Dylan

by S. L. Scott

  It may be numbness that carries you forward now. Or, maybe it’s an emptiness that suddenly exists in your belly, in your chest, in your heart. Or maybe you find yourself feeling the opposite and catch yourself smiling at something you hadn’t noticed before.

  Hate is funny like that.

  I tried to hold onto it.

  I tried to hate Dylan again.

  I tried to hate him for making my life complicated when it seemed… not complicated. When it seemed obvious which way I should go. I tried to control the hate, bring it forth again, summoning it. To own it. Possess it. But it turned, altered from within. It left without my permission. Just like Dylan had years earlier, drifting out of my life without my consent.

  Months after I went to Dylan’s apartment, I continue to work long hours, trying to block him from my mind. He lingers… in my mind, sometimes even outside my apartment. I know he’s there even when he doesn’t knock. I can feel him, his hand, his heart just on the other side of the three inches of wood that separates us.

  Something inside me won’t let him in. Maybe it’s a deep-seeded emotion that seems to dwell inside, overpowering my weaker ones, scolding me for wanting him again.

  Maybe.

  By mid-afternoon, work is tedious, which is unusual. I love my work, but it’s not what I need right now. I need to feel something different. I’m craving a new emotion.

  Tired of punishing myself, I leave. I grab my wallet out of my bag and shove it in my coat pocket. I tell my assistant, Sergio, I’m going to check on Jean-Luc’s showcase. I’m determined to distract myself and my pesky heart that longs to be somewhere else, that longs to be with Dylan.

  I hail a cab and slip inside. The drive is uninteresting. The view of the working city is uninspiring in browns, winter grays, and dirty whites. I knock even though he tells me I can walk in every time I visit. It’s not my home and I don’t like to intrude though my unannounced visit may be considered an intrusion in and of itself. It’s not to him though.

  He answers with a joint hanging from the corner of his mouth as his smile widens and he ushers me in. He sets it down on the nearest window sill of the large loft, then returns to hold me by the face. He’s never touched me like this before and though it might be considered too much, too close for some, I’m not worried. I know where we stand. He cares about me, but he doesn’t love me, not like Dylan does. He’s comforting in some ways though that are different and easy.

  “You want a hit?” Jean-Luc asks hesitantly, seemingly unsure if what he’s asking is appropriate.

  Taking the joint in hand, I inhale while closing my eyes and let it infiltrate my being, taking over for a while. Doubts and pain, regret, and everything but numbness flood my mind, overpowering me with loss. I want to let go. I cough which turns into hacking since I’ve never smoked pot before. When the coughing ceases, I smile, feeling lighter already. Maybe I should be a bad girl. Maybe that would suit me better.

  I know this is a manufactured diversion. The marijuana has created this façade of a feeling. I decline another hit, knowing it would be better to feel nothing than something false.

  I walk the room, gazing at his latest works, thinking about the differences in style from his earlier pieces. Jean-Luc is established on the scene and his work needs to evolve as much as his reputation has.

  Higher expectations.

  Costlier price tags.

  Progress in the movement.

  I’m not seeing it in these, which worries me.

  “I’ve missed your pretty face, Jules.”

  I glance, he smiles—ruefully.

  I return to the third painting propped against a chest of drawers and critique, “This one needs a response to the question it poses.”

  “That’s the point. There is no response, no right answer to give. This is art.”

  “Art has a purpose or you couldn’t set it apart from a drawing done by a child. You had a point, a motive when you painted it. What was it? I need to see that motive or I’m left empty. That’s not a reaction you want when you use such bold colors.”

  “I’m the new generation of standards. They love me, Jules.” His hands go into the air, expressive, overly-dramatic, “I’m Jean-Luc, damn it! I don’t have to have a point or motive. I just have to paint my name at the bottom.”

  “Anyone can paint. Greatness is born from desire and your desires are following a different path right now.”

  He walks closer, his hand running the length of my arm. “You’re too uptight today.”

  “Arrogance is unattractive, even in art.”

  Sidetracking the conversation, he says, “Maybe you need something stronger.” He holds up a bottle of vodka. He’s right. The drink will give me a new perspective, then I will look at the paintings and reassess. I nod, relaxing on the couch that faces an easel and the back of a large blank white canvas. He presents the glass. “It’s the afternoon, so I thought we could start with something lighter.”

  My eyebrows go up that vodka is considered lighter. I sip after a quick tap of my glass to his, the burn rushing my system and easing me.

  Sitting back, I close my eyes, lost in memories. I find Dylan frequenting my thoughts again. I don’t regret making love with him that night. I can’t. It felt right. He felt right. Still does, but I can’t go back into something blindly. I did that the first time and caused more harm than good. I believe I’ve given Austin another chance to find true love, something that I couldn’t give him. I loved him, but not the way he deserves.

  I know I’m hurting Dylan as well, but maybe that’s how it has to be for now. Maybe time will give me a new outlook that alcohol hasn’t.

  I’ve been alone a lot lately. Brandon has a girlfriend now who surprised him with a ski trip for Christmas. I think she wanted him away from me, but that’s just my opinion.

  It’s fine because he has earned more than a lifetime of happiness from his good deeds as a best friend. It’s just… his girlfriend is a model. I’ve met her four times and I can tell she already wants to marry him, even after just two months. I’m not jealous. I’m bitter. And happy for him.

  My mind is fucked.

  I shouldn’t be allowed near people when I’m like this, when I’m past hate and leading back into feelings this intense. These feelings hurt.

  Painful emotionally.

  Physically painful to my body.

  I sit down on Jean-Luc’s couch, sloppy already, my mind going fuzzy. He joins me. The straight alcohol hitting me harder than expected. I look down at the glass and it’s empty, but then he’s refilling it. When did I drink the whole glass? I should stop. I lean back, closing my eyes, hoping to disappear for awhile.

  He whispers what I want to hear as I fade away…

  “Beautiful.”

  “Smart.”

  “Sexy.”

  “Is this okay?”

  I open my eyes as his hand slides up my thigh to the top of my legs. My skirt is up, revealing too much for his eyes, more than I want to show him. “No,” I murmur, then watch as he stands, moving slowly to the easel.

  He takes his shirt off. “I’m going to paint you, Jules.” His pants drop down, no underwear, and I watch silently. “I paint best in the nude. Do you want to be naked with me? Let me paint you bare, my beauty.”

  His words cautionary, but intriguing. My better judgment gone just like the men I’ve loved who have loved me the most. He comes closer, setting the paintbrush down on the coffee table in front of me. Confident, he reaches for the strap of my blouse. My body and mind move like quicksand, unable to save myself. He whispers of freeing the demons that live within. He promises to put them in the girl in the painting and let them reside there instead, liberating me from the burdens of feeding their egos. He promises to paint me broken, so I can be whole again.

  His words are therapeutic when you’re mind plays tricks on you.

  After standing, he walks to the easel that seems to be waiting to be filled with my image. I don’t grant him the permiss
ion he seeks because I’m too tired. Twisting onto my side, I find comfort in holding myself, eyes closing, unaware if it’s been five minutes or five hours. I lose track of time…

  Of Dylan…

  Of myself.

  While he paints.

  “MR. SOMERS,” TRICIA calls quietly, peeking her head into the conference room.

  I look up, surprised by the interruption. She knows how important this early morning meeting is. Twelve men. Eight women. Eyes all on me as I smile, excuse myself, and hurry over. I shut the door quietly behind me, questioning her. “Tricia, you know I’m not to be disturbed. What is it?”

  “There’s a Mr. Paine on the phone. He says it’s an emergency. He tried your cell, but obviously you didn’t answer.”

  “I don’t know a Mr. Paine.”

  As my mind tumbles through names and faces, everyone I know, it finally registers—Brandon Paine? “Which line?”

  My heart starts pounding in my chest. There’s only one reason he would call me—Jules. Something’s wrong. I can feel it. It’s seven-fifteen in the morning. Not exactly time for a social call.

  She replies, “Line ten.”

  “Can I take it up here?”

  “Sure. Just press the red button and you’ll be connected.”

  I dash to a cubicle where someone else sits but hasn’t shown up to work yet. “Brandon?”

  “Dylan?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “She just called me. Jules just called me and she needs help.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Some building down in the Bronx.”

  “Call me on my cell in ten minutes. I’m heading out the door now. I’m in the financial district. It will take me a while to get there.” I don’t think I even hang the phone up. I think I just toss it and run.

  Tricia calls after me, “Dylan?”

  “Tell them I have an emergency,” I shout over my shoulder while running for the elevator.

  The adrenaline makes me want to run the whole way, down forty-six flights, but the elevator will be faster. I step inside and press the lobby button. The tranquil music is in polar opposite of how I feel.

  I run out and straight for the line of cabs dropping people off at the curb, people arriving for work. “The Bronx,” I demand.

  The cabbie looks at me in the mirror, eyebrows raised. “That’s gonna be a big fare from here.”

  “I don’t care. Just start the meter and drive.”

  “The Bronx is a big place.”

  “I’ll have an address in a few minutes. Drive, it’s an emergency.”

  “Okay,” he says, closing his mouth and pulling into traffic.

  I’m holding my phone, willing it to ring when it lights up. “Where am I going?” I ask.

  “Calm down, Dylan. I think she’s fine. I just texted you the address. I just need to have back-up—”

  “Why do you need back up?” Shifting, I’m anxious as shit to get to her and he now tells me he needs me as back up. “What the fuck? Give me her number, Brandon.”

  He rambles it off and I hang up after telling him I’ll call him back. I give the address to the driver in the meantime.

  It rings three times before Jules answers and when she finally does, my heart drops into the pit of my stomach. “Hello?” Her voice is weak. She sounds drowsy.

  “Jules? It’s me… Dylan.”

  “Dylan? Dylan…” She trails off as if falling asleep, then says, “Dylan, come get me.”

  “I’m coming. I’ll be there soon, baby. Just hang on. I’ll be there soon. Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m… fine. I just can’t seem to stay awake. I’m so… tired.”

  “I’m coming.” My voice cracks, my concern taking over. I’ve never heard her like this. Something’s wrong. “Can you stay on the phone with me?”

  Silence.

  “Jules, are you there?”

  Silence.

  “Jules?”

  “Fucking answer me, Jules!” I shout, but there’s no reply. If I listen carefully I can hear her breathing into the phone. Despite wanting to stay on, I hang up, and call Brandon. “Why does she sound like that?”

  “I don’t know. She wouldn’t say. Couldn’t might be more accurate.”

  I run my hand nervously through my hair. “What’s going on?”

  “I honestly don’t know.” He’s not hiding the edge to his tone. “I just got back to the city last night. She called me and sounded like what you heard. It’s that guy Jean-Luc’s place. I don’t know what I’m walking into.”

  “I appreciate you calling me. I should be there in a half hour. I’ll meet you out front. Wait for me.”

  Thirty minutes.

  Thirty minutes of torture.

  Jules. All I can think of is her. The worst scenarios playing out in my mind.

  As soon as I arrive, I swipe my credit card through the machine and jump out of the cab not waiting for a receipt. When I turn around, Brandon is running toward me from the corner, his cab pulling away from the curb.

  Brandon doesn’t say anything but walks past me and buzzes the landlord. When he speaks to him, it’s firm, words like ‘cops’ and other threats being tossed around.

  The door is buzzed open.

  Even though the building is in a crap location, I can tell these lofts are expensive once I enter. I still can’t let my guard down.

  Brandon takes the stairs two at a time and I follow. He says, “Third door. Apartment C.”

  When we reached Jean-Luc’s door, it’s cracked open. Brandon stalls, gripping the large steel handle. He looks at me and I’ve never seen him so serious. Pissed yes, but his expression stresses me even more. “Get her out of here as fast as you can.”

  I nod, but he already knows Jules is my only priority.

  As he slides the door the rest of the way open, we enter. It’s quiet except for music softly playing in the far corner.

  We’re greeted by something unexpected—a painting of her. Dark long hair, waves over her shoulders. Creamy skin. My eyes search for clues of authenticity. Her eyes are closed, so nothing to confirm my suspicions from them. Landing on the mole, it’s there, painted exactly where it is on her body.

  Fucker!

  He painted her nude. For his sake, she better have been a willing subject. We walk around it, one on either side of the large canvas and there she is asleep on the couch, phone lying by her cheek. A blanket covers her, her coat draped over the arm of the couch. I kneel down and whisper. “Jules? Wake up. Jules.”

  Her lids lift just slightly and a small smile appears. “Dylan,” she whispers, her voice is scratchy as she reaches for my cheek. “What took you so long?”

  “I was across the city. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t mean today.”

  Sighing, I reply, “I got lost, but I’m here now.” My lips land on her forehead and I take a second to compose myself, my heart jumping out of my chest and straight into hers.

  I hear shuffling behind me and turn to see Brandon looking at a bottle on the side table. “Sleeping pills.” He picks up an empty bottle, and adds, “Vodka.”

  Turning back to Jules, her sweet smile makes me want to kiss her, but I resist knowing this isn’t the time. “Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”

  “No. I’m not hurt. I’m tired and a little sick to my stomach.”

  “Did you take a sleeping pill?” She shakes her head, so I say, “Jean-Luc painted you. Is that why you’re here?”

  I watch as she looks down, noticing she’s only in her bra and panties. She sits up, the blanket covering her as she reaches for her clothes. Her voice starts to tremble as do her hands. “Dylan…” She looks into my eyes and I see she’s scared. “He didn’t hurt me, but… I was dressed.”

  “Where is he?” I ask.

  “I want to leave,” she says, her voice gathering strength. “Let’s just leave.”

  “Did he do anything to you?”

  “Dylan,” she snaps. “He
wouldn’t hurt me.” Her conviction wanes. “But I know he wanted to paint me. I remember him saying that before I fell asleep.”

  Brandon stops pacing, and says, “I’m gonna kill this guy.” His hands fisted, his face as tense as his arms.

  I feel the same but I focus on Jules. “We should call the police,” I say to him.

  “No!” Her hand goes out to stop me. “I remember him talking to me about putting my demons on the canvas or something like that. I might have told him he could. I can’t remember now.”

  Brandon stops and asks, “How much did you have to drink?”

  “I don’t know.” She puts her feet on the floor and says, “I want to get dressed.” She stands there waiting until we both turn around. Right when I turn my back on her, I feel her hand on my arm. “Dylan. Please don’t hate me.”

  Looking back, I say, “I could never hate you.” Wishing I could take away her pain and regret, I stroke her cheek. “I tried. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

  “I’ve tried too, but I couldn’t because I think I love you too much.”

  “There’s that too much again.” I lean back, looking directly into her eyes. I can tell the drug has worn off for the most part. “Get dressed. I want to get you out of here.”

  I take her coat and hold it out, shielding her to give some semblance of privacy.

  “Jules, get dressed before this asshole returns or I guarantee I will fucking crush his hands so he never paints again,” Brandon snarls from the front door.

  I would do more than crush his hands.

  Unsteady on her feet at first, she grabs a hold of my arm and slips her shirt and skirt on. I help her with her coat, then we walk to the door. “Get the painting, Brandon,” I say when we pass.

  She looks between us before turning around. A sharp intake of air is heard when she sees the canvas. “That’s me.” There’s disappointment to her tone as if she’s given up something she wanted to hold onto.

  I pull her out the door, not wanting to be here any longer. The elevator is large and industrial in nature, so the painting fits. Jules stares at it, intrigued, her fingertips sliding cautiously over the bumpy, dried paint. “It’s good. Accurate. He even caught the tears.”