by Kevin Sean
“I didn’t have time to clean or cook too much, so I just threw something together,” says Katarzyna, gesturing towards a bountiful caesar salad, homemade strawberry shortcake and steaming pile of the very pierogi she was just telling me about.
I take a minute to realize that Logan is here too. He’s been silent since we walked in. He looks tired, but handsome as ever.
“Have a good day?” he asks. I wonder if I’m just imagining the twinkle in his eyes.
“Great day,” I respond, feeling like an inarticulate idiot. I wish I was better at smooth talking and flirting.
Before we can continue our chit chat, a cell phone on the dining table buzzes and playing chime noises. Logan looks at the screen and then up at me.
He fidgets and pulls at his collar. “Shit, this is from Sue, my secretary at work. I’m sure this is important. I’m so sorry to miss dinner, but this might take a while and I’d hate to make you wait for me to eat. So… enjoy the meal.”
I blink once, twice, trying to think of what to say to make this less uncomfortable. “Okay,” is all I come up with.
“I’ve… um, already had Katarzyna make up a bedroom for you.” He says, lingering on the word you. We both know what that pause means, what his delicate pronunciation indicates. I’ll be sleeping alone tonight.
“Cool, thanks so much!” I say, putting on a peppy facade. I don’t want Logan to know I thought we might sleep together again tonight. I don’t know whether he’d respond with pity or apathy, but I don’t want either of those from him. Logan pushes his chair in and heads off to resume his business dealings.
Katarzyna is a fantastic chef, and Logan’s absence just means more food for me. I already start getting full before I’m halfway through the meal, so I call for the housekeeper and ask my new Polish friend if she’d like to share the food which remains.
“No, don’t worry about me! I already ate some pierogi when they were freshly made, and some hearty goulash. There’s no room for any more food!” Katarzyna protests my invitation. “Just eat what you can and I’ll save the rest for later. I’m an expert on repurposing meals,” she says with a wink.
Before I know it I’m so full I’m comatose. I help Katarzyna put the leftovers away and then let her lead me up to the extra bedroom I’ll be staying in. It’s not as big as the one I shared with Logan, but I have to admit that it’s gorgeous: modern with classic touches like an ornate, 19th century mirror and bedside tables with claw-footed golden legs.
I barely manage to tuck myself in under the covers, I’m so tired. I don’t have the chance to feel lonely or neglected, because before I know it I’m lulled into a deep, deep sleep by the sounds of rain pounding onto the impossibly high ceilings and pouring down the windowpanes.
In my dreams, I’m not sleeping alone. In my dreams I’m sharing a bed with an undressed man who may or may not look exactly like one Logan Lexington.
My next morning begins much as the day before it ended—with rain, rain and more rain.
Droplets of water are whipping from one side of the sky to the next as trees withstand gale-force winds. It’s 9 in the morning, but one might think it was midnight if they judged the time by the rich dark navy hue of the sky. I can barely even see anything out the windows between the hazy, stormy conditions outside and the condensation forming on the interior windowpane thanks to my body heat. Out in the murky darkness are the faded crimson flashes of what I assume is the Golden Gate Bridge.
Just from my cursory glance at the state of affairs in the world outside of the mansion, I feel that I won’t be able to get off this island and head home today. Fuck.
I could do worse if I had to choose anywhere to spend this unforeseen forced confinement. Logan’s mansion is one of the safest places I could be in a storm of this degree.
At least if I’m here I’m not alone, like I would be if I had stayed home last night. But I might as well be alone. Is being cooped up with some wealthy Casanova type who doesn’t know a damn thing about me that much better than being all on my own at home? I don’t think so.
My cock swells for a moment at the sudden intrusive thought maybe Logan and I could repeat our getting-to-know you activities from that first night we spent together before the storm hit. We could finish what we started.
Snap out of it. That’s the last thing I need right now—being horny and throwing myself into this hookup got me trapped so far away from my apartment in the first place. If I hadn’t assumed that a quick fuck would inspire me to paint again, then I would never have come to Logan Lexington’s mansion.
But I made that dumb decision. And I am trapped in Logan Lexington’s mansion, albeit with great food, sheets with high thread counts… and some very sexy company.
Who probably doesn’t even want to spend another second of his time with me. I think back to Logan, realizing I would stay longer than one night, and his obvious annoyance with my extended presence. Asshole.
For a moment I worry about Jade, but then I remember that she has days and days worth of food and water placed in bowls which I keep scattered across the apartment. She’s antisocial, anyway, so she’ll appreciate the alone time.
Part of me wishes I had my paint supplies with me, even if I have had little (no) use for them as of late. It doesn’t matter whether I can make good or sellable pictures, painting and sketching have always been forms of stress relief for me.
Lord knows that I need some kind of release: having amazing anonymous sex right before being entrapped in an enormous mega mansion has been a shock to my system and has my nerves operating at full steam. This storm situation seems like the craziness which a renowned artist’s autobiography would pinpoint as the jumpstart of their creative renaissance.
Maybe I should just focus on getting out of the starving artist phase first before moving on to storyboarding my memoirs. Still, it’s a nice thought.
I wonder if Logan has sketching paper or other art materials. I’m sure he doesn’t have the paints and brushes I’m used to, but even just trying to sketch could put my mind at ease.
On my first turn I find myself in a tiny room with dark green vines hanging from every corner, enveloping the room in an artificial jungle. Inside lie a crescent-shaped stone bench, three koi fish in a pond surrounded by smooth crimson rocks, and nothing else. The walls are covered in what appear to be giant video screen panels playing footage of the rainforest floor.
I’ll admit that the interior design is gorgeous, but it’s also… a little excessive. This room with only three fish in it is almost as big as my entire apartment—and I’m positive that these decorations cost more than all of my IKEA furniture combined. I want to get out of here, quick, so I step through the door to my left and begin a cycle of walking aimlessly from one decadent, modernistic room to another.
So many rooms, yet there isn’t even a spare square of toilet paper to be found for sketching purposes.
I recognize how exorbitantly expensive this building and everything in it are but… well, this house isn’t my style. Sure, it has all the most modern and stylish interior decor trends incorporated. The palatial ceilings are impossibly high, and there are enormous glass panels and futuristic chandeliers at every turn.
And it’s also sterile as all hell. I don’t want to yuck anyone else’s yum, but that’s just not for me.
Take this hallway I’m walking in: it’s lined with bookshelves, which is a fabulous idea. But almost all of them are bare, save for the odd trophy, and the only books to be seen are a handful of business guides written by Bill Gates, Mark Cuban and… Logan Lexington himself.
I leaf through Logan’s book. There are chapters on aspects of business such as acquiring new trading partners, putting your best face forward, and letting employees go with grace. I can’t resist giggling at how serious and dramatic Logan’s author portrait photograph is on the back cover.
I also can’t help but wonder if I’ve been wrong all along in spending the last year constantly surrounding myself with mo
re crystals, more plants, more poetry books, more tapestries, more scented candles, hoping each might summon the inspiration to paint. Should I have eschewed my eclectic decorations in favor of adopting this house’s stark, colorless, soulless aesthetic? My eyes dart around the hall, looking for something, anything,
One thing remains the same whether I’m in this enormous mansion or my modest apartment: I see nothing which might inspire me to pick up a paintbrush again. Nada. Zilch. Nothing. If Logan were to reappear here with absolutely nothing but his suit jacket on again, it might be a different story…
I shake off the nascent lustful thoughts by continuing my trek around the house. As the afternoon unfurls I wander past a state-of-the-art gym, a fully stocked Japanese-style kitchen with a hibachi grill and gorgeous paper walls, and a chamber whose walls are enormous aquariums stuffed to the gills with fish and coral species which appear to be from outer space. How is it possible that all of this is here for just one person?
I leave the room full of fish and head for the next door down the hall, expecting another beautiful but obscenely expensive room which won’t appeal to me. I’m half-right: this room is beautiful and decidedly more aesthetic than utility focused… but I love it.
It’s like a mini art gallery. Soft lighting illuminates a kaleidoscope of paintings which cover all four walls and range in era and art style. The collection is eclectic but complementary. One painting in particular calls my attention: it’s reminiscent of Mondrian’s abstract compositions, but inside of the modernist squares the artist has painted microchips and computer wires instead of primary colors.
“You like that one?” I turn around and see that Logan Lexington himself is standing right behind me, as if he appeared out of thin air. I’m so taken aback that I have to remind myself to breathe. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to let you know that dinner’s ready.”
“I love it,” I say, my words a whisper. I feel much more vulnerable now—clothed and standing underneath a painting—than I ever did when I was naked in Logan’s bed.
“This is one of my favorite rooms in the house,” Logan continues.
“Really?” I don’t say explicitly that I’m surprised, but Logan deduces as much from my tone.
“Definitely. I enjoy fancy interior decorations, as I’m sure you’ve surmised… but this art is so powerful, so beautiful, so raw. These paintings all already have such strong points of view. The artists and their creations can already speak for themselves, they don’t need lamps and lounge chairs trying to get in the way.”
I’m grinning like an idiot and nodding along with every word because I completely agree. He spoke his thoughts like a true artist, not some hot-shot businessman. I didn’t realize Logan was so passionate about art. It’s cheesy, I know, but I can’t help but be endeared to him because of his love for my craft.
My craft, which I haven’t been successful in for going on a year now. It’s an ugly thought, but it worms its way into my brain. I want to make art like Logan has in his gallery, but I don’t know how to be creative the way I used to be.
I look at the man next to me. His blue eyes are lost in the paintings, too focused on admiring the brushstrokes and composition to notice me swooning over his art knowledge. Could he be the key to unlocking my lost creativity? Or could he be the nail in my coffin, dooming me to a life free from further inspiration?
8
LOGAN
This dinner will be more casual than last night’s—I hope Ben doesn’t mind.
The setting is the same, but I’ve toned things down. Less extra chairs. Less ostentatious flower arrangements. Less hundred-dollar candles burning. I’ve tried to infuse a little more… normalcy into the mealtime ritual in these abnormal times.
I’ve transformed and shrunk the black mahogany dining table, which is equipped with hinges and sliding mechanisms, by folding the wings of the tabletop under itself and pushing until the surface was more manageable for a casual dinner between two strangers.
Strangers? Acquaintances? I don’t have any words in my vocabulary to accurately capture what Ben and I are right now. We were supposed to part ways in the morning, but now we’re all but attached at the hip.
“You’ve switched things up in here, haven’t you?” Ben says as he turns in a circle and gazes around, taking in the transformation.
“I thought it might be nice to make the dining room a little less…” I stammer as I search for the right word.
“Pompous? Pretentious?” Ben offers. I must have made a face, because he immediately stifles his laugh. “I’m kidding. Seriously, it looks great in here! And it smells great too. What is Katarzyna cooking?” He asks.
“No, no, Katarzyna isn’t in the kitchen. No one is.” Ben looks confused. “I gave Katarzyna the rest of the night off to go watch Polish soap operas in her private suite.”
I wish I had the foresight to bring a camera and take a photo of his face when he realizes that it’s me who’ll be making tonight’s meal.
“You’re cooking dinner?” Ben sounds incredulous. Perhaps realizing how taken aback he seems, he puts on an overenthusiastic smile. “Fantastic!” he exclaims with false cheer.
“Yup.” I say, matching his cheesy grin. I would be embarrassed if I wasn’t so entertained by his total inability to hide his shock. He never expected for me to be making our food tonight, I’m sure. I can’t blame him for making that assumption—I don’t come across as a Betty Crocker type.
“And what’s on the menu at Chez Lexington tonight?” he asks, suppressing another laugh.
“Chef’s special: Ratatouille and cheddar bacon baked potatoes.”
Ben raises his eyebrows as his eyes widen. “Wow. Really? Okay,” he says, sounding hesitant. I wonder if chose wisely in pairing these two dishes together.
“I apologize in advance if your palate rejects the combination as too unorthodox for consumption. They’re two of the best recipes I know, I just… hadn’t considered how they’d taste together when I started cooking.”
This is actually because Ratatouille and cheddar bacon baked potatoes are just about the only recipes I know which don’t involve picking up takeout, microwaving anything or tearing open ramen cup spice packs.
But I don’t say that. Ben doesn’t need to know that I haven’t so much as touched a frying pan or oven mitt in the last decade. So I keep up the host with the most act and stand with my hands on my hips in a confident power stance as if I were pitching a new app to investors. Wearing Katarzyna’s lacy apron.
“Don’t worry, I love both of the items you’ve put on the menu,” Ben says. “I’ve never cared whether things are mixed or matched anyway.” I think back on his outfit when we first met: nice pants and blazer paired with a tie dye shirt. Okay, his story tracks.
“You think so? I’m glad to hear it, seeing as I can’t remember the last time I cooked anything which wasn’t a grilled cheese,” I say.
It’s not a lie—I can’t remember the last time I cooked anything, period.
“Hey, don’t knock grilled cheese!” Ben says in between enthusiastic bites of ratatouille. “It’s a staple of any starving artist’s diet and the source of 98% of the back rolls on my body.”
Maybe it’s just because of relief that I haven’t burnt the whole damn island down, or maybe it’s thanks to how adorable Ben looks sitting across the table from me while wearing my old clothes, but his lame joke makes me laugh way harder than I should. My visceral reaction results in a snort being emitted while I’m chuckling.
How embarrassing.
I raise my napkin over my mouth and pretend to be choking, which my brain has decided is more sexy and smooth than snort-laughing. This amuses Ben: his body is heaving with the silent shaking of repressed laughter as he leans back in his chair and tries to look in the other direction to avoid making eye contact.
“I didn’t realize you were into choking, we could’ve gotten a lot kinkier when I was pounding you last night,” I quip.
&nbs
p; Immediately I wonder if I’ve gone too far. Even if Ben was only supposed to stay the night for a quick fuck, I don’t think he appreciates me speaking to him on such explicit sexual terms at the dinner table. I notice a sudden shift in his body language: his arms are folded, he’s turned slightly away from me, and his neck is now craned downwards instead of turnt upwards with laughter.
I’ve fucked it all up.
Did I have to insist on being such a horny prick? Sure, Ben’s a temporary friend with benefits, but he is also my guest for the foreseeable future. I’m just not at all used to having a man I’ve slept with stay for dinner, let alone days. Sharing my meals and my mansion with a guy isn’t what I signed up for during our conversation on Grindr, no matter how adorable this boy from the bakery may be.
No matter how hurt he might be if I turn him away.
This is why I prefer to move on from a man after we’ve slept together. My one and done policy keeps me from having to consider the emotions of others like this.
Christ, that sounds selfish, doesn’t it? But if you look at the big picture, it’s for Ben’s sake too: I don’t want to hurt his feelings by being honest with him. Honest about the fact that I only wanted sex, and I only wanted to see him for one night.
I never would have seen him again after we slept together if it wasn’t for this storm. Would that have been so bad? Ben wouldn’t be sitting here looking like he wants to make a run for it. I wouldn’t be sitting here feeling like an asshole.
“I’m sorry.” I speak plainly, unable to think of the right phrases to capture my ongoing feelings of regret. Regret for bringing him into my life by force like this. “That was very… uncouth of me and…”
I pause. I want to get the words right.