she said.
He paused to think. “But the Wicked is—”
“I want it.” Her tone dropped an octave. “And one thing you must know about me, darling; I get what I want.”
V
Chase grabbed Grace’s auburn locks and yanked her head back. She gasped.
“I’ll give you exactly what you want, you dirty little slut,” he said.
His other hand free, he tore her dress open from the swept V between her breasts and raced his hand across her smooth belly and crammed two fingers inside of her dripping crease. He lusted for her nude, voluptuous figure like a feral beast as she heaved every breath.
“Fuck me, Chase! Right here! In front of the window! I want everyone who passes to see you fucking me,” she groaned.
He ripped open the buttons of his fly as she yanked at his jeans. His cock broke free and pulsed at the mouth of her inflamed cunt.
“Now, Chase,” she huffed and grabbed his erection. “I can’t wait anymore. I need you inside of me.”
Arms wrapped around Chase and her nails tore into his back as he thrust his cock inside. She let out a coo as he rammed into her. Whether it was his size or her smallness, she was much, much tighter than he ever expected.
“You feel that, Grace? You’re my first. How—” he thrust.
“Does—” again.
“That—” again.
“Chase, I’m coming. I’m coming! You’re making me come like no man has ever—”
Through gritted teeth and snarled lips, he growled like a rabid dog as he exploded deep inside her pyretic slit. His spine arched, and contracted muscles bulged into a twisted mass of steel. Legs wrapped around his hips like a vice pinned him deep within her pulsating vulva which squeezed every drop from his manhood as her nails tore flesh across his back. His cock swelled and stretched her. Her guttural scream coursed through his body as her climax ripped through and trembled her mortal soul.
VI
Chase collapsed back to the couch. He panted and moaned and squeezed and gasped. His erection, either overstimulated or overworked, burned with soreness.
A hand lazily reached for the towel beside him. His smile, euphoric, his heart blissful and his cock softer. He wiped himself off and tossed the towel to the floor.
“Wow. Three fucking times,” he said.
Chase rolled to his side and pulled his knees up. His fingers rambled along the raised beads of flesh that permanently scarred him. A forced breath blew through tight lips as he sighed.
“If only you were here, Grace. If only you were really fucking here,” he gasped and flopped one hand at his side, the other gripped his limpness below.
Chase gawked out the window at the moon from his living room. Slumber claimed his consciousness, as Grace molested his dreams.
BEGINNER’S LUCK
I
Peter scanned the passenger mirror and watched the headlights of a Mercedes tailgating its way behind the ambulance. Many more vehicles followed suit in their all-important concerns of getting home, or to the next bar, first. Peter hammered the throttle as the front tires chirped in its turn onto Fourth Avenue. The Mercedes didn’t lose ground.
The ambulance threaded the traffic on the two-lanes of the road. Just ahead, a new tractor-trailer and an old dump truck competed for pole position at the next light, ignorant or unaware of the police cruiser and the ambulance’s lights and sirens. Peter watched the pedestrian walk signal flash its red hand.
Both trucks belched profuse smog as they both accelerated in a futile attempt at beating the light and each other.
The traffic light turned yellow, and the dump truck gained the lead by a half-length. From Peter’s right, he caught the headlights of a van, either unaware of his still red light or aware of the imminent green. The front end of the van slightly lifted as the driver hammered down.
Red lights glowed brightly in all four directions at the crossroads within its timed two-second allowance of vehicles. Neither the dump truck, the tractor-trailer nor the van accepted it.
The van was the first to jam on its brakes as the driver’s side of the cab disappeared under the dump truck’s bumper.
Parking brakes discharged from the tractor-trailer as its rear skid sideways. The tractor careened into the body of the dump truck and the trailer strayed into the parked cars on the side before it jackknifed back into the lanes. The police car hopped onto the sidewalk and narrowly missed a fire hydrant.
II
Chase stumbled through the door of the Suds-N-Such Coin-Op on Second Avenue. It was further than he preferred, but the fire that claimed Soapy’s on Ridge left him little choice.
He considered purchasing an automobile. Something small, something used with the capital he earned from the gallery. Grace had valued the three paintings low as per her “new-artist policy,” but much more than Chase ever expected. He swore there was something wrong with his telephone when he asked her to repeat herself.
He understood the Three, then Dollars. His brain refused to acknowledge the word Thousand in between.
Parking spots for cars, even compacts, were rare along Third Avenue and the nearby cross streets. The newfound surplus on hand, he spent his money for better brushes, bigger canvases, and easels, clothes, guitars and sharing with his friends. The sharing he particularly enjoyed, especially since his friends had wanted no repayment from when he needed them most.
He hefted his blue, seam-split laundry bag over his shoulder like a wounded soldier. Something he never had the honor to experience. And it still haunted him.
Listening to the hum of dryers and the clicks of tumbled zippers as he stepped his way through the aisle, he caught a glimpse under his shouldered load of a pair of slender, athletic legs dressed in blue leggings, crossed by the row of seats. The scent of honey and flowers, juniper he recognized, greeted his nostrils as he passed. It hung in the air over the scent of detergent, bleach, and fabric softener sheets.
He dumped the bag to the floor and puffed. His hair, longer now, swept over his shoulders as he spun around, inconspicuously scanned the laundromat and studied the woman through his periphery. He watched and not watched her shift back to her Cosmo magazine and clear her throat.
Lost in a rapture, Chase remained longer than he should have and allowed every contour, each perfection and every refinement of the young Asian woman pour deep into his mind.
Out of your league, a small voice said from within. He closed his eyes and reached into his pockets. Unwrapping the rubber band from his fold of tens and twenties, he stepped towards the bill-to-coin machine. From the corner of his eye, he pored over the woman who peeked out from under her magazine again.
Meeting each other’s gaze, she returned his smile. He whispered a hello.
“Hi,” she said and flicked delicate fingers at him.
From the change machine to the soap dispenser next to it, he shot his head back towards her.
She cleared her throat again and turned a handful of pages.
What do I have a booger hanging or something?
Her eyes tracked him as he strode back to his laundry bag. He loaded the washer with quarters and soiled clothes, pressed the start button. He felt her inquisitive stare from behind. He turned around and found her gaze.
“Now we wait,” he said.
The Accursed Page 8