I couldn’t bear the thought of her hiding more than I was already aware of. I shouldn’t do it—I knew I shouldn’t—but a few minutes after she’d left, I rode by her house to make sure she’d made it safely. I didn’t stop or try to see into the windows. The confirmation that her car was in the driveway was all I needed. What I hadn’t needed was to see the shadow of another car in front of hers. Without stopping, I was unable to make out much at all about the vehicle. Darkness veiled the front of her house, and the best I could tell, it might have been a mini-van or SUV. I banged my hand on the steering wheel. Knowing Sera didn’t have roommates, I had to assume he was there.
I pulled over a couple blocks down the street to regain my composure and keep myself from doing something stupid. Going back to her house would be an invasion of privacy; I had no reason to be there and wasn’t invited. Quite the opposite—she made a point never to have me inside. If he were hurting her, and if I found out later that I had been here and done nothing, I would never forgive myself. My hands were tied unless I were willing to admit I’d followed her home. Which I wasn’t. Instead, I did the only thing I could.
Me: Let me know when you make it home.
Sera: I’m home. Everything okay?
Me: Yes, I was just worried about your driving with that arm all banged up.
Sera: I’m good.
It was the best I could hope for. I’d given her the opportunity to tell me if something was wrong, not that I had any real belief that she would.
For whatever reason, there was a part of Sera’s life that she didn’t want to share. And as much as I’d like to respect that, unfortunately, she’s shared just enough that I couldn’t allow her to shut me out.
The next morning, I drove by Sera’s house before going to Stone Ground—the car was missing, and Sera’s car had replaced it. That, unfortunately, didn’t mean much other than the person wasn’t still there, but maybe they’d left five minutes before I drove up. I had no idea what I had hoped to accomplish since it didn’t settle my anxiety or ease my nerves.
Zane greeted me at the door, quickly noticing I wasn’t ready to work out, but I didn’t give him the chance to say anything about it.
“Can we talk?”
“Of course.”
I followed him to his office, and Zane shut the door behind us. It afforded us some privacy, though I didn’t see the point since there was never anyone else here this early in the morning.
My hand landed in my hair as I ran my fingers through it, desperately wanting to pull at the roots; instead, I just let it out. There was no point in holding back or mincing words. “I want out. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
Zane took a seat and motioned for me to do the same. His demeanor didn’t change or even falter. He remained as composed as always. “Okay. Can you tell me why?”
I sat back in the chair and released a heavy sigh. “I understand what you’re trying to accomplish—teaching me structure and discipline, and meeting needs isn’t always about me, and neither is being courteous and respectful. But it’s killing my creativity. As an artist, I roam freely. I work for days straight when the urge hits, not eating, barely moving from a canvas to take a piss. Stopping to go run for an hour in the morning kills that streak, or ensuring my phone is at my side is a drain on me emotionally that sucks the life out of me. I wanted to regain confidence, but that isn’t happening.”
Zane folded his hands in his lap and held my eyes as he spoke. “Funny, I see quite the opposite. You’re more poised. You clearly articulate what you want, how things are not working for you. You’ve never lost eye contact with me. You knew I was going to be disappointed, but you confronted it head-on with a conviction that you needed to do something different. It’s exactly what I wanted from you and where I wanted you to go. The structure and discipline don’t have to be in your daily routine, it just needs to be who you are. If your discipline is painting, you need to be devoted to it. If your routine doesn’t include sleep, so be it. What I wanted was for you to be strong enough to come to me and tell me, to express your needs, and to plant your feet firmly and draw a line in the sand. I’m very proud of how far you’ve come in a relatively short period.
I sat there staring at Zane like I’d just missed something. Everything he’d said was true even though I hadn’t seen it that way.
“I’d like for you to take some time to think about where you’d like to go next, Bastian. Quitting isn’t the answer. You just started. This is a process and one that doesn’t come easily. Reevaluating your needs and expectations regularly is critical to becoming who you want to be in anything you do.”
Zane stood and came around his desk, and I mirrored him like a puppet.
“Come back on Monday to talk. We’ll work out a plan from there. The great thing about BDSM is the constant negotiation and renegotiation, Bastian. You’re never stuck where you are unless you stop communicating.”
Just like that, Zane was done—we were done.
I didn’t fire him.
The son of a bitch congratulated me and patted me on the back before sending me out the door. And when the latch clicked behind me, I was left wondering what the fuck had just happened. I was dizzy from how fast that had spun in a different direction than I’d intended to take it. I drove all the way home before I finally cleared my head enough to wrap my mind around what he’d said and what I’d accomplished.
“Bastian!”
I continued walking up the sidewalk as I glanced over my shoulder at Ferry, practically running up the street.
“Bastian. Hold up.”
I stopped long enough to allow him to catch up. “What’s up, man?”
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling you all morning.”
“I had some errands to run. I must have left my phone at home.”
“Figures. The one day something worthwhile comes up, you leave your phone at home.” Hunched over with his hands on his knees, he attempted to catch his breath.
“Did you run here from your studio?”
“Yeah. Like I said, I need to talk to you.”
“You need to quit smoking. Jesus. It’s only like six blocks, and you’re about to have a heart attack.”
“Save the lecture.” Standing, he reminded me he was a fairly intimidating guy. “Le Musée wants to feature us.”
“In Manhattan? That Le Musée?”
“That would be the one.”
“Fuck, that’s fabulous. When?”
Ferry ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “Next week.” His eyes looked a bit crazed, but I had to believe that it was from the excitement of the offer. “Please tell me you can pull this rabbit out of your hat, Bastian. This is huge. Le Musée is booked for years. They called my studio this morning to request us as a duo. Some Italian artist backed out with health issues, and they chose us. They called us, Bastian. Are you getting what I’m saying?”
This was huge. The break beyond all breaks. They were the international mecca in the United States. Le Musée made Tara look like a hillbilly, although I meant no disrespect because she was high society, but this was elite.
“Of course, I get it. What did you tell them? Who called, anyway?”
“Aaron Dubois, the son of the owner and curator. I told them I needed to talk to you and would call them back shortly. That was two hours ago. Damn, Bastian, where the fuck were you?”
I ignored the interrogation. It didn’t matter where I was. “How many pieces do they want?”
“At least four from each of us and two collaborative works, but up to ten each, depending on their size, and four collaborative works. If we can swing it, we’ll need to give them dimensions and rough shots so they can determine the layout before our arrival. There’s no time to ship anything. We’ll have to drive them there and be there two days before opening. The exhibit is for three days. We’re expected to make appearances two of the three—Friday and Saturday night.”
“Damn, that’s a lot of work for three day
s.”
“Bastian, pull your head out of your ass. This is Le Musée!”
I moved to my front door instead of continuing to stand outside where the neighbors could hear everything we said. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”
I unlocked the deadbolt and let us both inside. My living room was evidence that pulling off an exhibit would not be an issue. I’d been painting more in the last few months than I’d ever painted before—quality pieces I was proud of.
Ferry stepped over canvases on the floor. “Damn, when’s the last time you cleaned this place?”
I looked around. “Last night, why?” Cleaning might not have been an accurate assessment of what I’d done. “Okay, I moved stuff into a pile to make room for easels.” I pushed the crap out of the way. “Don’t give me any shit, Ferry. I live alone, and painting’s all I’ve got.” I found a path to the couch and dropped down onto it.
Ferry stood in front of me, looming over me. “Are you going to give me an answer?”
“About what?”
“Le Musée!”
“Jesus, Ferry. There’s no question to answer. Of course we’ll make it work. You still have the paintings I did for you a couple weeks ago, right?”
“Yeah, I would’ve told you if I’d sold them.”
“That takes care of the collaborative. Are you good on pieces? I just need to decide which ones I want to take, but I have plenty to choose from in various sizes.” I motioned around the living room, and there were more in my studio.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
Ferry didn’t hang around once he’d gotten the answer he wanted, but he stopped at the threshold, standing in the frame. “So we need to leave Tuesday morning. Get there that night and go to the gallery on Wednesday morning. Set-up Wednesday and Thursday, elite opening Friday, public Saturday and Sunday. Come home on Monday. I’ve got a place lined up for us to stay, so we don’t have to worry about hotels.”
“Sounds good. We can figure out the details later. Call Aaron back and let him know we’ll be there, and get an email address for rough shots and dimensions.”
With a huge smile on his face, Ferry slapped the doorframe. “This is amazing, Bastian.” Clearly, he was intoxicated by the whole ordeal. It was amazing, and quite frankly, I wasn’t quite sure the enormity of it had really sunk in for me.
Having remembered where I’d just come from, I texted Zane to let him know about next week’s trip and try to get out of the meeting on Monday morning. His congratulations meant more than they should, but he also didn’t let me out of the strategy session on Monday morning. To say he wasn’t happy when I told him that it simply wasn’t a possibility would be an understatement, but if I had to leave Tuesday, that basically gave me two and a half days to get ready. It was less than the blink of an eye—nowhere near enough time to prepare for this magnitude of an exhibit. The one saving grace was that no extra time meant there weren’t even seconds to debate or obsess over tiny details. Decisions had to be made quickly. Boxing paintings for transport was no small task, and knowing Ferry, he’d want to load up on Monday, so all we had to do Tuesday was get in the car.
This was the biggest thing to have ever happened in either of our careers. Ferry was internationally known, but he hadn’t been featured at a place the caliber of Le Musée. It also said a lot about what the community was looking for when we’re being booked as a team. It didn’t bother me. I was used to sharing galleries with other artists, but I wasn’t so sure how well Ferry would handle being paired with a painter who, until recently, had been lost in the shadows.
Nate and I still hadn’t spoken—he was ignoring me, not the other way around—but I couldn’t not share this with him. I’d seen him drive by almost daily. And each time, he’d slow down enough to catch a glimpse of me. One day, I wasn’t in my studio and, therefore, not visible from the street, so he came to the door, knocked, saw me, and then walked away once he knew I was breathing—fucking Nate. So melodramatic.
When I called, he still didn’t answer. I didn’t leave a message because I wanted his attention, and this had all become one big game. So instead, I closed my blinds and waited for him to drive by. I needed Nate like I needed air, so this wasn’t working well for me. I hated the isolation and silence from his end.
My next call was Sera, who was ecstatic. Le Musée wasn’t as big a deal for her as it was for a painter, but she still knew that it was, thus far, the pinnacle of my career.
“When are you leaving?” She was giddy with excitement, and I thought about how over the moon Sylvie would have been had she been here.
“Tuesday. Would you mind coming over to help me? I need to send rough shots to Aaron.”
There was a subtle change in her tone, one I almost missed. “Oh”—she paused as if to say something, but changed her mind—“sure, that would be great. Do you want me to come now?”
I glanced around my living room and thought I might want to pick it up to make the process easier before having company. I also had the Nate situation to deal with. “How about tonight around six? We can go get dinner and then come back to my house.” I didn’t want her to think I was blowing her off, even though I didn’t owe her an explanation. “I’m hoping to talk to Nate tonight. Try to smooth things over.” Admitting that Nate wasn’t talking to me felt like shit. I hadn’t told Sera much, but she knew things were strained.
She sighed on the other end. “You still don’t want to talk about it? I might be able to help.”
“I appreciate the offer, truly. Nate has been all I’ve had for so long that it’s an adjustment bringing new people into my life.”
“Is he jealous?” There wasn’t a hint of judgment, more like complete understanding.
The truth was that I didn’t know what Nate was feeling. I hadn’t done a very good job of listening, and he hadn’t done much to communicate. “He says no, but maybe a little.”
“I’m sure he wants you to be happy, Bastian, but I’d be willing to bet, somewhere along the way, Nate became as dependent upon your needing him as you actually needed him, if that makes sense. Some part of Nate knew your life depended upon his faithfulness. That gave him purpose and value, a kind of value most people never experience. I’m sure he’s thrilled you’re living again, but learning how to live without your need for him, well, I’m sure that’s difficult, too.”
She was absolutely right. I also hadn’t been fair to Nate. I hadn’t given him the thanks or the praise for saving me against my will, for being who he’d been regardless of how much I had wanted to check out. He’d been faithful. It hadn’t occurred to me that in a few short months that my time with Nate and my need for him had diminished greatly. I’d just assumed it would be a welcomed reprieve for him; maybe it wasn’t. But I wouldn’t know since the jackass wouldn’t fucking talk to me.
I couldn’t bring myself to open this up for discussion. It just felt like a betrayal to Nate. “I’m sure you’re right.”
I never wanted Sera to know the things Nate had said about her or Ferry. He didn’t talk badly about people. That wasn’t his nature. And I’d never want Sera to make a judgment call about Nate over his hurt, or whatever was going on in his head. I hoped at some point that Sera and Nate would become close friends. He had loved Sylvie like a sister. They were thick as thieves. These two would love each other as well if I could get them to spend any length of time together, but one of them always bailed.
“Try to mend the fence.” Sera’s sincerity was one of the things I loved most about her.
“So, around six tonight?”
“Definitely, and you’re buying dinner.” She’d never paid for a thing with me around, and she never would as long as I had two pennies to rub together, but I thought it was cute that she liked to joke about it now because it seemed to bother her a tad when we met.
The first two or three times we’d gone out, whether it was dinner or coffee, she was almost offended by the notion that I wanted to pick up the tab. Quickly figuring out I wasn’
t going to relent, she gave up and quit arguing. The entire situation did nothing but cause me to further question the dickhead that she was in a relationship with. Sera deserved to be treated like royalty—cherished beyond measure.
15
Chapter Fifteen
I was amazed at just how much time I could waste second-guessing myself. I had seventeen finished paintings and three unfinished that I might be able to complete before leaving, but other than two choices, I kept waffling on the rest. As soon as I believed I had made up my mind, the light in the room would change and so would my perception…and, therefore, my opinion and decision.
None of the paintings had names. There was no theme or semblance of a collection. The only common connection was that I had painted them and they were all portraits of women. I’d spent weeks on my favorite of the group. Thousands of tiny shapes turned in different directions with patterns in each one, cityscapes in others making up the composition. The flowers in minutia were collectively pieced together to create a woman who stood in a long red dress as she stared over her shoulder with a black clutch in her hand. Each of the scenes inside the shapes created the shadows on the fabric, the lines of her limbs, and her image on the ground from the streetlight above her. It was like nothing I’d ever done, and it was huge. No one had seen it.
I admired it from across the room, marveling at how I’d worked on it in spurts between other projects because the mini-scapes were so tedious. Almost twenty-four square feet of vignettes on top of vignettes had taken hours to create. From a distance, it appeared to be fluid strokes, but up close, each shape separated into scene upon scene, overlapping one another. It was the most intricate piece I’d ever undertaken. When I’d started it, I wasn’t sure how it would turn out, and like any other new endeavor, especially one that pushed my creativity or the confines of my artistic box, I did so secretly. That way, if it was a failure, it wasn’t public.
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