I didn’t know why that offended me, other than if I were submissive, I could never be what Sera admittedly needed. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying, stop putting yourself in a box. Explore who you are now. That person is very different from the one you were five years ago. Allow yourself to redefine your persona. You may find some release in the exposure, or in the relinquishment of power, the exchange. A good Dom can recreate who you are by eliminating the cracks that keep you from achieving your best self.”
Sera tucked her hair behind her ear and crossed her legs to the side of the table. “You think this is all about something physical. It’s not; it’s so much bigger than that. The kink is just an added bonus, but I know lots of people in the lifestyle that have very vanilla sexual relationships. The essence is in the roles, the respect given to each partner. Each one responsible for the other in a way not seen in relationships anymore.”
“How can someone be responsible for you when they don't acknowledge they’re in a relationship with you, Sera?”
She held my stare as she took a sip of her coffee and then set down her mug. “It works for us. I made a choice. I knew what I would face when I got involved. He was clear from the beginning that we’d never be seen in public, we’d never date, we’d never have a traditional relationship. It would never extend beyond scening.”
“Yet you allow him control over your life? You ask him for permission to do…whatever you want to do?”
“Yes. I need that level of structure in my day-to-day routine. If I ever wanted to date outside of the dynamic, I could walk away at any time. My guess is he would allow me to have a vanilla relationship and keep him as my Dom, but that’s not a subject we’ve ever broached.”
Dropping my head into my hands, I sighed heavily.
Sera stood, walked to the sink, and set down her mug before she turned back to me. “It’s late. I need to get going.” A soft smile lifted her supple lips, and it almost made me forget everything she’d just told me. “I’m really proud of you, Bastian. The exhibit was extraordinary. Please let me know when you hear from Tara.” She squeezed my bicep and then patted my arm. “I bet you guys knocked it out of the park tonight.”
I followed her to the front door, opened it, and gathered her in a hug. “I just want to keep you safe, Sera. I’ll try to mellow out. Thank you for coming to the opening tonight.”
“Always.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Bye, Bastian.”
I wasn’t sure which feeling was worse: knowing she was enduring pain or finding out she wasn’t available. I’d never considered that she might be in a relationship, largely because she was around all the time with no mention of a significant other. Knowing now that each time she had met me, she had to have permission was unsettling. Someone else knew about every moment we’d been together and “allowed” her to experience it.
Anger took hold as I digested what Sera had shared. I didn’t know jack about her “lifestyle,” but I doubted it was a license to beat people at will, and what little I had been able to ascertain from the visual remnants of her “relationship” was not a sexual act gone awry. And that was the only proof I’d actually seen, not what she admitted she kept hidden with clothes. The day I’d picked her up, her face looked like someone had beaten her with a board; the mark was solid, about four inches wide from the top of her cheekbone to her jawline. She took one hard whack, and I’d never be convinced it was anything other than intentional. An accident wouldn’t have been that clean, that clearly defined.
I dragged out my laptop, determined to learn as much as I could about Sera. I Googled “BDSM” and received sixty-nine million results. Ironically, “monogamous” only yielded a little over one million. With no clue what made a sex site reputable, I clicked on the first result and read every word on the page. In no time, I was consumed—or maybe it was just morbid curiosity—wondering how people got the courage to join this underground society. The more I ingested, the deeper my thoughts went. The first two sites were more about kink; it wasn’t until I reached the third listing that I believed I’d found an authentic—maybe reputable—one.
Beyond the mentions of sex, it delved into the partner and group dynamic. The ultimate responsibility and care they gave each other, at least when done properly. If people in this community lived to this letter of the “law,” their relationships would be full-time jobs.
Maybe if I had known about something like this or been a part of it, someone could have saved me from the last five years of hell. If I had been willing to submit, maybe they could have pulled me out of my depression. Maybe, if someone else had been calling the shots, I wouldn’t be trying to make a comeback, and I would’ve never left the land of the living.
I wasn’t sure what kind of man it made me that my initial reaction would be to lean toward submission. Obviously, Sera needed a more dominant male, one to lead her, take charge. My relationship with Sylvie was never like that. We were equals, partners in every way. Her strengths were my weaknesses and vice versa. Perfect complements.
When Sera and I were together, I felt that same complement. It was easy to be with her, but now I wondered if that were because she didn’t see me as a possibility. With no interest in a traditional relationship, I clearly didn’t exude the male authority she craved. I’d never even be on her radar.
I’d spent hours researching and was no closer to understanding anything other than Sera wasn’t in the type of relationship she believed she was—not based on anything I’d found. I hadn’t located a single source that indicated “accidents happened,” yet they all said safe, sane, and consensual. Sera appeared to be missing the first part of that mantra. No matter what I read, I couldn’t find a single example of a mistake in a scene or play that caused someone unintentional harm. There were too many safeties in place, too many outs for those in the game, too many ways to avoid things like that happening. And if she didn’t call a timeout, it was his responsibility as the Dom to do it himself, to stop the scene.
My head spun, and my eyes crossed with fatigue. I forced myself to put away the computer and go to bed. No sooner had my eyes shut than my phone rang. Over and over. I cracked an eye to see the sun had risen, and whoever was calling had no intention of giving up until I answered.
“Someone better be dying, Nathan.”
“What the fuck do you think using my full name is going to do, Bastian? You’re not my mother. Wake the fuck up. Tara’s been trying to call you.”
“You’re blowing up my phone at God knows what time of the morning to tell me Tara’s trying to reach me? Unless she’s leaving her husband and wants to suck my dick, she can wait just like you can.”
“Dude, it’s almost eleven in the morning. Quit being a cock sucker and call her back. I’ll be over in a few.”
“Nate, do not fucking come over here—” I pulled my phone away from my face when I heard nothing but dead air on the other end.
Groaning, I rolled over, fully intending to go back to sleep, but my damn phone rang again, and silencing it wasn’t going to make Nate go away. I didn’t even part my lids when I barked into the phone after answering the call. “What?”
“Bastian?” Her sweet voice seemed taken aback by my harsh tone.
“Sorry, Tara.” I scrubbed my hand over my face. “I thought it was Nate calling again.”
“Oh, that’s probably my fault, too.” Her remorsefulness was evident. “I was just so excited to talk to you. I thought Nate might know where you were. Were you asleep?” She seemed confused by the possibility that I wasn’t up at dawn with the rest of the world.
“Yeah, I don’t keep normal hours.”
“Ahh. Well, hopefully, my good news will make the disruption worthwhile.” Too chipper, too fucking chipper.
I rolled onto my back with my arm splayed across the bed and waited. “Lay it on me.”
“Well, you already know the opening was a sellout. But what you—”
“Wait. What?” I sat up straight,
eyes opened. “All of my pieces sold? How’s that possible?”
“Yes, surely, you knew that.” Tara acted as though that weren’t significant, that it was a given, but in my world, nothing was expected except more darkness. Tara, however, was almost giddy, and it was something I’d never seen or heard from her. “Bastian, last night was the single most profitable night in The West End Gallery’s history.” She waited, drawing out the suspense, allowing that to seep in, and her anticipation did exactly what she’d hoped—my heart raced with excitement.
I tried several times to form a rational thought, but in the end, I kept coming back to the same thing—the only thought that managed to escape my mouth. “That’s not possible, Tara. You need to check your math.”
“I have. Repeatedly. And I’ve confirmed with the bank the transfers have been completed on the largest sums, for which we require cash. Bastian, last night was huge. It was bigger than any of us could have dreamed it could be…for all of us.”
“Tara, not counting KD, I had twelve pieces there, and I’m vaguely aware of their price. There’s no way you made any great sum of money on them even if you sold them all.” Not to say it wouldn’t be a tidy chunk of change for me, but for Tara, it was pennies.
“Bastian,” her voice went soft the way a mother’s did when they tried to encourage their child, “they all went to bid.” She paused for a minute. “People fought over them…including your parents.”
I had to wonder if Tara had been hitting the sauce or fallen prey to a roofie in her drink that still had her intoxicated. “My parents weren’t there.”
“Yes, they were.” She was incredulous, but I would have seen them at some point. “All night. Did you not speak to them?”
I appreciated what Tara tried to do last night, but this was taking it too far. I hadn’t spoken to my parents in ages, and even though I knew they were invited to the gallery, they hadn’t made an appearance. “No, I didn’t speak to them because they weren’t there. They didn’t show, Tara.”
“Well, your dad’s bank account says differently.”
I couldn’t imagine they would’ve purchased anything. They’d never liked nudes, and while most of my work showcased last night didn’t expose body parts, it certainly alluded to them, and the colors would’ve been too vibrant for their taste. “What piece did they buy?”
“Kaleidoscope Dark.”
“Shut the fuck up!” The profanity escaped my lips before I realized what I was saying and who I said it to. “Sorry, Tara. Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain.” That piece was so unlike anything I’d ever done, and I couldn’t imagine my parents hanging it in their house, not to mention the cost before it went to bid. “Really? My parents bought it?” They had money, plenty of money, and they’d always been avid supporters of the arts. But this was huge. I imagined the piece went for over six figures just because of the size and having Ferry’s name on it.
“Your dad called this morning to ensure the funds had transferred, and once I had confirmed, he scheduled delivery to his house.” Tara didn’t say anything for a minute, but the silence wasn’t haunting, just peaceful. “Bastian, I have something else to tell you. I hope this isn’t out of line, and if it is, I’m sorry.” She sighed, and I wondered what could possibly bring down her ecstatic mood. “I promised Nate I’d never tell you what he paid for The Seraphim, but now that things aren’t quite as bleak for you financially, I thought maybe I should tell you.”
I didn’t let her finish that thought. “Don’t break your word to Nate, Tara. Whatever he paid, send him a check from my earnings.”
“You realize you’ll know how much he spent when you see the check stub, right?” She snorted at my stupidity, and I couldn’t help my grin. Never would anyone believe Tara had just made a pig noise in my ear.
“Yes, I do, but semantics go a long way. Your word stays intact; Nate gets repaid. And I promise, my math skills suck, so I won’t bother figuring out the difference.” I hoped she heard the teasing in my voice.
“Deal. So, do you want to know?”
“Know what?”
“Bastian, seriously? Do you want to know how much money you made last night?”
I shrugged, although Tara couldn’t see me. “Nah, you can just send me a check. I’ll be surprised when I get it.”
“You’re the only artist I’ve ever known who has never cared what you made at an exhibit. How do you do that?”
“I don’t paint because I love the dollar. I paint because I love the art. Talk to you soon, Tara.”
9
Chapter Nine
I hated to admit that every free moment I wasn’t in the studio or working with Ferry, I submerged myself in researching—websites, a new book—anything I could get my hands on. At this point, I could write a novel on the subject matter. What I hadn’t figured out was how to implement it in my own life. I wanted to be what Sera needed—God, I was desperate to fulfill that role for her, to keep her safe. But the truth was, I wasn’t an assertive person by nature, and any attempt at alpha would be forced despite how much I wanted to believe that demeanor was just below the surface of my personality.
I used to wonder why women tried to change who they were to catch a man. I’d loved Sylvie as she was, perfect in all her imperfections, and she loved me the same. We had just fit, complemented each other—effortlessly. I was desperate for that connection with Sera. So much so that I found myself staring at her, reminiscing about Sylvie but with Sera inserted into my dead wife’s place. That wasn’t something I shared with anyone else, and I regularly questioned my motives where Sera was concerned. Whether it was her or the idea of recreating Sylvie, I’d yet to figure out that truth.
The more time I spent with her, the more I loved about her and her nuances, but it was the traits most like Sylvie that I adored most. Those things that took me back to my wife were what I coveted. I would die for Sera in an attempt to never lose Sylvie again. It was those emotions, that dilemma that now fueled my art, sorting through that moral quandary. The more I painted, the more I developed and the richer the compositions became. Even if Sera weren’t good for my heart, she’d recharged my creativity and stepped in as my muse.
I moved back from the canvas when a knock interrupted my thoughts. As I made my way to the door, I glanced at the clock, realizing it wasn’t Nate. Before I reached for the knob, I wiped my paint-covered hands on my shirt.
“Hey, Ferry.” I hadn’t been expecting him, but I certainly couldn’t complain that one of the most notorious photographers of my time had taken up a friendship with me. “What’s up?”
He pushed by me and into the house. “I left the studio early and wanted to show you some shots I’ve been working on. I have a thought I want to run by you.”
“Yeah, sure.”
The heavy thud of the wooden door was as ominous as Ferry’s presence in my home. He’d already begun to pull images from his portfolio and had them spread out over the couch and coffee table—gorgeous cityscapes. All black and white. Melancholy.
“I’ve been playing with filters”—he glanced over at me with a strained expression—“not my thing as you know.” Ferry pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, and I waited for him to continue. “I’ve been in my studio for two days.” He rubbed at his temples, and three lines wrinkled his forehead as he appeared to struggle with his admission. “Nothing I do makes me want to put these out. Nothing appeals to me. I recognize their value, but every image is missing…something.” He makes eye contact with me and holds it for a just a second before I raised my brows as if to ask for his proposal. “So, I had a thought…” Ferry let out a sigh that could have carried the weight of the world on its shoulders. “What do you think about adding paint?”
“How so?”
He shuffled them around, looking for one in particular. “Color. Pieces of them would become three-dimensional.”
I chuckled but not really in humor. “You want me to paint color into a black-and-white photogra
ph? How long have you been awake?”
He was on the cusp of an artistic breakthrough—or breakdown. Probably the latter. Every artist reached a point of desperation—regardless of their medium—where nothing worked, and the harder they tried, the worse it got. The block started as a pebble in the creative road, but after a couple of days, it turned into a rock, and then a boulder, and before long, it was so heavy and big that it was unmovable. The weight sat on an artist’s inspiration until it crushed any hope of life or vitality. It suffocated. It killed.
“Just spots. Pieces that call to you. Acrylics, oils, use the knife, the brush, give it depth.”
I pushed aside a couple of the photographs and took a seat on the couch to look more closely. It wasn’t as metropolitan as the others, but nothing about it moved me. One by one, I sorted through them. “Were you in New York recently?”
“Yeah, last week for two days. I was there to shoot a big wedding but shot the city as well. I spent a good bit of time in Central Park. I went old school and shot with film. At the time, they worked. When I got back and developed them, they mimicked every other cliché and trite picture of the city every other photographer has ever taken.” He ran a heavy hand through his hair, pulling at the roots. “They could have been taken with a disposable camera by a child—they’re just blah.” Admittedly, he was right.
“Have you tried playing with the exposure?”
He cut his eyes at me.
I held up my hands; I was just brainstorming. “Okay. Stupid question.” My mind reeled through possibilities as I searched the prints, pushing them around to change the angle. “Distortion.”
“Huh?”
I pulled two from the pile. “Distortion. Can you scan these into an imaging software and distort the image, like a fisheye kind of thing? Or pinhole. Pinhole could work. Change the perspective, then add the color. No clue how it will turn out, but if you could alter the way it appears the image was taken, the angle, deforming it, we could add the color as highlights. What do you think? Even better—double exposure.” The more I talked, the better the ideas flowed. “Superimpose.” I held up the two images, one of a bridge in Central Park, the other of a piece of the city from the ground. Both were taken lying down with the camera angled up, the bridge was disproportionate to the things around it, the street the same in the other. “Lay the bridge on the city.”
Reality's Illusion Page 10