The Wonder of You

by Harper Kincaid

  “Because on my way over here, I was freaking out that I didn’t have some hot fantasy to share and maybe I was in the wrong field.”

  “Seriously?”

  The look on his face was priceless and I bit my lip to try to stop laughing.

  “Uh yeah, but I’m thinking I was thinking too much,” I added. “Note for your files, I do that—a lot.”

  That made us both crack up.

  His gaze found mine, going all soft and lazy on me. It was beautiful.

  “I’m glad you’re all good, but every time you laugh, your pussy strangles my dick.”

  So much for sappy.

  “Oh, hush up,” I said as I gave a playful slap on his shoulder as he eased me down. “There are worse ways to suffer.”

  We got back inside and cleaned up. I wore his robe, which was a cotton weave that molded like a second skin to my body. All he had on was pajama pants, hung low on his hips, giving me full view of his magnificent, muscled torso. A woman could spend days exploring the planes and ridges of a body like that and never get enough.

  “Babe, if you keep looking at me like that, there’s going to be consequences,” he said as he laid back on the couch, legs open.

  This sounds interesting. “What kind of consequences?”

  He grinned. “The kind leading to you coming hard and me getting to watch.”

  I felt those words right between my legs.

  He patted his thigh. “Come here already.”

  “But my hair’s still damp.”

  He gave a look.

  I pretended to be exasperated. “Okay, fine,” I said, crawling over and lying on him, my back to his front.

  He started flipping through the movie channels. “What are you in the mood to watch?” he asked.

  “Something light,” I said. “If you can stand it, maybe a rom-com?”

  I looked up to find him with a huge smile on his face.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing, baby,” he said, giving me a squeeze. “As you wish.”

  I let out a soft laugh. “A gorgeous, talented manly man who quotes Princess Bride and doesn’t mind watching sappy rom-coms with his woman? Who are you, Dare Grangeworth?”

  “That’s simple. I’m yours,” he said, kissing the top of my head.

  He stopped flipping through the channels. “This one’s a classic. Ever seen The Goodbye Girl?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Well then, Dixie, you’re in for a treat.”

  “The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. ‘Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?’ he asked. ‘Begin at the beginning,’ the King said gravely, ‘and go on till you come to the end: then stop.”

  ―Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  Dare

  “If I live through this, remind me to never, under any circumstances, do

  this again. Got it?”

  Ingrid’s head jerked. “Are you sniffing glue? You’re going to be

  hanging in the Guggenheim, while you’re still alive. And it’s a solo show. Artists are lotto-lucky if they score even one of these and you’re already bitching about not doing another one?”

  Leave it to Ingrid to always give me perspective.

  “Where’s Alice?” she asked.

  “She’s at school for the day,” I told her, thumbing through some of my old photographs. “But she’ll be back tonight and will stay through the weekend.”

  “Good. I like her,” she said. “Don’t fuck it up.”

  “Nice,” I said, listening but not listening. Something was gnawing at me.

  “What?” she asked, arms crossed.

  I eyed her before looking back at the work I had already done.

  No way was this good enough.

  “You and I know the only reason why I got the Guggenheim show . . .” I trailed off. I couldn’t even say it out loud.

  “Finish what you were going to say,” she said, searching my face.

  “It’s certainly not because I’m at that level of talent,” I said.

  She frowned. “That’s bullshit,” she said, then something behind her eyes shifted. “You think the only reason you got the show is because of Chloe’s death.”

  “Well, of course I think that. Because it’s true.”

  “It’s not true,” she insisted. “You’ve sold out every show you’ve had since coming back to New York. Your mixed-medium work has been heralded as the bridge between photorealism and postmodern art. No one does what you do.”

  I gave a quick nod. She came over to where I was standing, feet wide and arms crossed in front of me. Her small hand rested on my forearm.

  “What happened with Chloe does not define you as an artist,” she said.

  “I know that.”

  Ingrid peered at me. “Do you?”

  Just then, someone hit the front door buzzer.

  “I’ll get it,” Ingrid said, taking the stairs because it was faster.

  It wasn’t too long before I heard her voice over the studio intercom.

  “Um, Dare? You need to come down. Right away.”

  She sounded worried. And now I was worried because nothing rattled Ingrid.

  I slid down the stair rails and barreled through the double doors, leading to the main studio floor. She was at her desk, with a newspaper opened on top.

  “What is it?” I asked, coming up next to her.

  “A friend of mine saw this and dropped it off just now,” she said, turning the pages to the front.

  It was this morning’s edition of the New York Daily Post.

  And there was a picture of my bare ass, dick deep in Alice, in the

  elevator last night. The headline read “Art World’s Bad Boy on a Wild Ride with Mystery Woman.”

  “Shit,” I said, pulling at the end of my beard. “When I find those two dipshits, I’m going to shove their camera phones so far up their asses . . .”

  “At least you have a nice ass,” she said, chuckling to herself.

  I gave her a look.

  “What? Hey, just because I’m not looking to tap that, doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate its aesthetic value.”

  I grimaced, scanning the article.

  “I’ll save you the trouble,” she said. “The article mentions Chloe, saying how ‘the people of New York’ wondered if you were going to ever move on.”

  “Thank Christ Alice was still dressed,” I said.

  “Speak for yourself, I was hoping for a peek at those luscious breasts of hers.”

  I blew out a frustrated breath while folding the newspaper and tucking it under my arm. “My girl is not into attention, especially this kind.”

  She shrugged. “Text her. Better coming from you first, right?”

  I looked at the time. She would be in class until late afternoon.

  “I have so much to do for the show,” I said more to myself than to Ingrid.

  “Listen, you go and I’ll sort through all your work. You have a lot here, Dare, more than you realize. The show’s supposed to be a mid-career retrospective, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay then,” she said as she started to move pieces to different areas of the room. “By the time you get back, you can decide what goes in the show.”

  “That’ll work . . . I owe you, Ingrid,” I said.

  Something passed over her. “Dare, you found me ankle deep in a dumpster, weighing eighty-five pounds, looking for any scraps of food and art supplies I could find. It took three treatments to get all the lice out of my hair and too many doctor visits to count, to heal the rest of my body. You never once made a pass at me or made me feel I owed you for anything you gave.

  “But more than that, in a world that was more than willing to throw me out, like I was garbage, you loved me unconditionally, giving me living proof there is a God, that He loves me and is looking out for me. If I lived a thousand lifetimes, you wouldn’t owe me a damn thing, Dare DeMarco Grangeworth.

  “Now, get out of here
so I can work-and find your woman and make everything okay for her like you did with me.”

  “If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does.”

  ―Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

  Alice

  “Who’s going to tell her?”

  “Her advisor should do it, not another student.”

  “If it were me, I would die of embarrassment.”

  “Why? She’s done nothing wrong. She’s expressing her sexuality without worrying about the male gaze.”

  “True, but who’s going to take her seriously in academia after that?”

  Those were just some of the whisperings I heard as I was walking in between classes. Frankly, I was dying to ask who they were talking about, but I didn’t know any of them well enough. Besides, as soon as they saw me, they shut their traps and dispersed like waterbugs getting caught with the lights on.

  If I was the paranoid type, I’d be worried.

  “Not my circus, not my monkeys,” I muttered under my breath, on my way to my last lecture of the day-a three-hour seminar on gender and sexuality.

  But what I was really thinking about was my elevator ‘ride’. I know that, for

  many, doing it in an elevator was no big thing, but for me it was. A younger me would have thought my more experimental, bolder approach was because of Dare. It certainly helped to have an open partner, instead of someone, like Chad, who had the same three moves and felt threatened at the mere suggestion of anything else.

  But that elevator ride was my idea, a fantasy I didn’t even know I had until the opportunity presented itself. Maybe someday, I’d want hot wax poured all over my breasts or feel a need to dress up like baby doll and beg daddy to spank me. Didn’t feel like either would ever be my thing, but who knows?

  Man plans and God laughs.

  What I did know was that I’d been so afraid of my own sexuality that I had never given myself permission to let my body and mind dream in its own language. How could they? I’d been too busy looking over my shoulder, trying to rise above the whisperings about my mama. When someone you love has a bad reputation, especially in a small town, everyone thinks that’s your story, too. I couldn’t begin to count how many guys thought they were entitled to a piece of me, how many I had to fight off.

  They may not have had me in the biblical sense, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t get their pound of flesh by stealing a piece of my soul.

  Well, as of now, I was taking them all back.

  Rihanna sang in my head: baby, this is what you came for.

  So true, Ri-Ri, so true.

  I was just about to walk into my seminar when my advisor’s assistant, Jennifer, snagged my arm. She was usually bouncy and all smiles, like a new puppy, but not today.

  “What’s wrong? You look like you just found out Chevy stopped making trucks or something.”

  She didn’t laugh, and Jen always laughed at my Southern funnies.

  “Alice, the professor needs to speak with you, right away,” she said, wringing her hands.

  “But I have a class ‘bout now,” I said, pointing my thumb towards the faculty lounge where my seminar met. “Can’t it wait?”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. She wants to see you right away,” she said, eyeing the people in the lounge. “I’ll have a word with Professor Tisdale and let her know why you’re missing today.”

  I stared, dumbfounded.

  “Go on. She’s waiting for you in her office.”

  I nodded and started walking, trying to imagine what could possibly have happened. I took my phone out of my pocket, turning it back on, so I could call my sister. I needed to make sure she was okay, because that’s the only reason I could imagine I’d be summoned like this.

  As soon as I got a signal, I saw a bunch of texts from Dare, telling me he was on his way to campus and that he needed to talk right away.

  Okay, now I thought I might throw up. If anything happened to her . . . no, I couldn’t even conceive of a world without my sister. She was my family, my best friend, my mentor, and frankly, a second mama.

  I ignored his texts and called Caroline. She picked up on the second ring.

  “What’s up, buttercup?” she said, all cheery and bright.

  I couldn’t breathe. I leaned my weight against one of the building, crouching down, trying to calm myself.

  “Alice? Alice!” She was freaking out now. “Talk to me, honey. What’s wrong?”

  I was still panting. “I’m fine,” I eked out. “I thought . . . something had happened to you.”

  “To me? No, sister. I’m right as rain. Why would you think such a thing?”

  I coughed into my hand. “Because I’ve been summoned to my advisor’s office and Dare’s been texting, saying he needs to talk to me right away . . . I thought they were prepping me for bad news.”

  I heard her breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m sure one has nothing to do with the other.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I said, feeling better already. “Had to check though.”

  “Aren’t you the one always telling me that professors are the most obtuse, entitled creatures on the planet?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “I betcha she’s just impatient and thinks you should stop everything when she calls. She probably needs some help and expects you on it, right quick.”

  “Yeah, okay. I better get over there then. I’ll talk to you later.”

  We said our goodbyes and I headed to my advisor’s office.

  I barely had to knock before she called me in.

  My advisor was one of those professors who insisted you call her by her first name. Of course, being a Southerner, using the Christian name of an authority figure felt as wrong as wearing a mini skirt to church.

  “Hi Alice, come in, come in,” she said, gesturing towards the chair in front of her desk. “Thank you for coming so quickly. Oh, and would you shut the door?”

  “Sure, Ms. Joan,” I said, doing what she asked and taking a seat.

  She smiled. “You’re the only student I’ve ever had who called me ‘Ms.’ Joan.”

  I shrugged. “If I didn’t show some kind of deference, the ghosts of all my ancestors would roll over in their graves, but not before they popped in and slap me on the side of my head, for showing such disrespect,” I teased.

  She gave a half-hearted laugh.

  Okay, I’m guessing the idle chit-chat portion of our scheduled program is done. Now onto business.

  “I’ve called you in today, to discuss a delicate matter,” she said, leaning back in her leather chair. “And it’s delicate because, well frankly, we’ve never had to address a matter like this before, at least not with a student.”

  I was utterly confused, but I was hoping to catch her gist soon.

  “There is some precedence,” she continued. “We have one professor who made a series of pornographic films back in the seventies under a pseudonym. We have another who writes erotica, again under a pseudonym. But your case is quite different.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Her mouth gaped, but she recovered fast enough. She adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “Well then . . .” She opened one of her drawers and took out a folded newspaper. She handed it to me.

  I felt my forehead wrinkle.

  “Go on,” she said. “Read it.”

  I unfolded the paper, only to find myself on the cover.

  With Dare and his bare ass.

  In the elevator.

  Fucking.

  With my ‘O’ face, mouth wide, mid-orgasm.

  The headline read: Art World’s Bad Boy on a Wild Ride with Mystery Woman.

  My ears started ringing.

  My hands started to shake.

  “I-I-I . . . how did this happen?” I asked, but not really asking.

  Then, I remembered, the flash of white I felt behind my eyelids.

  I thought it had been my
body’s release, but it was the camera flash, from those two guys waiting for the elevator.

  I glanced up to find her looking quite uncomfortable.

  Oh shit. Please don’t let this be for the reason I think it is.

  “Are you kicking me out of school?”

  She grimaced. “There will be a hearing in two weeks. A decision will be made then.”

  My stomach lurched and tears welled in my eyes.

  “This was printed without my knowledge nor my consent,” I said.

  She gave a sweet smile. “I assumed. That will count for something.

  Ms. Joan walked over to the mini fridge she kept in her office, taking out a bottle of water and handing it to me.

  “Thanks,” I scratched out.

  She placed her hand on my shoulder. “Jennifer will email you all the information about the hearing. You are allowed one faculty member to speak on your behalf. I would be honored if you chose me.”

  I grabbed a tissue off her desk and nodded. “Yes, thank you. Of course.”

  I blew my nose.

  “I’ll give you some privacy.”

  She walked out of her office and closed the door behind her.

  And that’s when I let out the real, ugly cry.

  My whole body shook. I went through one tissue, then three, then five.

  Everything I had worked for was going to wash away.

  I tried to stop crying, but the sobs kept coming, as if this bad news had uncorked some secret well of tears I had inside. I was drowning in self-pity.

  If you hadn’t been with someone famous, you would’ve never ended up on the cover of some rag.

  I knew it wasn’t Dare’s fault. My guess was that he was livid and trying to get to me to make sure I was okay. But I wasn’t okay. Not even close.

  Below the picture, there was an article, but since they had no idea who I was, they used their column inches to discuss Chloe and the footsteps I was walking in.

  His former dancer-turned-photographer girlfriend of three years, the daughter of a prominent New York family. There were rumors she suffered from a variety of mental health issues. Dare was commended for standing by her, even after two psychiatric stays.

  In fact, everyone thought she had been through the worst of it. She seemed happy, making plans to teach dance to little girls in a studio on the Upper East Side.