I glared at Nate for bringing me into this and then returned my attention to Sera. “First of all, no. I haven’t talked to Nate, or anyone else, about anything personal I’ve discussed with you. Secondly, you need to draw in your stinger. The only reason people get so upset seeing you black and blue is because they care. Nate included.”
Nate just wouldn’t shut up, and I leaned back in surrender. “You don’t get it, Sera. You think you know Bastian really well. You guys are tight, right?”
She gave him an obligatory nod and a dismissive shoulder shrug.
“What you don’t know, what you haven’t taken into consideration, is, I will not tell him another woman he cares about is gone. I refuse to clean up that mess again. This one has taken almost six years. Six years, Sera. So while you have every right to do what you want as a grown-ass woman, you need to think about who you’re implicating in your immature hysteria. If these are the games you want to play, do it on your own time, not on my fucking watch.”
Stunned, she turned to me with tears threatening to fall. She was silent, watching my face for an unseemly amount of time before acquiescing. “I’m sorry, Bastian. He’s right.”
“It’s not me you need to apologize to, Sera. I wasn’t aware any of it was going on. I was busy living my own hell.”
Her submissive nature took over, and with her eyes cast downward, Sera apologized to Nate. I didn’t believe she was apologizing for her behavior but more for the position she’d potentially put him in and how he must have felt, wondering where she was for hours. But that was just my own speculation since she only uttered two words.
“I’m sorry.”
Things were quiet until they called for boarding. No one said anything else about who was sitting where, so I assumed we were all sitting in our respective seats. The rest of the trip home was uneventful. By the time we reached our connecting flight in Atlanta, they’d obviously kissed and made up; however, I didn’t question it.
Nate dropped off Sera first and set her suitcase on the sidewalk.
She hugged us both goodbye and then turned to me. “Don’t forget Markus Finstin a week from Friday, Bastian.” She waited for us to leave before moving toward her house.
I turned in the seat to watch her and wondered what lurked inside her home that she was so unwilling for anyone else to see…other than pain.
Sera’s presence since New York had been sparse at best. Her texts were almost cryptic, but as infrequently as they came, it was hard to decode what she said. The longer she was away, the darker things got. I wasn’t accustomed to going days without seeing or hearing from her. She was just as integral a part of my life as Nate. I recognized how macabre my art was with just a couple of days of her absence, and Nate had pointed out—several times—that I was borderline stalking her.
I wasn’t following her around, but my attempts to ensure her safety included passing her house, her studio, and the café she loved so much—more than once a day. When I saw her, I’d stop to watch and make sure nothing was amiss. I caught a glimpse of her here and there, but without getting close, I couldn’t tell much about how she was doing. The one thing I had noticed was that she’d lost weight. It had only been three days since I’d seen her, and we were going to the Finstin opening next Friday, but somehow, she looked gaunt, as though a strong wind could take her away.
The customary five-thirty knock came. I didn’t bother getting up. Nate would let himself in; he always did.
Seeing me, Nate stopped and closed the door behind him. “Damn, Bastian. Are you back to this?”
Sitting on the couch in jeans with no shirt was not my norm. “Back to what?”
“Watching life pass you by.”
“Nah, I just got out of the shower. I’ve been working all day.”
“Really, how many trips have you made by Sera’s today?”
“Fuck off.”
“What are you working on?”
I pointed him in the direction of the painting in my studio. I knew when he’d seen it.
“Jesus Christ. This is dark.”
“Not all of life is love and roses, Nate.”
He came back into the living room to critique my painting. “Yeah, but it isn’t emaciated women on death’s doorstep, either. That’s almost grotesque. Her skin is barely hanging on her bones, her breasts look like a ninety-year-old woman’s, and if that’s what a woman’s pussy looks like at that age, I’m not interested in making it to my later years.” He turned up his nose, but it evoked emotion, just not the ones he usually felt when he viewed my work.
I shrugged. “Just trying something new.” It was a lie, and he knew better than to believe that shit, too.
He’s going to call me out in, three, two, one— “Bullshit. This is all about Sera going off the grid since we got back from New York.”
“I don’t get it. I didn’t do anything to her. She doesn’t know about anything that happened that night at Shawn’s with Emily and David. She was mad at you, but that rift seemed to be mended by the time we took off. So why is she avoiding me?”
“Bastian, why do you think I’ve never gotten married?”
I gave him a shit-eating grin. “Because women are afraid that having your offspring will rip them in half? You are a bit of a giant…with a big head.”
“No, asshat. Because women are fickle. They’re like fashion. Their style changes with the season and what’s selling. For whatever reason, something or someone other than you has her attention. Who cares?”
“I do. I’m worried about her.”
“So call her and ask her what’s up.” His world was always so much more simplistic than reality—black and white.
The truth was I’d tried, and if she answered, the call was brief, and her response was short. Usually, she just didn’t pick up. My mind went wild when she didn't answer, knowing she wasn’t answering because he was there and either wouldn’t let her or it wasn’t worth the pain she’d endure if she did. Each unanswered call triggered a trip by her house or an outing to look for her, just to know she was still breathing.
It was all in vain really. I rarely saw her; her car parked at her house was meaningless. The curtains were always drawn, and unless it was dark outside, I couldn’t tell if she was there, much less alive. If she was at the studio, that, too, was meaningless. A sighting of an automobile didn’t tell me anything, either, and I couldn’t go inside. The only time I got any real comfort was if she was sitting on the balcony at Rulatta’s, and that had only happened once. Two days ago.
I was sleeping less and obsessing more.
Whoever this guy was had known about me from the start but never had any issue with us spending time together. It was apparent she only talked or responded when he wasn’t around. The more time that passed, the more time I realized he spent with her. Ever since we’d gotten back from New York, things had been different. She’d never confessed what she’d been doing when she disappeared from Nate. Hell, maybe this man knew the truth and had put restrictions on her, which she would follow to the letter because that was Sera.
My guess was that her relationship with him was nothing like mine with Zane, who I had effectively avoided since my return. I’d told him I wanted out. He didn’t listen, so I figured he could deal with whatever bullshit I threw at him until I was ready to move forward. He couldn’t punish me, unlike Sera who often paid a price. I kept telling myself to give her some space. I’d see her next week, and I could talk to her then when I knew she was safe, but I was starting to wonder if she’d show for Finstin.
Each day that passed, I heard less. She’d quit answering her phone altogether and texts were one-word answers. At least three times a day, I drove by her house, the nighttime visit being the most important. With lights on, if I waited long enough, I could usually see her move in front of a window. I didn’t get to see her per se, but I could see she was okay enough to walk around.
Sitting outside her house, there were no other cars in the driveway, but I hadn’t s
een her near a window, either.
Me: We still on for Finstin on Friday?
I didn’t have to wait long for her response, which was encouraging.
Sera: Of course.
Me: Great! What time do you want me to swing by?
Sera: I’ll be at your house at 6pm.
I took a chance and sent her one more message.
Me: Can’t wait. I miss seeing you.
She never responded.
The last interaction of any kind I’d had with her was Tuesday. Her car hadn’t moved in days. There had been no lights on at night. Worried didn’t even begin to describe what I experienced.
Something wasn’t right, but without a response, there was little I could do to help.
21
Chapter Twenty-One
The black-tie opening at The West End Gallery for Markus Finstin was something I’d looked forward to since Sera had mentioned it in New York. I’d never seen his work, but Tara was impressed by it, and Sera went to grad school with him and said he was a genius. I was an addict of all art: visual, performing, vocal; I appreciated the effort that went into all of it. The promise of dinner and an opening with Sera didn’t make me sad, either. I hadn’t seen her since we’d gotten back, and I’d had little to no contact outside of her text this morning to confirm our plans tonight.
Every opportunity I had to spend time with Sera brought me peace, even though she struggled with her own demons. The slices of life she spent with me reassured me that she was safe. She kept so much of herself a secret from the rest of the world, but when we were together, I experienced a part of her that she didn’t share with anyone other than me. I relished those moments, whether it was coffee, lunch, museums, or just walking down the street to her studio. I’d take whatever I could get. Tonight, however, was formal and the closest thing to a date we’d ever had. All of our encounters before had been last minute, quick calls to see if the other was busy, meeting between meetings, and fast bites to eat while working—happenstance essentially. But tonight, I got her for the whole evening as my date. The trip to New York didn’t really register. I’d hardly seen her, and things were tense when I had.
Buttoning my pants, I noticed how far I’d come in the time I’d known her. My tux fit like it was made to. I wasn’t where I wanted to be yet, but my career had life again. Art flowed from my hands like it had before Sylvie died. I was resurrected and starting to sense happiness. The last two weeks had been a visit to the past I didn’t care to continue, but looking into the mirror, I caught glimpses of the man I used to be. The one Sylvie loved.
I was stronger.
The situation in New York reminded me daily that I had the ability to define who I was. I was bound and determined to become the type of man Sera needed in her life. The blip with Emily and David was just that: a blip, an experience that had shown me that it wasn’t who I wanted to be. That part of the culture wasn’t one I needed to indulge in again. I’d tried to come to terms with the hedonistic affair and accept it for exactly what it was. Some days I did better than others.
Sera cared for me, but I needed her to see that I could give her a healthy, dominant guy—one who would steer her in the right direction. It became easier the more I practiced. It wasn’t as forced as it had been months ago. Being assertive was absolutely a trait I could learn; it just took determination and drive. I would never be an ass because that wasn’t me, but, if she needed someone to exert control, to show they cared about every move she made, to guide her—I could be that man in my own way. I straightened my bowtie with a final glance at my reflection.
Sylvie would be proud, and that made me smile.
The moment I saw her, she stole my breath. I wasn’t sure if it was the pale-yellow dress that caressed her body or the silk shawl that highlighted her bare shoulders or even the heels that made her legs look a million miles long, but whatever it was, she was stunning. My heart raced as her lips tipped up into a grin.
“Hey, Sunshine.”
“Back at you, beautiful.” When I extended my hand, she took it and allowed me to spin her for a full-body view. “Wow. If you ever decide to give up sculpting, you could have a career on the runway.”
Sera was exotic, unusual. She had exaggerated features that had to be studied to determine if they were ordinary or exquisite. I’d decided on the latter of the two.
Laughing at me only brought more beauty to her already glorious face. “You ready?”
I offered to drive, but she waved me off and sent me around to the passenger side. With the door open, in a typical woman’s fashion, there was enough shit in the front seat to open a small boutique.
“Just put that stuff in the back.”
I tossed her jacket and a sweatshirt over the headrest and into the seat behind me, but when I got to her supplies, I was a bit more careful. Cameras were expensive, and I certainly wasn’t going to just chuck it back there. But as I moved it to the other seat, the embroidery on the case caught my eye.
My brow furrowed, and my eyes narrowed.
F.
Red. Elaborate. Embroidered. F.
Ferry’s logo.
It was on all of his equipment, and it was how he signed everything. And it was always in that same identifiable script.
Raising my head, camera in hand, I watched her fiddle with her face in the mirror, but Sera had yet to notice.
“What?” She stared at me with innocence through the mirror and into the back seat.
“Are you working with Ferry?”
Confusion marred her face as fear crossed her eyes. “No. Why?”
I didn’t respond, and instead, I held up the bag, logo facing forward. Time slowed as each muscle in her face fell, and her shoulders slumped.
“It’s not what you think, Bastian.”
I wasn’t thinking anything until she told me it wasn’t what I hadn’t thought it was.
One by one, the pieces started to fall into place.
Mentally, I scrolled through the disappearing acts, the awkward looks, his hostile warnings, the bruises, the trips, the disappearing in New York.
It all fit.
With Ferry.
Every. Single. Fucking. Detail.
“Goddammit,” I muttered under my breath as I acknowledged what she’d been hiding and what I’d been too stupid to see.
Slamming the back door, I then threw myself into the passenger seat and turned sharply to glare at her. The lies, deception, the perpetuated stories, and the evasion of the truth caused my anger to boil to the surface. “He’s the one, huh?”
I expected waterworks. That was what women did to manipulate men, especially when they’d committed some atrocious crime. They believed tears are like kryptonite. But I wasn’t fucking Superman. Like a fool, I had believed I was her fucking friend and that I was his, too, until recently. But they’d both used me like a damn puppet.
It explained how Ferry had known about my interest in BDSM, about Zane. My guess was he knew about what happened with Emily and David. He’d played me like a fiddle, and I fell for his fucking song.
Her eyes were wide, scared, hurt, but there wasn’t a tear to be found.
She waited.
It dawned on me that Sera expected me to react the way he did.
Newsflash.
I wasn’t Ferry any more than I was Superman.
I was just a man who loved her. I ran my hand through my hair and released a heavy sigh, resigning myself to whatever came next.
Her back pressed against the driver’s door, and she moved as far away from me as possible without getting out of the vehicle, still unwilling to answer my question.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Sera.” Devastation washed over me. “I thought you knew me better than that.”
She’d hidden from me for over a year. Her fear of leaving was that she thought all men were the same. What a fucking cliché.
“Please relax” I kept my voice calm and level so I didn’t frighten her anymore than she already was, an
d I made sure not to move toward her, giving her space. “Can you tell me what’s going on? How the hell have I missed this for a year? How did you both manage to keep it from me when I was constantly working with him and hanging out with you? How were we all out of town in the same city together and I didn’t get the memo?” It was a lot of questions, and while I didn’t really expect an answer to each one, I hoped they would spark a conversation—a truthful one.
She cast her eyes to her lap in shame. She flinched when my fingers found her chin, lifting her line of sight to my own. I made sure there were no visible signs of anger so all Sera saw was a friend, an understanding man who wouldn’t judge or condemn.
“Please help me understand, Sera.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know why, in all the time I’ve spent with Ferry, you’ve never once mentioned the two of you were friends, much less sleeping with him. You could have easily told me you guys knew each other beyond exhibits and never compromised his identity or who he is to you.” It took enormous effort to keep from sounding accusatory, but fuck, really? How the hell had she pulled this shit off? I couldn’t really be that fucking daft.
“We have dinner reservations in twenty minutes; can’t this wait until another night?” She stared out the window behind me.
“I don’t think so, but if you want to ditch the evening, we certainly can. We can go somewhere else to talk.”
“Tara’s going to be upset if we don’t show.” The crack in her voice told me she didn’t want to let Tara down but also possibly wanted to allow someone else to know the truth she had held in for so long.
“Switch seats with me.”
Sera didn’t argue this time; she just handed me the keys as we crossed paths in front of her car.
We had planned to go to dinner, then the gallery, but the opening started at seven. It dawned on me that Sera’d had to get permission from Ferry for this evening to have happened in the first place. If she wasn’t seen where she was supposed to be that could cause more problems than she already had, but I was confused about why he allowed her to be here at all. He hadn’t spoken to me since we’d last seen each other in New York, and he’d obviously been preventing her from doing so since. Executive decision made, we went straight to The West End to make an appearance.
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